Mars woke abruptly. It was dead dark in the apartment and deeply silent. He rolled over and squinted at the illuminated alarm clock face. Only 3:34 A.M.
He fell back on the bed with a sigh. He was too wired from the tension of the investigation to sleep for a long time. He might as well get up, shower, and go downtown. There was a lot to get done to organize his thinking about how to identify potential victims and begin the process of putting together a suspect list. And he’d like to be well along on both those fronts before Boyle Keegan arrived in just over twenty-four hours.
He pulled into the city hall parking garage less than an hour later. Mars frowned. He was early, but he hadn’t beaten Nettie in. Her car was parked near the elevator.
She was still in front of her computer, almost exactly where he’d found her yesterday. She noticed him as he came in, raising an eyebrow in his direction. “Glad you’re taking it easy.”
“I slept like a rock for as long as I did sleep. Would have just raised my blood pressure if I’d stayed in bed. You’re still plugging away on the Cornell records?”
Nettie rolled back on the wheels of her chair, rubbing her face with the heels of both hands. “Aaargh. I’m going to give it another two days. If I haven’t completed the search by
then—or found something that relates to one and nine or Beck that’s worth knowing—I’m going to pack it in. What are you up to?”
Slapping down the Beck case binder, Mars dropped on his chair. “I’m going to plow through everything we’ve got so far and try to come up with a profile on our killer.”
Christmas Eve, Mars found, was an ideal day to work without interruption. The phone didn’t ring, and only a couple of detectives came in briefly, leaving without the small talk that was typical on a normal workday. Nettie was almost silent, except for the soft clicking of her keyboard and an occasional expletive after she’d completed a particularly fruitless search.
As Mars went through the Beck file he made notes of a word or two. When he reached the end of the file, he looked through his notes and began building associations around the words. It was at this point that his concentration was broken by the canned music piped in through a ceiling sound system. It was on twenty-four seven, but the normal activity in the division usually relegated the sound to white noise. In the silence of the holiday, the tinny Christmas carols were more than usually annoying.
“Damn,” Mars said, wadding up a piece of paper and tossing it toward the ceiling. “Any way we can get that crap turned off?”
It took Nettie a moment to break out of her concentration and focus on what Mars was saying. “The music?” she said, looking up.
“Imitation music, at best.”
Nettie picked up her phone. “I’ll give maintenance a call. But they’re union. Doubt we’ll get anything other than …” She hung up. “A recorded message.” She shoved back on her chair and walked in the direction of the lounge.
She came back with a dirty plastic sandwich box and a stack of paper napkins. She opened a desk drawer, pulling out a roll of duct tape, which she slid over her wrist. Then she reconnoitered under the ceiling music speaker. “Let’s
move this desk under the speaker … .” When the desk was moved, Nettie got on top, taped a wad of napkins over the speaker, then taped a Styrofoam box over the napkin muffler.
Mars stood in admiration as the music was muted into oblivion. “You are a genius,” he said.
“And I trust that genius is being put to the best uses of the investigation at hand,” said the chief’s voice. The chief stood just inside the division entrance, a garment bag over one arm.
Mars’s and Nettie’s faces turned a bright holiday red. Mars managed a lame grin and tapped his head with an index finger. “Concentration,” he said. “Critical.”
The chief looked tired as he dropped his bag over an empty desk. “Tell me where we are with this business—Keegan still on track to be here tomorrow?”
“Haven’t heard otherwise.” Mars pulled up a chair and sat. “If you’ve got time, I’d like to run through my thoughts on how a profile on our perp might look.”
“Time is exactly what I’ve got,” the chief said, sitting down heavily opposite Mars.
Mars pulled out his notes, thinking about the conclusions he’d drawn from them. Then he stopped himself. “Something Nettie’s confirmed since I talked to you last—the Wisconsin hanging victim. His sister has verified that Rowe was a descendent of a member of the First Minnesota Volunteers.”
The chief’s expression froze. He did something that was uncharacteristic of him. With effort, he got up from the chair and began to walk in a small circle. One hand was clenched in a fist, punching softly into the palm of the other hand. Watching him, Mars realized that he’d never before seen the chief look worried. If anything, when things got tough, the chief tended to become physically still, as if forcing all his energy into his skull.
“So we’re confident we have more than one death tied to this Civil War event?”
Mars nodded. “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. We’re not going to be able to confirm the specific numbers,
but we can confirm that an EMT noticed unspecified numbers on Rowe’s arm.”
“And still no idea why this descendent, or how Rowe and Beck might be linked beyond the First Minnesota connection?”
Mars shook his head, and the chief began to pace again. He stopped abruptly and looked sharply at Mars. “Doesn’t seem to me—given what we do know—that we’ve pulled out all the stops. What we’ve got working on this—which could very well be the biggest case of both our careers—is you and Nettie. And the two of you seem to be pretty busy tapin’ stuff to the ceiling.”
It was the closest the chief had ever come to an outright criticism of how Mars was handling a case. Mars felt stunned. In part, the chief was right. But in larger part he was wrong. Mars gave himself a moment to recover from what had felt like a blow.
“With all due respect, sir, I think we’ve come a long way in the past few days. Less than two weeks ago we didn’t even know we had a homicide, and we certainly didn’t have a connection to the flag the First Minnesota captured, much less a second death. We’ve sent out a five-state information advisory, you’ve got chiefs in other jurisdictions involved. We’ve got somebody from Quantico coming in tomorrow. The History Center has been helping and will help more—once we know what we need done. And we’re trying to keep the investigation confidential at this stage—which also affects what we do and how we do it … .”
The chief heaved a sigh and pulled his suit coat off, sitting down again. A deep furrow took shape between his brows. “I’m tuckered out. Never was one for flying—especially back and forth to Birmingham in two days. And I had too much time to think on the plane. Got myself all worked up thinkin’ about this thing.” He glanced over at Mars, then over at Nettie. “Nobody knows better than I how much you’ve done. I’m just concerned about our exposure here, and I don’t see how we’re gonna resolve some of these questions. All I meant to say is, if more people would help, speak up.”
Mars pulled his chair closer to the chief, leaning forward slightly. “That’s going to come, no question about it. We will be asking for more help. But right now, I’ve got to get inside the perp’s head. And I don’t want the noise of more people to block out what I’m hearing while I pull all this information together.” Mars grinned. “Which is why it was necessary to tape over the ceiling speakers. I need maybe another couple days of working with what I know. Nettie’s making good progress on tracking down the last two numbers … .” Mars was careful not to look at Nettie when he made reference to her work on the Cornell database. “And she’s found out a lot of useful stuff on the fabric used in the noose. I’ll be happy to work with the guy from Quantico—he may have a fresh perspective that will be helpful. But if we pull in a bunch of people at this point—without knowing what we’re looking for—I’m going to spend all my time managing what they’re doing instead of figuring out what it is we’re investigating.”
“Can’t argue with that,” the chief said, looking remorseful. “You’d started telling me about where you are on a perp profile, before I went off the deep end.”
Mars wheeled back to his desk and picked up his notes again. “Based on what we know about Beck’s plans to meet someone the afternoon of the day he died—and that the store clerk said Beck seemed upbeat about the meeting—I’m assuming that Beck thought he’d identified an investor to bail him out. So this guy has to present as a businessman. A well-heeled businessman. That’s number one. A related aspect: whoever Beck was meeting must have been the one to suggest they meet in Beck’s office. Beck wouldn’t have suggested the office—there was no electricity, no phone—it wouldn’t have impressed a prospective investor. But our perp must have known something about the site and recognized it would make an ideal murder scene. Which means he’d been conducting surveillance on Beck. If we identify more target victims, that will be useful information. Any recurring appearances of an unfamiliar person or vehicle, any
approaches from a stranger tailored to the targeted victim’s special needs—well, that’s going to be our guy.”
The chief nodded slowly. “So far, so good. We heard anything back on the contacts I made yesterday?”
Mars shook his head. “Nothing yet. But it’s still early.” He turned back to his notes. “Point two. Clearly our perp has the financial resources and flexibility to spend time pursuing his targets. So we’re looking for somebody who has independent sources of income—maybe somebody who’s self-employed, or owns his own business … .”
“Maybe somebody who doesn’t have a family who’s going to ask questions about what he’s doing when he’s gone?”
Mars thought for a moment, then jotted down the chief’s point. “Hadn’t thought about that—worth considering. The next point is related to the first thing I said. Our perp is well organized. He picked, in both the cases we know about, an appropriate time and site to kill his victims. He prepared a complicated hanging knot, he’d researched what the victims’ vulnerable points were, and it appears he used alcohol and barbiturates as a strategy. So I think he’s educated, probably successful at what he does, may participate in highly disciplined recreational activities, like sailing—which would also tie into the knot. No pun intended. Maybe a military background, the kind of guy who’d been an Eagle Scout as a kid.” Mars paused, his last statement confirming that he was relieved Chris had decided to drop Scouts.
“Sounds like the perp from hell,” the chief said.
“Wouldn’t argue that,” Mars said. “This next thing is important. Clearly our perp is motivated by some personal sense of justice and the need for revenge. He’s going to be someone with a history of strong attachments to Confederate causes. Probably has been involved in past efforts to recover the flag—so we need to look at those people real carefully.” Mars stopped. “But here’s the thing. Given his planning and organization, I don’t think he’s been involved in a public way with those groups for a long time. I would guess that he disassociated himself with the flag issue well
in advance of beginning the hangings—both to make himself harder to find and to avoid tainting that effort if he’s caught.”
“You said he’s motivated by a personal need for revenge—by that you mean something other than his commitment to the Confederate cause?”
Mars took out his cigarette box, turning it in his right hand. “I’m not sure yet. When I look at what I already think about this guy—a disciplined, successful businessman who’s used to having his own way—a guy like that gets told he can’t have something he’s passionate about, well, that might be all it would take to set him off. But I think we need to look for anything that might be more personal than that. The way his victims are dying is ugly. He’s stringing them up and letting them turn blue. I’d be willing to bet he stays and watches while the vic struggles. Then he writes the number—not making any effort to make it look like the vic wrote the number. Damned arrogant. I don’t think that kind of behavior has an intellectual basis. Looks to me like raw personal emotion. We find something personal that motivates revenge, that would be a big help.”
Mars stretched and stood, talking as he moved slowly around his desk. “It goes without saying I think our perp is a male. Physically, I don’t think there are many women who could hang a man. And I don’t think you’re going to find many women who develop these rabid, visceral commitments to Civil War causes. Not saying they aren’t out there—just think it’s less likely to be a woman.”
The chief rose awkwardly from his chair. “What you’re saying makes our vic out to be a pretty formidable fella.” He gestured to Mars to follow him. “C’mon. I sat too long on that airplane. Need to move around some. Nettie, you mind we leave you on your own for a bit?”
Nettie waved them off, and Mars and the chief walked slowly out of the division office, into the marble-floored, silent hallways. Silent, that is, except for the recurrence of the canned Christmas music.
The chief looked up without moving his head, then
looked sideways at Mars. “You wanna bring along a couple plastic boxes and tape while we walk?”
“Won’t be necessary,” Mars said. Then, in a careful voice, “I’ve never seen you so upset before. I’ve never seen pressure get to you.”
The lines in the chief’s face thickened and drew together. “Don’t think I’ve ever had a case before with so much riding on it. At every level. That we almost missed a homicide bothers me no end. Especially because if we hadn’t made a determination of homicide, we’d be exposing an untold number of innocent people to untimely deaths.” He looked sideways again toward Mars. “Not that all my worries are so noble. If there are more deaths, we could end up covered in mud. That’s not gonna do you and Nettie any good over at the state capitol when the funding proposal for your positions comes up. Didn’t want to get Nettie upset, but it’s been on my mind.”
“What happens, happens. I really don’t worry about that.”
“Well, that’s to your credit.” The chief drew in a deep breath, patting his gut. “Truth is, stress is hitting me harder these days because I’m out of shape. That, and maybe something like this coming up around Christmas bothers me.”
They wandered down a marble staircase that led into a multistoried street-level lobby. Dominating the lobby was a massive sculpture of the Father of the Waters, honoring the city’s debt to the Mississippi. Alone in the center court, they leaned against the base of the statue, Mars playing with his cigarette box, the chief rocking back and forth between his heels and the balls of his feet.
“It just aggravates me no end,” the chief said, “that these murders happen because of a battle that took place more than a hundred years ago. The damage caused by these personal vendettas goes on for centuries. Northern Ireland, the Middle East, the Civil War. When are folks gonna figure out that you honor the dead by stopping the dying?”
Mars nodded, too tired to say anything eloquent in response.
“Worst of all, most of these situations are religious in nature.
Even this Civil War thing comes close to being a religion for some. Just don’t see how you reconcile religious beliefs with terrorism and murder. Not that you can’t find plenty of murder and mayhem in the Bible—Old Testament especially. Me, I’m a New Testament man. Old Testament is law, New Testament is love. That’s what I was always taught. But I can’t tell you how many folks who call themselves Christians only know the law. ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’—that’s what some focus on.”
Mars smiled at the chief. “Strikes me a chief of police should be an Old Testament man.”
The chief smiled back and shrugged. “Well, I guess I’m getting tired for sure. When I start quotin’ the Bible is a sign it’s time to head home.” He slapped Mars on the shoulder. “One thing I need for you to do—then I want you and Nettie to get yourselves home. That’s an order. I’m gonna call building security later tonight, and if you’re still down here, I’m gonna assign a squad to escort you home. It is Christmas Eve.”
“What do you need?”
The chief reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. He passed it over to Mars. “An encrypted fax number at Quantico. Write up a summary of your suspect profile and fax it on out to Keegan. He’ll be leaving there around noon tomorrow. Durr promised Keegan we’d send out a file for him to review on the plane coming out.”
“What are you doing tonight?” Nettie asked after Mars faxed the encrypted file to Quantico. There was something in her voice that let Mars know she had a hunch what Mars would be doing.
“I don’t do Christmas,” Mars said.
“Who aren’t you doing Christmas with?” Nettie said.
“I’ll probably have dinner with Evelyn. Rita’s going out of town, and Evelyn said something about grilling salmon.”
“Rita’s the secretary in the English department who took Evelyn in after she got out of jail?”
“Yeah.” Mars pulled on his jacket, making it a point not to look at Nettie. “How about you?”
“Over to my sister’s—as soon as I get through these last three files for 1863.”
“C’mon, Nettie. Orders from the chief. We’ve gotta be out of here tonight.”
“I want to enjoy Christmas Eve when I get to it. If I haven’t finished 1863, I won’t enjoy it. It won’t take me long to finish.”
“A couple of merrymakers, you and me.”
Nettie said, “Did I tell you Chris said if he doesn’t get a dog, he’d like a sheep. The sheep could stay outside and it would keep the grass trim. Chris wouldn’t have to mow the lawn—which he hates doing. Perfect solution to the dog dilemma.”
“Sheep shit on the lawn? No way that’s getting by Denise.”
“You’re missing the point, Mars. With sheep, there wouldn’t be any lawn left.”
“Suits me right down to the ground. Merry Christmas, Nettie.”
“You can save that for tomorrow.”