Twin Cities Noir

BLASTED by Mary Logue Kenwood (Minneapolis)

When were you the most scared in your whole life?”

Claire Watkins looked over at her gangly teenaged daughter Meg, who was somehow managing to slouch while still wearing her seat belt. Nice to have her darling self-involved daughter ask her a question.

Claire was driving them up to the big city. The Mississippi River flowed in the opposite direction as they passed along it going to the Twin Cities. Specifically they were headed to Minneapolis to go shoe shopping, a big treat for both of them. School was starting soon.

“The most scared?” Claire stalled. She didn’t need to think about it. There was no contest. One moment in her long career in law enforcement stood out in her mind.

“Yeah, you know, heart-zapping, teeth-chattering fear. You know, the whole ball of wax?”

“The whole ball of wax? Jeez, you sound like Rich.”

“Whatever, Mom, you know—petrified?”

Claire had never told Meg about this event in her life, had always thought that she would save it for when she was older. But Meg was going to be fifteen in a few months; maybe she was old enough to hear it.

“There was one time when I was pretty petrified.”

“Tell me, tell me.” Meg pulled herself up straighter.

“Are you sure?”

“Come on, tell me. We have an hour before we get to DSW,” Meg said, referring to her favorite shoe store.

“Well, this was a long time ago. I was still new at the job, working in Minneapolis. Not quite a rookie, maybe I had been a cop for a few years. I answered a call. A domestic. It’s the worst call a cop can get.”

“Why?”

“Well, because people are usually killed by those that love them. Passion gets out of hand very fast.”

“Go on.”

“I remember it was very late at night. Technically, early morning. Three-thirty, as I recall.”

“What was your shift?”

“I was working the midnight-to-8 shift. Brutal. I don’t know how I could have done that. I certainly couldn’t do it anymore. Good thing we moved down to Fort St. Antoine.”

Claire saw they were catching up to a northbound train near Diamond Bluff. She loved this drive up along the river. She had driven it so many times, it demanded nothing of her. She could watch the scenery and talk to her daughter.

When Meg nudged her, she continued her story: “The wife had called in, the dispatcher told me—she sounded drunk, he said. She claimed her husband was threatening to kill her.”

“That sounds bad.”

“Yeah, and I was on my own, which was unusual. My partner had gotten sick in the middle of the shift and I had dropped him off at home. I was heading back to the squad room to do some paperwork when I got the call. My mistake was I took it.

“The first surprise was the address the dispatcher gave me. It was in Kenwood, an older, very nice neighborhood in Minneapolis. I drove up to the house and wanted to move in. It was probably built in the ’20s and had leaded windows, a tiled roof, even a turret. I remember walking up to the house and lusting after it.”

“Then what?”

“Well, the lights were on in the house. I mean they were all on. When I rang the doorbell, a blond-haired woman came to the door. I guessed she was in her late thirties. She asked what I wanted.”

“You mean she wasn’t the one who called?”

“She hadn’t remembered she’d called. She was sloshed. I think she had a drink in her hand as she was talking to me, but getting drunk in your own home wasn’t any kind of offense. I asked her if I could come in and just see if everything was all right. At first, I didn’t think she would let me, then her husband yelled from the other room and she stepped aside.

“As soon as I was in, I could see that a battle had been going on. Dishes broken on the kitchen floor. A mirror shattered over the fireplace. But this elegant older guy stood as I entered the living room and asked what seemed to be the problem.”

“Was he drunk too?”

“Yes, but he held it very well. One of those drunks that pronounces their words even more carefully, trying not to appear drunk.” Claire caught sight of a bird flying along the bluff. Looked like an eagle. She pointed it out to Meg.

“I told him I had received a call. And I wanted to check out the situation. He assured me that everything was fine. His wife had been a little difficult, he explained, but he had calmed her down. I was turning to leave when he said some- thing to her. I didn’t hear what it was, but she exploded. Said she wanted him out of there. Said she hated his guts. He stayed very calm. She turned to me and said, ‘Make him leave.’

“The husband sat down on the couch and said, ‘I’m not going.’

“The wife said he had been beating on her and showed me a badly bruised arm. I asked him if this was true. He didn’t say anything. I suggested to him that maybe he should go to a hotel for the night, come back in the morning. He said he wasn’t going anyplace. Then he pulled a gun out from between the couch cushions.”

“A gun? Wow, is that when you were afraid?”

“No, not really. He wasn’t pointing the gun at me, and it all seemed a little unreal. He was waving it at his wife and yelling that she wasn’t going to tell him what to do. She was screaming, ‘Why don’t you go see that woman you’ve been seeing?’

“I told him to put his gun down. He wasn’t really listening to me. He kept talking in this very controlled voice to his wife, and then he let loose a shot into the ceiling. The sound of it was incredibly loud. I realized that was what had happened to the mirror. He had shot it.

“He was so gone, ranting at his wife, he wasn’t paying any attention to me. All his anger was focused on her. They were in this huge war, screaming at each other. I walked up behind him and chopped the arm that was holding the gun. It went flying. At the same time, I grabbed him in a chokehold.”

“Way to go, Mom.”

“Yeah, it worked. He collapsed, didn’t put up a fight at all. I felt reasonably in control. The wife started crying. She was sitting on the couch. I dropped the husband to his knees and put cuffs on him. Then I helped him up to take him away. And that’s when it got really bad. You see, the wife had grabbed his gun and was aiming it at me.”

“Was this it—the time you were most afraid?”

“Not quite yet. Not the most. But I was afraid. She was only about three feet away from me, too close to miss.”

“Why was she doing that?”

“She was crazy, hysterical, screaming, saying things like, ‘Let him go. I love him. You can’t take him away. I won’t let you.’

“For what seemed like a long moment, I could think of nothing to do. I had both hands on the husband and my gun was in my holster.”

“Mom, what did you do?”

“I knew I had to distract her. I pushed her husband hard and he fell to the ground. She shrieked, dropped the gun, and went to his side. She was asking his forgiveness when I snapped the cuffs on her, too.”

Meg stared at her. “Then what happened? Was that it?”

“Not quite.” Claire looked for a place to pull over. She needed to stop to tell the end of the story. She pulled onto a field road, cornstalks rustling in the slight wind. She looked over at her daughter, so happy and easy in her life. A beautiful, healthy girl. How she loved her.

“Then I heard a noise upstairs. I left the two of them sitting on the living room floor and bolted up the stairs to see what was up there. I found a baby sitting in her crib. I almost fainted when I saw her. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move.”

Claire reached over and pushed back her daughter’s hair, then said, “She reminded me of you, my own baby home asleep. I’ve never felt such pure panic.”

“I don’t get it. Why?”

“Because there was a hole in her bed, a gunshot hole that had blasted through her mattress and into the ceiling of her room. All I could see was this smiling baby.”