Read Online Highway 61 by David Housewright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Housewright
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states.”
“Still…”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, there’s a change in the weather approaching. The migration forecast is for a major movement of dabbling ducks. Want my advice? Watch the Weather Channel.”
* * *
It had been about six years since I put in my papers at the St. Paul Police Department, and I still had plenty of friends there. One of them was a sergeant working in the missing persons unit named Billy Turner, the only black man that I knew personally who played hockey. He gave me about half an hour of his time, meticulously combing his databases, including his lists of unclaimed and unidentified bodies. Nothing matched the description of the dead girl in Thunder Bay.
I had sources across the river, too. Unfortunately, the Minneapolis Police Department was suffering through one of its periodic scandals—this one revolving around members of the SWAT team who were moonlighting as armed bank robbers—and paranoia had set in. That made it tougher to find someone who would sell me unauthorized information. However, a little groveling and the promise of a couple of unmarked fifties bought exactly what Billy Turner had given me for free—nothing.
Next I tried the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Unlike the local cops, the BCA had a Missing Person Clearinghouse, a Web site that requested the public’s help in identifying and locating missing persons. The site listed twenty-eight missing persons, another eighteen that were considered runaways, two nonfamily abductions, and three unidentified bodies. One of the unidentified bodies, tagged Female 004, came close to matching the description of the girl in Thunder Bay, but the dates were wrong. Female 004 had been found naked in a drainage ditch four months before the blues festival.
* * *
I called Truhler.
“Who knew you were going to the Thunder Bay Blues Festival?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question. Who knew that you were—”
“I don’t know,” Truhler said. “A lot of people, I guess. It wasn’t a secret.”
“When did you decide that you were going?”
“I had always planned on it.”
“When did you make your reservation at the Prince Arthur Hotel?”
“May.”
“When in May?”
“First week, second week, I don’t remember. Why?”
“The reservation for the room at the Chalet Motel was made May twenty-first.”
“I don’t know the exact date. I’m pretty sure I made my reservation before—oh, I get it.”
“What do you get?”
“The people who did this to me, they knew I was coming.”
“Seems like,” I said.
“What about—did you find out about the girl?”
“I don’t know about the girl. You tell me.”
“I don’t know her, I keep telling you.”
“You might not know her,” I said, “but she and her friends knew you.”
“She had friends?”
“At least one—the man who registered at the motel.”
“Then it’s what you said, a, what did you call it, a badger game?”
“All I know for sure is that there is no evidence that a girl was killed in room thirty-four of the Chalet Motel in Thunder Bay, Ontario, on or around the Fourth of July. Nor can we find evidence that anyone matching the girl’s description has gone missing in Ontario, Canada, or Minnesota since then.”
“What should I do?”
“What do you mean?”
“When they call demanding more money. What should I do?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you’re not telling me.”
“Nothing, nothing at all, McKenzie. I’ve told you everything, I swear to God.”
I sincerely doubted that, only there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
“Well, then,” I said. “When they call you…”
“Yeah?”
“Tell them to do their worst.”
Truhler hesitated for a moment.
“I’m not sure I want to say that,” he said.
“Then say nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Good-bye, Jason.”
* * *
Daylight Saving Time had expired on the
“Still…”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, there’s a change in the weather approaching. The migration forecast is for a major movement of dabbling ducks. Want my advice? Watch the Weather Channel.”
* * *
It had been about six years since I put in my papers at the St. Paul Police Department, and I still had plenty of friends there. One of them was a sergeant working in the missing persons unit named Billy Turner, the only black man that I knew personally who played hockey. He gave me about half an hour of his time, meticulously combing his databases, including his lists of unclaimed and unidentified bodies. Nothing matched the description of the dead girl in Thunder Bay.
I had sources across the river, too. Unfortunately, the Minneapolis Police Department was suffering through one of its periodic scandals—this one revolving around members of the SWAT team who were moonlighting as armed bank robbers—and paranoia had set in. That made it tougher to find someone who would sell me unauthorized information. However, a little groveling and the promise of a couple of unmarked fifties bought exactly what Billy Turner had given me for free—nothing.
Next I tried the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Unlike the local cops, the BCA had a Missing Person Clearinghouse, a Web site that requested the public’s help in identifying and locating missing persons. The site listed twenty-eight missing persons, another eighteen that were considered runaways, two nonfamily abductions, and three unidentified bodies. One of the unidentified bodies, tagged Female 004, came close to matching the description of the girl in Thunder Bay, but the dates were wrong. Female 004 had been found naked in a drainage ditch four months before the blues festival.
* * *
I called Truhler.
“Who knew you were going to the Thunder Bay Blues Festival?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a simple question. Who knew that you were—”
“I don’t know,” Truhler said. “A lot of people, I guess. It wasn’t a secret.”
“When did you decide that you were going?”
“I had always planned on it.”
“When did you make your reservation at the Prince Arthur Hotel?”
“May.”
“When in May?”
“First week, second week, I don’t remember. Why?”
“The reservation for the room at the Chalet Motel was made May twenty-first.”
“I don’t know the exact date. I’m pretty sure I made my reservation before—oh, I get it.”
“What do you get?”
“The people who did this to me, they knew I was coming.”
“Seems like,” I said.
“What about—did you find out about the girl?”
“I don’t know about the girl. You tell me.”
“I don’t know her, I keep telling you.”
“You might not know her,” I said, “but she and her friends knew you.”
“She had friends?”
“At least one—the man who registered at the motel.”
“Then it’s what you said, a, what did you call it, a badger game?”
“All I know for sure is that there is no evidence that a girl was killed in room thirty-four of the Chalet Motel in Thunder Bay, Ontario, on or around the Fourth of July. Nor can we find evidence that anyone matching the girl’s description has gone missing in Ontario, Canada, or Minnesota since then.”
“What should I do?”
“What do you mean?”
“When they call demanding more money. What should I do?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you’re not telling me.”
“Nothing, nothing at all, McKenzie. I’ve told you everything, I swear to God.”
I sincerely doubted that, only there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
“Well, then,” I said. “When they call you…”
“Yeah?”
“Tell them to do their worst.”
Truhler hesitated for a moment.
“I’m not sure I want to say that,” he said.
“Then say nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Good-bye, Jason.”
* * *
Daylight Saving Time had expired on the
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