Cold Blood by Theresa Monsour

and yellow and rust. A gray morning. Cold and windy. She ran through downtown to the State Capitol mall. Fallen leaves crunched under her feet. Back south down Wabasha. For variety, she took a left at Kellogg Boulevard and cut through the riverfront park to run across the Robert Street Bridge. She looked downriver as she ran. Jammed with barges. Soon enough they’d be gone, chased south by the ice. She hung a right on Plato Boulevard and watched for trains as she went across the railroad tracks. North up Wabasha and a left onto Harriet Island. A couple of weeks had passed since the Twin Cities Marathon. It had been a good race for her—she’d come in at 3:41—but it left her sore and she was having trouble going back to a regular running schedule.
    She started walking when she got to the yacht club parking lot. Thumping toward her boat, she spotted her copy of the St. Paul Pioneer Press in the middle of the dock. The paper carrier was getting better; at least it wasn’t floating in the water this time. She bent over to retrieve it, stood up, inhaled the river air. What did it smell like today? Some days it smelled like dead fish. Other days, motor oil. On rare occasions, like something fresh and clean. She didn’t mind. Murphy loved living on a working river jammed with barges and towboats. Sure there were speedboats and paddleboats and rowboats, but they all knew to steer clear of the metal behemoths that ruled the Mississippi. She couldn’t imagine living on a body of water without the barge traffic. Too quiet and boring. She tucked the paper under her arm, walked into the boat, heard theshower upstairs. Damn. He’d beaten her into the bathroom. She’d have to put a shower in the downstairs guest bath one of these days. She turned on the coffeemaker and scanned the paper while the pot dripped. There he was again. Justice Trip. On the front page, above the fold. She stared at his photo. “Sweet Justice,” she said. She poured herself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table to read the story. Trip was a shirt salesman. He traveled around northern Minnesota and western Wisconsin selling shirts to clothing stores in small towns. He’d helped during a search years ago. A Wisconsin town. A missing girl. He found her necklace in a cornfield. The cops concentrated their search and found the child at the edge of the field. Dehydrated but alive. It made him feel good, he said in the story, and he wished this search had the same happy ending. “But it doesn’t look good,” he said.
    â€œNo shit,” Murphy said.
    Jack walked downstairs while digging in his ears with a Q-Tip. “Talking to yourself? You’re losing it, lady.” He bent over and nibbled on her neck. He saw the front page spread out on the table. “They’re sure making a big deal out of him.”
    â€œSomething isn’t right; these stories aren’t the whole story,” she said, more to herself than to Jack.
    He walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. “How so?”
    â€œThe way Sweet’s portraying himself. It’s as if he’s talking about someone else. Some character he made up.”
    Jack leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. “I’m sure we’d all exaggerate, try to make ourselves sound better in the newspaper.”
    â€œGenuine good guys are embarrassed when people call them heroes, especially on the front page. Sweet’s wallowing in it. Promoting himself. He was never that way.”
    â€œThat was high school. People change.” Jack took another sip of coffee.
    â€œLook here. He’s talking about how he feels a connection to this Bunny Pederson because she was an Elvis fan.Who says she was an Elvis fan? And he hates Elvis. Heavy metal was his music. He’s constructed this bizarre fantasy world.”
    Jack set his coffee cup in the sink. “Her music tastes aside, anything else new about the unfortunate