Unidentified Woman #15

by David Housewright

  “Much obliged.”

  “Tell them the next time I say use fucking blanks they had better use fucking blanks.”

  “They couldn’t find any.”

  “What do you mean they couldn’t find any?”

  “No one carries them. I can get you armor-piercing rounds for a .50 caliber machine gun, but man, go into a gun shop and ask for blanks sometime. Man looks at you like you’re up to no good.”

  TWELVE

  I don’t like funerals. But then, who does? Funerals for young people are the worst. It’s as if we’re not only burying them, we’re burying the future—theirs and ours. We’re interring everything that might have been. Oliver Braun’s parents, for example. They weren’t just saying good-bye to their son, they were laying to rest all the hopes and dreams they’d ever had for him, as well as the daughter-in-law they’d never meet, the grandchildren they’d never see, the continuation of their line, the remembrance of their name, the world made better by their heirs. The fact he died not of accident or illness but by the hand of an unknown other only made it more unbearable. There was no celebration of life. Only a deep mourning of loss. And the question—why?

  There was no graveside ceremony, which would have been unendurable in the polar vortex that enveloped the Twin Cities—yes, another one. Oliver’s parents chose cremation instead, so following the church service, mourners gathered in the church’s large community room, where an early lunch was served mostly by relatives glad to be doing something besides just sitting there feeling sad.

  Nearly everyone present had been drawn to the funeral out of love for Oliver or some other personal connection, and most embraced the attitude that if you were a friend of his then you were a friend of mine, at least for the morning. At the same time, cliques formed. Close family members settled in one area, extended family in another, and friends, classmates, and co-workers in yet others. A group of college-age kids banded together around a cafeteria table far from Oliver’s parents as if they wanted to grieve their loss but didn’t want to share their profound pain. I took my plate of sliced ham on a bun, potato salad, and three-bean casserole and sidled up next to them. No one questioned my presence in word or manner. Perhaps they thought I was one of Oliver’s college professors. Conversation whirled around me.

  “I can’t believe it’s so cold.”

  “I guess the medical examiner wouldn’t release his body. That’s why it took so long—the funeral. Said he had to maintain control of the remains until the forensic work was completed.”

  “That means they cut him up, doesn’t it?”

  “I thought we had turned the corner.”

  “What was Oliver even doing in Highland Park? Does anyone know?”

  “The cops aren’t saying.”

  “That’s cuz they don’t have a clue.”

  “It’ll never be spring. We’re gonna go from winter straight to summer.”

  “I just hate it.”

  “What do you hate?”

  “Everything.”

  I spoke as casually as I could. “I’m surprised El isn’t here.”

  “Where is El, anyway?”

  “She moved back home after she and Oliver broke up.”

  “Some cop from St. Paul asked about her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That she moved back home after she and Oliver broke up.”

  “Who’s El?”

  “Girl Oliver met at a bar in Dinkytown.”

  “Is she a student?”

  “No, but holy mackerel is she pretty. Long blond hair…”

  “She was crazy about him.”

  “Do they think she did it, the cops?”

  “Who knows with cops?”

  “I heard the high tomorrow is supposed to be forty-eight degrees.”

  “I heard it was going to snow.”

  “You’d think she’d come back for this, breakup or not.”

  “Would you stop talking about the damn weather?”

  “She might not even know what happened.”

  “He liked older women.”

  “Who?”

  “Oliver. He broke up with El because he liked older women.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I bet the Twins wish they had built a roof on Target Field now.”

  “You’re worse than Mark Twain, always complaining about the weather, yet never doing anything about it.”

  “He was seeing an older woman. It’s true.”

  “Mark Twain?”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Her.”

  A finger was pointed at a woman dressed in a black wool coat and a black short-brimmed cloche hat with a red-ribbon hatband and side bow. She was hugging Oliver’s parents each in turn.

  It’s the femme fatale from Woodbury, my inner voice reminded me.

  “Who is she?” someone asked.

  “Ramsey County Commissioner Merle Mattson.”

  “The woman he worked for over the summer?”

  “Here I thought it was an unpaid internship.”

  “Stop it.”

  “If you want to fuck a MILF, that’s the MILF to fuck.”

  “She’s not a mother. She’s not even married.”

  “That takes some of the fun out of it.”

  “You two are disgusting.”

  “Did you tell the cops?”

  “Cops didn’t ask.”

  “How come it’s okay for an old man to sleep with a young woman yet people go crazy when an old woman sleeps with a young man?”

  “How old is she?”

  “Old enough to know better; young enough not to care.”

  “Stop it. I mean it this time.”

  I drifted away from the kids.

  There was a table loaded with soiled plates, so I added mine to the pile. I moved to a different table closer to the door and found a seat. I wanted to be in position to intercept the commissioner when she left the gathering, even though I was unsure how to approach her. Asking why she didn’t tell the police she was sleeping with Oliver came to mind. Simply blurting out the question seemed combative, however, and if she was any kind of politician, she’d know how to deal with it. At the same time, the fact she was a politician made gaining her trust, her confidence, problematic at best.

  It was because of the internal debate that I didn’t feel Jean Shipman’s presence until she pulled the chair next to me out from under the table and sat down.

  “What are you doing here, McKenzie?” she asked.

  “Apparently the same thing you are, Detective.”

  “Shhhh.”

  “You don’t want the mourners to know a police officer is hanging around, conducting surveillance, hoping to see or hear something that’ll help close the case?”

  “Quiet.”

  “I’m sure the family would embrace you heartily, especially since you already arrested the suspect who killed their child—oh, wait.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  We sat silently, Shipman surreptitiously scanning the guests while I more or less studied the county commissioner. A college-age kid thought she was old. I was twice his age and I disagreed. Older, maybe, but old? Her eyes were bright, and the lines on her face looked as if a very considerate and generous sculptor etched them there. When she opened her coat, she revealed a body that was familiar with exercise, and when she removed her hat I saw waves of red-brown hair without a hint of gray—whoever colored it had done an expert job. She appeared to be taller than I was, but that might have been the heels on her black dress boots talking.

  A late mourner arrived; a burst of icy wind followed him inside the room, causing those of us closest to the door to revolve in our seats to gaze at him. He was young, tall, and thin, with brown hair, and he wore sunglasses and a neutral expression. He walked with a limp.

  He stopped just inside the doorway and glanced about, his head rotating slowly as if on a swivel—just like it had at the garage sale. Now, as then, I didn’t think he was looki
ng for anything specific, just getting the lay of the land, as it were, until he found the county commissioner, and his head stopped turning. At the same time, Mattson saw him. She closed her eyes and opened them again as if she were hoping he was a mirage that would vanish as quickly as he appeared. When he didn’t, she deliberately involved herself in the conversation of the mourners around her, pretending he wasn’t there. He found an empty table and moved to it, all the while watching the commissioner as if afraid he’d lose sight of her. He unzipped his coat, yet did not remove it; nor did he take off his gloves.

  “I’ve done this many times,” Shipman said. “Intruding on the grief of a victim’s family, and nothing good has ever come of it. How ’bout you?”

  “You mean besides today?”

  “Do you have something to say, McKenzie? Or are you just giving me the business, as usual?”

  “The man who just walked in—see him sitting there, blue-green jacket?”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s the one that was shot in the leg Sunday at the Woodbury garage sale.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “What’s not to believe?”

  “That you would actually be useful to me. What’s he doing here?”

  “No idea.”

  “Name?”

  “Peter Troop.”

  “And you know this—how?”

  “I’m psychic.”

  “Yeah, well, when you see a pig fly you’re not disappointed if it doesn’t stay airborne all that long.”

  “Are you calling me a pig?”

  “You take the right, I’ll take the left.”

  Shipman and I moved to the table where Troop was sitting. As instructed, I sat in the chair to his immediate right, Shipman to his left.

  “Terrible tragedy, isn’t it,” Shipman said. “A boy so young.”

  If Troop was surprised by the intrusion, he didn’t show it.

  “Did you know Oliver personally or are you just a friend of the family?” I asked.

  Only his head turned, looking first at Shipman, at me, and back to her again.

  “Are you trying to kid me?” he asked.

  “Do we look like we’re kidding?” Shipman asked.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Seriously,” I said. “Who crashes a funeral? The food is lousy.”

  “If you’re not a friend of Oliver or his family, why are you here?” Shipman said.

  “Who wants to know?” Troop asked.

  Shipman gave him a look at her badge, neatly cupped in her hand so no one else could see. He stiffened at the sight of it.

  Dammit, she’s leaving, my inner voice warned.

  I had been half-watching the county commissioner while I sat with Troop and Shipman. She seized my full attention when Mattson replaced her hat, buttoned her coat, made her good-byes, and headed for the door. I wanted to follow her, yet I was committed to Shipman’s play.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Troop said.

  “No one said you did, Peter,” Shipman told him.

  Troop’s eyes widened with alarm at the sound of his own name. “You can’t arrest me,” he said.

  “Why would I want to?”

  “I just came in to get warm.”

  “As good an excuse as any.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Let’s go outside and chat for a sec.”

  “Why should I?”

  I set my hand on his outer thigh about six inches above his knee and pressed down hard.

  “Because it’s so much easier than the alternative,” I said.

  Troop winced in pain and knocked my hand away. Afterward, he rested his hand on his thigh and rubbed gently.

  “That hurts,” he said.

  “I bet it hurt a lot worse last Sunday when you were shot.”

  He stopped moving—except for his head, which jerked toward me.

  “Do you wear sunglasses indoors because your eyes are sensitive to light or because you’re the worst poker player in the world?” I asked him.

  “C’mon, Peter,” Shipman said. “We don’t want to disturb the mourners.”

  She stood and I stood, and after a moment’s reflection, Troop stood as well. We turned in unison and headed for the door. Troop zipped his coat shut. And then he did something that should have tripped all of my internal alarm systems, yet didn’t, probably because I was busy tending to my own jacket—he removed the glove from his right hand.

  Shipman held the door open for him. He stepped across the threshold, she followed him, and I followed her. We were immediately assaulted by frigid air and hard wind, yet Troop didn’t seem to notice. He tramped angrily down the sidewalk away from the door until he reached the edge of the parking lot.

  “That’s far enough,” Shipman said.

  Troop stood on the edge of the curb and gazed out at the lot. I had no idea who or what he was looking for. I thought for a moment that Mitch and Craig or even John Kispert might have been out there. If they were, I didn’t see them.

  “Let’s see some ID,” Shipman said.

  “You have no business harassing me.”

  Troop made no move to fetch his wallet, nor did he turn to face us. Instead, he hid his hands in front of his body and tilted his head as if he were trying to locate us in his peripheral vision. He adjusted his stance, dropping his right foot back slightly, preparing to turn.

  Troop’s words, the sound of his voice, and the posture of his body caused Shipman and me to react the same way. She moved slowly to his right while dropping her hand into the open bag hanging from a strap over her shoulder. I went to his left, unzipping my jacket as I went. Our field training officers would have been proud.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” Troop said.

  “It’s okay, Peter.” Shipman’s voice was soothing, almost maternal. “Relax. We’re just talking here.”

  “You got no right.”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen today.”

  “I just wanted to get out of the cold.”

  “Let me see your hands.”

  Troop screamed—it wasn’t a word, just a bunch of consonants strung together. His ungloved right hand pulled a knife from under his left sleeve. The blade was thin but long. He pivoted toward Shipman. She lifted a Glock from her bag and brought it up swiftly with both hands.

  “No, no, no,” she chanted.

  Troop brought the knife up as if he were going to throw it.

  She sighted on his chest.

  Troop ceased moving.

  By then I had a gun in my hands as well.

  Like Shipman, I was in a Weaver stance, the sights of the SIG Sauer settled on his core.

  “Please drop the knife.” Shipman’s words were consolatory, yet there was no mistaking the command in her voice.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Troop said.

  “Please. Drop. The knife.”

  I couldn’t see his eyes because of the sunglasses, and I wanted desperately to see his eyes. I was sure they would tell me what he was thinking.

  Shipman screamed at him. “Drop the fucking knife.”

  Troop flinched as if he were startled.

  He opened his hand.

  The knife slipped out.

  It bounced against the concrete sidewalk at his feet.

  Thank God, my inner voice said.

  “I’m sorry,” Troop said.

  Shipman gasped like a woman who had been holding her breath for far too long.

  “Step away from the knife,” she said.

  And we heard the crack of a rifle shot.

  Troop’s chest exploded outward.

  We were showered with his blood.

  All in the same instant.

  It took a moment before Shipman and I realized what had happened. When we did, we both dove to the ground. I ended up on the asphalt parking lot. Shipman found a mound of snow. I thought I heard the sound of a car driving off in the distance, yet I would never be sure. I crawled forward until I was b
ehind an SUV. I came up and searched the lot behind the sights of the SIG. Shipman rolled to her right, went to her feet, and dashed behind a different car. She held her Glock steady with one hand while fumbling for her phone with the other. At the same time, she turned her head to look at Troop, sprawled face first on the sidewalk. He was still wearing his sunglasses. The warmth of his body escaped through the wound in his back and mixed with the cold air, creating a mist. Instead of floating upward, though, it was snatched away by the wind.

  None of the mourners had come to the heavy door or windows. They didn’t yet know what had happened. Hell, I didn’t know what had happened. I heard Shipman speaking into her cell.

  “Shots fired. Officer needs assistance.”

  She kept staring at Troop’s body.

  To this day I have no idea what she was thinking.

  * * *

  Shipman got her task force after all.

  Nine people crowded into the small conference room. Bobby stood at the head of the table. I sat against the back wall and tried to make myself invisible.

  Little Canada was an inner ring suburb with a population of just under ten thousand people. It didn’t have its own police department. Instead, emergency calls were answered by the Ramsey County Sheriff’s Department, whose deputies were the first to arrive at the scene. That was several hours ago. Now we were all gathered in the James S. Griffin Building, headquarters to the St. Paul Police Department, located northeast of downtown. It was part of the Ramsey County—St. Paul Criminal Justice Campus, which also included the Ramsey County Law Enforcement Center and the Adult Detention Center. It was a fifteen-minute trip for Detective John Luby and his partner from the Minneapolis Police Department. Everyone else just walked across the parking lot.

  “Okay,” Bobby said. “What do we have? Keith.”

  Keith was a firearms examiner—actually a forensic scientist who specialized in firearms and tool marks for the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Minneapolis and Hennepin County had their own examiners, but St. Paul farmed the work out to the BCA.

  “The bullet passed through our victim and pancaked on the concrete,” Keith said. “We tried to pull it apart, but … We can tell you it was a caliber .30-06, the same as the round that killed the victim in Minneapolis. It was so badly damaged, though, that we can’t identify the specific manufacturer or say conclusively that it was fired from the same weapon.”