“And when was the last time you came across a killer who was rational?”
“But everything else about it seems so professional. It’s as though he’s giving us some kind of start. As if he feels he has protection.”
“Protection? What kind of protection?”
Bob shrugged. “There are only two kinds. One of the gangs. Or…”
Walker gave Bob a warning look. He was aware that in the past Oz had asked Internal Affairs to investigate the rumor thatan active member of the force was taking drug money in return for steering murder investigations away from certain leading gang members. But everyone knew these rumors about a person they called the Milkman were about as accurate—and about as old—as all those tales about the Ghost of City Hall. When it emerged that it was Bob Oz who had tried to alert Internal Affairs, the only effect was to reinforce his reputation among his colleagues as a paranoid drunk and a potential snitch. On top of that Walker knew Oz’s nickname in the unit: Kentucky Fried. Not exactly original, but the thought behind it was clear enough: Bob Oz was a chicken who refused to carry a gun, and in a crisis he would push armed colleagues ahead of him.
Walker sighed. “How are the, er…anger management sessions going? You are going?”
“Oh yes.”
Walker assumed Oz was lying. “And are you improving?”
“Hard to say, Chief. Takes time, something like that, they say.”
Walker nodded in the direction of the window. “We could use you, you know.”
“Mm.”
“The way you used to be,” said Walker as he studied his own reflection.
“Was there anything else, Chief?”
Walker sighed. “No.”
—
“So then, Aaa-ss,” said Olav Hanson as he rolled out from behind his desk. “You get promoted? No? Demoted? In that case I’d like a coffee, three sugars please.”
A snort of laughter from Detective Joe Kjos behind his partition. Kjos was Hanson’s number one fan and his personal supplier of canned laughter.
Bob strode on by, unable to come up with a suitable responseas the baying laughter followed him to his desk. No sooner had he sat down than the phone rang. It was Kari.
“There’s no Dr. Jakob Egeland in Minneapolis. But there is one in Saint Paul. The address is—”
“Thanks, Kari, but call Aggravated Assault, it’s their case now.”
“Oh yeah? Who should I talk to there?”
“Good question. Give me the address, Kari, I’ll talk to them.”
He wrote it down on his notepad, hung up, picked up the receiver again and called the number for the Aggravated Assault unit. While he was waiting he heard Hanson say something, and then Kjos’s hearty and almost happy laughter. Bob took a deep breath. Why the hell didn’t they answer? There wasn’t exactly a sudden excess of aggravated assaults taking place today. More laughter. Fuck. Bob felt like he wanted to break something and realized he had lifted the receiver high above his head. He lowered it and counted in a low voice as he repeated inside his head:Think before you speak, think before you act. Tell yourself you can control your anger.That was about as much as he had learned in the two sessions of anger management he had actually attended. He repeated the words. Then, with infinite care, he replaced the receiver in its cradle.
And breathed out.
Smiled.
Sat quite still for several seconds.
Then tore the page from the notepad and hurried toward the door.
8
Wolf, October 2016
“I understand you have to consider your oath of confidentiality, Dr. Egeland, but what we’re dealing with here is a possible murder.”
