Missing Mark by Julie Kramer

often. But now, stationed at the Mall of America, with fourteen movie screens within a hundred yards of his security office, he had an advantage. Especially since my rental wasn’t wired for cable TV.
    “Actually, I think I made that line up,” he said.
    “Really? Television is a godless abomination? It’s very profound. Maybe even catchy enough for T-shirts. You’re sure it’s not from Network?”
    “Pretty sure,” he nodded. “But we could rent it sometime to double check.”
    “Let’s do that. My place. Loser buys the pizza.”
    And with that exchange, we both knew we were okay.
    Of course, the real reason I wanted the surveillance tape was because this was a slow-news Saturday. If not for this fish shtick, Channel 3 would be leading tonight’s newscast with obvious tips on lawn-mower safety after a south Minneapolis man got his foot caught in one. Actual video of thugs crashing tanks of fish would probably go national.
    “So how about it? Release the tape? We both know it exists.”
    “Bloomington cops will have to make the call on that,” he said. “They’re handling the investigation. Go bother them.”
    Bloomington police have a substation in that corner of the Mall of America, just up the escalator from the aquarium. Most of their mall calls deal with petty crimes like shoplifting or kids violating curfew. When the fish-in-crisis call came, officers responded, but just missed the perpetrators racing out the skyway to the parking garage. It wasn’t the kind of crime they’d ever trained for. Right now they were taking witness statements and dealing with crowd control.
    One of Channel 3’s photographers waved at me and Garnett motioned him through the confusion. Luis Fernandez was another fairly new photog, that’s why he worked the weekend late shift. I wished I had one of our veteran shooters. Not that they were more skilled behind a camera, but a couple were fishing fanatics and would have been helpful in identifying the victims.
    “Wow.” Luis focused his camera on a pile of carp, still breathing, slow to die. Low priority for rescue. “This is some crazy business.”
    Garnett led us down a fake jungle path with artificial tropical plants and trees. Various plastic and stuffed animals decorated the route un-convincingly. We arrived at a glass-walled tunnel, usually the highlight of the aquarium tour. On a good day, visitors were surrounded overhead and on each side with a million gallons of water and an extensive school of fish as well as turtles, sharks, and stingrays.
    Today wasn’t a good day.
    The power had been turned off to avoid electrocution. The tunnel was dark; the conveyer belt stalled. Aquarium employees waved flashlights. Luis activated his portable camera light and we all gasped at the large hole in one side of the freshwater tunnel. Water above that line, along with many of the inhabitants, had been sucked out onto the floor. Most of the water spread outward so it was now only ankle deep. On both sides of the tunnel, below the damaged tank wall, desperate fish moved slowly in cramped space.
    They were the fortunate ones. Others lay on the floor, gasping for air, their gills quivering as staff members worked to rescue them.
    I better understood Ahab’s tears. And while fish aren’t among the most huggable or emotional of earth’s creatures, these survivors certainly looked despondent.
    “Time’s up,” Garnett said. “You newsies go back upstairs.”
    We didn’t argue because I didn’t want him to regret allowing us access. And I hoped he’d share new information as it came in—with me, not the rest of the pack.
    “Nick, you’re sure to get tip calls once viewers see this,” I said. “And if we get anything on our end, we’ll let you know.”
    Slamming fish tanks was just the kind of prank vandals would brag about over a few beers. Garnett promised to finalize reward information before airtime.
    Reporters from four TV channels, both daily newspapers, and one