Keegan spread his files across the conference room table. Then he picked them up, one by one, giving Mars a careful narrative about each group, its key members, the group’s purpose, and past criminal activity. When he’d gone through all the files but three, he shoved the other files aside.
“These two,” he said, “the Recover Our Flag members—ROFers—and the Pure Blood Boys—those are your prime targets. The ROFers were organized for the express purpose of recovering the Twenty-eighth Virginia’s flag from Minnesota. Problem with them, they’re pretty much a bunch of straight shooters. I can’t imagine any of them being involved in these murders. All their activities have been political: trying to get the Virginia legislature to support resolutions in their favor, petitioning the Virginia Attorney General’s Office for legal remedies, fund-raising—things like that. Their principal guy is Phil Stern.” Keegan took a photo from the ROFer file and slid it across the table to Mars.
“Stern is decent down to his bones. Early on, some of the Pure Blood Boys tried to join the group. I’m sure their idea was, Minnesota won’t give the flag back, we’ll go get it. Stern saw to it the Pure Blood Boys were kept out of ROF. He’s smart enough to know that if ROFer’s activities are tainted by white supremacists, they’ll never get the flag back. Stern is an amateur history buff, a descendent of a soldier
in the Twenty-eighth Virginia. His interest in the flag is purely historical. I wouldn’t even say he cares much about the Great Lost Cause. But he may know of people that fit your profile that aren’t on our radar because they haven’t been openly subversive—so I’d start with him. And in confidence I’d tell him what the investigation is about. He’ll want to be sure the ROFers are on the right side of this problem—he’ll do whatever he can to help.”
Keegan gave Mars a look as he moved the second file forward. “These guys—the Pure Blood Boys—they’ll do whatever, and if violence is involved, so much the better. The problem is, as far as your profile goes, they don’t have what it takes to pull it off. Pretty much a bunch of tattooed, pickup-driving racists who spend most of their time in bars bumming cigarettes and in bar parking lots picking fights. We track them because they’ve been involved in a number of racial harassment cases. Nothing organized, but they’ve caused their share of trouble. And they’re the kind of guys—given a couple bucks to rub together—who might decide to bomb something. I mention them special to you for two reasons.” Keegan moved another photo over to Mars. “This guy, Junior Boosey, is their leader. Now, Junior—if he had any serious education or any money to back him, he’d be a force to contend with. Junior has a plan—he just doesn’t have the means to carry anything forward. At least he doesn’t now … .”
Keegan picked up the third file, tapping it on the table. “If this guy were still alive you’d have a perfect match with your profile. Hector Lee Macintosh. Killed in a hunting accident in West Virginia, oh—I’m not sure exactly when. Couple years back, just before I joined the unit at Quantico. Hec was from an old Richmond, Virginia, family with more money than General Motors. Married a Richmond woman with money of her own. Both of them—flaming racists. Hec was financing the ROFers until Stern decided Hec was doing more damage than good. That, and Hec was tied up with the Pure Blood Boys. Apparently Hec and Junior had a very close relationship—almost like father and son. So Hec and ROF split. My
guess is, while Hec was still alive, he was working with Junior on a plan to take the flag by force. And God knows what else.”
Keegan sat back, rubbing his eyes. “When I first read your profile, I thought about what I’d heard about Hec right away. He had the means, the passion, and the craziness to pull something like these killings off. And he was an educated southern boy who could play whatever role was called for in approaching victims. What we need to look for is someone like Hec who hasn’t surfaced, who has the brains to keep a low profile. My guess is there’s somebody out there that was hooked up with Hec but who kept his head down. Maybe an old fraternity brother of Hec’s from UVA. Somebody who had the discipline not to mouth off about his views. Which for sure Hec didn’t.”
Mars stared at the files on the table. “I’m thinking I need to go to Richmond.”
Keegan rocked back on his chair. “That’s exactly right.”
They were on the way back to the squad room when they ran into Nettie. “We’ve got two more descendent matches. An eldest son now living in central Illinois … .”
“He’s alive?” Mars asked.
“He’s listed in the telephone directory that will be published next month. Got that straight from the phone company. And we’ve got a current address. We’re still working on a current address for the second guy. That’s turning out to be a bigger job than tracing the descendent line. And the chief said he’d meet you in the conference room.”
Mars and Keegan turned around. “So now we see how well the notification procedures work,” Mars said.
They began by calling John Durr in Kansas City. Durr had agreed that in his position as president of the National Association of Chiefs of Police, he’d make all police contacts regarding targeted victims outside of Minnesota.
Boyle Keegan put in a call to FBI headquarters, which would take responsibility for contacting the special agent in
charge at the appropriate field division office. That agent would be responsible for establishing liaison with the local police force and providing any surveillance or protection assistance needed.
They’d spent a long time figuring out what the targeted victims would be told when contacted. No one thought it would be productive to knock on a stranger’s door and tell him that a mad killer was looking for him. Once that message got out, it would spread like wildfire, causing panic and jeopardizing the investigation. On the other hand, the target needed to know he was at risk.
It was Mars who said, “Look. Everything we know about the killings that have taken place tells us that the killer is proceeding methodically. He’s not breaking into houses in the middle of the night and clubbing victims to death. He’s not shooting them from a distance with a high-powered rifle. He’s making contact with them in advance and arranging a time to meet when he can be confident he’ll be alone with the victim. So the message we need to get to the targeted victims is that they need to be alert to any contacts from strangers—especially if the stranger requests a confidential meeting. Our suspect is going to propose something to the target that is personal to that individual. With Beck, we’re pretty sure our perp posed as a venture capitalist. In Rowe’s case, we know from what the sister said that the perp knew Gaylord Rowe would be receptive to someone who proposed a project connected to the First Minnesota Volunteers. Nettie—what was it you said you’d found out about the victim in Salina?”
“His wife had died of ovarian cancer, and his daughter had just been diagnosed.”
“Right. So it’s likely the perp’s approach would be that he wants to fund research, a foundation, wants the target to participate in a public education effort—something like that. My point is that all of those strategies fit with a fraud crime. So what we tell the targeted victim, at least initially, is that it’s come to the FBI’s attention that he may be subject to a contact by someone engaged in fraudulent activities. That he needs to contact the FBI immediately if a stranger contact is made and
that under no circumstances should the target agree to meet the person making the contact. Meanwhile, local police or the FBI can be maintaining surveillance on the target … .”
The chief said, “That sounds fine, Mars. Only problem—some of these jurisdictions are going to have pretty short staffs to provide the kind of protection you’re talking about. Can we give them some idea how long surveillance might be needed?”
Mars thought about it. There was nothing. Not yet. To Nettie he said, “How about this. We know our perp is operating in a ritualistic fashion. For the three murder dates we know of, there’s no discernible pattern. What about dates of Confederate battles, something like that? Can you check the murder dates against battle dates, see if anything matches? We’d really be ahead of the game if we could identify specific times when the targets were at risk.”
Nettie nodded. “That’ll be easy.”
The squad room of the Minneapolis Homicide Department had no exterior windows, so Mars was surprised when he realized it was nearly 8:00 P.M. He was tired but not sleepy. A bad combination.
Nettie, who’d been grinding away for days, with no relief other than an occasional nap on the lounge couch, was showing definite signs of wear. The chief had left an hour earlier, asking to be called in if anything came up.
Linda VanCleve came over to Mars at his desk. She sighed heavily and dropped down on a chair, facing him. “I know how important what we’re doing is to the investigation—but I’ve got to let my people go home at some point. Day after tomorrow, I’ll have enough people available to set up shifts. But if we keep working these people, they’re going to start making mistakes.”
“Go ahead,” Mars said. “You’ve been great. When this is over, we’ll see that you and your staff get some kind of special recognition.” Then, sheepishly, “Any idea when you can get back in tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here by seven,” Linda said. “I’ve asked everybody else to be back by eight. We got a current address that we were missing and we’re real close on two of the remaining eleven.” She looked at him. “Mars, they’re starting to ask questions about what they’re doing. They’re hearing bits and pieces of conversations and picking up on the tension. If I could tell them what’s really at stake here, it would be a real motivator.”
Mars was too tired to even think about an answer to VanCleve’s question. “Let’s talk about it with the chief tomorrow,” he said.
Just before nine, Nettie said, “Good news, bad news.”
Mars tilted his head back and looked at her.
“I’ve found dates on-line for every battle that was fought during the Civil War.”
“Don’t bother to tell me the bad news. No matches with our murder dates.”
“You’re so smart.”
“Go home, Nettie. I need you smart tomorrow. Especially I need you to work what Keegan said on the significance of the hangings. We’ve got a long row left to hoe.”
As she left, he called after her. “Nettie?”
She turned to look back at him.
“Merry Christmas.”
Nettie said, “I think we can punt on Merry Christmas. Happy New Year is the new objective.”
Boyle Keegan walked toward Mars, jingling change in his pockets. “I think I’ve shot my wad,” he said. “Still no idea where I can find a jar of one-hundred-proof liquor on Christmas night?”
“Try the minibar in your hotel room,” Mars said.
Keegan gave Mars a close look. “You about to head out?”
Mars moved out of his slouch, straightened up, and stretched. “Problem is, I’m too tense. I’m gonna stay here until my head starts to drop. I go home now, I’ll just toss and turn. Won’t be worth diddly tomorrow.”
After Keegan left, Mars turned the overhead lights out in the squad room, which meant the only light sources were the glow of the computer screens and the perimeter lights in the hallway. He sat back on his chair and let his mind wander, staring at the white board, which appeared to glow in the dim room.
He rose and walked over to the board, looking at the dates of death that had been written by the names of three identified victims. Absolutely no discernible pattern. At some level, Mars had known all along that he’d need to go to Richmond, Virginia. Reading Macintosh’s file, Mars thought consciously about the need to go to Richmond, to check into Macintosh’s background. To look for someone who might have been a silent partner in Macintosh’s mission.
Then Mars thought about what he needed to do before he went to Richmond, including something he needed to do first thing the next morning.
Glenn Gjerde was having breakfast in the cafeteria in the lower level of the Hennepin County Government Center.
On sighting Mars, Gjerde said, “Here comes trouble.”
Glenn Gjerde was the worst and best prosecuting attorney in the Hennepin County Attorney’s Office. The worst because he’d never take a case to court unless the evidence was perfect. The best, because once he was convinced you were giving him a case with solid evidence, you could be sure justice was right around the corner.
For that reason, cops had a lot of confidence in Glenn. The confidence came from Glenn’s record of convictions, not from Glenn’s personal style. He routinely dressed in a bizarre mix of exercise clothes and what might be described as workplace casual. Today that meant a pair of polyurethane windproof pants, running shoes, an oxford cloth shirt, and a plum-colored sports coat that was at least one size too small. A tie hung out of the lapel pocket of the jacket.
“What’s up?” he said, chewing and not looking very interested.
Mars gave Glenn a quick run-through on the Beck case. Glenn got interested. He stopped chewing. “Jesus,” he said. “So what do you need me to do?”
“This is feeling too loosey-goosey to me. I think we’ve got to take action to get the killer to stop—then focus on finding him. I want us to give the flag back to Virginia.”
Glenn grinned. “And while I’m at it, do you want me to achieve peace in the Middle East?”
“Only if it doesn’t slow down getting the flag back to Virginia. Start by talking to whoever from the State Attorney General’s Office represents the Historical Society. Keep Linda VanCleve out of it at this stage. We’re working together at this point, and I don’t want to get her all riled up. Get it expedited. We need some time here, and I don’t want anyone else dying while we’re looking for the killer.”
Dana Levy called Mars in the squad room right after he got back from talking to Glenn.
“Hate to spoil your holidays,” she said. Not sounding sorry. Dana and Mars had history. Brief, a couple years back, but definitely—at least in Dana’s mind—history.
It started when Dana joined the department as the public information officer. To be good at that job you needed three things. You had to understand how the media works, you had to be tough enough so that cops trusted—and respected—you, and you had to be willing to spend time learning about everything from how blood spatters to criminal procedure.
Dana’d been good at the job right off. Early on she’d said to Mars, “It’d be helpful if we could talk off-line about how the department can do a better job of working with the media, especially on big investigations where we have to withhold information.”
Mars had agreed, and Dana immediately invited him for
dinner at her house. Not what he’d had in mind, but not a definite uh-uh. Dana was smart and cute. He was willing to give it a try.
Things started to go wrong as soon as Mars pulled up in Dana’s driveway. Her car, parked in the driveway, had two bumper stickers. How’s My Driving? 1-800-EAT-SHIT. And, I Drive Way Too Fast to Worry About Cholesterol.
Then she opened the door. She was wearing a T-shirt that read, On the Advice of My Lawyer, My Shirt Has No Comment at This Time. She was carrying a coffee cup that read, Give Me Coffee and No One Will Get Hurt. Mars was prepared for the refrigerator. He just didn’t have time to read all the magnets. But he couldn’t miss You Can Tell a Guy Is Lying When His Lips Are Moving.
The woman was noisy even when her lips weren’t moving. Which wasn’t often. She talked like a repeating rifle, stopping only long enough to look at caller ID on her cell phone and punch “talk.” And her cell phone rang a lot.
It was Mars’s cell phone that saved him. Before dessert, he got a call. He begged off on urgent business and made his escape. “Something I should be in on?” she’d asked.
“I’ll call if we need you,” he said.
A week or so later, he felt guilty and invited her to a movie. Not to start anything, but to do a better job of finishing. She talked nonstop until the lights went down, after which she was silent for seconds at a time, leaning toward him like clockwork with a running commentary on the movie.
Mars leaned toward her fifteen minutes into the feature, and said, “I don’t talk during movies.”
She’d laughed and poked him. “So, listen.” And she’d kept up the chatter.
He drove her straight home after the movie. When they’d pulled into her driveway, behind her double-stickered car, she said, “I think I still owe you dessert.” She was actually quiet for a moment as she gave him a meaningful look.
Mars looked back and said, “No. Thanks, but no.”
Not really a better finish.
So they had history. She was too much of a pro to let it affect how they worked together, but she never missed a chance to put a little knife-twisting spin on their conversations.
“Not much of anything left to spoil,” Mars said.
“Got a call from the news director at Channel Twelve.”
“And?”
“They’re running a story tonight on the ten o’clock news. Near as I can tell, it’s a fishing expedition. A bunch of stuff about the money being spent on the First Response Unit at a time when homicides are down. Something about spinning a sure-thing suicide investigation into a big-deal homicide. Good news is, I don’t think they’ve got much. If they had something solid, they’d be holding it till sweeps and they’d be running promos a week before air.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“They’re sending a messenger out to my house with the tape. I’ll let you know if I think we should comment. What I’m expecting is they’ll raise a bunch of questions. You know, is the special unit in homicide earning its keep, what is the Candy Man doing with the suicide—like that. Nothing that’ll stick.”
“Sounds like someone in the police union has been running his mouth. You’ve alerted the chief’s and the mayor’s offices?”
“Of course. Mars? Is this something I should know about?”
“Yeah. But I’m going to have to ask you to sit on it for the next couple of days. I need to get out to Richmond, Virginia, and I’m totally jammed up between now and the time I leave. Something else. What we’re working on is highly confidential. At the risk of sounding like a drama queen, it’s not overstating the issue to say lives may depend on keeping a lid on this one for as long as possible. You get wind of any specifics on this story, get a hold of me, the chief, or Nettie right away.”