What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

opened it at the same time, something that was not uncommon in the Deese family. He called her name, “T,” stepped into the foyer, and shut the door behind him. T was standing in the living room. She was dressed for her job as a marketing analyst for a cosmetics firm located in Blaine—black jacket, black skirt, black hose, black pumps, and red shirt—and Deese decided, my sister is a pretty woman, something he hadn’t really thought about until that moment, go figure.

“You’re early,” T said.

Deese shrugged in reply.

T pressed her closed fists against her hips.

“Well, David, what do you have to say for yourself?” she asked.

Deese’s mouth was so dry that he couldn’t speak even if he had wanted to. He told me later that all he could think of at the time was the T never called him David unless she was pissed off.

“David?”

He shook his head, instead.

“Oh, what the hell?” T said.

T marched across the living room into the foyer. She brought her hands up and Deese braced himself for the blow he was sure would follow. Instead, T wrapped her arms around him and hugged him so tightly that he nearly lost his breath.

“You are such a jerk,” she said. “You have always been a jerk, even when we were kids, but I love you so fucking much, anyway.”

Deese did something then that he hadn’t done even when his mother died. He wept.

One man was killed and another was critically injured, although he was expected to survive, in the shooting on the Green Line. According to witnesses, a man boarded the train and made his way toward a back bench where he sat with another man who clearly knew him. They spoke for a few moments, and then the first man pulled out a gun and shot his friend in the face. Next, he got up and made his way to the door. A second man was standing there. The first man shot him in the head—he’s the victim who was expected to survive, according to Dr. Lillian Linder at Regions Hospital. The train stopped at the next designated station, the door opened, the first man disembarked, and walked away. Detectives Sarah Frisco and Eddie Hilger were currently working with Metro Transit to identify the suspect from a surveillance video taken on the train. Mason Gafford was attempting to identify the murder victim and trace his movements. At least, that’s what Commander Dunston told Shipman when he returned to the Griffin Building.

“Bobby, I resent this.” Shipman was standing in front of his desk in his cramped office. “I really do.”

“Exactly what do you resent, Jean?” Bobby asked.

“This, this—being made to go after McKenzie’s assailant when there are so many other things I could be doing.”

“Other things that you believe are more important?”

“The shooting on the Green Line; I should be on that. I should have been the lead on that biker thing.”

“Because?”

“I’m the best investigator you have.”

“Are you?”

“Well, yes.”

Remember I told you about Bobby’s stare? He unleashed its full fury at his detective; enough anyway that Shipman found herself taking a few steps backward.

“Listen to me—very carefully—because I don’t want to have to repeat myself.” Bobby staggered his voice, something I’ve only seen him do when he was very, very angry. “There is nothing—absolutely nothing—happening in this office—that is more important—than this—than finding McKenzie’s shooter—nothing. I’ve known McKenzie since he was five years old. Since kindergarten. We went to the same schools together. We played on the same teams together. We cried together when his mother died. We cried together when his father died. He is my best friend. More than that. He is my brother. He is my wife’s brother. He was best man at my wedding. I was best man at his. My daughters are his heirs. Deputy Chief Hodapp said I shouldn’t—investigate—this crime—myself. He said that I might allow my emotions—to cloud—my judgment. He said it would be better if I let one of my people take lead. He was right. Given that, you tell me, Jean, who should I have given this case to? Who should I send—to find—my friend’s shooter? Who would you send?”

“I’m sorry,” Shipman said.

“You didn’t answer—my question. Who—should—I—send?”

“Your best investigator.”

“Do you want off this case, Jean?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“I’m developing leads.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that.”

Shipman moved toward the door, thought better of it, and turned back.

“Commander,” she said. “Bobby.”

“Yes, Jean?”

“About one of those leads, I suppose now would be as good a time to go as any. Try to beat the worst of the rush-hour traffic.”

“Go where?”

“Northfield.”

ELEVEN

Shipman’s first thought was that the GPS got it wrong. Instead of leading to the City of Northfield Police Department, it had somehow directed her instead to an elementary school that looked as if it had been built yesterday. The walls were a mixture of brown, tan, and red decorative bricks and it had more windows than you’d think the law would allow. She might have driven past it except for the U.S. and Minnesota State flags flying near the entrance and the parking lot on the side that contained a single black-and-white Ford sedan with a push bar attached to the front bumper, a light bar mounted on the roof, and the words “Northfield Police” printed in capital letters on the side.

She parked her unmarked car and made her way to the front door which was mostly glass and Shipman wondered if anybody working in law enforcement down there had ever worried about their safety. There was a large rubber mat in front of the door with the words “Northfield Police” printed inside a blue outline that resembled a badge. Shipman refused to wipe her feet on the badge, instead tiptoeing around the mat until she reached the door and opened it.

Inside the foyer she encountered a lot of forms and pamphlets stacked on shelves fixed to the wall as well as a box where citizens were encouraged to dispose