Want To Play (Monkeewrench)

BCA’s on their way.’

‘Shit.’

‘Shit is right, my friend.’

Magozzi moaned, tossing his warm covers aside and cringing at the rush of frigid air he hoped would shock him into consciousness. ‘Why the hell do you sound like you’ve been up for an hour already?’

‘Whaddaya think? I been up half the night with the Accident.’ He was talking about his six-month-old son, a surprise arrival thirteen years after the last one.

Magozzi let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘You got coffee?’

‘I got coffee – my sainted wife is loading up the thermos as we speak. And bring your parka. It’s frigging freezing.’

Half an hour later, Magozzi and Gino were standing in Lakewood Cemetery, staring up in shocked silence at an enormous stone statue of an angel with massive wings extended. A dead girl was draped over one wing, arms and legs dangling on either side, her face partially obscured by a curtain of blood-stained blond hair. She wore a red dress, net nylons, and stiletto heels.

Crime scene had set up bright white lights on tall aluminum tripods to illuminate the gruesome tableau and the whole effect was surreal. Magozzi couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d been transported to the set of a Kubrick film. Or a B horror flick.

He looked over at a row of crumbling grave markers backlit by the kliegs and saw little tendrils of mist curling on the ground around them.

He blinked a couple times, trying to dispel the image. Then he realized that it was real fog, and sometimes in real cemeteries, real fog crept along the ground the same way it did in the movies.

Gino took a gulp of coffee. ‘Christ. This looks like some cult bullshit to me.’

Jimmy Grimm from BCA forensics was making a meticulous circuit around the pedestal of the grave marker, tweezing up minuscule pieces of evidence and bagging them.

Anantanand Rambachan stood off to one side, waiting for Jimmy to finish. He gave the detectives a melancholy nod. No banter this morning.

Magozzi looked back up at the body. ‘She’s young,’ he said quietly. ‘Just a kid.’

Gino took a closer look. Not much older than Helen, he thought, then pushed that thought right out of his mind. His fourteen-year-old daughter didn’t belong in the same mind where images of dead girls were floating. ‘Christ,’ he muttered again.

Magozzi moved in a little closer, examining the dark drip marks down the angel’s side. ‘Who found her?’

Grateful for the distraction, Gino nodded toward a pair of bedraggled-looking college boys wearing U of M letter jackets. A uniform was interviewing the lanky, blond one while the shorter, dark kid dry-heaved on his hands and knees.

Magozzi clucked his tongue, genuinely sorry for the kids. How many years would it take before the nightmares stopped for them? Maybe never. ‘Let’s go talk to them so we can send the poor bastards home.’

As they approached, the officer turned and gave them a grateful look. ‘They’re all yours.’ He leaned forward and spoke confidentially. ‘You want some advice? Talk to the blond kid, name’s Jeff Rasmussen. The other one’s still drunk as a skunk and as you might have noticed, he pukes every time you ask him a question.’

Gino moved in on Jeff Rasmussen, while Magozzi hung back and watched. Sometimes body language told a better story than words.

Jeff bobbed his head up and down nervously when Gino introduced himself. He had glittery, pale blue eyes shot through with red that kept darting toward the statue. His friend looked up miserably and tried to focus without much success.

‘You want to tell us what happened, Jeff?’

Jeff bobbed his head again. ‘Sure. Sure. Yeah.’ Very nervous. Very wired. ‘We were at the hockey game . . . then after, we went out for a couple drinks . . . they have three-for-ones at Chelsea’s on Mondays. So we stayed until bar close – we were a little lit, you know? Hitched a ride with a friend – he had a twelve-pack in the trunk – so we drove around and told him to stop here. He chickened out, but he gave us a couple beers and . . . well . . .’ He paused and his face flushed bright red. ‘Is that trespassing?’

Gino nodded.

Jeff seemed to fold in on himself. ‘Jesus, my parents’ll kill me . . .’

‘Let’s not worry about the trespassing now, Jeff. At least you weren’t driving drunk.’

‘No, no! I’d never do that, I don’t even have a car . . .’

Gino cleared his throat impatiently. ‘Tell me what you saw when you got here.’

Jeff swallowed hard. ‘Well . . . we didn’t see anything. It was empty, you know? Late. So we walked around for a while, looking for the Angel so we could do the Dare.’

‘What dare?’

‘The Angel of Death Dare.’ His eyes shifted back and forth between the two detectives. ‘You know . . . the Dare?’

Gino and Magozzi both shook their heads.

‘Oh. Well, there’s this ghost story, legend, whatever. Says this guy buried here was some dark priest or something for a Satanic cult. He bought the angel for his grave marker and told his followers that he’d put a curse on it – if you held the angel’s hands and looked into her face, you’d see the way you would die.’

Magozzi turned and looked up at the blank, stone eyes of the angel, then at the dead girl’s limp form, wondering if she’d looked into the angel’s eyes before she died.

‘Anyhow,’ Jeff continued, ‘we found the angel . . . at first we thought it was a joke or something. Like a doll? It was just too weird, I mean, this is Minneapolis, right? But then we saw the blood and then . . . well, Kurt.’ He jabbed a thumb in the puking kid’s direction. ‘Kurt had a cell phone and we called you guys.’

‘That’s it?’

Jeff looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Yeah. That’s it.’

‘You didn’t see anything? Didn’t hear anything?’

‘Nope. Just a bunch of tombstones. There was nobody else here.’ His eyes wandered to the body again.

‘So it was just you two in the cemetery, you’re sure about that?’

Jeff looked at Gino again, and his eyes sprang wide in panic. ‘Jesus, you don’t think . . . oh shit, you don’t think we did this, do you?’

Gino pulled out a card and handed it to the kid. ‘You think of anything else, you call this number, okay?’

‘Yeah. Yeah.’

Magozzi and Gino walked back to the statue in silence. Rambachan was up there with the girl now, but Jimmy Grimm was walking toward them, his round, ruddy face solemn. ‘Didn’t get shit, guys,’ he said in a gloomy voice. ‘A couple hairs, probably the vic’s, couple bags of trace from the surrounding area, just for good measure, even though they’re contaminated as hell. No personal effects. Rambachan says it’s another .22.’

‘Too goddamned many of those on the street,’ Gino muttered.

‘Tell me about it.’ Jimmy chewed on his lower lip while he pondered the scene before him. ‘It’s very clean, guys. Almost looks like a pro job, but then this girl is most likely a hooker, and who’s gonna spend the money to hit a hooker? Weirdest goddamn thing I’ve seen in twenty years and I’ve seen it all. You want her down yet, Anant?’

Rambachan was crouched on the pedestal, peering into the girl’s upside-down face with a high-intensity penlight. ‘A moment, please, Mr Grimm.’

Jimmy shook his head. ‘A year I been working with that guy, and he still calls me Mr Grimm. Makes me feel like a fairy tale.’

‘Maybe she knew something. Maybe posing her on the statue was a warning,’ Gino said.

‘Oh, I think she posed herself on the statue before she was shot,’ Jimmy said. ‘Which is even weirder. Check out the blood splatters. You got drip marks down the statue’s side and a whole lotta daisy-shaped blood splatters on the pedestal, a “crown” effect. Perpendicular impact, high height, high velocity. Which meant that she was probably already on top of the statue when she was shot. If she’d been killed somewhere else and hauled up there, there’d be different kinds of splatters and they wouldn’t be so consistent. And maybe not as much blood, depending on how long she’d been dead. God, I hate this job. I’m gonna take early retirement and start day-trading or something.’