A bank of high dirty white clouds crept toward the city of Milwaukee from the northwest. Within a half-hour the clouds would slide between the sun and the land, a mottled gray shade that Mother Nature drew across the sky and kept in place for weeks on end during the cruelest of her Wisconsin winters.
Snow spit from the heavens as FBI Special Agent Cole Huebsch pumped the brakes of his nine-year-old Dodge. He’d lost any hope the sun would break through later in the day. His Charger looked more like it was painted battleship gray than the creamy white color that lay beneath a cold, hard veneer of grit and grime. The closest parking he’d found was more than a block down from the Women’s Health Clinic. He eased into the spot, bumping up onto the hard-packed, uneven ledge of snow and ice that hugged the two feet closest to the curb. He got out and began an easy jog toward the clinic, the lug soles of his Merrills making a scrunching sound each time one bit into the snow-glazed sidewalk. He slowed as he neared the entrance of the building and threaded his way through the gawkers outside. His breath hung in front of him, dissipating in the frigid air. The uniformed Milwaukee Police Department officer standing sentry at the front door glowered as he scanned Cole’s FBI credentials. A woman banged through the door before the officer could wave Cole in, nearly knocking him over as she hurried to exit the building. Long, dark hair flared over her charcoal dress coat, and she had the collar pulled up to her cheeks. Oversized designer sunglasses covered her eyes and most of her face despite the clouds. Cole watched as she almost ran to her car, stowing a reporter’s notebook into her purse as she went.
Crap, he said to himself as the officer moved aside to let him in, a little less than thirty minutes after Dr. Smith went down hard on the opposite side of the building.
MPD Lieutenant Ty Igou met Cole as he walked through the doors. Ty wore a natty, dark blue suit and crisp white shirt draped over a muscular six-foot-two frame. He fingered his deep red silk tie and looked down at Cole, who stood a little over five-ten. Cole wore faded blue jeans and a distressed brown leather bomber jacket that was open to reveal a gold Marquette University sweatshirt. It was supposed to have been a rare day off for him. He had a matching but frayed Golden Eagles ball cap on his head.
“You’re the FBI guy?” Ty asked, frowning at the way Cole was dressed.
“Good guess,” Cole said, grabbing Ty’s unoffered hand and giving it a brisk shake. “Now let me try a quick guess: You’re the mayor?”
“What?”
“You look like a politician, kid, all dressed up in red, white, and blue. I figured mayor or alderman…nothing higher than that. Of course, you could be a cop, but then I doubt you’d be wasting my time here with stupid questions.”
Cole didn’t like a pissing match. He liked to do his job and catch criminals. But he knew from experience that sometimes the big dog had to mark his territory early to get the necessary cooperation from local law enforcement.
“I’m a detective and a lieutenant in the Milwaukee Police Department and we’re investigating a murder here,” Ty stammered. “And I’m nearly forty, so I don’t think the ‘kid’ label fits.”
“I’m nearly forty-five,” Cole said, stepping forward and invading Ty’s private space. His stubble-filled jaw was now inches away from Ty’s and his blue eyes looked up and locked onto Ty’s walnut brown ones. “That makes you my junior,” he continued. “I’m a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Criminal Investigation Division. I’m based right here in the Brew City field office. Any shooting, much less murder of any employee of an abortion clinic, much less a physician, falls under FBI jurisdiction. The courts frown on such actions and see them as violations of individual civil rights…which are federal crimes.”
He paused both for effect and to take a breath and drive home his point. “And you were investigating a murder here. Now you’re helping me investigate a murder. And if I don’t find you particularly useful, you won’t even be assisting in a murder investigation; you’ll be back to chalking tires and writing ten-dollar parking tickets for a living.” He fought to keep his voice soft but the tenor hard and sharp. He threw up his hands and added, “Now show me the vic so we can get started.”
Ty knew when to shut up and he simply turned and headed inside and down one of the narrow, sterile white corridors. Cole followed and saw the surge of crimson that rushed up the back of his neck.
“Twenty-five dollars,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?” Cole challenged from behind.
“Those parking tickets are twenty-five now, not ten.”
Ty led Cole back out a side door to avoid contaminating the murder scene, and they made their way around to the back parking lot. “The doctor had two medical assistants, a nurse, an office manager, two receptionists, and a billing clerk,” he threw over his shoulder. “We’ve got each of them sequestered in a separate exam room or office awaiting interrogation,” he said. “The doctor also had a bodyguard, but he gives details about as well as he protects.”
As they ducked under the yellow police tape and neared the body, Cole reached ahead of him and tapped Ty on the shoulder. When Ty stopped and turned Cole made sure he was looking squarely at him. He nodded and said, “Thanks.” Cole knew already he could work with Ty, because the guy was willing to cooperate even though he was pissed off at him.
“My name’s Cole Huebsch. ‘Hip,’” he said, pointing to his hip. Then he put his right index finger over his lips and said, “Shhhh.” He repeated with a grin, “Hip. Shhh. Huebsch.” He nodded his head for emphasis.
Shaking his head and smiling in spite of himself, Ty said, “Ty Igou. As in ‘I,’” pointing to his right eye, “and ‘go,’” pointing his thumb and nodding in the direction of the slain victim.
Smith was lying on his back with his arms up over his head, as if he might push down and make a snow angel. His blazer was open and his feet were elevated, resting on the snowbank. Smith’s black eyes were unfocused and glazed over. Cole knew from the way Smith lay that he was probably dead before he hit the ground. All the blood that had soaked the snow red and pink around his head was for show.
“What do you guys have so far?” Ty asked the two crime lab operatives who were looking over the scene and snapping photographs.
“We only set up five minutes ago,” the lead tech said. “But it looks like it was one shot and maybe from a car, most likely by a rifle. With a head shot like this, the shooter had to have optics, a scope of some kind. Either that or the perp got incredibly lucky. It’d be a one-in-a-million shot at longer distance with a handgun as the guy’s on the move. Anyway, the snow is fresh and we can’t find any footprints to signal the perp got close. We’ve already retrieved a slug from the cinder block right there,” he said, pointing to the building about four feet or so up from the frozen ground. “The larger mass supports our thinking that it came from a rifle and not a handgun.”
Cole regarded the information and the scene itself. He nodded toward the door. “Are those the doctor’s keys in the lock?”
“The office manager thinks so, but she’s pretty shook up and couldn’t say for sure.”
Cole stooped and looked at the keys more carefully. “I’ll bet the Lexus fob on the key ring starts that LS 460 parked there. “You’ll have to confirm it, but I’d say it’s a good bet it’s his.”
He looked at the pockmark in the building’s wall. “If that’s where the bullet ended up, and if it didn’t have much deflection, then the doctor was either crouched down a bit when he put his keys in the door or the shooter was elevated. Most people I know don’t stoop much when they unlock a door, so I gotta believe the shooter was higher than street level.”
He paused, imagining the doctor pushing his key into the lock and getting shot as he’s turning the knob. He looked around to get a fix on where the bullet might have come from. He looked directly at Ty and said evenly, “Have your people check out that white two-story building across the alley. I think it’s Grebe’s Bakery. Have them scour the upper floor and the rooftop. Maybe our shooter left something behind.”
He started to leave, but turned back to Ty. “While you’re interviewing the staff at Grebe’s, see if they have a couple of maple-covered long johns they can spare. Bring your report and the sweet rolls to 3600 South Lake Drive. That’s where our Milwaukee headquarters are. Be thorough, but be quick. I’m starved…both for explanations and some breakfast.”