Kovac And Liska: Prior Bad Acts Part 16

Checking out his reflection in the printing shop's barred back window, Karl was pleased enough. The ragman's pants were baggy on him, on account of Karl's not being a large man. If he had been a woman, he would have been considered pet.i.te. There really was no equal word for a man that he knew of.

He put his hands in the pants pockets and slouched into a sort of lazyS profile. That was a good look, lazy, not in any hurry to get anywhere. No one would think he was running from the law if he didn't move faster than a shuffle.

Digging through the ragman's cart, Karl found several pairs of sungla.s.ses, some scratched and broken, some not. He tried them on until he had a good fit, covering the bloodred of his eyes, which would call attention and people would remember.

He studied himself in the window and liked what he saw. But he wasn't satisfied. He hadn't changed the appearance of his jawline or his mouth, and a lot of people looked there first when they looked at somebody. Everyone in Minneapolis was looking at his picture on the news and in the paper.

He had the five o'clock shadow. That was helpful, but not enough. He had the bruises from the night before. He reached into his mouth and took out his bridgework, leaving a couple of black holes in his smile. Better, but he still wasn't satisfied. He rummaged through the junk in the ragman's cart, looking for something that might spark an idea.

Street people kept the d.a.m.nedest stuff. This one had a collection of near-empty aerosol cans, mostly spray paint and hair spray. For huffing the fumes, Karl knew. A cheap high. There were half a dozen one-off shoes that all looked to have been run over in the street. There was a trash bag with some aluminum cans and gla.s.s beer and liquor bottles. These were probably the source of the money Karl now had in his pocket and taped to his privates. There was a claw hammer, which Karl took and strapped to his ankle with shoestrings under his pant leg. There was a pliers.

Karl picked it up and studied it, ideas turning over in his mind. He put a fingertip in the mouth of it and squeezed a little.

Standing in front of the store window, he tugged up the T-s.h.i.+rt he wore and put it over his lower lip. Then he took the pliers and very methodically began to squeeze the lip hard, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. From one corner of his mouth to the other and back again, he pinched his lip with the pliers.

When he started to get faint from the pain, he stopped and looked at himself in the gla.s.s once more. The lip was already swelling, there were some lines from the teeth of the pliers, but he had only broken the skin a couple of times.

He was a satisfied man. This would do for now.

Slouched and shuffling, fat lip sticking out from his face, Karl abandoned the ragman's cart and went back out on the street. The day was glorious. The sky was an electric shade of blue, and the air was warm--well, fairly warm for this place with fall slipping away. But there were hardly any people on the streets. Nothing much happened on Sat.u.r.days in this part of town. Businesses were closed. People had no call to be walking up and down.

The lack of people, however, did not stop the city buses from running. Karl sat at a bus stop, slumped, and waited. Some lonely soul before him had left a newspaper scattered in sections on the bench. On the front page was a mug shot of himself, and a photograph of Judge Carey Moore in her judge's robes, sitting up on the judge's bench, overseeing some trial or another.

Karl's heart pumped a little harder. His picture and the picture of his angel on the same page. His mother would have said it was a portent, a sign. Karl didn't believe in signs, except for now. Carey Moore had taken a beating on account of him, because she had ruled in his favor. He couldn't imagine any other judge doing that. Everyone in the state wanted him dead.

She was a woman with the courage of her convictions. Karl found that idea excited him. A strong and pa.s.sionate woman who wouldn't back down from anybody.

The city bus rumbled up to the curb and groaned and hissed like an old man letting a fart. Karl folded up the newspaper and got on, heading toward his heroine.

18.

STAN DROVE OUTof the city in the 1996 Ford Taurus he had owned since it rolled off the a.s.sembly line in Detroit. It ran well, got him from one place to another. He'd never seen a reason to trade it in. He wasn't one to need status symbols.

Now that he had decided on a plan of action, he needed a base. When one of his fellow detectives came to question him at his home about the attack on Judge Moore--and they would--they would find the videotape, and they would be looking for him.

It had been important to him that he left it, that they found it. It was important everyone understood who he was and what he stood for and how he had come to be the man he was now. What this case had done to him. The overwhelming sense of impotence, sitting behind a desk; sitting in the office of a shrink, staring at the wall; knowing all the power to put Karl Dahl away or put him back on the street was in the hands of other people. People who didn't understand what evil was.

In better days, Stan had been quite a fisherman. The lake had been his escape from the job and from the silent disappointment of his wife. He enjoyed the solitude, the time alone, without noise, without voices, without the pressure of having to interact with other people.

The country west of Minneapolis and its suburbs was marshy and peppered with lakes large and small and tangles of woods all connected by narrow, twisting roads. The lakeStan fished was too small to be of interest to weekenders with powerboats and too difficult to find for the casual fishermen. He had been fis.h.i.+ng that lake for nearly forty-five years.

His uncle owned a small cabin on the southwestern sh.o.r.e. Nothing to brag about, just a little tar-paper shack with a small kitchen and a smaller bathroom with a tin shower stall. It had a tiny cellar and a screened porch where a person could sit on summer evenings without being devoured by mosquitoes. And there was a big shed where Stan kept his little fis.h.i.+ng boat during winter and where his uncle's old Chevy pickup sat.

This place had been Stan's hideaway since he was a boy. His uncle was elderly now and had been in poor health for years. When he died, the place would pa.s.s on to Stan.

He stopped at a country store and bought supplies--food, water, cigarettes, toilet paper. The clerk was a fat girl with a ring in her nose and jet-black hair streaked with yellow in front. She had no interest in Stan. She looked right through him, same as most people did.

The lake was glistening like blue gla.s.s in the sun. The rushes and reeds had dried to a golden alabaster shade. The far sh.o.r.e was dotted with clumps of paper-white birch trees, their remaining leaves bright gold. Maples and oaks made up the woods beyond, an artist's palette of reds, oranges, and bronze. As far as Stan could say, this was the most beautiful place on earth.

A couple of huge old trees anch.o.r.ed the yard of his uncle's property and kept the gra.s.s thin and spa.r.s.e. The cabin looked the same as it always had, with the exception of bars on the windows and the door. Places like this one--which were occupied infrequently and mostly on weekends--were a target for vandals and thieves. Local kids with nothing better to do with their time.

Stan unlocked the door and took his groceries inside. The place always smelled vaguely musty. The damp seemed to seep in through the tar paper and drywall and settle into the cus.h.i.+ons of the old couch, which also served as a bed.

He went back out to the shed, unlocked the big padlock, and rolled the door open. He popped the hood on the pickup and hooked up the cables of the battery charger, then went back to moving in.

From the trunk of his car, he lifted out a couple of black duffel bags and took them into the cabin. Tools and things he had packed, not knowing what he might need for the job he was setting out to do. A couple of handguns. A couple of knives. Handcuffs. Duct tape.

In a part of his mind, Stan watched himself examine these items with a weird, calm sense of horror, but it was not so strong that he made any attempt to stop himself. His decision was made. For the most part, he went about his business methodically, on autopilot, as if this were routine and normal, preparing to take the law into his own hands.

After he had made himself a few bologna sandwiches, he chose several close-range weapons, packed his essentials, and left the cabin, locking up behind himself.

The pickup battery had charged. Stan loaded his stuff in the back, inside the camper sh.e.l.l that enclosed the truck bed. He drove the truck out of the shed, replaced it with his car, slid the big door shut, and locked the big padlock.

No place was ever fully immune to a break-in, but Stan knew from long experience that criminals were lazy and put forth as little effort as possible. Deterrents like locks and bars could make a thief or vandal move on to an easier target.

He wondered how things might have turned out if Marlene Haas had locked her doors that fateful day. Would Karl Dahl have moved on, unwilling to put forth the effort or risk being seen breaking in?

Or had he been too fixated, too bent on living out his fantasy, to let something as simple as a dead bolt turn him away?

Stan believed the latter. That Karl Dahl had lived out his dark fantasies in his mind too many times not to make them reality.

He now understood what that was like.

He felt exactly the same way.

19.

"THE BRa.s.s AREpulling out all the stops on this."

Homicide lieutenant Juanita Dawes sat back against the front edge of her desk. She was in full on-camera dress: hair done, makeup done, a smart navy blue suit with the perfect accessories. The press conference would start in the chief's office in half an hour.

Dawes had jumped up the PD food chain by leaps and bounds. She was forty-one. Liska knew this because every time Dawes's name appeared in the newspaper, her age was always mentioned as if it were actually a part of her name. Lieutenant Juanita Dawes Forty-one.

Liska's theory was that the bra.s.s thought they were getting an equal-opportunity publicity triple whammy with Juanita Dawes--a black Hispanic woman. It wouldn't matter to them that Juanita was not actually Hispanic. What the chief and everyone else in his stratosphere cared about most was appearance.

Not that Dawes wasn't qualified. Liska felt she was the best lieutenant they'd had in a long time. And however she had climbed the ladder, more power to her.

Liska had dragged herself out of bed early to go through the same pregame ritual as Dawes: hair, makeup, a steel gray suit that accentuated the blue of her eyes, simple black pearl earrings, and a fine silver chain necklace threaded through a single black pearl.

She looked like a million d.a.m.n dollars. Maybe she would get marriage proposals after the press conference aired on every television in the Twin Cities.

"We've got someone going over the video from the parking garage. With luck you'll have an enhanced version to look at shortly," Dawes went on. "I've pulled in Elwood and Tippen. They'll be compiling information on any recently released cons who had Judge Moore preside over their cases. They're already talking with the judge's clerk to find out if she's had any hate mail."

"We'll need phone records too," Liska said. "We've got the number the calls last night came from. It's untraceable, but at least we can establish a pattern or a time line."

"That's already happening," Dawes said. "And you'll need to track down the father of the foster kids who were killed in the Haas ma.s.sacre. Has there been any activity on the judge's credit cards?"

"Not yet," Liska said. "I guess I get to be the one to call attention to the elephant in the room."

Dawes frowned. "Stan Dempsey."

"He has to be at the top of the hit list in light of what Sam found this morning."

Dawes looked genuinely sad. "I hate to have to think in that direction, but it looks like we've got a very real possibility in Dempsey. Kovac said he all but openly admitted he wants to make Judge Moore pay for ruling in Dahl's favor."

"But here's what doesn't make sense to me," Liska said. "If Dempsey attacked Judge Moore last night, why wouldn't he take the credit on the tape he made this morning? I mean, why play coy about it? According to Sam, he wasn't shy on the tape talking about what he's planning to do next."

"That's a good point," Dawes said. "If he attacked the judge in his self-appointed role of avenging angel of justice, why wouldn't he say so? Why wouldn't he say something like 'I'm going to finish what I started' or 'I gave that b.i.t.c.h what she deserved'?"

"Of course, the guy's gone nuts," Liska said. "Who's to say what's going on in his head?"

"I'd like to get a professional's opinion on that. I'll talk to the chief about calling in the shrink Dempsey's been seeing."

"She'll cry privilege."

"She can cry all she wants," Dawes said. "But if Dempsey told her about his plans to commit a crime, she's obligated to report that to us."

"I can't see Stan Dempsey pouring his heart out to anyone about anything," Liska said. "In all the time I've been in Homicide, I don't think I've heard the guy say ten words."

"I know. He's one strange homely little duck, our Stan," Dawes said. "I feel sorry for him. Let's try to give him the benefit of the doubt here for a moment. Who else have you talked to about last night?"

"Wayne Haas, his son, the son's buddy."

"And?"

"We don't like Wayne Haas for it," Liska said. "The son could be a candidate. He and his friend admitted being downtown late afternoon, and he knew about Judge Moore's ruling. He certainly has plenty of reasons to be p.i.s.sed off at her."

"And Sam spoke with the judge's husband?"

"Yeah. He doesn't like the guy. Says he's a p.r.i.c.k."

Dawes made a face. "Kovac doesn't like anybody. He would give his own mother the third degree."

"He's looking into David Moore's alibi today."

Dawes looked at her watch and sighed. "We'd better go up there," she said. "Chief'll chew my a.s.s if we're late. You know what to say when they start asking you questions?"

"We can't speculate on or discuss the facts of an ongoing investigation."

"You got it," Dawes said as she pulled open the door to her office. She tipped her head as Liska went past. "Great suit, Detective."

"Back at you, Boss."

The press conference was the usual circus of muckety-mucks who knew nothing and reporters who wanted to know everything. Liska wondered how many of either group would have shown up if Carey Moore had been a single mother who worked two jobs to make ends meet. Carey Moore rated the mayor, the county attorney, the chief of police, the a.s.sistant chief, the captain of the investigative division, Lieutenant Dawes, and herself.

The lights for the television people were harsh, white, and made her squint, which was going to confuse her possible fiances in the viewing audience, she thought, needing a little humor to offset the seriousness of the situation. She probably looked like a Chinese woman with bleached hair. Chinese Punk Woman. Her male prospects were going to skew to Asian bad boys.

The press was in a feeding frenzy. First over Karl Dahl's escape, then over Judge Moore's attack. The Hennepin County sheriff had to be the whipping boy for losing Dahl. As far as Liska was concerned, there was no explanation for what had happened that didn't include the words "cl.u.s.ter f.u.c.k."

He promised that every available deputy was out looking for Dahl. He promised that Dahl was absolutely his priority and the priority of everyone in the sheriff's office. The Minneapolis branch of the FBI had been called in to a.s.sist. His promises didn't carry much weight, seeing as how it was the sheriff's office that had been in charge of Dahl in the first place.

The PD bra.s.s focused on the need to restore public confidence in law enforcement. The top detectives in the department were on the case, determined to bring to justice the man who had struck at the very heart of our judicial system.

When Liska was called upon to answer questions, she repeated her lines perfectly."We can't speculate on or discuss the facts of an ongoing investigation."

Her first stop after the press conference was the women's prison to speak with Amber Franken, mother of the two foster children who had been killed at the Haas home.

Amber Franken was a skinny, ratty-looking dishwater blonde with a pasty complexion. Her skin was so thin Liska could see the blue tracery of veins in her throat. She had rolled up the sleeves of her s.h.i.+rt to show off sinewy arms lined with tattoos and old needle track marks. She was twenty-two. Which meant she had started popping out kids at the tender age of fourteen. The two children who had been murdered had been ages seven and five at the time of their deaths. A two-year-old girl had been placed by social services with a different family.

She swaggered into the interview room with a sour look on her face and dropped into a chair across the table from Liska.

"Amber, I'm Detective Liska from Homicide division."

"I'm suing the police department for what happened to my kids," she said, sneering.

"Yeah?" Liska said, uninterested. "Good luck with that."

"And I'm suing social services too. They put my kids in an unsafe environment."

Liska wanted to ask Amber what kind of environment she, a junkie wh.o.r.e, had provided for her children. But she needed the woman's cooperation, and that required her to rein in her usually smart mouth.

Good luck with that, Nikki.

"Have you had any contact with your kids' dad lately?"