All clear. She got her purse, put her shoes back on, and dragged the bags down the dimly lit hallway to the elevator, gripping Grandfelt’s arms through the plastic. She took the load to the first floor, then to the back door. She pushed the bags through the door to the top of the steps, let the door close behind her, hurried out to the street, where she’d left her car. She drove it around to the back door, picked up the garbage bags—heavy, but not too heavy—staggered out to the car and dropped the body in the trunk.
Now what? Rather, now where?
She thought for a moment and came up with just the right spot. Minutes from the parking lot, and she knew it well, having grown up only a few blocks away. As she drove, she made a mental list: leavethe body, but get all the other crap out of the sacks—the towels, the shoulder bag, the shoes. An ID, if there was one in the bag, would instantly identify the body, and might somehow identify the scene of the crime. The knife was in there: must get rid of it right away.
What about Grandfelt’s car, still in the parking lot? She considered that, as she pulled into Shawnee Park. If she had time…
The police might believe that Grandfelt was murdered in the building, but more likely would believe that she’d been picked up by somebody and taken away to be murdered. After all, there was no evidence of a murder in the building. She’d have to get rid of the garbage bags and be careful about it.
Shawnee Park was tucked in a kind of armpit where I-494 met I-94 in Woodbury, east of St. Paul. She checked the few lighted windows in the surrounding neighborhood but saw no movement. Still wary, watchful, she stripped the body out of the sacks and threw everything else into one of them. As she was doing that, she noticed Timothy’s Nike tennis shoes in the trunk, thought a minute, then pulled them on over her loafers. The ground was damp, no reason to leave small female footprints if you don’t have to.
That done, and fueled by adrenaline, she dragged Grandfelt out of the car, humped the body a hundred yards across the playing fields to a line of trees, pushed back into them, and dumped it. Hurrying back to the car, she got inside, saw the purse sitting on the passenger seat, and the glimmer of the knife handle.
She picked it up, stepped out of the car again, stuck the knife in the ground, pushed it as far down as she could, and then stepped on it, to get it that last inch down in the soft earth.
Drive carefully,she thought, on the way out of the park, neither toofast nor too slow, and with confidence. She’d done so well, this was no time to blow it.
Grandfelt’s car.
She didn’t drive back to the murder scene, but she got close, parked on the street a block away. She dug in the garbage bag, found car keys in the dead woman’s purse, and walked to Grandfelt’s car; blood was drying on her blouse, and she could feel it crinkling against her skin, raising goose bumps. She drove the Subaru six blocks and left it a block from a still-open bar that everybody, including Fisk, referred to as a meat rack.
She sat for a moment, watching and listening, got out, locked the Subaru with the fob, and walked through the night to her own vehicle.
She could smell the blood on herself. Feel the lucid rays of the full moon cool on her face and arms. Perfect.
2
Back in the Day
The next night, the moon was fat and full and creamy in a faultlessly clear, liquid sky. The silvery stream of illumination poked through the parkside trees, leaving a sharply defined pattern on the ground, like spots on a dalmatian. Out in the open, around the softball diamonds, the light was bright enough to read a newspaper.
Brandon and Alice Parkinson were walking their kinky-haired gray labradoodle, Lloyd, on a grassy ramble along the edges of Shawnee Park. A retractable leash allowed the dog to dash into the trees and tangle himself in brush, but no matter, the Parkinsons were not in a hurry. They enjoyed the warming spring evenings, the air as soft as a cashmere blanket, a relief from the cold edges of a recently departed Minnesota winter.
Alice was back from Chicago, a visit to her parents. She’d taken the Empire Builder train to and from St. Paul. She was still afraid to fly after the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and thePentagon two years earlier. As a side benefit, she felt confident in transporting six ounces of primo weed back from Chicago, where her mother had a tight connection with a dealer. She would not have been confident bringing it back through O’Hare’s airport security.
As they walked, they could hear the faint but unmistakable sound of Britney Spears singing “Oops! I Did It Again,” which must have been coming through an open window somewhere in the neighborhood, another sure sign of spring. Brandon carried a flashlight, the better to untangle the dog when that became necessary. He flicked it off and on as they walked along the line of trees at the far edge of the playing fields.
Lloyd checked out a dried pile of dog poop. Alice pulled him away and said to Brandon, “Stop hogging the J, for cripes sakes.”
Brandon passed the joint, Alice took a toke, held her breath for a few steps, let the aromatic smoke filter slowly out her nose. Alice was a believer in the slow nose exhale, that the sensitive nasal linings transmitted the THC more rapidly to the brain, made the high stronger and more resonant.
She passed the joint back and they ambled on, letting the dog lead. They’d been talking about their teenaged daughter, Shona, who was showing an intense interest in a particular boy in school. Brandon called him “the rat” because of his distinctly ratlike appearance, a thin face with a prominent nose and a pointed chin on which the kid was attempting to grow a beard.
“That’s really unkind,” Alice said, reaching a point in her stoneage where everything went mellow. “He can’t help his appearance.”
“Of course he can,” Brandon said. “He even dresses like a rat.”
“That’s true,” Alice conceded. Brandon passed the J and Alice took a contemplative toke and passed it back. As she exhaled, she said, ina squeaky voice, “I’d prefer not to have any ratlike grandchildren, if I can avoid it. Especially not when Shona’s in tenth grade.”
—
Lloyd had drifteddeeper into the trees and was pulling at the leash. “He’s tangled up again, goddamnit,” Brandon said, pecking at the joint.
“Gimme some light, I’ll get it.” As Brandon shined the flashlight back into the trees, Alice pushed a branch aside, following the leash to the dog. When she got to him, she stopped. Looked. Looked again, into the bright puddle of moonlight. “Brand! What the heck is that? What the heck is it?”
She swiveled back, dragging the dog behind her. She hugged Brandon around his waist. “It looks like…”
Brandon, who’d played high school football back in the late ’70s, knew no fear. He stepped into the trees, Alice behind him, holding on to his belt, and turned the flashlight toward a white lump.
