Wolf Hour

40 Gated Community, October 2016

The time was eight thirty and the sun shone from a cloudless sky down onto the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum, more familiarly abbreviated to Arb. Gunnar Person, the senior gardener in the botanical gardens, registered that it looked like they were in for a fine autumn day. He stepped down from the golf cart and crossed the grass in the direction of a stand of trees. He liked an early start, liked being the first man at work. But today it looked like someone had beaten him to it. The park was fenced in, and it had opening hours, but the fence was low and the park covered a huge area. If someone wanted to get in, they got in. Right now the park was hosting a sculpture exhibition, with pieces on display across the whole area. They showed animals that looked like they were made out of folded paper. Origami, they called it. Only these were made of metal and they were life-sized. If you could say of such literally fabulous creatures that they had a life-size. Like that rearing, winged Pegasus Gunnar was headed for. But as Gunnar got closer, he saw that the figure of a large man had been placed on the horse’s back. He was half naked, and Gunnar was thinking it was probably something to do with someone’s stag party. The figure was held in place by the wings, with the upper body and shoulders resting against the horse’s neck. There was no way it was a comfortable position to sleep in, but the man was probably so drunk he didn’t notice.

‘Hey there!’ Gunnar called in a loud, cheery voice. ‘Time to wake up!’

The figure on the horse didn’t move. Gunnar felt uneasy. There was something... well, something dead about it. The man’s head had evidently slipped down over the far side of the origami-like horse’s neck and couldn’t be seen. Gunnar walked round it. His first thought was that he must have made some mistake, for there was no head there either. Then he saw the red stub of neck sticking up from the collar of the man’s shirt. He gasped for breath and started saying the Lord’s Prayer as he fumbled for his phone, found it and tapped in the emergency number. While it was ringing he looked around for any sign of the head but saw nothing. He returned his gaze to the sculpture again, in all its grotesque horror an arresting and almost poetic sight. Almost as though the horse was about to lift off and fly the headless man up to heaven.

Superintendent Walker adjusted his sunglasses. He would have preferred to spend this Saturday morning with his family but knew he wouldn’t be able to relax. He was standing next to the Viking ship sculpture in front of the US Bank Stadium. People were already making their way inside, even though the mayor wasn’t due to officially open the gathering until one o’clock, almost ninety minutes away. While waiting he stared up at something that was hanging from the mast above him. It was about the size of a tennis ball and evidently didn’t weigh much, dancing around in the gusting wind, although he couldn’t make out what it was.

‘Walker!’

It was Springer from the JTTF. He came walking out through the entrance to the stadium with O’Rourke from SWAT. Springer seemed relaxed, but O’Rourke kept his eyes on the line of people, scanning it incessantly.

‘How are things looking?’ asked Walker.

‘We’ve got snipers in position covering the whole of the stadium,’ said Springer. ‘Our people are in the TV room monitoring pictures from every security camera. If someone in the stands takes so much as a packet of pastilles from their pocket, we’ll see it.’

Springer glanced at O’Rourke, who nodded his agreement before continuing.

‘Everyone going in gets searched, more thoroughly than usual. If someone in the line notices what’s going on and tries to leave then we’ve got people watching for that too. Every stadium employee has security clearance and they’re getting searched too. In short: if Gomez tries anything he’ll be in trouble long before he gets inside the stadium.’

‘Good,’ said Walker. He shivered inside his coat even though the sun was shining.

‘How about Homicide?’ said Springer. ‘Anything new?’

Walker shook his head. ‘He’s keeping himself well hidden. Speaking of which, have you considered the possibility he might be in disguise, even wearing some kind of mask?’

‘Of course,’ said Springer. ‘Today we treat everybody as though they could be Tomás Gomez, no matter what they look like.’

Walker’s phone rang. It had to be Hanson. He was late; Walker had tried to ring him once already. He read the name that came up on the display. Rooble Isack.

‘Isack,’ said Walker. ‘It’s been a while. Listen, I’m a little busy right now, is this something that can wait?’

‘Walker,’ said Rooble Isack in his rumbling voice, ‘I’m thinking you’ll agree that what I have to tell you can’t wait, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m at the hospital, with Marco Dante. The gunrunner we think this Tomás Gomez tried to kill on Tuesday.’

‘Yeah yeah, I’m familiar with the case.’

‘We’re here because in connection with the assault we were able to carry out a search of Dante’s garage and we found all sorts of illegal weapons. We’ve got a good case against him, but Dante’s lawyered up and wants a deal in exchange for information about Tomás Gomez.’

‘And?’

‘The question is, how much is this information worth to us? And to you, because Gomez is also now a murder suspect.’

‘Worth a lot,’ said Walker. ‘A lot. And you’re right, it’s urgent.’

‘That’s all I needed to know. I’ll get back to you soon.’

‘Thanks, Rooble.’

They hung up.

‘Where the hell is Hanson?’ asked Springer.

‘You tell me. Looks like your man might have got caught up in traffic.’

Your man. During that JTTF meeting, when Springer made it clear he preferred Hanson to Kay Myers to represent the Homicide Division, Walker’s first impulse had been to intervene and say the decision was his to make. But Myers had got in before him when she said that was fine by her. Of course, he could have made the change after the meeting, but there was something about this whole case that told him not to. A feeling that this Gomez was an obstacle that could trip them up badly. And in that case he would prefer that it was Hanson rather than Myers who took the fall. The decision was as cynical as it was practical. On the other hand, what could go wrong?

Walker didn’t know, but again he shivered in the sunlight.

‘Say, Springer, can you see what that thing is hanging up there?’

Springer looked up. ‘Looks like a small fish,’ he said.

‘A fish?’

‘Yeah, one of those pufferfish, you know.’

Kay got up early, headed down to the Rialto and interviewed the ticket seller and the projectionist, the only two who had been working the previous day. They couldn’t add anything much except to say that the victim had been a regular at the movie theatre. And they couldn’t — naturally — provide the names and addresses of any of the other patrons. Kay told them two crime technicians were on their way and that the Rialto couldn’t open to the public again until they’d been there and done their job. She drove off, heading for the city hall, and wondering whether to contact the TV preacher and find out whether he’d seen or heard anything. She decided to wait until the techs and the pathologists came up with their findings. Instead, back in the Homicide Division’s office, she did what she had made up her mind to do as she lay awake during the night. To do Bob Oz a favour. And — probably — fuck things up for herself. She raised a cup of coffee to her lips as she studied the computer screen. It was a list of all murder cases involving more than one victim. Her first search had been for Perez and 1995. She’d located the report and then widened her search. She took a screenshot of the report and the search returns and clicked on the Share icon. Typed in Bob Oz’s email address. Hesitated a moment, then clicked the Send button. Heard the swish of the departing email — and possibly her own chances of promotion — as it flew off and away.

She breathed out heavily, as though she’d been holding her breath. The open office was almost completely silent; the only sound Kay heard was Joe Kjos’s voice as he sat a few seats away, talking on the phone. Sounded like he was checking a tip-off. And she had one she needed to check too before she could take her weekend break. She looked at her watch. A trip to Cedar Creek and the woman who called in a potential lead shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes on a Saturday morning.

She was on her way out when something struck her and she stopped, turned and made her way back to the new office. Saw to her surprise that the paint job was now finished. The pots and brushes were all gone. She felt a vague sense of disappointment but dismissed it and headed on out the building.

The mayor of Minneapolis, Kevin Patterson, studied himself in the large bedroom mirror. He was reasonably satisfied. If they didn’t have the cameras too low in relation to the podium then the first signs of that double chin wouldn’t show. His hair was beginning to get thinner and turning grey, and he’d put on a few pounds after moving into the biggest office in the city hall. But generally speaking he was ageing well, wasn’t he? Anyway, a lot of people reacted with surprise when he told them he was in his mid-fifties, and surely not all of them could be accused of flattering a mere mayor? OK, so he didn’t have the looks of the politicians the people really took to their hearts. Or their charisma. But he knew that if he played his cards right then a place in the House of Representatives was within reach.

‘Not the red necktie,’ Jill interrupted his thoughts. His wife had just come in and was checking the knot and brushing the dandruff off his jacket. ‘How about the blue with the black stripe?’

Kevin Patterson had chosen red because he’d read somewhere that made it a power necktie, it signalled to the subconscious that the wearer was strong and in control, knew what was going on. He knew he’d end up wearing the necktie Jill suggested, but he could do as he always did before letting her get her way and make the journey a little bit more entertaining.

‘You mean because otherwise people might think their mayor has joined the Republicans?’ he asked. ‘Or because red would make me a better target?’

‘Kevin!’

He chuckled. ‘Now don’t get all het up, honey. Count the security guards outside — they’re twice the usual number. Think positive. They say the stadium’s sold out, and all I’m going to do is tell them exactly what they want to hear. A sitting mayor being cheered — how often does that happen? Even the sun is shining. You know what, Jill? I think this is going to be one helluva fine day.’

She laughed, patted his cheek, loosened the red necktie and dropped it on the bed.

‘You’re right,’ she said as she opened the closet and took out the blue one. ‘It will be a fine day. Just think, by the time we all gather this afternoon Quentin will be back home too.’

The door to their bedroom opened. ‘Mom, Siri’s lying, she says we’re going to have two guards with us in the car today!’ That was Simon, eight years old and youngest of their four children. The older three were closer in age, and when Simon came along Siri, now fourteen, had some difficulty in giving up her position as the youngest in the family, along with all the privileges that went with it.

‘Siri’s telling the truth,’ said Jill. ‘Come on, Simon, let’s go and get your jacket and then we’ll leave and pick up Quentin.’

‘Then where will I sit?’

‘In your usual place.’

‘Where’s Dad going?’

‘Dad’s going to give a speech,’ said Jill.

Kevin mimed a man giving a speech in the mirror, complete with outrageous facial expressions, and Simon laughed. Jill kissed her husband on the cheek and shortly afterward the mayor heard Simon’s voice as he and his mother went down the stairs:

‘Can Quentin sleep in my room tonight?’

‘You and Siri will have to toss a coin for it.’

‘No, she cheats!’

Kevin checked that the blue necktie was tied right, sat on the edge of the bed and fastened his shoelaces. Then he crossed to the window and saw Jill, Siri and Simon setting off in the car, a big, solid Chevy Tahoe. In a radio interview on a car show he was asked if he drove a Chevy because he was afraid of losing votes if he drove a foreign car. He answered no, because by happy coincidence he was a patriotic citizen of a country that actually produced the best cars on the market. He didn’t give the other reason, which was that he felt his family would be safer in the home-produced heavyweight if it ever happened to collide with a foreign lightweight. The Chevy drove off and Kevin Patterson let his gaze wander to a small wooden cross standing among some trees by the wall that surrounded the property. The wall was superfluous, the chances of an intruder getting close were minimal since their house was part of a gated community, an enclosed area with 24/7 patrolling and dogs to guard the roughly two hundred inhabitants living in the seventy dwellings. Initially Kevin Patterson wasn’t too happy about the concept of a gated community, but with the growing divide between rich and poor the need for protection had grown too. In 1980 there had been around five thousand gated communities in the United States and the number had quadrupled by the turn of the century. God knows how many there were now. But in the modern world, human beings needed protection from their neighbours. That was the simple, brutal truth. The way to deal with the problem was as simple; all you had to do was even out the economic disparities. That was the goal the Democratic Party and Kevin Patterson worked toward. It would take a while, that much was obvious, and there were times when Kevin Patterson felt like Sisyphus when he read those depressing reports of how the income gap was widening, and how even middle-class families were experiencing economic difficulties. Over the past thirty years the rich had grown extremely rich while the disposable income of the middle class stagnated as the price of education, health care and housing soared. When young people could no longer afford an education they no longer started out with an equal chance, they no longer had access to the dream promised by their country. But Kevin Patterson believed in a better world, he truly did. The same way he believed in the freedom of the individual. And that was why, on the way to this better world, he believed in the right of the hard-working man and woman to protect their own property and their lives. Contrary to what some in his own party seemed to think, his support for the NRA was not a cynical attempt to increase his vote.

Kevin Patterson headed toward the bedroom door but then stopped in front of the mirror again.

Sure, he knew that as a friend of the NRA his route to Washington DC, where the gun lobby was the third most powerful in the country, would be smoother. But that wasn’t the reason.

He dropped his jaw, showing the folds of his double chin.

Not the only reason.

His black SUV stood ready and waiting for him in front of the garage when he emerged from his house onto the gravel drive. A security guard in civilian clothing held the back-seat door open for him.

‘Anything new from the stadium about Gomez?’ asked the mayor.

‘No, sir.’

Even before he opened his eyes Bob Oz knew there was a headache waiting for him. The question was just where on the Richter scale it would be. He opened one eye and peered out. Nothing snapped, the world appeared to be fairly stable and safe. He opened the other eye. Not too bad.

He remembered, after he’d finished the last beer from the refrigerator, that he had a small amount of whisky left in the kitchen cupboard. But it can’t have been much.

Bob picked up the phone lying on the bedside table and saw that it was almost midday. He also saw that he’d received a text message during the morning.

Goodnight to you too. Liza

He was puzzled. He scrolled down and realised it was a reply to a message he’d sent shortly before 3 a.m.

Gof night. Bov

Below that was another message.

You got mail. Kay

He opened the inbox on his phone. There was mail from Kay Myers, sent an hour ago. With two attachments. He opened the one named Perez 1995. It contained photos of a number of closely written pages, and he realised it must be the police report she had refused to let him have the previous day. Because the screen on Bob’s phone was small and the headache was impossible to ignore he got up, put coffee on, opened the attachments on his computer and enlarged the images. He had no idea what had caused Myers to change her mind, but that wasn’t important. He sipped the scalding hot coffee as he read through the document.

According to the report the killing had taken place in a parking lot, not in Phillips West but in Hawthorne, a neighbourhood that was at least as lawless as the Near North. The victims had been seated in a car and got hit in a drive-by shooting: Candice Perez, a single mother, and her two children, Emilio and Nathan. There was nothing about a father until the final page, where the report noted that the registered father of the children was Chuck Perez, a known drug dealer. But it was difficult to connect this as a motive for the killings because Chuck Perez had been shot and killed, probably in a gang-warfare-related incident, in 1992, three years previously.

Bob scanned the report. There was nothing there about a girl in a wheelchair. In short, this wasn’t the case Tomás Gomez had described to Mike Lunde. Bob swore. So where was the story about his family being killed? Was it just something Gomez had invented? Not unlikely. In Bob’s experience, criminals were notorious liars. Bob opened the second attachment. This was a list of murder cases involving multiple victims and it went back further than 1990, the cut-off he had chosen for his own search. He clicked them open one after the other. The way it looked, killings with more than one or two victims happened only once or twice a year. He raised his coffee cup, then jerked it, spilling hot coffee into his lap. He scarcely noticed. His gaze was riveted to a case from 1986. Three victims. Again, a mother and two children. The woman’s first name was Monica. But it was the surname he was staring at.