Chapter 28
Bob had taken up a position some distance from the SWAT team that was waiting in readiness outside the door to the restrooms. Men who emerged at irregular intervals through the swinging door jumped at the sight of those black-clad men with automatic weapons pointing in their direction.
Kay, Hanson and O’Rourke stood behind them and watched.
Behind Bob, curious passersby stopped to watch, even after being told to move on.
One of the SWAT team pushed a thin wire through the door. Bob knew there was a micro camera on the end of it. Kay approached him.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“What?”
“You’re shaking your head.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. So what is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Bob. He saw Hanson say something to O’Rourke, who turned and looked in Bob’s direction. “It just…it feels wrong. As though…”
“As though what?” asked Kay. She was standing next to him. Her arms were folded, same as his.
“As though he’s playing cat and mouse with us. And he’s the cat.”
“Why—” Kay began, but Bob interrupted her.
“Wait a moment.” He ran after a man in a gray Minnesota Twins sweatshirt who had just emerged from the bathroom and was being waved on by the SWAT men. Bob caught up with him outside the bag store. “Excuse me, sir. MPD. Did you see anything in there?”
The man looked at Bob. “Like what?”
“A Latino carrying something wrapped in bubble wrap?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“You’ll see it on the news. When you say no, do you mean he might have been there but that you didn’t see him?”
The man hesitated. “He could have been in one of the stalls, I guess.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Bob ran back.
O’Rourke and one of the SWAT team were studying a phone screen that was relaying a feed from the micro camera.
“We have to go in and take him now,” said Bob.
O’Rourke glanced at Bob, then held up his palm like a Stop sign.
As Bob waited for the SWAT chief to finish looking at the screen he saw that the man in the Twins sweatshirt had stopped next to a guy wheeling a janitor cart who looked like Super Mario.
He was saying something, then pointing to the bathroom, then up at the roof. Super Mario nodded like he understood.
“We need you to get out of here.”
Bob turned, realizing that O’Rourke had been talking to him.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re under suspension, Oz, only serving police officers are allowed on the scene. Get out of here. Now.”
“Listen, I’m starting to understand Tomás Gomez. He knows what he’s doing.”
O’Rourke looked over Bob’s shoulder, pointed at Bob and made a signal.
“Listen to me, O’Rourke. Gomez has a plan. He has to be taken now!”
O’Rourke licked his lips. “That will be all, thank you, Oz.”
He felt a heavy hand on each shoulder. Turned. Two sturdy uniformed officers were standing behind him.
“Come on, Detective, we’ve got orders to escort you out of here.”
Bob looked past them, saw Hanson standing a few yards behind with a mocking grin on his lips. Felt that rushing start up. Saw Kay spread her arms in exasperation. Told himself he mustn’t lose control. Not now.
“I’m leaving,” said Bob, and tried to push away the hands clutching his shoulders.
They stayed where they were, just as heavy.
“We’ll escort you,” one of the two said curtly. Bob guessed by the looks on their faces that they weren’t interested in discussing it. He bunched and then opened both his hands. Breathed regularly and counted.
“Take him now,” Bob managed to say in a low voice to O’Rourke before one of the two uniforms dragged him almost off-balance and he was led from the scene.
“There’s no need to hold me,” Bob said as they crossed the skyway to the neighboring building.
Still they kept hold of him, one on each arm.
Think before you speak, think before you act. Tell yourself you can control your anger.
They didn’t let go of him until they reached the other side, and Bob realized that he’d managed it. He really had surprised himself by proving that he didn’t have to go berserk every time. It was just a pity there was no one he could share it with.
What looked like people from a TV news team came hurrying in their direction. In the lead was a female reporter holding a microphone, with two men behind her, one carrying a camera with KSTP-TV on it. They disappeared onto the skyway leading to the Track Plaza building.
“We’ve got orders to arrest you if you try to come back,” one of the officers said. “Got that?”
“Got it,” said Bob, who was trying to keep track of where the reporter had gone.
The two officers left, and Bob pulled down the sleeves of his cashmere coat and straightened his tie as he looked around.
Met a couple of curious stares but did his best to ignore them.
Dignity—what the hell does a man need with dignity?
This was obviously the floor for places to eat.
And drink. Directly in front of him was a flashy sports bar with giant screens all showing the same baseball game.
He had a quick think. Then he took out a loop from his coat pocket, took out the ID card, fastened it to the loop and hung it around his neck.
“What’ll it be, sir?” said the bartender as Bob approached the counter.
“Switch to KSTP,” he said.
The bartender laughed. “Fat chance. Can’t you see the Timberwolves are playing?”
“Fat chance? Can’t you see this card? It means you do what I damn well tell you to do.”
The bartender peered at the ID. Shrugged, pressed a switch behind the counter that at once gave rise to a unison groan from the watching customers. That fell silent the next moment.
“…Track Plaza where police are hunting the suspect who shot and killed a man at Southdale Center earlier this afternoon. There is a heavy police presence at the scene.” While the news anchor talked, pictures showed the police cars at Nicollet Mall and Bob caught a glimpse of Kay and him heading for the entrance.
The view went split screen, with the studio anchor on one half and the female reporter Bob had just seen on the other.
“What’s happening now, Shirley?”
“Right now we’re standing on a skyway because everyone has been told to stay away from the place where the suspect may emerge. There are reports that he’s armed, but none of the police are willing to talk to us. But I’ll do my best to get an interview, Rick.”
“Thanks, Shirley. We’ll be back with more on this story after the weather.”
For a moment a weather chart filled the screen, then the Timberwolves were back. Following a few seconds of shocked silence there were ironic cheers and a couple of customers hurried out of the bar. The bartender put his forearms on the counter and leaned over toward Bob, biceps bulging.
“I’m guessing you ain’t about to use your authority to check the weather, Lieutenant.”
“Detective.”
“Whatever.”
“Okay,” said Bob. “Five minutes of basketball. And a double Johnnie Walker.”
Without turning around the bartender reached up to the shelf behind him, took hold of a bottle and poured a drink.
“Pretty smart trick,” said Bob, tossing back the contents and returning the empty glass to the counter. “How about letting me see it one more time?”
Things were looking bad for the Timberwolves and got even worse when they missed two desperate efforts at three-pointers.
Bob recalled what the coach of his soccer team once said, that losing affects your ability to make good, rational decisions.
And Bob had been losing for some time now.
At least in sports the games come to an end and you get to start the next one at 0–0.
He checked the time. Three minutes had passed, but already he could feel the effects of the whiskey.
“Tell me what’s happening…” a voice behind him said.
He turned. It was Shirley, the reporter. She was standing up close to him and smiling invitingly. She took hold of his ID card “…Detective Bob Oz.”
“What’s happening,” said Bob, and heard how he slurred a consonant slightly as he fastened his gaze on her husky-blue eyes, “is that I am halfway down a Johnnie Walker and then you and I are going to have another one. Alice has kicked me out, I fuck everything that moves, and I’m suspended for defending myself against Tony. How about you, Divine Blue?”
“Sorry, Rick, strike one,” she said, laughing into the microphone, which Bob now saw for the first time. “Back to you.”
She removed an earbud from under the long red hair, the smile was gone, and she wasn’t laughing along with the cameraman and sound technician crouched behind her.
“What the fuck,” said Bob. “Did that go out live?”
“Just local TV,” Shirley said sourly, in a tone that suggested she was aiming for bigger things. “But this’ll be out on YouTube soon enough.”
“Funny,” said Bob. “What’s happening back there?”
“Don’t know, they’re keeping us away. A black man against MPD, no witnesses. Poor man.”
“He isn’t…” Bob started to say, but Shirley and her team were already on their way out.
Bob swore, paid and left.
People were crowded onto the skyway and trying to get a view into Track Plaza. Super Mario was among them, with his cleaning cart. Bob approached him.
“Excuse me,” he said, flashing his ID card. “I saw you talking to a guy who just came out of the restroom. It looked like he was explaining about something inside. What was it?”
Super Mario looked up at Bob. “The fan has fallen out.”
“The fan?”
“The fan in the ceiling. It’s hanging open. He said someone should fix it.”
“You mean the fan in front of the ventilation shaft?”
“Yeah.”
—
Kay watched as yet another man emerged from the restroom and froze at the sight of the weapons pointed his way.
“He’s been in there nearly ten minutes now,” she said to O’Rourke and Hanson.
“Maybe he knows we’re here,” said O’Rourke.
“Sir!” Kay stopped the man who was being ushered past them. “Did you see anyone else in there?”
The man shook his head and was led away.
“Maybe Gomez has noticed that people are going out but no one’s coming in,” said Kay.
The other two didn’t respond.
“He’s getting away!”