“Hm,” she said. “Thirty-two maybe? Not over forty anyway.”
“I agree,” said Bob. “Let’s say that at the earliest he had children when he was fifteen or sixteen. I’ve searched the database with all murders since 1990 both in Minneapolis and in Saint Paul, and in those twenty-six years there have been four instances of two children and a woman being shot in connection with a gang shootout. But Gomez’s name isn’t mentioned in any of the newspaper reports. Three involved black families, only one Latino. They were killed in the Fourth Precinct, but here it says their name was Perez and they were Spanish.”
“You think this might be them?”
“Could be. As an illegal immigrant it’s not surprising he gave a name like Perez and claimed to be Spanish. At least that made sure they wouldn’t be transported back over the border and into the hands of the cartel they were running from.”
“Are there really no more details of the killings?”
“Nada. Deaths involving minorities in the Fourth Precinct have always had less media coverage, and this was in 1995, the worst year ever for murders.”
“I was hardly even born then, baby.”
Bob tapped a number on his phone and held it to his ear. “That was the year they started calling the city Murderopolis.” He signaled that he had someone on the other end of the line. “Hi, Kari, how are things in the Fraud Unit? Listen, could you check something for me? A multiple homicide from 1995? Perez. I need the report. And the name and address of the father.”
Bob could hear that Kari at the other end wasn’t taking notes the way she usually did.
“Kari?”
“I’m sorry but I can’t help you, Bob.” Her voice sounded pained.
“What do you mean?”
“Walker’s given me orders not to do anything for you as long as you’re suspended. I think it’s because of that TV thing of you on YouTube. Even the chief of police is furious—they think you’ve embarrassed the whole police department. I’m sorry, Bob.”
“I understand. Sorry if I’ve embarrassed you too, Kari.”
“Me?”
“You in particular, Kari. Have a nice day.”
“You too, Bob.”
Bob hung up, tapped in a new number, got an immediate reply.
“Bob…”
“Hi, Kay. Listen, I think I’ve got something.”
“Bob, you listen—”
“Murder case. Perez. 1995. Can you send me the report and—”
“Walker’s given everybody orders not to—”
“Fuck Walker. All I need is the—”
“I’m going to hang up now, Bob.”
“Kay!”
The line went dead.
“Can’t reel in the women anymore?” Liza asked.
“It’s been going on for a while now,” said Bob. He put his elbows on the counter and rubbed his skull hard. “Excuse me.”
Bob made his way to the men’s room. Though he had the whole trough to himself he still entered the only stall there and locked the door. It was a peculiarity of his; if he didn’t feel certain he would be alone when urinating he would end up just standing there, pressing away at his bladder. When he was finished and buttoned up he remained standing and looked down at the slider bolt for a moment before exiting, washing his hands and splashing water on his face. When he got back to his stool at the bar he saw that Liza had poured him another cup of coffee.
