It came, as coincidence would have it, in the person of Officer Robert Dunston.
Bobby was working out of the Western District back in those days and was actually patrolling University near Hamline Avenue, about a half mile away, when the alert was issued.
He arrived on the scene with lights flashing but no siren. Because he came silently, the armed robbers were taken by surprise.
The gunman froze, staring as the patrol car approached.
The driver shouted at him.
The gunman tossed the last bag of cash into the trunk and slammed it shut. As he moved toward the passenger door, though, the driver stomped on the accelerator and the Fiero lurched forward without him.
The guard was now on his feet and trying to escape to the far side of the armored truck. His route took him directly in front of the small Pontiac. The driver didn’t care. In his haste, he clipped the guard’s legs and sent him tumbling across the pavement.
Bobby angled his cruiser to intercept the car. He halted, hopped out, and brought his Glock to bear across the roof of the patrol car, the car between the Fiero and the parking lot exit.
The driver of the Fiero turned sharply away and headed toward the exit on the far side of the parking lot.
The gunman began sprinting after it while shouting, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me.”
Bobby was smarter than everyone else even back then. He aimed his service weapon at the fleeing vehicle yet did not fire. There were far too many pedestrians in the area; there was far too great a risk that he might shoot an innocent civilian by mistake.
Instead of firing on the Fiero, Bobby trained the Glock on the gunman and ordered him to halt.
I don’t think the gunman even considered shooting it out with Bobby, because I was informed later that he immediately tossed his weapon on the ground and raised his hands without being told to.
Bobby approached just the way that we were trained at the academy. He ordered the suspect to one knee, then to the second knee, told him to put his hands palm down on the ground in front of him, slide his legs back until he was lying facedown in the parking lot, and cross his ankles. He grabbed one hand, holstered his firearm, pressed his knee against the suspect’s back, wound the cuffs around the suspect’s wrist, swept his back looking for a weapon, ordered the suspect to give him his other hand, cuffed the second wrist, and swept the rest of the suspect’s body for a weapon.
Unfortunately, all this took precious minutes. Midway National Bank was located close to the freeway. By the time Bobby was able to, first, call for assistance and, second, describe the fleeing Fiero complete with license plate number, God knew where it was. ’Course, it was only a second later that a half-dozen other patrol cars arrived at the scene.
Bobby pulled the black ski mask off the suspect and discovered that he had busted a seventeen-year-old high school dropout named Ryan Hayes and that Ryan was terrified out of his mind. He began weeping and shaking while Bobby read him his rights from a laminated card.
Bobby asked him who his partner was.
“My father,” Ryan said.
“What’s his name?”
“Leland Hayes.”
“Where does he live?”
Ryan told him.
“The red Fiero, is that his car?”
It was.
Bobby decided right then and there that they were the dumbest criminals alive. But then, most of the criminals we met on the job were dumb. That’s why they were criminals.
Sometime during all of this, the FBI was contacted. As far as they’re concerned, robbing an armored truck is the same as robbing a bank—they like to make a federal case out of it.
The manhunt for Leland Hayes began in earnest. Again, this was a long time ago. There weren’t as many traffic cams back then that they could access, so that didn’t help the Feds find the Fiero. Units were dispatched to Leland’s home and to his place of business—or at least his last place of business. He had been unemployed for months. He wasn’t anywhere they looked.
It was while the Feds were working up a profile, learning everything they could about the man, that I came into the story.
I was working out of the Phalen Village Storefront in the Eastern District when the BOLO went out to the state, county, and local cops. What was it, my second year in uniform? I was cruising the mean streets of what they now call the Payne-Phalen neighborhood but back then was simply known as the East Side, miles and miles from the Midway Bank. I remembered thinking at the time how much I would love to catch the fugitives, if for no other reason than the pure joy of it. Especially if they were driving a Fiero. I had driven one once. It had a 140-horsepower V-6 engine with all the pickup of a vacuum cleaner. It was a very light car, and once you got it up to speed, it tended to float; it was like driving a kite. What’s more, it ran hot and was prone to oil leaks. A Fiero would literally catch on fire. GM had stopped making them a decade before the heist, and yet this was the vehicle a couple of armed robbers chose for a getaway car. Amazing.
Hours passed, though, and no such luck. It was getting near the end of my shift. I was heading north on Arcade, which was also Highway 61. My plan was to drive up to Larpenteur, turn around, and come back down. That’s when I saw it—a red Fiero.
I didn’t do anything until I was about six car lengths back and could read the license plate. The number fit the BOLO. I called it in. While I was explaining the situation to dispatch, the suspect driving the Fiero started accelerating. Why he didn’t see me sooner I couldn’t say.
I hit both my lights and siren and started chasing.
“Four forty in pursuit of red Fiero north on Arcade passing Ivy Avenue East,” I told dispatch.
“Four forty copy. Additional squads are being routed to your location.”
So it went. I wasn’t concerned with losing him; he was driving a frickin’ Fiero. Yet I was very concerned that the suspect would slam into another car at high speed as we headed up Arcade.
We crossed Larpenteur, so technically we were in Maplewood, but I kept chasing. No one seemed to mind, later.
The Fiero abruptly turned off of Arcade onto a narrow road—Phalen Drive. I have no idea what the suspect was thinking. Phalen Drive ran between the Phalen Golf Course and Phalen Regional Park. There was no way to get off it until it reached Wheelock Parkway. I thought maybe he intended to stop and try to escape on foot, only there was nowhere to run except onto the golf course or into Lake Phalen. I was about six car lengths off his rear bumper, too. It wasn’t like I wouldn’t be able to see where he was going, wouldn’t be able to follow.
Dispatch informed me that units had set up a roadblock at the intersection with Wheelock Parkway.
“Four forty, we’ll be there in about twenty seconds,” I said.
Except when the suspect saw what was in front of him, he hit the brakes and turned the Fiero sideways. Again, I had no idea what he was thinking. Was he going to try to drive across the lake? You know, they used to make cars that did that, amphibious cars. Maybe they still do.
The Fiero stalled, though. Or he turned it off. All I know is that the suspect hopped out and started shooting at the officers in front of him. I also turned my vehicle sideways, so that when I slipped out of the driver’s side door the car was between me and the suspect.
Bullets were flying; I don’t know how many rounds were fired.
I went into a Weaver stance, just as I had been taught at the academy, holding the nine-millimeter Glock with both hands, my right hand pushing out, my left pulling in, my shooting elbow slightly bent, my support elbow bent straight down, my feet in a boxing stance. I took a deep breath, released half, squeezed the trigger, and watched Leland Hayes’s head explode.
The saddest part of all this—I didn’t feel it, neither good nor bad nor indifferent. Not at the time. Later, I would experience some long, sleepless nights, but at the time all I could think was “Nice shot, McKenzie.” Do you believe that? I didn’t say anything, though. I think I was half hopi
ng that someone else would take credit for it.
Anyway, time passed. The kid, Ryan, was tried as an adult in federal court, charged with one count of interference with commerce by robbery. He pleaded no contest. His public defender argued at his sentencing that Ryan was forced to participate in the robbery by his father and presented a boatload of evidence proving that Leland was the worst kind of sonuvabitch who had abused and bullied his son ever since Ryan’s mother died when he was just a little kid.
Only Leland wasn’t there to be punished, so the judge put it all on Ryan. He said that this was a serious and alarming crime “because the armed robbers had targeted an armored truck guarded by armed guards, indicating a callous disregard for life.” Plus, the guard who had been hit by the Fiero had suffered a broken leg, a broken pelvis, and a fractured skull, and although he was expected to recover, “the victim can’t do the job he did before,” the judge said. “This is a life-changing event for everyone involved.”
Also, the judge reminded the court that the federal authorities had been unable to locate the money that had been stolen—$654,321, an easy number to remember. It hadn’t been in the Fiero or Leland’s house or buried in his backyard. The FBI tried mightily to track his movements during the three hours between the time he stole the money and the time I shot him, but they came up empty. They checked his credit cards to see if he had stopped to buy gas somewhere; they looked at his personal checking account. Nothing. They interviewed all the people that knew Leland, talked to his neighbors. No luck there, either. They simply couldn’t find all that cash. Somehow Ryan was blamed for that, too.
“Armed robberies are cruel,” the judge said. “They terrorize our businesses and our citizens, and must be met with significant sentences. This dangerous offender has sown violence and greed, and will now reap the full penalty for his criminal conduct.”
Usually, the sentence would have run about ten years. The judge decided to make an example of Ryan and gave him twenty-five years and one month to be served at Big Sandy, the high-security penitentiary in Inez, Kentucky.
And I went back to the police.
* * *
Nina stared at me with such tenderness that I nearly started to cry.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m fine. It’s—you know—it’s just part of my life now. I’ve seen so many things, done so many—I don’t even think about it anymore.”
Nina didn’t believe me.
She wrapped her arms around me and held me close.
“You and Bobby,” she said.
Bobby? my inner voice said. Like the vast majority of cops, that lucky sonuvabitch has never shot anybody. I doubt he’s even unholstered his weapon more than a half-dozen times.
“It’s the life we chose,” I said aloud.
“I’d remind you that you quit that life, but you didn’t really, did you?”
“I like helping people with their problems. It got to be a habit with me.”
“I know.”
“Live well. Be useful.”
“I know.”
Nina took my hand and led me toward the master bedroom.
“Let’s go to bed,” she said.
But then she’s always been kind.
* * *
Nina’s kindness wasn’t enough to get me through the night, however. Sometime before dawn I began to dream about Leland Hayes. Actually, it wasn’t so much a dream as a reenactment. All the details were the same except that when I shot him this time, Leland did not fall. Instead, he turned and asked me what I thought I was doing.
“My job,” I told him.
Your job, your job, your job …
Leland wasn’t the only one to chant those words back at me. He was joined by a chorus of more than a half-dozen other men that I’ve killed over the years. Have there really been that many?
Your job, your job, your job …
I had never had this particular dream before, but I’ve had others like it. My psychologist friend Jillian DeMarais told me that I was displaying symptoms of PTSD and I should seek professional help, only not from her. We had dated at one time, and she hadn’t cared for what was going on in my head back then, much less now. I never did see anyone, though. I mean, the dreams and other symptoms weren’t that bad.
Your job, your job, your job …
“All of you,” I shouted back. “You hurt people. You killed people.”
What did you do?
“I made the world a better place.”
They laughed and laughed until I woke up in darkness. I was shivering. It didn’t last long, though, neither the darkness nor the shivering. The rising sun soon sent slivers of light through the gaps in our bedroom drapes, and that was enough to warm me.
FOUR
Later that morning I was sitting in front of my computer in the office area. Our condo didn’t have rooms so much as areas—dining area, TV area, music area where Nina’s Steinway stood. The entire north wall was made of tinted floor-to-ceiling glass with a dramatic view of the Mississippi River where it tumbled down St. Anthony Falls. The south featured floor-to-ceiling bookcases that turned at the east wall and followed it to a large brick fireplace. To the left of the fireplace was a door that led to a guest bedroom with its own full bath that Erica used whenever she was in town. Against the west wall and elevated three steps above the living area was the kitchen area. Beyond that was a master bedroom.
Nina stepped out of the bedroom and moved to the kitchen area, where she poured herself a cup of coffee from the French press that I had assembled. She was wearing a silky red nightgown that accentuated her curves and sparked my imagination.
“I like your outfit,” I said.
“Really? Last night you couldn’t wait for me to take it off.” Nina moved to a stuffed chair facing my desk and sat with her legs tucked beneath her. She sipped her coffee and said, “What are you doing?”
“Just a little research.”
“Such as?”
“I discovered that Ryan Hayes served eighty-seven percent of his sentence before he was released for good behavior. That’s about average for federal prisoners. By exhibiting ‘exemplary compliance with institutional disciplinary regulations’ they can get up to fifty-four days per year knocked off their sentences. It didn’t hurt that Ryan also earned his GED and some college credits while behind bars. Anyway, he served only twenty-one years, eight months, and ten days of his twenty-five-year sentence. What a break, huh?”
“Lucky him. What else?”
“The money, the $654,321, has never been found. You know City Pages, calls itself an alternative newspaper when actually it’s all about promoting the Twin Cities club scene?”
“What about it?”
“It ran a story six years ago titled ‘Lost Treasures of the Twin Cities.’ The money taken in the armored truck heist was rated number six. Do you know what was number one? The gold bullion hidden by the bank robber Frank ‘Jelly’ Nash in 1933.”
“That you found.”
“That you found,” I insisted.
“You found it. I only told you where to look.” Nina took another sip of her coffee. “I can’t believe how little money we made from that deal.”
“I blame the IRS and the United States Treasury Department.”
“Plus everyone else who was in on it.”
“Jelly’s Gold did gather a crowd. Anyway, according to City Pages, the money is still out there; they believe Ryan Leland knows where it is and intends to claim it.”
“If that were true, he wouldn’t have gone to a psychic medium.”
I watched as Nina sipped some more coffee. Somehow she made the process seem sexy. But then I did mention the silky red gown, right?
“So what’s your plan?” Nina asked.
“Plan? I don’t have a plan. Why would I?”
“I was thinking about Leland Hayes putting a hit on you from the grave.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in any of that stuff.”
“I think it’s a loa
d of hooey.”
I smiled at the noun. Nina rarely cursed, and when she did you’d best pay attention. Instead, she employed a number of euphemisms that always sounded more colorful.
“Well, then?” I said.
“Shelby might be right. It doesn’t matter what I believe or even what you believe. What matters is what Ryan Hayes believes, and apparently he believes that this whatshername, Hannah Braaten, he believes she knows where the money is or she can find out. That’s why he reacted the way he did. Grabbing her, shaking her, saying if she thinks she can keep it for herself…”
“You want me to look into it?”
“I most certainly do not, but I figure you’re going to anyway. That’s why you’re up early doing the research, isn’t it?”
“Just curious,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
I gestured at the computer screen.
“Hannah has a website,” I said. “If the media reports and quotes from satisfied customers are to be believed, she is a very gifted young lady.”
Nina left her chair and came around the desk so that she could get a good look at what I was gazing at. What she saw was a pic of Hannah Braaten sitting on a huge rock overlooking Lake Superior and appearing all windswept.
“I’ll say she’s gifted,” Nina said. “Look at those eyes and cheekbones.”
“Your eyes are prettier.”
Nina pressed her cheek against my hair. “Thank you,” she said. “I need to get dressed and head down to the club.”
I called after her as she moved away.
“Need any help with buttons and zippers?” I asked. “Hooks and clasps?”
Nina grinned and gestured with her head for me to come along.
* * *
Ninety minutes later, Nina was heading for the door.
From the Grave--A McKenzie Novel Page 3
