Buried Prey

  Lucas had been his finest weapon.

  Lucas crossed the street to the Starbucks just as Daniel opened the door to go inside. He’d always been a bigger man, but now had thinned down; his hair was longer, and silvery gray, and he was dressed for golf in a red shirt and white slacks, with athletic shoes. He must be in his middle seventies, Lucas thought.

  He held the door for Lucas, said, “You’re looking rich,” and Lucas asked, “What’s your handicap now?” Daniel said, “Same as always: my swing.”

  Inside, Daniel ordered a skinny half-caff no-foam latte and Lucas got a bottle of orange juice from the cooler. “Get a table while I’m waiting,” Daniel said.

  Lucas found a table in the corner, and when Daniel came over, asked, “How’ve you been?”

  “I’ve lost twenty pounds and gotten my cholesterol lower than my IQ. Of course, I’m eating nothing but twigs.”

  They chatted for a minute, and Daniel asked about Lucas’s kids, and Lucas filled him in, and then Lucas said, “You remember, way back when, on the Jones case, I was running after a guy named Fell?”

  “I remember you were running after a guy,” Daniel said. “There was something unusual about him.”

  Lucas filled him in and Daniel started nodding. “I got it now,” he said. Then Lucas told him about the weird death of Brian Hanson, and the timing, and his thoughts about the possibility that somebody on the force had been talking to the killer.

  “So what I want to ask you—you knew these people better than anyone—do you know anyone that Hanson might have been talking to? Did you ever have any feeling that he was worried about it, that there was anything going on there?”

  Daniel took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back and closed his eyes, silent for so long that Lucas thought he might be into a serious senior moment; then he opened his eyes and said, “Hanson had some kind of a family problem. Something criminal, and it involved sex. Not here, though—not in Minneapolis. I remember hearing that he was maneuvering around, trying to get something done, and I had somebody tell him to take it easy. You know, unofficially. Be careful about asking for favors.”

  Lucas said, “Really.”

  “You’re not surprised.”

  “There are some indications, if you have a suspicious mind, that suggest the killer was close to Hanson. I saw a picture of his kid, when the kid was still young, a teenager, and he sort of looks like the description of Fell, except that he wasn’t fat. And the guy who shot Marcy had a black beard—and I’ve been told that Hanson’s son can’t grow a beard.”

  “Maybe if you were planning to gun somebody down in a quiet neighborhood, where it’d get noticed, you’d want to invest two dollars in a disguise,” Daniel said.

  “Could happen,” Lucas said. “Do you remember anything else at all?”

  Daniel leaned back, looked out the window for a minute—a young mom pushing a stroller, looking satisfied with herself—and took a hit on his coffee. Turning back to Lucas, he said, “You know, I don’t. It was something serious, but not for us. Brian fixed it somehow—talked to some pals, got a lawyer. Never had any hint that his kid might have been involved in the Jones case. I think Brian would have told us, if he thought that. But if you think Hanson’s death might be involved, I’d take a look at the kid.”

  “That’s the biggest hint we’ve gotten so far,” Lucas said.

  “And that’s all I got for you,” Daniel said. “I wish I had more. Marcy being killed . . . goddamnit, I can’t get it off my back. I didn’t know her long, before I retired, but she was a comer. I keep thinking about her. I keep seeing her.”

  Lucas nodded: “So do I. I keep wanting to call her up, tell her some stuff.”

  LUCAS DROVE BACK to the BCA and found Sandy. She was wearing one of her long light hippie dresses, and a pair of round sunglasses that she thought made her look like Yoko Ono or somebody, but actually made her look like one of the three blind mice. He told her what he needed, and in one minute, she’d found Hanson’s kid’s driver’s license information, including his current address, in a nice neighborhood in St. Paul. In two minutes, they’d downloaded his driver’s license photo. They printed it; he told Sandy he needed everything they could get on him, and headed back to his car.

  His cell phone rang as he was getting in: Sandy. “I dug through the records. He’s got a Chevy van, white in color.”

  “Ah, jeez . . . Sandy!”

  DORCAS RYAN, the onetime massage parlor hooker, worked the second shift, so she should be home, he thought. Twenty minutes later, he parked in front her house, and through the kitchen window, saw her looking out at him.

  He walked up the sidewalk; she was opening the door as he came up. He didn’t go inside: he simply handed her the digital copy of Hanson’s driver’s license photo, without saying a word. She took it, peered at it, said, “Just a minute,” retreated back inside, returned with a pair of reading glasses, put them on her nose, and looked again at the picture.

  She said, “Ah. It’s been a long time.”

  “The kid . . . is that Fell?”

  “It could be,” Ryan said. “If I were in a court, and they asked me to swear to it, I don’t think I could. I could say it could be. But it’s been a long time.”

  “Don’t tell anybody about this. If he’s the killer, we want to snap him up.”

  “Who would I tell?” Ryan asked.

  “Anybody,” Lucas said. “You tell a friend, and she tells somebody else, and they call Channel Three . . . there you are.”

  “Won’t tell a soul,” Ryan said. “Not until I hear he’s dead.”

  “He might not be dead—”

  She snorted. “A cop killer, is what I hear on TV. A lady-cop killer. What are his chances?”

  Lucas walked away, thinking, Everybody thinks we’re gonna kill Fell. He remembered Letty’s warning: gotta be cool.

  AFTER LEAVING RYAN, he headed back toward the BCA, got on his cell phone as he drove, and called Del. Del had just gotten up, was eating breakfast. “I got a break,” he said.

  “I thought something was up,” Del said. “I told Shrake and Jenkins to hang loose.”

  “See you at the office,” Lucas said.

  He started by pulling all of Hanson’s DMV information. At the time of the Jones killings, he had been twenty-seven. Just right, Lucas thought. He ran the information through the NCIC and came up empty: Hanson had no criminal record.

  Del showed up, and Lucas told him about Hanson. “If he’s the one . . . you think he killed his old man? I mean, Jesus.”

  “If he’s the one, he’s a fruitcake. A psycho,” Lucas said. “His old man was a cop, and Daniel says, knowing Hanson, if he smelled it on his kid, he’d have let us know. And the kid might have known that. This was a guy who set up that whole Dr. Fell routine . . . he’s a planner.”

  Sandy came in. “Hanson went to the University of Minnesota, here in the Cities. Got a degree in horticultural science. Last job I can find was at a place called Clean Genes, whatever that means.”

  “Not quite right,” Del said.

  Lucas said to Del, “Did I tell you he drives a white van?”

  “That’s something,” Del said to Lucas.

  “Nothing to say horticultural scientists can’t read nursery rhymes,” Lucas said.

  LUCAS ASKED SANDY, “How’d you do this? Some kind of weird computer shit?”

  “I looked him up on Facebook,” Sandy said. “His Facebook page says he graduated from the U, and I took a quick peek at his records—don’t tell anybody about that. He did pretty well.”

  DEL ASKED, “What are we doing?”

  “I want to look in Hanson’s house,” Lucas said. “Brian Hanson’s. See what I can see. See if there’s anything that would point us at the kid.”

  “St. Louis Park’s been inside of it, when the deputies called from up north,” Del said. “We could give them a call.”

  Lucas called St. Louis Park, talked to a Lieutenant Carl Wright. “I think we can get you i
n—I’d have to check with the chief,” Wright said. “Part of the investigation into his disappearance?”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Lucas said. “When you went in the first time, did you move stuff around, or just walk through?”

  “Walked through—for all we knew, he’d be coming back, so we didn’t disturb anything.”

  “Excellent,” Lucas said. “We’ll start your way. If there’s a problem, give me a call on my cell phone. Also, I don’t want the relatives to know about this, if they get in touch with you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Tell you when we get there,” Lucas said.

  On the way out the door, Lucas said to Del, “Let’s take your car. It’s a little less conspicuous.”

  “Why can’t we be conspicuous?”

  “I might want to cruise Darrell Hanson’s house on the way back. See if he’s around.”

  ST. LOUIS PARK was a few minutes west of Minneapolis, and a half-hour after they left the BCA, they pulled into the redbrick police station, found Wright, who said they’d been cleared to walk through Hanson’s house. “I’ll be coming with you, to keep everything kosher.”

  “Fine,” Lucas said.

  “So what’s this about the relatives?”

  “There’s at least the outside possibility that one of the relatives could be a guy we’re interested in. . . .” He gave Wright a quick summary, without mentioning Marcy, and Wright said, “You know, if this is a criminal investigation, maybe we ought to get a warrant.”

  “We’re not investigating Brian Hanson for anything, other than to find out how he died,” Lucas said. “We’re not searching for anything—we’re just looking for signs that he expected to come back to his house.”

  “And it’s better not to ask if it’s okay,” Del said. “We can always apologize later.”

  “That’s true,” Wright said. “All right. I can live with that. Let’s go.”

  HANSON HAD LIVED in a fifties bungalow, on a tree-shaded side street not far from the station. The guy next door was trimming his hedge, and stopped when they got out of their cars—Wright was driving a patrol car—and asked, “No sign of him yet?”

  “Not yet,” Wright said.

  “You see anybody checking around?” Del asked.

  “It’s been quiet,” the neighbor said. “And we been kinda keeping an eye out.”

  Wright had a key. He explained that they used a locksmith to open the door the first time, and found the key on a hook in the kitchen. When Wright opened the door, they could smell the lack of activity: the house felt shut up, and still. And they could smell cigarette smoke.

  “Guy’s still smoking. Must be nuts, his age,” Del said.

  “Gonna kill him, for sure,” Lucas said.

  They walked through the house, moving quickly. Del stopped once to pop open the washer and drier. Both were empty.

  “He’d been home for a few days,” Lucas said.

  In the bathroom, they found a dopp kit with a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste, and miscellaneous—antiseptic cream, SPF-30 face lotion, a tube of Preparation H, nose-hair scissors, Band-Aids. “There’s a clue for you,” Del said. “Did he have another kit up north?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Lucas said. “The bathroom was empty. There was no suitcase, but that doesn’t mean much, if he kept clothes in both places.”

  “Wonder why he didn’t keep a kit in both places?” Wright asked.

  “Because then you’re never sure of what you’ve got,” Lucas said. “I do the same thing with my cabin—I keep clothes there, but I take the dopp kit back and forth. And shoes . . .”

  They found a pair of athletic shoes at the end of the bed. They were scuffed and dirty. “There’s your fishing shoes,” Lucas said.

  Del said, “Speaking as a defense attorney, I can say that you’re building a fairy tale.”

  In the kitchen, they found a carton of Marlboros sitting on the counter, one pack missing. “There you go,” Lucas said. “He was coming back. At six bucks a pack, he wasn’t going to leave those behind.”

  “I’ll buy that,” Del said.

  “I gotta think about it,” Wright said. “But I’m moving your way.”

  BACK IN THE CAR, Del said, “It looks almost too good.”

  “Let’s take a look at Darrell’s place,” Lucas suggested.

  Darrell Hanson lived in a well-preserved three-story Victorian across the street from Lake Como. A guy in a painter’s white shirt and trousers was standing on a stepladder, painting the eaves a teal green.

  They were parked on a narrow one-way lane, two doors down from Hanson’s house, and Lucas looked around and said, “If you showed up at the right time of day . . . that side door.”

  Del said, “You’re not thinking about bagging the place? Man, that’s a really bad idea. This whole neighborhood is gonna be full of security—we could be on a camera right now.”

  “Come in from the back—”

  “Aw, bullshit. That’d probably be worse.”

  Lucas took a long breath and let it out: “I’d like to bag it. See what I could see. But I’m also thinking that Dwayne Paulson might give us a delayed report, if he thinks we got enough on Hanson.”

  “Maybe we got enough. Maybe. A half-ass photo ID, the white van . . .”

  “When I make application, the photo ID could be ‘probably.’ I could get a ‘probably’ out of Kelly Barker.”

  “That’s sorta . . . borderline, dude.”

  “Don’t get all lawyer on me,” Lucas said. “Look: we know Darrell’s father disappeared from his house, leaving the lights on, his cigarettes out, and all the rest. We know that Hanson’s death was faked, if it was faked, by somebody who knew about the cabin, how to get in and out, and about the motorbike. Had to know about the old man’s habits. Had to know about the dirt bike so they could count on stealing it. So if he was killed, it was probably by somebody who knows him.”

  “And we thought we knew he was a schoolteacher, but it turns out he wasn’t.”

  Lucas went on: “He was the right age—”

  “I agree, he’s probably the one,” Del said. “I’m just saying, a lot of the stuff might not cut much ice with a judge. And why go to Paulson? We could just go to Carsonet.”

  Lucas said, “Because Paulson got divorced about five years ago, and he and Marcy went out for a while.”

  “Ah. That would help,” Del said. “Still don’t have any hard evidence.”

  “And once we go for a warrant, we’re committed,” Lucas said.

  They thought about that for a minute, then Del said, “If you bag it, you gotta talk to me. I don’t want you doing it alone.”

  “Then, if I get caught, two of us go down,” Lucas said.

  “So let’s go talk to Paulson.”

  “I’m afraid he’ll say no.”

  “So then we bag it,” Del said. “Can’t be in any more trouble, if we get caught.”

  Lucas put his head down and thought about it. If he blackbagged the house, he could only be inside for a few minutes. If he got caught, his career was done: and he might be looking at jail time. A lot of security around . . .

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go see Paulson. We can tell him what we’ve got, ask him if he’ll give us a delayed report. We ask him before he makes application.”

  “Be right up front with him.”

  “He’s no dummy,” Lucas said. “If we try to bullshit him, we’ll only piss him off.”

  THEY WENT BACK to the BCA to pick up some paperwork, and then Lucas talked to Paulson’s clerk to make sure the judge would be around. Told that he had a relaxed schedule that morning, Lucas signed up for an appointment and he and Del headed for Minneapolis.

  Paulson’s chambers were on the eighteenth floor of the Hennepin County Courthouse. When his clerk ushered Lucas and Del into the office, they found Paulson with his feet up on his desk, picking on an electric guitar, listening to himself on earphones plugged into a tiny amp. He
saw them, tipped his head toward two visitors’ chairs, continued picking for another ten seconds, then shut down the guitar.

  “I coulda been a Rolling Stone,” he said. He was a tall man, with slicked-back hair, a long nose, and a thin white smile. He could have been a country singer, but probably not a Rolling Stone.

  “And if you’d been a judge at the same time, you coulda sent yourself to prison for drug abuse,” Del said.

  “How are you, Del?” Paulson asked. To Lucas: “It’s bad, ain’t it?”

  “It is. I’ve got to tell you, we’re here to ask your advice about a search warrant, and it involves Marcy’s murder.”

  “Uh-oh,” Paulson said, dropping his feet to the floor. “Let’s hear it.”

  Lucas explained what they had, and what they’d be looking for if they got a search warrant, and why they weren’t yet applying: “We know it’s a little thin, but we think the totality of the evidence should get us in. But if you don’t think so, we don’t want the application made official.”

  “And you came to me because you knew it was thin, and you also knew that Marcy and I dated for a while.”

  “That was a factor,” Lucas said. “I won’t bullshit you, Dwayne: we do think we’ve got enough, but we know we’re on the edge.”

  “Give me one minute to think,” Paulson said. He turned in his desk chair so that his back was to them, and tilted his head back. They looked at his small bald spot for a minute, then two, and finally he turned back and said, “This guy just walked into that house down in Bloomington and opened fire, with no warning.”