Wolf Hour

28 Skyways III, October 2016

Bob had taken up a position some distance from the SWAT team that was waiting in readiness outside the door to the restrooms. Men who emerged at irregular intervals through the swing door jumped at the sight of those black-clad men with automatic weapons pointing in their direction. Kay, Hanson and O’Rourke stood behind them and watched. Behind Bob, curious passers-by stopped to watch, even after being told to move on.

One of the SWAT team pushed a thin wire through the door. Bob knew there was a micro camera on the end of it. Kay approached him.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘You’re shaking your head.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. So what is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bob. He saw Hanson say something to O’Rourke, who turned and looked in Bob’s direction. ‘It just... it feels wrong. As though...’

‘As though what?’ asked Kay. She was standing next to him. Her arms were folded, same as his.

‘As though he’s playing cat and mouse with us. And he’s the cat.’

‘Why—’ Kay began, but Bob interrupted her.

‘Wait a moment.’ He ran after a man in a grey Minnesota Twins sweater who had just emerged from the toilet and was being waved on by the SWAT men. Bob caught up with him outside the bag store. ‘Excuse me, sir. MPD. Did you see anything in there?’

The man looked at Bob. ‘Like what?’

‘A Latino carrying something wrapped in bubble wrap?’

‘No. What’s going on?’

‘You’ll see it on the news. When you say no, do you mean he might have been there but that you didn’t see him?’

The man hesitated. ‘He could have been in one of the stalls, I guess.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Bob ran back.

O’Rourke and one of the SWAT team were studying a phone screen that was relaying a feed from the micro camera.

‘We have to go in and take him now,’ said Bob.

O’Rourke glanced at Bob then held up his palm like a Stop sign. As Bob waited for the SWAT chief to finish looking at the screen he saw that the man in the Twins sweater had stopped next to a guy wheeling a cleaner’s cart who looked like Super Mario. He was saying something, then pointing to the toilet, then up at the roof. Super Mario nodded like he understood.

‘We need you to get out of here.’

Bob turned, realising that O’Rourke had been talking to him.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You’re under suspension, Oz, only serving police officers are allowed on the scene. Get out of here. Now.’

‘Listen, I’m starting to understand Tomás Gomez. He knows what he’s doing.’

O’Rourke looked over Bob’s shoulder, pointed at Bob and made a signal.

‘Listen to me, O’Rourke. Gomez has a plan. He has to be taken now!’

O’Rourke licked his lips. ‘That will be all thank you, Oz.’

He felt a heavy hand on each shoulder. Turned. Two sturdy uniformed officers were standing behind him.

‘Come on, Detective, we’ve got orders to escort you out of here.’

Bob looked past them, saw Hanson standing a few yards behind with a mocking grin on his lips. Felt that rushing start up. Saw Kay spread her arms in exasperation. Told himself he mustn’t lose control. Not now.

‘I’m leaving,’ said Bob, and tried to push away the hands clutching his shoulders.

They stayed where they were, just as heavy.

‘Escort you,’ one of the two said curtly. Bob guessed by the looks on their faces that they weren’t interested in discussing it. He bunched and then opened both his hands. Breathed regularly and counted.

‘Take him now,’ Bob managed to say in a low voice to O’Rourke before one of the two uniforms dragged him almost off-balance and he was led from the scene.

‘There’s no need to hold me,’ Bob said as they crossed the skyway to the neighbouring building.

Still they kept a hold of him, one on each arm.

Think before you speak, think before you act. Tell yourself you can control your anger.

They didn’t let go of him until they reached the other side, and Bob realised that he’d managed it. He really had surprised himself by proving that he didn’t have to go berserk every time. It was just a pity there was no one he could share it with.

What looked like people from a TV news team came hurrying in their direction. In the lead was a female reporter holding a microphone, with two men behind her, one carrying a camera with KSTP-TV on it. They disappeared onto the skyway leading to the Track Plaza building.

‘We’ve got orders to arrest you if you try to come back,’ one of the officers said. ‘Got that?’

‘Got it,’ said Bob, who was trying to keep track of where the reporter had gone.

The two officers left, and Bob pulled down the sleeves of his cashmere coat and straightened his tie as he looked around. Met a couple of curious stares but did his best to ignore them. Dignity — what the hell does a man need with dignity? This was obviously the floor for places to eat. And drink. Directly in front of him was a flashy sports bar with giant screens all showing the same baseball game. He had a quick think. Then he took out a loop from his coat pocket, took out the ID card, fastened it to the loop and hung it round his neck.

‘What’ll it be, sir?’ said the bartender as Bob approached the counter.

‘Switch to KSTP,’ he said.

The bartender laughed. ‘Fat chance. Can’t you see the Timberwolves are playing?’

‘Fat chance? Can’t you see this card? It means you do what I damn well tell you to do.’

The bartender peered at the ID. Shrugged, pressed a switch behind the counter that at once gave rise to a unison groan from the watching customers. That fell silent the next moment.

‘...Track Plaza where police are hunting the suspect who shot and killed a man at Southdale Mall earlier this afternoon. There is a heavy police presence at the scene.’ While the news anchor talked, pictures showed the police cars in Nicollet Mall and Bob caught a glimpse of Kay and himself heading for the entrance. The view went split-screen, with the studio anchor on one half and the female reporter Bob had just seen on the other.

‘What’s happening now, Shirley?’

‘Right now we’re standing on a skyway because everyone has been told to stay away from the place where the suspect may emerge. There are reports that he’s armed, but none of the police are willing to talk to us. But I’ll do my best to get an interview, Rick.’

‘Thanks, Shirley. We’ll be back with more on this story after the weather.’

For a couple of seconds a weather chart filled the screen, then the Timberwolves were back. Following a few seconds of shocked silence there were ironic cheers and a couple of customers hurried out of the bar. The bartender put his forearms on the counter and leaned over toward Bob, biceps bulging.

‘I’m guessing you ain’t about to use your authority to check the weather, Lieutenant.’

‘Detective.’

‘Whatever.’

‘OK,’ said Bob. ‘Five minutes of basketball. And a double Johnnie Walker.’

Without turning round the bartender reached up to the shelf behind him, took hold of a bottle and poured a drink.

‘Pretty smart trick,’ said Bob, tossed back the contents and put the empty glass back on the counter. ‘How about letting me see it one more time?’

Things were looking bad for the Timberwolves and got even worse when they missed two desperate efforts at three-pointers. Bob recalled what the coach of his soccer team once said, that losing affects your ability to take good, rational decisions. And Bob had been losing for some time now. At least in sport the games come to an end and you get to start the next match at 0–0. He checked the time. Three minutes had passed, but already he could feel the effects of the whisky.

‘Tell me what’s happening...’ a voice behind him said.

He turned. It was Shirley, the reporter. She was standing up close to him and smiling invitingly. She took hold of his ID card ‘...Detective Bob Oz.’

‘What’s happening,’ said Bob, and heard how he slurred a consonant slightly as he fastened his gaze on her husky-blue eyes, ‘is that I am halfway down a Johnnie Walker and then you and I are going to have another one. Alice has kicked me out, I fuck everything that moves, and I’m suspended for defending myself against Tony. How about you, Divine Blue?’

‘Sorry, Rick, strike one,’ she said laughing into the microphone which Bob now saw for the first time. ‘Back to you.’

She removed an earphone from under the long red hair, the smile was gone, and she wasn’t laughing along with the cameraman and sound technician crouched behind her.

‘What the fuck,’ said Bob. ‘Did that go out live?’

‘Just local TV,’ Shirley said sourly, in a tone that suggested she was aiming for bigger things. ‘But this’ll be out on YouTube soon enough.’

‘Funny,’ said Bob. ‘What’s happening back there?’

‘Don’t know, they’re keeping us away. A black man against MPD, no witnesses. Poor man.’

‘He isn’t...’ Bob started to say, but Shirley and her team were already on their way out.

Bob swore, paid and left.

People were crowded onto the skyway and trying to get a view into Track Plaza. Super Mario was among them, with his cleaning cart. Bob approached him.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, flashing his ID card. ‘I saw you talking to a guy who just came out of the restroom. It looked like he was explaining about something inside, what was it?’

Super Mario looked up at Bob. ‘The fan has fallen out.’

‘The fan?’

‘The fan in the ceiling. It’s hanging open. He said someone should fix it.’

‘You mean the fan in front of the ventilation shaft?’

‘Yeah.’

Kay watched as yet another man emerged from the restroom and froze at the sight of the weapons pointing his way.

‘He’s been in there nearly ten minutes now,’ she said to O’Rourke and Hanson.

‘Maybe he knows we’re here,’ said O’Rourke.

‘Sir!’ Kay stopped the man who was being ushered past them. ‘Did you see anyone else in there?’

The man shook his head and was led away.

‘Maybe Gomez has noticed that people are going out but no one’s coming in,’ said Kay.

The other two didn’t respond.

‘He’s getting away!’

The shout came from behind them and all three turned round. They saw Bob Oz trying to get past the two uniformed police officers who were holding him back.

‘Get that guy out of here!’ O’Rourke yelled.

‘Wait,’ said Kay.

‘The ventilation shaft,’ Bob shouted. ‘It’s open!’

O’Rourke looked at Bob. He looked at Kay. He adjusted his helmet. ‘We’re going in now.’

The leader signalled to one of the SWAT team, who opened the door slightly and rolled in a stun grenade. Kay could hear the sound of the grenade bouncing across the tiled floor. The door was closed. She put her hands over her ears, heard two dull thuds and then the SWAT team swarmed in. O’Rourke went in right behind them, and a few seconds later he was back in the open doorway. His face told them all they needed to know, but he said it anyway.

‘Our bird has flown.’

Bob followed Olav Hanson and Kay Myers into the restroom. He saw at once that next to where the fan was hanging down was a hinged door in the ceiling, above one of the cubicles. It looked like it was possible to squeeze in through the hole. Bob went over to O’Rourke, who was standing outside the open cubicle. The bubble wrap lay spread out on the floor in front of the closet. Already one of the SWAT people was standing on the toilet and feeding the wire with the micro camera in through the opening above.

‘No one here,’ he said to O’Rourke. ‘Just this.’

He picked something up out of the shaft and handed it down to his leader.

‘What is this?’ asked O’Rourke.

‘It’s an insulin needle,’ Bob said behind him. ‘Gomez has diabetes. He’s trying to crawl out through there. Isn’t anyone going to go in after him?’

‘How about you, Oz?’ O’Rourke handed him the needle. ‘Or would you prefer to send Myers?’

Bob locked eyes with the SWAT boss.

‘No?’ said O’Rourke. He pulled off his helmet, unfastened the bulletproof vest, handed his rifle and his pistol to one of his men. ‘Good thing Bonzo’s up for it then.’

‘Hanson,’ said Kay, ‘find out where these ventilation shafts exit and get some of your men over there.’

‘OK.’

Bob watched as two of O’Rourke’s men helped him up until he grabbed hold of something inside the ventilation shaft and managed to pull himself up into it. Once he was up they handed him his helmet with the headcam and flashlight and his pistol.

‘Radio silence?’ one of the men asked.

‘If he’s there then he’ll hear me coming a mile off,’ said O’Rourke. ‘Just listen in and I’ll try to give you guys a good show.’

They heard a rumbling in the shaft and then O’Rourke was gone. One of his men held a phone as the others gathered round. Bob went over and looked at the screen. The mere sight of it gave him claustrophobia. In the cone of light cast in front of O’Rourke’s camera all that was visible were his hands and the cylindrical walls of the shaft, and now and then the jerking of the light flashed on the pistol he was holding in one hand. The panting and grunting grew heavier, drowning out any sounds that might be made by someone waiting for him. Every so often O’Rourke stopped and then everyone listened out. But all they heard was a regular whirring noise.

‘There’s a fan up ahead here,’ O’Rourke whispered.

Soon those gathered around the phone saw the same thing, a large fan at the end of the shaft where it split left and right at a T-junction.

‘He must have got out this way,’ said O’Rourke. ‘The shafts going the other way get narrower.’

The SWAT leader pushed the fan several times before it swung out and down on its hinges. He put his head out. On the screen Bob saw the deserted yard with trucks and loading bays closed up for the night. Two uniformed officers came running into the yard with walkie-talkies crackling and guns drawn.

‘Gomez must be a tough guy,’ said O’Rourke, turning his head downward so that his audience could see it was a drop of at least eight yards to the asphalt. ‘Either he knows how to fall properly or he’s out there somewhere dragging a broken leg behind him.’

I walked quickly through the downtown streets, between the deserted office blocks, past the empty alleyways where it wasn’t safe after dark. But I wasn’t afraid. Not any more. They were the ones who should have been afraid. My racing pulse told me only that I was alive, I felt things, and for the first time in a long time. This was dangerous, enjoyably dangerous. The only thing that worried me was that I’d made it a little more exciting than necessary. As though something in me wanted to give them the chance to stop me. Is that what I wanted? Of course not. I had given myself a task. Or had I? Was I even really the one who had given me the task? What I did know was that it had to be completed, that I mustn’t give in to the temptation of peace, of at last being able to sleep in the same bed as you, my beloved, of holding our children. Nor could I let myself be distracted by moral queasiness and short-sightedness. The sum total of suffering for all innocents would be so much greater if I failed to complete the task than the suffering it would cause to a handful of innocent people. I had to steel myself. Only two days to go now.

A family came walking toward me along the sidewalk. Talking and laughing, they sounded happy, maybe they’d been to the movies, or eaten out at a restaurant. Maybe they thought nothing bad could happen to them because they did everything right; they worked hard, helped out in the community, helped those who carried a heavier burden than themselves.

‘Hola,’ I called out as I passed them. But got no response this time, just looks of mild surprise, as though they couldn’t work out if it was some kind of joke.

I swallowed. Had to keep my concentration up. Couldn’t relax. Even a slight mistake could tip the whole thing over. But, afterward, let it all fall down.