Wolf Hour

41 White, October 2016

He’d checked out the final lead, a tip-off from a long-distance truck driver who claimed to have met a strange man who looked like Tomás Gomez at a truck-stop cafe just the other side of the Iowa border. Joe had talked to the people who worked at the cafe and it turned out that guy was a well-known local character who just liked talking to truck drivers at the cafe.

Now it was time to get over to Arb where there was other work to do. The patrol who rang it in said the corpse had no head and no papers that could identify who it was, but there was a bullet hole in the chest leaving little doubt that it was a matter for the Homicide Division. Joe explained that he had a couple of other things to do first before he could get out there but that a technical team was already on its way.

A phone rang somewhere out in the deserted office landscape. Joe shrugged on his jacket. He was actually pissed with Olav for not making him part of his stadium team and leaving him with this shit job instead. The phone was still ringing. Usually it got transferred to reception automatically after a certain number of rings, but since this was Saturday there was no one in reception. Joe Kjos had no intention of taking the call, but as he walked past Myers’s desk he realised it was her phone that was ringing. She’d only just left, so he picked up anyway.

‘MPD.’

‘Good morning, my name is Jim Andersen. Kay Myers, is she...?’

‘She just left. This is Detective Joe Kjos, how can I help you, sir?’

The caller hesitated, and Joe Kjos hoped the guy would say no so that he could get out of there, get this last job done and finally enjoy the weekend.

‘I’m an instructor at the Mitro shooting range,’ the guy said. ‘Your colleague who was here left her card and asked me to call the number if I remembered anything about the Latino she was looking for.’

‘OK?’

‘I still don’t recall any Latino, but then something came to me. She traced us through a target you guys found inside some bubble wrap.’

Joe Kjos checked the time.

‘There was a guy in here with a rifle wrapped in bubble wrap. But he wasn’t Latino. He was white.’

Joe Kjos sighed but located a pen on Myers’s desk and made a note. ‘White, sir?’

‘White. I remember because he insisted on me working out the height adjustment for a shot from four hundred yards.’

‘Was there anything unusual in his behaviour? Did he seem aggressive? Drugged?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Did he give you a name or a phone number?’

‘No.’

‘Anything else you can tell us about him?’

‘Not really.’

Joe Kjos breathed out in relief. ‘OK. Let me take your number and we’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.’

Bob Oz was pulling on his coat as he ran down the steps and out into the street with his phone pressed hard to his ear.

‘Pick up,’ he whispered as he headed for the Volvo parked higher up the street. ‘Pick up, damn you.’

Searching the net for the murder he had got at least a dozen hits, most with the headline ‘McDeath’. He’d scrolled his way through them.

Family celebrating birthday at McDonald’s killed in gang shootout.

Mother and two children killed, father only survivor.

Still no arrests in McDeath massacre.

‘Kari.’

‘There you are! Sorry for calling you on a Saturday, Kari, but I need the address of a Mike Lunde, he lives somewhere in Chanhassen. I’m going to give you a phone number, are you ready?’

‘We’re in the middle of lunch here, Bob, can this wait?’

‘No. Oh fuck!’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘My apologies. Someone’s broken the wing mirror on my car. No, it can’t wait. I’ve got... I know who he is.’

‘Who who is?’

‘The killer, Kari.’ Bob had fished his keys out with his free hand but then dropped them on the road. ‘I thought he was telling me a story he heard from one of his customers. But it was his own story. Mike Lunde told me everything exactly like it was, in detail. He confessed, Kari! And I didn’t realise.’