“After the war, rebelling against my father seemed trivial, and I had to find something useful to do with my life. Since they wouldn’t let me practice psychiatry without a medical license, I put aside the oedipal thing and applied to med school.”
Thinnes had known plenty of guys who’d had their lives changed, their middle-class values challenged, by the war. Some had been sobered and tempered by it, others broken.
“I was drifting through classes at Oakton Community College,” he said, “trying to decide on a major that would fit with my half-assed plan to go to work for my dad when I finished. I never gave police work a thought until I was drafted. I spent my year in ’Nam in Saigon, as an MP.”
North of the state line, traffic thinned, and the green highway signs announced places like Sturtevant and Franksville. Signs on the right-of-way said, WISCONSIN ARRESTS DRUNK DRIVERS, FIREWORKS, and $500 FINE FOR THROWING LITTER OR TRASH ON HIGHWAY—KEEP WISCONSIN CLEAN. They took the 894 bypass, around Milwaukee, and continued toward Madison on I-94, passing exits for exotic places like Heartland, Wales, and Oconomowoc. Snow covered the fields and rights-of-way, but the road was clear and in good shape. Just past the Lake Mills, Waterloo, Aztalan State Park exit, they were doing close to eighty when Caleb said, “John, I think we’re being followed.”
Thinnes glanced in the rearview and felt the twinge of panic motorists always get when they spot the flashing lights. Police. Wisconsin state troopers. Men rumored to give each other tickets.
He signaled and pulled over. The trooper sat in his car for a while—no doubt checking the registration—before he got out. Caleb was decent enough to not comment.
Thinnes rolled down the window and passed his driver’s license through. He stared at the highway while the trooper studied the license, his breath condensing in the frozen air.
Finally he said, “What brings you fellas up our way?”
“We’re on a little hunting expedition,” Thinnes said.
“You have a hunting license?” He didn’t point out that it wasn’t hunting season.
Thinnes showed him his star.
The trooper raised an eyebrow. He took a step back and looked pointedly at the Jaguar. “Guess you must be bagging some pretty large game in Chicago.”
Thinnes shook his head. “No. Jack offered to let me try her out and I couldn’t resist opening her up a little. Guess I got carried away.”
“Yeah,” the trooper said. “Well, sorry, Detective, but your hunting license isn’t good this side of the state line.”
“I was going to stop in at headquarters and take out a local permit.”
“Did you talk to anyone from here?”
“Sergeant Blackburn.”
“Let me give him a call. See if he can meet you somewhere.”
They waited in silence while the trooper radioed from his car. Five minutes later, he leaned over the Jaguar to give them detailed directions on where to go to meet Blackburn. Then he handed Thinnes his license and a sheet of paper.
“What’s this?”
“A warning citation, Detective. Wisconsin tickets speeders. Drive safely.”
Sergeant Blackburn had done his homework, but he didn’t have time to go with them to the address the NTP had provided. County Road N pushed north through open farmland, past flat hills, cornfields, and barns with silos. Their destination was a place called The Pottery Factory, located just east of Sun Prairie. It looked more like a retail greenhouse than a ceramics outlet. The long, single-story building looked warm. Its entire south wall—the gable end—was windows filled with green plants, some as tall as the cathedral ceiling of the showroom. The northern two-thirds of the structure was hidden behind a forest of overage Christmas trees.
“What they call a cash crop in Wisconsin,” Thinnes said, pointing.
An OPEN sign showed in the front window. Inside, no one was in sight, but overgrown houseplants leaned over the doorway and encroached on the walkways between display counters. The sign next to the cash register advised: RING BELL FOR SERVICE. An old church bell with a hemp pull rope hung from the ceiling, amid pots of ivy and philodendron suspended from the rafters. Thinnes pulled; the bell sounded.
They looked around as they waited. East and west walls of the store were filled with shelves of ceramic gimmicks varying in quality from dime-store cheap to really pricey art objects. Caleb inspected everything, even the cheap junk, by hand. Thinnes kept his hands in his pockets. He glanced over the merchandise, then studied the security arrangements, wondering why they needed motion detectors and a security camera and the infrared interrupter beam across the doorway. Hefty security for a few knickknacks and pots.
Caleb had dragged an Egyptian cat statue and a reproduction Anasazi bowl to the cash register by the time a saleswoman showed. Female Cauc—or light-skinned Indian, he couldn’t tell for sure; five four; 110 pounds, maybe; early twenties. She was dressed in a bulky sweater, jeans, and men’s work boots. Betty, according to the tag on her sweater. She asked, “May I help you?”
Thinnes took the Polaroid of the Uptown Indian out of his pocket. “Do you recognize this man?”
She looked suspiciously at Thinnes but took the picture and glanced at it. “Looks a little like Tom Redbird. Only this guy looks dead.” When neither Thinnes nor Caleb said anything, she said, “That’s him, isn’t it?”
“We were hoping someone could tell us,” Thinnes said. “He was shot to death in Chicago. He’d been robbed. There was no identification on him.”
“You’re cops.” They didn’t contradict her. She looked at the picture more carefully. “I think it’s him.”
“Who was he?”
“A truck driver. I don’t—didn’t know him well. He delivered supplies and sometimes took a shipment of our stuff places. I didn’t know him very well—just to talk to when he came in.” She paused and sighed. “He seemed nice. Not like some of the jerks who drive trucks.”
While Betty rang up Caleb’s purchases, she told them Redbird was an independent owner/operator who had relatives somewhere nearby but lived in Chicago. “He had a big Kenworth he was really proud of, kept it really clean.”
She gave them Redbird’s business card. Chicago PO box and phone. The zip code was for Uptown.
Thinnes was ready to leave it at that, but Caleb started asking questions about The Pottery Factory. Who were the artists who contributed? How did they come to set up shop here in Wisconsin? Did they have a catalog? Et cetera. Betty didn’t seem to find this sudden interest odd, but to Thinnes, it was peculiar. He could hardly wait to get away so he could ask.
But back in the car, it was Caleb who got the first question in: “What now?”
“What’s with the sudden interest in pottery?”
“The cat’s a Christmas gift. And I needed the bowl as a sample for a comparison before I said anything about a theory I’ve formulated. It looks like one I saw in a catalog from a store called Native Artists.”
“That’s interesting.”
“What are we going to do next?”
“I think we’ll try to locate Redbird’s family while we’re here—maybe save someone a trip back later.”
Forty-Five
None of the Redbirds listed in the local directory, or the Madison or Milwaukee directories, were unaccounted for or missing any relatives that they’d admit to. The DMV was able to confirm a Chicago resident named Thomas Redbird as the holder of an Illinois Class A commercial driver’s license. The address was in Uptown, which jibed with the phone exchange and zip code on Redbird’s business card. Thinnes didn’t get an answer when he dialed the number.
“What now?” Caleb asked, as they walked out of the state police station in Madison. Salt, scattered across the sidewalk, crunched underfoot. His breath condensed around his head. The air smelled like snow.
Thinnes sighed, creating his own cloud. “I guess we call it a day.”
“Let’s eat first.”
It was nearly dark by the time they got to the Edgewat
er Hotel, on Wisconsin Avenue. Caleb’s suggestion. The restaurant was pricey—not the sort Thinnes would normally frequent—but the food was very good. Rhonda would have liked it. They sat in the dining room, watching the lights of ice fishermen replace the fading daylight across the frozen surface of Lake Mendota. Caleb drew Redbird’s story out of Thinnes with his seductive listening.
“It may have just been random,” Thinnes concluded. “But I have a hunch Redbird knew his killer. He couldn’t have been naive enough to let a stranger get that close without some…” What? Protest? Disturbance? Struggle? He shrugged, not sure what he meant. “And it’s incredible that there should be two unrelated murders with the same MO in the same area.”
“There is a school of philosophy that holds that there aren’t any coincidences. Did the victims know each other?”
“We don’t know. We don’t know who the first victim was, just that he was Indian.”
“And they’re not uncommon in Uptown.”
“For that matter, dead Indians aren’t uncommon in Uptown.”
As Thinnes pulled the Jaguar into the lot at Western and Belmont, he noticed his Chevy was where he’d left it. Damn! Mike hadn’t gotten to it. Oh well. He probably wouldn’t get home tonight anyway. He curbed the car, put it in neutral, and set the parking brake. He and Caleb got out together, and Caleb walked around to the driver’s side.
Thinnes said, “Thanks, Doc,” as they shook hands. “Jack,” he added, remembering Caleb hated Doc.
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
Inside the District Nineteen lobby, Thinnes was hailed by the desk sergeant, who tossed him his car keys. “Detective, the little shit that brought back your car made a federal case when he couldn’t put it back where he got it. Wouldn’t leave till we moved two squads for him.”
“Thanks,” Thinnes said. “I’ll talk to him.”
Thomas Redbird’s apartment—according to the address on his CDL—reminded Thinnes of the old “Ajax was here” commercials. It stood out, the only spotless building in a row of dingy, dilapidated structures. In front, the parkway was free of trash and dog shit. The walk, clear of broken glass and even old chewing gum, sparkled with a glitter of salt. Dark evergreen bushes, inside the perimeter of the sidewalk, were squared off and clear of dead wood, the winter-yellow grass sheared and raked. And the building itself had recently been sandblasted and tuck-pointed—no graffiti. Thinnes was able to observe all of this because, when he got inside the hedge, motion sensors activated wire-caged security lights that flooded the building’s courtyard.
A clean, well-lit place, he thought, when he entered the pristine vestibule. Who said that? The security door had a frosted glass panel in its upper half and a security peephole. The mailboxes were polished brass, as was the doorbell panel. He pushed the button next to the sign that said: MANAGER—SENSKI.
A fuzzy, heavily accented voice came over the security speaker. “Come back later.” Eastern European accent. Polish, probably.
Thinnes pushed the button again. “Police.”
There was a long silence, then, “I coming.”
Thinnes held his star up in front of the peephole. He heard shuffling footsteps, then a woman, five four and solid—maybe 150 pounds—opened the door. She had curly blond hair—not her natural color—blue eyes, and was somewhere between forty-five and sixty. She had on a pink apron over her flowered, below-the-knee dress, and a cardigan over the apron. And thin white socks folded over ugly tie shoes. She said, “I no want trouble.”
“No trouble,” he said. He spoke slowly and clearly, careful to keep from raising his voice. “I need help.” She waited with a fearful expression. Thinnes held up the autopsy photo. “Do you know this man?”
He could see she did, even before she said, “Two B. No trouble,” she repeated, plaintively. “Please no trouble.” She worked on the hem of her apron, pressing creases in it with her work-rough hands.
“Can you let me into 2B?”
The request frightened her, but she nodded. “I clean him. Nice man. No trouble.”
She opened Redbird’s door for Thinnes and stepped away from it. He reached in and flipped the light switch, then entered, signaling for her to follow.
She stopped just inside and waved a hand at the room. “I clean.”
He nodded to acknowledge that. “Stay here.”
Eager to avoid trouble, she nodded and said, “Yes, Meester.”
A message from his childhood flashed through Thinnes’s mind: Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit…
He did a quick look around—the apartment was even cleaner than the hall and stairs. Bad luck for the cops. Not much chance that Evidence would find anything, but…
The woman was standing where he’d left her by the door.
“You speak Polish?” he asked.
“Polish, yes. I Polish.”
He put on gloves before using Redbird’s phone to call in. “I’m gonna need Evidence,” he told the watch commander. “And a Polish translator. And send me somebody to help do a canvass.”
Redbird’s living room was sparsely furnished—a couch, a comfy-looking armchair in front of a TV wired for cable, Indian rugs on the floor and couch, and coffee and end tables that didn’t match. The coffee table had scratches on it about where you’d put your feet if you sat in the chair to watch TV. Everything was polished and dust free. The only interesting thing in the room was a neat pile of unopened mail, including two packages, on one of the end tables. Thinnes resisted the urge to touch it before Evidence got a shot at it.
A muffled sob brought his attention back to Mrs. Senski, who was fighting tears and looked ready to pass out. He pointed to the couch. “Maybe you’d better sit down.”
She did. He went in the kitchen to get her a glass of water, finding what you’d expect to find in a kitchen. Nothing new or expensive. Everything spotless, down to the clean liner in the garbage can. He filled a glass with water and returned to the living room. Mrs. Senski hadn’t moved. She was shaking and crying silently, breathing with little hiccups. She took the water gratefully and sucked half of it down.
Evidence arrived a few minutes later. Thinnes buzzed them in from the panel next to Redbird’s door. When they got up to the apartment, he said, “Fast work.”
“Slow night.”
He had them process the mail first, so he could look through it. Most of it was junk, but there was a Kodak mailer—processed film—and a padded envelope with no return address.
The package contained Redbird’s wallet. His license, credit cards, pictures, and insurance cards were all there. There was no cash. The anonymous “Samaritan” who’d dropped it in the mail said, in a note he’d attached with a rubber band, that it was found in the garbage, where—presumably—it had been tossed by a thief. Thinnes handed everything to one of the techs. “You want to dust for prints and log this in as evidence?”
“You think the killer was stupid enough to leave prints?”
“There’s always the chance our Good Samaritan is the killer, and sending us this is his way of laughing at us.”
“Cy-ni-cal.”
“Occupational hazard.”
While the technician brushed his black powder all over the note, the wallet, and its contents, Thinnes opened the Kodak mailer. It contained photos from a family gathering, taken in September—he guessed, from trees just starting to turn in some of the backgrounds. Lots of shots of a young Indian woman and a boy. And one of Redbird, sunlit and smiling, with his shirt open and a Coke can in hand. Carefree. Happy. Alive. Thinnes handed the mailer and all but two of the photos to the tech. “May as well keep these with the rest of his stuff.” He held up the shot of Redbird by himself, and one of him with his arms around the boy and woman. “I’m holding on to these for now.” The tech nodded.
Thinnes looked at the picture of Redbird. “I’m gonna get the son of a bitch who shot you,” he told him, as if the man’s spirit was trapped in the emulsion and could hear
.
Mrs. Senski, who’d been watching Thinnes, pressed her hands over the lower half of her face and sobbed.
Thinnes walked over to the phone, dialed the dispatcher, and identified himself. “Where’s the interpreter?”
“Tied up. Interviewing a rape victim.”
“Great. Don’t you have any beat guys that speak Polish?”
“How would I know?”
“Ask!” He hung up the phone and went to see how the Evidence team was doing.
The cop who spoke Polish was a young black man who looked like a college student and talked without a trace of any accent—a Midwesterner. When he noticed that Mrs. Senski was afraid of him, he put the coffee table between them, squatted down—like he would to talk to a kid—and kept his voice very soft. She had to listen carefully to hear him. The strategy worked. Gradually her sniffling subsided and she began to give them the story.
Redbird had lived there two years, during which time he’d been a model tenant. He didn’t drink or bring home loose women. He drove a truck and was away for weeks at a time, so he’d paid Mrs. Senski to do his cleaning and bring up his mail. She hadn’t seen him since Thanksgiving, when he left to spend the day with family in Wisconsin. He had a sister and nephew that she knew of—she didn’t have their name, but the rental office would. It was Mrs. Senski who’d left the Kodak mailer and the package on the table, with the rest of the mail, per her agreement with Redbird. She couldn’t imagine who’d want to kill him. She couldn’t even imagine him dead.
Thinnes did the paperwork before he went home. He spread out his forms and the notes he’d made on a table in the squad room and went to get coffee. Someone had slapped a BIOHAZARD WASTE decal on the pot. The coffee tasted like it, but it had enough caffeine in it to do the job.
The Death of Blue Mountain Cat Page 17
