By noon, all sixteen of the First Minnesota Volunteers who’d survived the Battle of Gettysburg and who had produced offspring were in the left column on the whiteboard.
Tee Tucker, the History Center’s senior specialist on Minnesota and the Civil War, had stood before the board upon his arrival, not troubling to remove his immense parka nor the incongruous golf hat squashed down on his balding head. He hummed softly as he wrote each name on the board, interrupting himself to make the occasional comment about one of the survivors. When he finished, he stood back, considering what he’d done.
“I’ve ordered this by date of enlistment. That okay?” Tucker asked Mars.
Mars shrugged. “Why not.” Then he stepped forward, and in the right column, entered Frank Beck’s and Gaylord Rowe’s names opposite their ancestors. As he wrote, he had a morbid thought: the more deaths they identified that they could link to a First Minnesota Volunteer, the less research they’d have to do. They didn’t yet have the name of the Salina, Kansas, victim’s ancestor, but Mars didn’t have any doubts the ancestor’s name was in the left-hand column.
Linda VanCleve joined Mars and Tucker in their appraisal of the white board. “It just occurred to me,” she said, echoing Mars’s thought. “We don’t have sixteen names to research. We only have thirteen—sixteen minus the three
deaths we know about. Unless you think living descendents from different generations might be at risk—you know, the question Nettie asked?”
Mars had been troubled by Nettie’s question about living descendents from more than one generation. He’d even considered assigning protection to Frank Beck’s eldest son. But as he’d thought about it, he decided the likelihood that their perp would hang multiple members of the same family was less than zero—unless there was a compelling reason to do so. And uncovering what that compelling reason might be was their best hope for finding the three missing target victims.
Mars explained his thinking to VanCleve, who nodded slowly in agreement as he talked. “The only remaining question is,” he said, “where there is more than one eldest male alive, how does the perp pick the victim? Based on what we know about Beck, my guess is he takes the oldest generation. Nettie got hold of Joey Beck earlier, and Joey said his dad was the eldest son and other than Joey’s brother, there were no other surviving eldest sons in Herman Beck’s line. Once we have more information about Rowe and our victim in Kansas, we should be able to establish a clear pattern of victim selection. Like I said, the one thing we’ve got to keep an eye out for is something in the descendents’ backgrounds that will give us our three missing targets.” Mars turned to Tee. “Can I ask you to follow up on that? See if you can find anything in the backgrounds of the sixteen survivors that suggests more than one victim might come from their descendent line?” To Linda he said, “The same for your researchers. Have them watch for something that suggests someone other than the oldest surviving eldest son would also be a target.”
Tucker said he’d work on it on his own. It became obvious that Tucker had left his coat on to make a quick escape. As he edged toward the door, Mars thanked him for his help, shaking his hand. “What’s ‘T’ stand for, anyway?” he asked.
“It’s T-e-e,” Tucker said. “And what it stands for is, if this
were May instead of December, and the snow was off the golf course, I wouldn’t be here.”
By early afternoon, the squad room had become chaotic. Nettie was bringing in and setting up extra computers for the researchers to work on as more researchers were coming in. Linda VanCleve moved among them, giving assignments and guidance and answering questions.
Mars and the chief had worked through a new confidential wire to members of the National Association of Chiefs of Police that would be sent out by John Durr from Kansas City.
“This one’s gonna scare the shit out of them,” the chief said with a smile. He read out loud, “‘The Homicide Division of the Minneapolis Police Department in cooperation with the Forensic Science Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and law enforcement officials in Wisconsin and Kansas, urgently request your assistance in connection with the hanging death of—and so on, and so on,” the chief said, searching for what he’d called the “off-your-butt-fast” line.
“Here it is,” he said, reading with malevolent pleasure. “‘It has been confirmed that this death is connected to other deaths where the victim has a genealogical connection to members of the First Minnesota Volunteers who fought at Gettysburg during the Civil War … .’”
The chief paused, looking at Mars over the top of his glasses. “This next part is in bold, upper-case type: ‘BASED ON AVAILABLE INFORMATION, IT IS BELIEVED PROBABLE THAT OTHER VICTIMS MAY BE TARGETED AND AT RISK. The Minneapolis Police Department is identifying other potential victims and will be in contact with affected jurisdictions at the earliest possible time. The MPD requests your assistance in identifying deaths where the following circumstances exist … .’”
The chief put the message down with satisfaction. “The
underlying message is, ‘You have a death in your jurisdiction after receiving this message, and you’re in deep trouble. ’ Some of these guys, they don’t see anything in it for them, they’re not gonna put forth the effort. This message says, this is big-time; pay attention. For that matter, it should get them worrying about whether they’ve misclassified a previous death. At some point this thing is gonna have to go public, and when that happens, if they haven’t already taken action, they’re gonna look mighty lame.”
Feeling the need to find peace and quiet—and to stir his bones, pump some oxygen into his brain—Mars left the squad room shortly before 2:00 P.M. He wandered back down to the first floor courtyard, where he once again used the Father of the Waters as a backrest. It was surprisingly quiet after the hustle upstairs, the peace disturbed only by the faint sound of the occasional passing car from the street outside and the distant, tinny noise of Christmas carols piped in through speakers three stories up.
A squad car with flashers rotating pulled up at the Fourth Street entrance. A uniform hopped out of the driver’s seat and opened the trunk. From the passenger side, a guy in a spring-weight trench coat got out, flinching at the cold, moving awkwardly to lift out an obviously heavy file case. Gloveless, he held out a painfully exposed hand for the bag offered by the uniform.
“Boyle Keegan,” Mars said, half out loud, as he headed toward the door.
He couldn’t have said why, but on sight he liked Keegan. The word rotund came to mind in looking at Keegan: big, as in tall, and rotund. Keegan was partially bald, with what remained of his hair making him look as if he’d stuck a finger in an electrical socket. Impossible to guess Keegan’s age—anywhere from Mars’s age to fifty would have been Mars’s guess.
“Marshall Bahr,” Mars said, holding open the door and reaching for the heavy file case Keegan carried. “Boyle Keegan?”
Keegan drew back the case Mars had reached for. On second glance, Mars realized the case was attached to Keegan’s wrist by a plastic cord. “Take this one,” Keegan said, handing Mars an overnight bag.
In the elevator, Keegan said, “You’re the fellow that sent the fax?”
“Yeah,” Mars said, suddenly self-conscious about Keegan’s appraisal of the profile.
Keegan’s expression gave nothing away, but he said, “Good piece of work. Very helpful. As far as it goes. Couple of things you need to add. Liquor stores closed here on Christmas Day?”
Mars blinked in surprise. “Not my area of expertise, but my first guess would be yes.”
“Damn,” Keegan muttered as they walked into city hall.
Keegan had a surprising affect on people working in the squad room. None of the researchers knew who he was, but Nettie and the chief seemed almost self-conscious. Mars guessed it was a combination of Keegan’s demeanor—which was unreadable—and his association with the FBI’s fabled Forensic Science Unit. That unit was one of the few divisions in the Bureau that had distinguished itself with both the public and the law enforcement community in recent years.
Keegan looked around the room at the frenetic activity, then at Mars and the chief. “Is there someplace where we can talk?”
Not wanting to go far from the action in the squad room, they led Keegan back to the lounge. He looked at the disreputable furniture and gave a small smile. “I trust this means you spend your money on important things.”
He sat down on the couch, which rocked treacherously on its uneven legs. Then he keyed a number into the combination lock on the case that had been attached to his wrist. Simultaneously, the case opened and the wrist lock came free.
Keegan shook his wrist after the lock was off, as if the lock had been too tight. Then he said, “I reviewed the material you faxed before I left Quantico. Which was good. It allowed me to pull together some file information that I think will be useful. I was saying to Bahr,” he tipped his head in Mars’s direction, “that his profile was especially useful. But I don’t think it goes far enough. At first sight, I see at least two things that are missing … .”
“Those being? …” the chief said.
“There’s an element of the crime scene that I think is key and then a point on the suspect that’s important.”
Mars sat forward. “Go ahead.”
“I think you’ve missed something on the noose.”
Nettie said, “Actually, we’re doing quite a bit of work on the noose. We’re expecting lab results from England that should allow us to identify where the fabric was manufactured. Once we’ve done that, we’re hoping we can get customer lists—”
Keegan shook his head impatiently. “Fine, good. My point was something else. I don’t think the perpetrator’s choice of hanging is arbitrary. If all the perp cares about is killing the guy, why not just load more barbs into the booze and let them go out that way? Helluva lot easier for the perp. No, I think the choice of hanging is significant in itself. The carefully knotted noose, the special fabric—I think you should be looking for a link between hangings and your perpetrator. The only reason he’s gonna go to the trouble of hanging is if it has special significance. I’d look at things like one of the First Minnesota stringing up somebody from the Twenty-eighth Virginia. Along those lines.”
Mars blinked hard, like something dangerous had just come at his face, fast. Keegan was right, and Mars was embarrassed. Interpreting the symbolic significance of the method used to commit a homicide was Investigative Techniques 101. He’d been so preoccupied by the numbers that the meaning of the noose had slipped right by him.
“You’re right,” Mars said. “Missed it altogether.”
“The other thing.” Keegan said. “Your perpetrator profile
is spot on—as far as it goes. But you’re missing a key element. You’ve noted the importance of ritual and symbolism in the perpetrator’s actions. But you’ve limited that analysis to the crime scene. Your perpetrator is going to look for closure after each death, something that symbolizes his achievement.”
“Something more than completing nineteen murders?” Mars said. “For me, that would be his focus.”
“That will be the grand finale. But with each murder, there’s going to be something that marks progress toward the final goal. You aware of anything taken from the victims?”
Mars shook his head. “Haven’t found any evidence of that. What you’re saying is, the perp would take something to create a—display, something like that, to mark his progress.”
Keegan sat back on the couch, causing it to lurch. Keegan paused until he was stable, then said, “My guess would be that he’s bringing something back to a site that has symbolic significance. Say, the spot at Gettysburg where the flag was captured. Can you put your finger on that location with any precision?”
Mars nodded. Then shook his head. “There’s a copse of trees where the flag was captured. My understanding is it’s still there. But I don’t think that’s where the perp would go for closure. That’s a spot no Confederate loyalist wants to go back to.”
Keegan held both hands up in a gesture of indifference. “Wherever. My point’s the same—I’m betting there is a place that is significant to the perp, and he’s returning to that place after each murder to make some kind of symbolic gesture, to leave something … .”
“I understand,” Mars said. “Let me pursue that …”
“If you don’t object,” Keegan said, “I’ve got contacts with the National Park Service.” His face twisted into an expression of weary ruefulness. “You would not believe the number of perverts—especially these radical, redneck, right-wing groups—that commit violent acts in national parks. What I’d like to do—just to cover our bases—is have a video cam hidden near this copse of trees at Gettysburg.
I’ll arrange to have the film mailed to Quantico on a periodic basis and reviewed for any activity that looks significant or—” He hesitated, then said, “Or that follows one of our hanging deaths.”
They were all silent for a moment, taking in what Keegan’s statement meant. It was the chief who said, “I’d like to think it won’t come to that. That we can get this guy before we have another death.”
The rueful expression returned to Keegan’s face. “With this guy? With a killer who has demonstrated superb organizational skills and who doubtless views himself as doing God’s work? A killer who obviously has significant financial resources at his disposal? With a broad and as-yet unidentified population of potential victims?”
Keegan shook his head, then looked them in the eye by turn.
“There will be more deaths. The only question is, how many before we stop him?”
Keegan wanted to review with Mars the files he had brought on radical domestic groups and their individual members. Nettie said, “I think you should move into the conference room. I’ll stay with the researchers and get you if anything comes up.”
As they moved through the squad room, Mars explained in a low voice what was going on with the researchers and the assumptions they’d made about the killer’s selection of victims.
Keegan stood in front of the white board, reading through the sixteen names, nodding slowly. “This is good,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were this far along.” He turned toward Mars and the chief. “I wondered when I was reviewing the information you faxed out—how did you figure out Beck was a homicide, not a suicide—I mean, what made you question the suicide in the first place?”
The chief put his hand on Mars’s shoulder, but Mars shook his head. “A uniform assigned to the downtown command
who was the officer on the scene at Beck’s hanging raised the questions about the noose and about the numbers on Beck’s arm. Without his raising those questions, the possibility of homicide never would have been considered.”
Keegan continued to nod slowly. “A guy like that, worth his weight in gold.” Keegan looked at the chief. “What’s he still doing in a uniform? Why haven’t you got him working investigations?”
Mars laughed. “If Danny Borg heard you say that, he’d carry you on his back for the rest of your life.”
“Well, at a minimum, when this is over, he should get some sort of commendation. You don’t do it here, the Bureau will come up with something.”
Before the chief left, Mars took him aside. “Something else. There’s still a lot of risk here. One thing that might help would be if we could get the History Center to give the flag back. At least on a temporary basis. It might slow our perp down, even if he doesn’t stop altogether. Buy us a little time. Thought I’d ask Glenn Gjerde in the County Attorney’s Office to try and work something out with the Attorney General’s Office.”
The chief shrugged. “Worth a try, as long as we can maintain confidentiality. I just don’t want to see a headline about giving the flag back to save lives because the police can’t find the killer.”
As Mars and Keegan walked out of the squad room, Keegan made a backward motion with his head toward the researchers. “How much do they know about what they’re working on?”
“They’ve been told they’re looking for a murder suspect who may be a descendent of one of the First Minnesota Volunteers. And they’ve been told it is a criminal offense to divulge information regarding an ongoing investigation without police department approval. We had all of them sign confidentiality agreements—so for now, I think the lid is on. Longer this goes on, the harder it’s going to be to keep the
lid on. These are smart people, capable of putting two and two together.”
“You know why I ask,” Keegan said. “This is a sad thing to have to say, but maybe the strongest thing we have going for us is that we know a lot about how the perp is operating. And he doesn’t know we know it. He gets wind that we’re onto him, he could alter his MO. That happens, and he’ll drop this orderly, ritualistic business and just start trying to take out as many targeted victims as he can, as fast as he can. Knock on the victim’s door and blast him. His bottom line is nineteen deaths. If he thinks we can stop him before he gets to nineteen, he’s going to go wild.”
Mars hadn’t thought about it in just those terms, but he knew as soon as Keegan said it that Keegan was right. That realization was followed by another thought. To Keegan he said, “Assuming of course, that he hasn’t already completed his mission. All that we know at this point is that three deaths have occurred. The first was the Salina, Kansas, hanging a year and a half back. Gaylord Rowe died seven months ago. I think it’s safe to assume he hasn’t had time to kill again since Beck, but we have to hope those weren’t deaths numbers seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen. Until we’ve gotten responses to our latest information request, we can’t be sure there’s anyone left to save. That, or we complete identification of our targeted victims and confirm who’s still alive.”
“The temporal aspect,” Keegan said. “I’ve completely neglected that point.” He sighed. “Well, the best you can say—if Beck was the nineteenth victim—is that it simplifies what remains to be done. All you need to do is catch the bastard. Much easier than keeping him from killing again.”
Mars looked sideways at Keegan as they walked. There was nothing in Keegan’s voice or face that suggested Keegan had made this statement with a sense of irony. But Mars didn’t believe Keegan was as coldhearted as his remark suggested. A man who didn’t value preventing death over solving murders wouldn’t have traveled a thousand miles to spend Christmas Day in a cold, strange city.