say, she still turns my crank.”
“You got nothing from the Russians on the ship?”
Reasons shook his head. “Nothin’. They didn’t know a thing. They weren’t sure the moon was gonna come up. Or go down, if it did come up.”
Lucas nodded. “Listen: in the file, you had a note that said, ‘Kid?’ And then there was something about the coat and the temperature. What was that all about?”
Reasons turned and looked up at the elevator. “This guy Kellogg was what they call a grain trimmer. When it’s time to load up a boat, he goes on board to supervise.” He pointed at a long metal pipe, a foot or two in diameter, that dangled from the side of the building. “The grain comes down through that big pipe, outa the elevator and into the ship’s hold. He’d just gotten done and walked over to the rail for a cigarette. He was standing right there.” Now he pointed to a spot in the empty air at the end of the slip. The Russian ship had been sent on its way a week earlier. “That’s when he saw the guy walking away from the body. He yelled at him and the guy runs. The guy was small, almost like a kid. He’s not sure about that, because the perspective from up there is goofy—way high, looking down, in the dark. But he thought the guy was small.”
“How about the coat?”
“He said the guy was wearing a long coat. I checked with the weather service, they said the temperature down at lakeside that night was sixty-one degrees. It’d been a hot day. I wondered about the coat.”
“Kellogg never went after him, didn’t try to find him.”
Reasons shook his head. “No. He had to get help for the hurt guy, and all the cabins and the gangway and shit were all at the back of the boat, way back there . . .” He pointed again, to the far end of the slip. “Besides, he was scared shitless after he saw the blood.”
“Have any thoughts?” Lucas had figured Reasons out during the ride between Duluth police headquarters and the grain terminal. Beneath an assumed cynicism, the muscleman was a fairly smart guy.
Reasons scratched his head, as though stirring up a few thoughts. “Not many. There was . . . You know about the Minnesota Rangers?”
Lucas touched his nose with his index finger, thinking. He had: “The militia guys?”
“Yeah. Skinheads. Some old Vietnam veterans, Gulf War veterans, bikers. They go around in long black coats, like in that Matrix movie. Even in the summer. Shave their heads. They think that America is a socialist hell and that we’re all being turned into batteries.”
Lucas showed a little skepticism. “You think one tried to prove his manhood by killing a Russian?”
Reasons shook his head: “No. I don’t. This was too cold for a fruitcake. You’d maybe take a trophy, cut off an ear or something, but open his pants up and search him? I don’t think so. The killer was after something specific. But . . .” He turned his hands palms up, an I can’t help myself gesture.
“What?”
“One of our intelligence guys heard a rumor that the Rangers were taking credit. You know, like the PLO takes credit when they blow something up? I went out to see Dick Worley, he’s the leader out there at their war grounds. He said nobody he knew had heard anything. I put some bullshit on him, but he said that, honest to God, nobody knew anything about it. They hadn’t even heard the rumor that they’d done it.”
“You believed him.”
Reasons nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“What are the war grounds?” Lucas asked.
“One of those paint-ball places. They play capture the flag, and all that. War games.”
Lucas looked up at the grain terminal. There was a tiny window at the top, with a man’s face framed in it. He was looking down at them. “Bummer.”
T HEY MOOCHED AROUND the area again, and Lucas said, “The idea of a chase . . . that’s a little odd.”
“Maybe it never happened,” Reasons said. “But that night, and thenext morning, you could see
“You got nothing from the Russians on the ship?”
Reasons shook his head. “Nothin’. They didn’t know a thing. They weren’t sure the moon was gonna come up. Or go down, if it did come up.”
Lucas nodded. “Listen: in the file, you had a note that said, ‘Kid?’ And then there was something about the coat and the temperature. What was that all about?”
Reasons turned and looked up at the elevator. “This guy Kellogg was what they call a grain trimmer. When it’s time to load up a boat, he goes on board to supervise.” He pointed at a long metal pipe, a foot or two in diameter, that dangled from the side of the building. “The grain comes down through that big pipe, outa the elevator and into the ship’s hold. He’d just gotten done and walked over to the rail for a cigarette. He was standing right there.” Now he pointed to a spot in the empty air at the end of the slip. The Russian ship had been sent on its way a week earlier. “That’s when he saw the guy walking away from the body. He yelled at him and the guy runs. The guy was small, almost like a kid. He’s not sure about that, because the perspective from up there is goofy—way high, looking down, in the dark. But he thought the guy was small.”
“How about the coat?”
“He said the guy was wearing a long coat. I checked with the weather service, they said the temperature down at lakeside that night was sixty-one degrees. It’d been a hot day. I wondered about the coat.”
“Kellogg never went after him, didn’t try to find him.”
Reasons shook his head. “No. He had to get help for the hurt guy, and all the cabins and the gangway and shit were all at the back of the boat, way back there . . .” He pointed again, to the far end of the slip. “Besides, he was scared shitless after he saw the blood.”
“Have any thoughts?” Lucas had figured Reasons out during the ride between Duluth police headquarters and the grain terminal. Beneath an assumed cynicism, the muscleman was a fairly smart guy.
Reasons scratched his head, as though stirring up a few thoughts. “Not many. There was . . . You know about the Minnesota Rangers?”
Lucas touched his nose with his index finger, thinking. He had: “The militia guys?”
“Yeah. Skinheads. Some old Vietnam veterans, Gulf War veterans, bikers. They go around in long black coats, like in that Matrix movie. Even in the summer. Shave their heads. They think that America is a socialist hell and that we’re all being turned into batteries.”
Lucas showed a little skepticism. “You think one tried to prove his manhood by killing a Russian?”
Reasons shook his head: “No. I don’t. This was too cold for a fruitcake. You’d maybe take a trophy, cut off an ear or something, but open his pants up and search him? I don’t think so. The killer was after something specific. But . . .” He turned his hands palms up, an I can’t help myself gesture.
“What?”
“One of our intelligence guys heard a rumor that the Rangers were taking credit. You know, like the PLO takes credit when they blow something up? I went out to see Dick Worley, he’s the leader out there at their war grounds. He said nobody he knew had heard anything. I put some bullshit on him, but he said that, honest to God, nobody knew anything about it. They hadn’t even heard the rumor that they’d done it.”
“You believed him.”
Reasons nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“What are the war grounds?” Lucas asked.
“One of those paint-ball places. They play capture the flag, and all that. War games.”
Lucas looked up at the grain terminal. There was a tiny window at the top, with a man’s face framed in it. He was looking down at them. “Bummer.”
T HEY MOOCHED AROUND the area again, and Lucas said, “The idea of a chase . . . that’s a little odd.”
“Maybe it never happened,” Reasons said. “But that night, and thenext morning, you could see
Similar Books
