—Hillerod saw him in Madison, said Koop recognized his prison tattoo, Connell said. Sounds like ESP, Troy said, and ESP doesn’t work on the witness stand. Besides, Hillerod can’t remember what he looked like, Green said, and Hillerod’s just been arrested for a whole series of heavy felonies, along with a parole violation, and has a long criminal record. The defense will claim he’ll tell us anything we want to get a deal. And, in fact, we’ve already negotiated a deal.
—He was seen dumping a body by two witnesses, Connell said, who described both him and his truck. The witnesses’ descriptions conflict, even on the matter of the truck, Troy said. They saw the guy at night at a distance. One of them is an admitted crack dealer, and the other guy hangs around with a crack dealer.
—Camels, said Connell. There are probably fifty thousand Camel smokers in the Cities. And probably most of them drive trucks, Troy said.
—Shape was right for the man who attacked Evan Hart—big and muscular. Tall, big, and muscular, is what the witnesses said, Troy replied. Koop is distinctly short. Besides, the attack on Hart isn’t necessarily related to the attacks on the women. The man who attacked Hart had a beard and wore glasses. Koop is clean-shaven, shows no glasses requirement on his driver’s license, and wasn’t wearing glasses that morning. The witnesses hadn’t been able to pick his photo out of a display.
“You’re working against us,” Connell fumed.
“Bullshit,” said Troy. “I’m just outlining an elementary defense. A good defense attorney will tear up everything you’ve got. We need one hard thing. Just one. Just get me one, and we’ll take him down.”
KOOP SPENT THE first day of surveillance in his truck, driving long complicated routes around the Cities, apparently aimlessly. He stopped at Two Guy’s gym, was inside for two hours, then moved on, stopping only to eat at fast-food joints, and once to get gas.
“I think he must’ve made us,” Del called on one of the scrambled radios as they sat stalled in traffic on I-94 between Minneapolis and St. Paul. “Unless he’s nuts.”
“We know he’s nuts,” Connell said. “The question is, what’s he doing?”
“He’s not scouting,” Lucas said from a third car. “He’s moving too fast to be scouting. And he never goes back. He just drives. He doesn’t seem to know where he’s going—he’s always getting caught in those circles and dead ends.”
“Well, we gotta do something,” Del said. “ ’Cause if he hasn’t made us yet, he will. He’ll get us up in some of those suburban switchbacks and we’ll bump into him one too many times. Where in the hell is tech support?”
“We’re here,” the tech-support guy said on the radio. “You stop the sonofabitch, and we’ll tag him.”
At three o’clock, Koop stopped at a Perkins restaurant and took a booth. While Lucas and Connell watched from outside, Henry Ramirez from intelligence slipped under Koop’s truck and hooked up a remote-controlled battery-powered transmitter, and placed a flat, battery-powered infrared flasher in the center of the topper. If Koop climbed on top of the truck, he’d see it. Otherwise, it was invisible, and the truck could be unmistakably tracked at night, from the air.
AT NINE O’CLOCK, in the last dying light of the day, Koop wandered out of the web of roads around Lake Minnetonka and headed east toward Minneapolis. They no longer had a lead car. Leading had proven impossible. The trailing cars were all well back. The radio truck followed silently, with the tracking plane doing all the work. From the air, the spotter, using infrared glasses, said Koop was clear all the way, and tracked him street by street into the Cities.
“He’s going for Jensen,” Lucas said to Connell as he followed the track on a map.
“I don’t know where I am anymore.”
“We’re coming up on the lakes.” Lucas called out to the others: “We’re breaking off, we’ll be at Jensen’s.”
He called ahead to Jensen’s, but there was no answer at her phone. He called dispatch and got the number for the resident manager: “We’ve got a problem and we need a little help. . . .”
THE MANAGER WAS waiting by the open door of the parking garage, the door open. Lucas pulled inside and dumped the car in a handicapped space.
“What do you want me to do?” the manager asked, handing him a key to Jensen’s apartment.
“Nothing,” Lucas said. “Go on back to your apartment. We’d like you near a telephone. Just wait. Please don’t go out in the hallway.”
To Connell: “If he comes up, we’ve got him. If we get him inside Jensen’s place, that ties him to the stalking and the Camels on the air conditioner across the street. And the knife attack ties him to the other killings and the Camel we found on Wannemaker.”
“You think he’ll come up?” she asked as they hurried to the elevators.
“I hope so. Jesus, I hope so. That’d be it.” At Jensen’s apartment, they let themselves in, and Lucas turned on one light, slipped his .45 out of his shoulder holster and checked it.
“WHAT’S HE DOING?” Lucas asked.
“Moving very slowly, but he’s moving,” the spotter called. “Now, now, we’ve lost him, he’s under some trees or some shit, wait, I got a flash, I see him again, now he’s gone. . . .”
“I see him,” Del called. “I’m parked in the bike shop lot, and he’s coming this way. He’s moving faster, but he’s under trees, he’ll be out in a sec. . . .”
“Got him,” the spotter said. “He’s going around the block again. Slowing down . . .”
“Real slow,” Del called. “I’m on the street, walking, he’s right in front of the apartment, real slow, almost stopped. No, there he goes. . . .”
“He’s outa here,” the spotter called a minute later. “He’s heading into the loop.”
“Did he see you, Del?”
“No way.”
Connell said, “Well, shit. . . .”
“Yeah.” Lucas felt like a deflated balloon. He walked twice around the room. “Goddamnit,” he said. “Goddamnit. What’s wrong with the guy? Why didn’t he come up?”
Koop continued through downtown to a bar near the airport, where he drank three solitary beers, paid, bought a bottle at the liquor store down the street, and drove back to his house. The last light went off a few minutes after two o’clock.
Lucas went home. Weather was asleep. He patted her affectionately on the ass before he went down himself.
KOOP RESUMED THE driving the next day, trailing through the suburbs east and south of St. Paul. They tracked him until one o’clock in the afternoon, when he stopped at a Wendy’s. Lucas went on down the block to a McDonald’s. Feeling dried out, older, bored, he got a double cheeseburger, a sack of fries, and a malt, and ambled back to the car, where Connell was eating carrot sticks out of a Tupperware box.
“George Beneteau called yesterday, while we were out,” Connell said when they’d run out of everything else to talk about.
“Oh, yeah?” She had a talent for leaving him short of words.
“He left a message on my machine. He wants to go out and get a steak, or something.”
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing.” She said it flatly. “I can’t deal with it. I guess tomorrow I’ll give him a call and explain.”
Lucas shook his head and pushed fries into his face, hoping that she wouldn’t start crying again.
She didn’t. But a while later, as they escorted Koop across the Lake Street bridge, Connell said, “That TV person, Jan Reed. You guys seem pretty friendly.”
“I’m friendly with a lot of media,” Lucas said uncomfortably.
“I mean friendly-friendly,” she said.
“Oh, not really.”
“Mmm,” she said.
“Mmm, what?” Lucas asked.
“I’d think a very long time. This is one of those things where, you know—I suspect you’re just a suit.”
“Not quite bright,” he said.
“Took the words out of my mouth,” Connell said.
KOOP STOPPED A
T a Firestone store but just sat in the truck. The surveillance van, watching him from a Best Buy store parking lot, said he seemed to be looking at a Denny’s restaurant across the street.
“He ate less than an hour ago,” Lucas said. They were a block away, parked in front of a used-car lot, a bit conspicuous. “Let’s go look at some cars.”
They got out and walked into the lot, where they could watch Koop through the windows of a used Buick. After ten minutes in the Firestone lot, Koop started the truck, rolled it across the street to the Denny’s and went inside.
“He’s looking for surveillance,” Lucas said. On the radio: “Del, could you get in there?”
“On my way . . .” Then, a few seconds later, “Shit, he’s coming back out. I’m turning around.”
Koop walked out with a cup of coffee. Lucas caught Connell’s arm as she started toward the car, and brought the radio to his face. “We’re gonna stay here a minute; you guys tag him. Hey, Harvey?”
Harvey ran the surveillance van. “Yeah?”
“Could you put a video on the front of that Denny’s, see who else comes out?”
“You got it.”
“He wasn’t in there long enough,” Lucas said to Connell. “He talked to somebody. Not long enough for a friend, so it must have been business.”
“Unless his friend wasn’t there,” Connell said.
“He was too long for that. . . .” A moment later he said, “Here we go. Oh, shit, Harvey, cover that guy, you remember him?”
“I don’t . . .”
“Just Plain Schultz,” Lucas said.
Del, on the radio, from tracking Koop: “Our Just Plain Schultz?”
“Absolutely,” Lucas said.
Schultz got in a red Camaro and carefully backed out of his parking slot. “C’mon,” Lucas said to Connell, hustling her down to the car.
“Who is he?”
“Fence. Very careful.”
In the car, Lucas tagged a half-block behind Schultz and called in a squad. “Just pull him over to the curb,” he told the squad. “And stand by.”
The squad picked Schultz up at the corner, stopped him halfway down the block, under a bright-green maple. Lucas and Connell passed them, pulled to the curb. A kid on a tricycle watched from the sidewalk, the flashing lights, the cop standing inside his open door. Schultz was watching the cop in his rearview mirror and didn’t see Lucas coming from the front, until Lucas was right on top of him.
“Schultzie,” Lucas said, leaning over the window, his hands on the roof. “How you been, my man?”
“Aw, fuck, what do you want, Davenport?” Schultz, shocked, tried to cover.
“Whatever you just bought from Koop,” Lucas said.
Schultz was a small man with a round, blemished face. He had dark whiskers a razor couldn’t quite control. His eyes were slightly protuberant, and when Lucas said “Koop,” they seemed to bug out a bit farther.
“I can’t believe that crazy motherfucker belongs to you,” Schultz said after a moment, popping the door to get out of the car.
“He doesn’t, actually,” Lucas said. Connell was standing on the other side of the car, her hand in her purse.
“Who’s the puss?” Schultz asked, tipping his head toward her.
“State cop,” Lucas said. “And is that any way to talk about the government?”
“Fuck you, Davenport,” Schultz said, leaning back against the car’s front fender. “So what’re we doing? Do I call a lawyer, or what?”
“Schultzie. . . .” Lucas said, spreading his arms wide.
“That’s just plain Schultz,” Schultz said.
THOMAS TROY WORE a blue military sweater over jeans. He looked neat but tough, like a lieutenant colonel in the paratroops. He was shaking his head.
“We don’t have enough on the killings, by themselves, even with him cruising Jensen’s place. We could fake it, though, and put him away.”
“Like how?” Roux asked. “What do you suggest?”
“We take him on the burglary charges. We’ve got enough from Schultz to get a conviction on those. And we’ve got enough on the burglary charges to get search warrants for the truck and the house. If we don’t find anything on the murders or his stalking Jensen, well—we got him on the burglaries, and in the presentencing report, we let the judge know we think he’s tied in to the murders. If we get the right judge, we can get an upward departure on the sentence and keep him inside for five or six years.”
“Five or six years?” Connell came up out of her chair.
“Sit down,” Troy snapped. She sat down. “If you get anything in the search, then there’re more possibilities. If we find evidence of more burglaries, we’ll get a couple of more years. If we get evidence that he’s stalking Jensen, then we get another trial and go for a few more. And if there’s anything that would suggest the murders—any tiny little thing more than what you’ve got—we could set up the murder trials to go at the end of the sequence, and maybe the publicity from the first two will put him away on the others.”
“We’re really betting on the come,” Lucas said.
“All you need is a few hairs from Wannemaker or Marcy Lane, and with the circumstantial stuff you’ve got, that’d be enough,” Troy said. “If you can give me anything —a weapon, a hair, a couple drops of blood, a print—we’d go with it.”
Connell looked at Lucas, then Roux. “If we stay with him, we might see him approach somebody.”
“What if he kills her the second they’re in the truck?” Roux asked.
Lucas shook his head. “He doesn’t always do that. Wannemaker had ligature marks on her wrists. He kept her a while, maybe a day, and messed with her.”
“Didn’t mess with Marcy Lane. He couldn’t have had her more than an hour,” Connell said grimly.
“We can’t take that chance,” Roux said. “We’d be crazy to take that chance.”
“I don’t know,” Troy said. “If he even showed a knife—that’d be the ball game.”
“So we should wait?”
Lucas looked at Connell, then shook his head. “I think we should take him.”
“Why?” Connell asked. “Getting him for five or six years, if we’re lucky?”
“We’ve only been watching him for two days and a night. What if he’s got somebody down in his basement right now? What if he goes in the house and kills her while we’re sitting outside? We know that he kept at least one of them for a while.”
Connell swallowed, and Roux straightened and said, “If that’s a possibility . . .”
“It’s a very remote possibility,” Lucas said.
“I don’t care how remote,” Roux said. “Take him now.”
29
KOOP WAS IN Modigliani’s Wine & Spirits off Lyndale Avenue when the cops got him. His arm was actually in the cold box, pulling out a six-pack of Budweiser, when a red-faced man in a cheap gray suit said, “Mr. Koop?” Koop realized a large black man had stepped to his elbow, and a uniformed cop was standing by the door. They’d appeared as if by magic; as if they had a talent for it, popping out of nowhere.
Koop said, “Yeah?” And straightened up. His heart beat a little faster.
“Mr. Koop, we’re Minneapolis police officers,” the red-faced man said. “We’re placing you under arrest.”
“What for?”
Koop stood flat-footed, hands in front of him, forcing himself to be still. But his back and arm muscles were twitching, ready to go. He’d thought about this possibility, at night, when he was waiting to go to sleep, or watching television. He’d thought about it a lot, a favorite nightmare.
Resisting a cop could bring a heavier charge than anything else they might have on you. In the joint, they warned you that if the cops really wanted you, and you gave them a chance, they just might blow you away. Of course, it was mostly the spooks that said that. White guys didn’t see it the same way. But everybody agreed on one thing: your best shot was a decent defense attorney.
The red-face
d cop said, “I think you know.”
“I don’t know,” Koop protested. “You’re making a mistake. You’ve got the wrong guy.” He glanced toward the door. Maybe he should make a run for it. The red-faced guy didn’t look like that much. The black guy he could outrun, and he’d take the guy at the door like a bowling pin. He had the power . . . but he didn’t know what was outside. And these guys were armed. He sensed the cops were waiting for something, were looking at him for a decision. Everything in the store was needle-sharp, the rows of brown liquor bottles and green plastic jugs of mix, stacks of beer cans, the tops of potato chip bags, the black-and-white checkered tiles on the floor. Koop tensed, felt the cops pull into themselves. They were ready for him, and not particularly scared.
“Turn around, please, and place your hands on the top of the cooler,” Red-face said. Koop heard him as though from a distance. But there was a hardness in the guy’s voice. Maybe he couldn’t take them. Maybe they’d beat the shit out of him. And he didn’t know yet what he was being arrested for. If it wasn’t too serious, if it was buying cocaine, then resisting would bring him more trouble than the charge.
“Turn around. . . .” Peremptory this time. Koop gave the door a last look, then let out a breath and turned.
The cop patted him down, quickly but thoroughly. Koop had done it often enough at Stillwater to appreciate the professionalism.
“Drop your hands behind you, please. We’re going to put handcuffs on, Mr. Koop, just as a precaution.” The red-faced man was crisp and polite, the prefight tension gone now.
The black cop said, “You have the right to see an attorney. . . .”
“I want a lawyer,” Koop said, interrupting the Miranda. The cuffs closed over his wrists and he instinctively flexed against them, pushing down a spasm of what felt like claustrophobia, not being able to move. The red-faced cop took him by the elbow and pivoted him, while the other finished the Miranda.