John got up to use the bathroom. Alone, Broker reviewed the Saint’s case that had created a sensation in the St. Croix River valley and throughout the state last summer.
“The Saint” was the nickname the media attached to a vigilante killer who, in the popular mind, stepped up to dispense punishment to Ronald Dolman. Dolman had taught first grade at Timberry Trails Elementary School. Timberry was a sprawl of housing, malls, and cul-de-sacs that had popped up like pricey toadstools on the farmland south of Stillwater.
After a thorough investigation, Dolman had been charged with molesting six-year-old Tommy Horrigan. Washington County assistant prosecutor Gloria Russell had gone after Dolman with great energy. Her method of eliciting testimony from Tommy was earnest but carefully orchestrated to avoid the appearance of leading or coaching.
But the defense attorney had skillfully questioned the veracity of Tommy the child’s testimony compared to Dolman the adult’s. The jury handed down a troubled verdict; although believing that Dolman was probably guilty, they could not unanimously dispel reasonable doubt.
Dolman was acquitted.
Two days after the acquittal, somebody did a Mickey Spillane on Dolman. He was found shot to death in his living room with twelve pistol rounds at close range.
Like I the Jury, people said.
Rumors raced through the county that Washington County detective sergeant Harry Cantrell, the original lead investigator on the case, had taken upon himself to step in and correct some basic system failure. Then there was a debate about the six spent.38-caliber cartridges that had been found next to Dolman’s body. The Saint had reloaded to make his twelve-shot point. Some argued that Harry would never be so thoughtless as to leave brass lying around a crime scene. Others said that it would be just like Harry to leave the brass on purpose, to make it look like some asshole civilian.
The investigation went cold. And no one really mourned the passing of Ronald Dolman.
After Dolman’s murder, thousands of people in the Twin Cities began wearing St. Paul Saints baseball jackets to show support for the vigilante. The Saint became a mythic unsolved case and a cautionary tale in metropolitan Minnesota.
In addition to being a top cop, Harry Cantrell cut a colorful figure as a drinker, womanizer, and gambler. He loved cultivating rumors about himself; the more provocative the better. And not least among the baggage he carried was an acute reputation for meting out street justice.
When John returned, Broker was studying the St. Nicholas medallion in the evidence bag. The Saint’s calling card.
“Dolman was a thirty-eight, right? The famous mystery cartridges left on the scene,” Broker said.
John nodded. “And the priest is a smaller caliber. It’s preliminary, could be fragments. But, like I said, probably a twenty-two.”
“Is this the same medallion?” Broker said.
“Looks the same to me. I’m not about to call the state Crime Lab and get the original for a comparison. I don’t want that getting out. Not yet. It’ll be an instant made-for-TV movie when the press gets ahold of this. We need a little breathing room.” John chewed the inside of his lip. “St. Nicholas is the patron saint of children. I looked it all up again last night. Butler’s Lives of the Saints.”
“Quaint touch,” Broker said.
John nodded. “Nicholas was a bishop in Asia Minor in the fourth century. He was rich, and he donated his wealth to charity. He’s associated with the legend of the three children. He knew this guy who went broke and was on the verge of selling his three daughters into prostitution. Nicholas would sneak over to the poor man’s house when it was dark and toss in bags of gold to provide dowries for the daughters. So the children were saved.”
“What about the Santa Claus angle?”
“That came later, after his legend got mixed up with our German ancestors who wouldn’t let go of their damned evergreen.”
“Well, this guy isn’t tossing bags of gold.”
“We’d always assumed the Saint was a guy. Now we got this witness throwing in a twist: was it a woman, or a guy in drag? And in case we’re slow with the medallion-the suspect was wearing a Saints jacket.”
Broker came forward in his chair again, but slower this time. He leaned his elbows on the table and gave John his full attention. “John, did you drive out here to suggest that Harry Cantrell got drunk and dressed up like a woman to go shoot a priest?”
John raised his arms and scratched at his sweaty hair with both hands in an exasperated gesture. “When Dolman got off, a lot of people in the county said, ‘I ought to shoot the sonofabitch’-including me. Then somebody did. Some people think Harry was the Saint. Like I said, I’m not one of them. But he knows something. I always figured the Saint was a soccer mom who reached her bullshit limit, and she’d be damned if Dolman was going to come back to school and teach her kid. I always thought we should have looked closer at all the parents at that school. But we didn’t have the resources.” John shook his head. “Now I’m not so sure. I’m worried it could be someone in the county.”
“Slow down. What if your witness talks to a reporter, the neighbors? There goes your breathing room,” Broker said.
John smiled quickly. “Not likely. He’s sweating a possession charge. He’s an aging biker who sold a bag of grass to one of my undercover guys. Which put him over the line on points. He’s looking at going inside. We can deal him up. He’ll stay quiet.”
“So who knows about the medallion?”
“The Stillwater cop who answered the call. And the Stillwater mayor and his police chief. My investigator, Lymon Greene; his sergeant, Maury Seacrest.” John paused. “You know Maury.”
Broker winced. “So every cop in the metro east of the Mississippi knows. What about the secretary who found the body?”
“She’s cool; she didn’t see the medallion. We took her statement, and she and her husband agreed to go on vacation up to Mille Lacs a few days early.”
“What about the Ramsey County ME and the BCA Crime Lab guys? They processed the scene.”
“They don’t know. It stays quiet until I get back,” John said.
“Back?” Broker sat up in his chair, skeptical. “The Saint just blew into town, and you’re leaving?”
“My wife’s dad just died. So the funeral’s in Seattle.”
“That’s not immediate family, John.”
“Sorry, gotta go.”
Broker gave his old friend the barest smile. “What the hell are you doing?”
John’s expression was clearly conflicted. “I’m understaffed. My top investigator is drunk on his ass and a total embarrassment; my other sergeants are tied up in court. I’m going to a funeral. My deputy chief is doing the course at the Southern Police Institute.”
“Bullshit. You got Art Katzer in charge of Investigations,” Broker said.
“He took off for SWAT training.”
“When? At midnight when he heard about the priest and the medallion and Harry falling off the wagon?”
“Okay-I’m throwing the dice on this one. If I’m right and Harry knows who the Saint is, I’m betting you can get him to cough it up. If I’m wrong. .” John shook his head.
“Yeah, right or wrong you bring in somebody expendable, who isn’t part of your department, so it can’t blow back on you,” Broker said.
John grinned tightly. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but, ah, yeah. So is that a yes or a no?”
“You’re asking a lot,” Broker said.
“I know, but I figure you can handle it. Look, there’s a national scandal about the Church, and I got a dead priest with a radio-active clue stuck in his mouth that identifies him in the popular mind as a child molester. I gotta know if this priest was dirty.” John paused. “We’re not set up to handle a high-profile murder investigation. I don’t want the state guys moving in on this before we know what we’ve got. And I don’t want a media high carnival-the archdiocese in St. Paul doesn’t need that kind of grief on top of everything else. I need someone to check out Moros’s background without making any waves. I mean like invisible. I got Maury, but he doesn’t exactly have the contacts you do.”
Broker shrugged. “I never was a straight-ahead investigator, John. You know that.”
John let a cynical smile play across his face. “C’mon, Broker. You tell people you retired because you invested wisely in real estate on the north shore years ago. And you own a resort up there. But I know that five years ago you and Nina smuggled several tons of buried gold bullion right under the noses of the Hanoi politburo, on through Laos and Thailand and into Hong Kong.” John paused, got no denial, then began again.
“You live off credit cards. Banks in Bangkok and Hong Kong pay the bills. Last year your credit card totals were twice your declared income. The FBI keeps the IRS off your back because you helped the bureau penetrate the Russian Mafia three years ago.”
“You’re being dramatic, John,” Broker said. “But I’ll admit I’m just a little curious about where you got the stuff about the credit cards.”
John rolled his eyes. “I sit on task-force planning sessions with all this alphabet soup: FBI, ATF, DEA, IRS. People have a few drinks, and they talk. C’mon, you pirate. Do me this favor, okay?”
They went silent, and then the silence became awkward as John started to speak and wound up chewing back false starts until finally he said, “There’s a card inside on the table. It’s your birthday, right?”
“Fuck you, John.”
John chewed some more silence, then spoke. “Nina and Kit, you. .”
“Don’t,” Broker said sharply.
John sat back and folded his heavy arms across his chest and waited. Twenty seconds. Thirty.
“Who would I report to?” Broker said.
John grinned. “Nobody. Your kind of play, totally on your own. I hire you as a Special Projects consultant.”
“No paperwork, no office, no desk,” Broker said.
John held up reassuring hands. “No paperwork, no desk. We can stay in touch by phone. You said your license was current?”
“Yeah, no problem there.”
“So I’ll get you an ID and a badge. You need a gun?”
“I still have the old forty-five. That’ll do, if it comes to that.”
John gave Broker a direct fatal look and said, “You know me, I don’t go in for dramatics, right? But we’re talking you and Harry here. If he’s drinking, you wear the gun. Okay?”
Broker nodded. “Gotcha.”
John nodded. “Okay then. We’re on. Just keep it mostly legal.”
Broker smiled thinly. “I won’t alienate any voters, John. I understand you have to get reelected.”
“Good. But we have to put it together fast. Like this morning. I have to go home and pack.”
Broker shrugged. “Let me grab a shower and get dressed. I’ll meet you at the Law Enforcement Center in half an hour.” He pointed at the medallion. “What about this?”
John put it back in the envelope. “It’s going in my safe until I get back.” They walked down the steps toward John’s truck. John shifted from foot to foot and pursed his lips. “Another thing. .”
“What?”
“Keep an eye on this young cop who’s working the case, Lymon Greene. Give me a gut read on him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Sometimes the sheriff is the last to hear what the troops are saying down in the trenches. I want to know why Lymon and Harry are always about an inch from fist city.”
John Eisenhower got in his Bronco, fastened his seat belt, put both hands on the steering wheel. “You know what the troops call rumors about Harry being the Saint-they call it ‘the elephant in the living room.’” He started the truck, then leaned forward feeling with his hand for the cold air to start coming through the A/C vent.
Broker shook his head. “Too hot to go elephant hunting.”
“Broker, the guy needs help. Somebody has to have a Come-to-Jesus with him. I wish it wasn’t you. But he’s got most everybody else either dazzled or buffaloed.” John shook his head. “I never liked Harry, going all the way back to the rookie school in St. Paul. He’s got the best instincts of any cop I ever knew and the worst methods of acting on them.” John paused a few beats and then stared directly at Broker. “And you know that better than anyone.”