by P. J. Tracy
He watched the morning news shows try to scare the shit out of the city while he ate his breakfast. The murders weren’t just big news; they were the only news.
How much intrepid reporters had managed to discover scared him. They knew about the game, they’d put all three murders together, and worst of all, they knew the profiles of the next two victims. Murder four, a female shopper at the Mall of America; murder five, an art teacher.
‘Our sources tell us there are twenty murders in the Monkeewrench game,’ one of the morning newscasters intoned. He was young, new, and looked like a Ken doll. Magozzi didn’t know him. ‘Which begs the question, are there seventeen more victims somewhere in this city, innocently going about their daily lives, unaware that they have been marked for death by a psychopathic killer?’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Magozzi hit the mute button and dove for the phone. It blurped an aborted ring just as he picked up the receiver.
‘I’ve been ringing your cell for the last hour,’ Gino said without preamble.
‘We dropped it at the lab last night, remember?’
‘Oh. Yeah. I forgot. Christ, I’m operating on about three brain cells here. You catch the news?’
‘Just now. Channel Ten has the game up to victim five.’
‘They all do. Papers, too. Looks like none of the players calling the tip lines got past the fifth murder.’
Magozzi stretched to reach a piece of bacon off his plate. ‘You want to go to work or do you want to go shopping?’
‘Shopping?’
‘Megamall’s going to be empty.’
‘Very funny. What are you chewing?’
‘Animal fat. Bacon.’
Gino was silent for a moment. ‘Well, that clinches it. It’s the end of the world.’
It was nearly eight o’clock when Magozzi cruised past City Hall and almost decided to turn around and go right back home.
Satellite vans lined both sides of the street, and only half of them were local. He saw Duluth, Milwaukee, even Chicago, and a slew of low-end rental cars that meant freelancers and wire stringers were here in force.
A few reporters were doing stand-ups in front of the building, and the sidewalk was a mess of cables. They’d make the network news tonight for sure, and then the city council members would shit bricks at what the story would do to the Minneapolis convention trade.
He circled the block and parked in the ramp, where clerks and secretaries would have a hard time finding an empty space this day, because all the cowardly detectives had chosen to slink in a back door. Gino’s Volvo wagon was there; so was Langer’s brand-new Dodge Ram pickup; even Tommy Espinoza’s beloved ’41 Chevy was perilously crowded into door-ding territory.
Gino was waiting for him inside the door, still wearing his overcoat, sipping coffee from a mug that said World’s Best Grandmother. He’d missed a full square inch of whiskers on his left cheek with the razor, and little swollen pockets of purplish flesh rode high under his eyes.
‘Jeez, it took you long enough. Come on.’ He grabbed Magozzi by the elbow and started propelling him down the hall, past the elevator.
‘We’ve got to get upstairs. Meeting starts in ten minutes.’
‘I know, I know, we’re just going to make a short stop first.’
‘Where?’ Magozzi asked.
‘Secretarial pool.’
‘We’ve got a secretarial pool?’
Gino pushed him through a doorway into a large office filled with computer stations. ‘Don’t call it that. They get really pissed, and you don’t want to piss these girls off or they won’t give you any coffee. And don’t call them “girls,” either.’
‘There’s nobody in here.’
‘They’re in the coffee room.’
‘Can I call it the coffee room?’
Gino gave an exasperated snort. ‘I hate it when you don’t get enough sleep. You get punchy and weird.’
‘I get weird, you get wired. How much coffee have you had anyway?’
‘Not enough.’ He led him toward a doorway on the back wall and poked his head in. ‘Here he is, ladies, just like I promised. Detective Leo Magozzi, the primary on these murders.’ He jerked Magozzi into the tiny room where half a dozen women of various shapes and ages smiled at him.
‘Good morning, Detective Magozzi,’ they chimed like a parochial grade-school class greeting a visiting priest.
‘Good morning, ladies.’ He forced a pleasant smile, wondering what the hell he was doing in there, trying to remember if you were allowed to call adult females ‘ladies’ anymore. The room was small, hot, and smelled like Starbucks, only better.
A tiny, fiftyish woman pushed a warm mug into his hand. ‘Here you are, Detective Magozzi.’ She smiled up at him. ‘And you come right back whenever you want a refill. Detective Rolseth told us you boys have been up all night trying to solve these terrible murders, and we want you to know how much we appreciate all your hard work.’
‘Uh, thank you.’ Magozzi smiled uncertainly. Nobody’d ever thanked him for doing his job before, and it was a little embarrassing. Because he didn’t know what else he was supposed to do, he took a sip from the mug. ‘Oh my God.’
Gino was rocking back and forth on his heels, grinning. ‘Is that incredible or what? They make it in that thing.’ He jabbed a stubby finger toward an old-fashioned glass pot perking on the hot plate. ‘I’m telling you, it’s a lost art. Walked in this morning, followed my nose, and discovered treasure. Never would have known these ladies were down here if I hadn’t been dodging that circus out front. Thank you very kindly, ladies.’
There was a round of ‘thank you’s from the table of women as they left.
‘Was that a kick or what?’ Gino asked as they weaved around empty computer stations on their way out. Every desk held photos, green plants, knickknacks; pieces of home that workers with real lives couldn’t leave behind. ‘They think we’re hot stuff. Not a bad start to a day that’s going to go down the toilet in about three seconds.’
‘What’s a primary?’ Magozzi asked him.
‘They all watch that Brit cop show on PBS – you know, the female dick who bosses around all the guys who actually have real dicks? Over there they call the lead detective the primary.’
‘We don’t have “lead” detectives or primaries or whatever.’
‘Hey, I was just trying to get you a cup of coffee. Me, I can get by on charm. Figured you needed a title.’
Chief Malcherson was waiting for them in the upstairs hallway, and if you wanted to know how bad things were, all you had to do was look at the man. Every strand of his thick white hair lay in its proper place, his pale blue shirt was rigor-mortis starched, his long face freshly shaven and composed. But his suitcoat was unbuttoned. This was a genuinely catastrophic event.
‘Morning, Chief,’ Magozzi and Gino said together.
‘You two saw the papers, the TV?’
Both detectives nodded.
‘The press ate me alive when I came in. Chewed me up, spit me out, then stomped on what was left.’
‘And you look it, sir,’ Magozzi said, eliciting a very slight smile from the chief, one of the few they would see for a long time.
‘You actually ran the gauntlet at the front door?’ Gino asked, amazed.
‘Some of us have to come in the front door, Rolseth. Otherwise people might think that we don’t have a handle on this case; that we don’t have a suspect; that we don’t have a clue who is doing these murders or how to protect our citizens; and that we’re afraid to face the press.’ He looked from one detective to the other. ‘They want to know if we’re going to close the Megamall, if we’re going to close the schools, if we’re going to put armed guards around every teacher in the city, and most of all, they want the victim profiles on the other murders in the game because they “have a responsibility to warn the public.” ’
He released a heavy sigh and shoved both hands in his trouser pockets, which was truly alarming. The suit was a wool blend work
of art, and Magozzi would have bet a year’s salary that those pockets had never felt the chief’s hands before.
‘Monkeewrench took that game off the net yesterday morning, right after they read about the cemetery murder,’ Gino reminded him. ‘Nobody – except the people working this case and the Monkeewrench geeks – has seen any of the murder scenarios past number seven. So that business about seventeen more vics marked for death is a load of sensationalistic crap.’
Malcherson said sarcastically, ‘And I’m sure the public will be as relieved as we were to learn only four more of them will die, not seventeen.’ He sighed and glanced down the hallway toward the task force room. ‘We’ve got some decisions to make, and we’ve got to make them fast.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like do we shut down the Mall of America?’
‘Jesus,’ Gino muttered. ‘Even if it wasn’t a stupid idea, we don’t have the authority to do that, do we?’
‘According to the attorney general, we do. Imminent danger to the public, something like that. And incidentally, Rolseth, before you repeat your sentiments beyond this hallway, you should know that a lot of the people I’ve been talking to don’t think it’s “stupid” to close the mall to save a life. Including some of the people on the task force.’
Gino rolled his eyes. ‘Damnit, it’s not that simple. They’re not thinking it through . . .’
Malcherson held up his hand to stop him. ‘I know that, and you know that, but we’re not going to convince anyone else by opening with the unequivocal statement that their idea is stupid.’
Gino sighed and nodded.
‘What’s the mall’s position?’ Magozzi asked.
There was no humor in Malcherson’s smile. ‘No one is going to touch this one. Not the mall management, not the mayor of Bloomington, or the governor, for that matter. It’s our decision.’
Gino gave a disgusted snort. ‘No one wants to take the heat for shutting it down, and no one wants to be left holding the bag if we don’t shut it down and someone gets hit out there.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So we get the backlash. It’s a no-win situation, and once again the cops get to be the bad guys. Well, this just sucks.’
Malcherson glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got exactly one hour to decide. We keep it open, I’ve got commitments from the Highway Patrol and almost every sheriff’s department in the state to help out with extra officers.’
‘For how long?’ Magozzi asked.
‘As long as they can.’
‘Not long then.’
‘Probably not.’ He blew out a long exhale and looked down at the floor. ‘Plus I’ve got two suits in my office.’
‘Shit,’ Gino said.
‘Right now it’s an offer. Manpower if we need it, which we might, so we’d better think carefully before we decline; and profiling help.’
‘Profiling?’ Magozzi said. ‘That’s a crock. There is no profiling this guy. He’s not a sexual predator, not sticking to a victim type, hell, they’d be hard-pressed to prove serial with no forensics beyond the gun caliber. The FBI’s got nothing to offer here. They just want in.’
‘If it’s Internet-related, it’s Federal, and they are in. Technically, of course, we have no hard evidence of the Internet connection, just conjecture; so for the moment they’re standing down. But politically, having them on board might not be such a bad idea. No harm in spreading the blame around.’
Magozzi bit down on the impulse to say that this case was about catching a killer, not about spreading blame, but in his position, the chief had to juggle both of those balls. ‘Can we hold off? See what shakes out in the meeting?’
Malcherson nodded. ‘That’s what I told them.’
Gino’s cell phone chirped from deep in his overcoat pocket. ‘Yeah, Rolseth here.’ He listened, brows elevated slightly. ‘Got it.’ He folded up the phone and tucked it back in his pocket. ‘The Monkeewrench partners just walked in the front door. All five of them together.’
Magozzi frowned. ‘You told them to come in at ten, right?’
‘That’s right. Eager beavers.’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘Let ’em wait.’
26
With most of the department in the task force meeting, Gloria had the homicide room to herself, unless you counted Roger Delaney, which she didn’t. He was a short, cocky son of a bitch with slicked-back hair, bad teeth, and a penchant for butt-slapping that had nearly gotten him killed the one and only time he’d laid a hand on her fine black ass. He was two-fingering a keyboard in a back corner while Gloria manned the front desk and the phones.
She’d already had over a dozen calls about the Monkeewrench murders. Would-be witnesses who saw the killer in a dream, or knew for a fact their brother-in-law or boss or pizza delivery boy had done it. She marked them all dutifully in a log, as if they had merit, because sometimes psychos kooky enough to kill were kooky enough to call the cops and talk about it.
Between phone calls it was so quiet she could hear the hesitant clicks of Roger’s keyboard and the sporadic trickle of water passing through a coffeemaker that hadn’t been cleaned in months.
Normally the homicide room was buzzing with activity, detectives busy with cold cases in the lulls between new ones, working narco or sex crimes or helping out the gang detail when people on the street had the good sense to stop killing each other for a time, and the silence made her irritable. So did the desk sergeant keeping all the media people corralled downstairs on a day when she’d dressed for television, wrapping her big beautiful black body in a combination kaftan/sari of browns and oranges that looked like Africa even if she’d bought it at Kmart. She’d wrapped her wild black hair in a matching scarf, bought ten new nails with half-moons twinkling gold in mahogany enamel, and knew the TV people would be all over her because the fools always jumped all over what they thought was ethnic, even though they didn’t have a clue. But they had to see her first.
She was drumming her long nails on the desktop, trying to think of an excuse to sashay down to the press room, when she heard voices in the hall and perked up a little. At this point she was so desperate for a diversion she didn’t care if it was a scruffy walk-in with a hot tip on the JFK assassination.
The first one through the door was white and slender and strung so tight she might have asked for a urine sample if the woman hadn’t looked at her straight on, then nodded with respect. ‘Good morning. I’m Grace MacBride. We’re here to see Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth.’
‘I’m sorry, the detectives are in a meeting right now . . .’ The words died in her throat as the rest of them filed in. Her sharp brown eyes brushed over a guy in one-piece bright yellow Lycra so tall and skinny you could use him as a pole for vaulting; a ponytailed, bearded linebacker of a man in black leather; a pale guy in a to-die-for suit who looked like he was CEO of something; and then a wonderfully, beautifully fat woman with flashing eyes who sashayed better than Gloria on her best days, head to toe in Gloria’s favorite color, orange. My oh my. A white woman with fashion flair.
‘We’re the owners of Monkeewrench.’ Grace MacBride recaptured Gloria’s attention. ‘We were asked to come in this morning.’
Gloria gave the circus troupe a hasty, skeptical once-over, wondering what on earth would bring such a diverse group together. ‘That’s right. I’ve got you down, but not until ten. You’re almost two hours early. You can have a seat over there –’
‘No. There’s no time.’ MacBride’s response was so fast and sharp it put Gloria off for a minute.
‘Excuse me?’
‘We need to see them right now. Please call them.’
Oh, now, this was intolerable. The words had been civil enough, but they’d been delivered like an order, and Gloria didn’t take orders very well, especially not from some skinny white broad with an attitude. She stood up and leaned stiff-armed on her desk, using her great size as intimidation.
‘Listen, honey, if you think I am going to walk into a mee
ting of armed men and women and tell them sorry, they have to break it up now because Ms Grace MacBride wants to see them, you’ve got another think coming. You may rule the little world in that Monkeewrench office of yours, but in this one, you operate at the pleasure of the detectives, not the other way around, so you might as well take a seat, because you’re going to have a very long wait.’
Grace MacBride just smiled at her.
There was a big tag board on wheels positioned in the center front of the task force room today, holding morgue photos of the three victims, crime-scene photos, and blowups of the staged photos from the game. The desk was angled off to the side.
Everyone was seated when Magozzi, Gino, and the chief walked in, and they were all looking at the pictures.
It was a funny thing, Magozzi thought. Most people looked at morgue photos and jerked their eyes away just as fast as they could. Homicide cops – good homicide cops – spent a lot of time staring at the pictures of dead victims, absorbing details surviving family members never saw, unwittingly forming some kind of bond with people they’d never known in life, making a kind of unspoken promise.
In one way it was a little morbid, he supposed, and in another, it was almost tender. Anyone who said you had to shut off your emotions to be a homicide cop had it exactly backward.
‘Okay, listen up, everyone.’ Magozzi piled a thick stack of stapled handouts on the table in the front of the task force room and took a seat on the edge of the desk. ‘Fresh off the copier. We may have caught a break today, thanks to Dr Rambachan, who stayed up all night working on the paddle wheeler vic. Speaking of which, I’d like to thank everyone for the extra hours they’ve been putting in. I’ll give you a quick briefing, but if you’d like some light reading later, the actual autopsy report is included in your handout.’
There were a few chuckles and a couple sleepy groans as the task force that still wasn’t officially a task force lined up like zombies to retrieve the new material. Most of them had pulled a double yesterday, and Magozzi wondered if the son of a bitch who was responsible was suffering similarly or if his tweaked-out brain chemicals were keeping him wired.
