Broken Prey (30 page)

BIGGIE CALLED, “I got four of them in here. Gonna kill them one at a time. You ready? You want to count for me?”

Sloan said to Shrake, “I’m going.”

“He’ll be ready for you, shooting at the doorway,” Shrake said.

“I don’t give a fuck, I’m going. Too many bodies,” Sloan said.

“Tell me when,” Shrake said.

“Now.”

They went at once, and just before they got to the door, Shrake vaulted ahead, crossing the opening in an instant; there was a reaction flash and a bullet pounded itself into the wall opposite.

Sloan peeked, saw Biggie across the room, alone. There were no hostages, just the two bodies in the outer room. Biggie now with his hands up, gun on the floor, smile on his face.

“No, no, no, no!” Biggie shouted. “I’m all out. I give up.”

Sloan did another peek. Biggie stood there with his hands above his head. “Sloan? That you?”

Sloan turned the corner. “Yeah.”

“I quit.”

“Yeah, right, Biggie,” Sloan said, and he shot Biggie Lighter twice in the heart. One of the slugs went cleanly through, shattered on the wall, and fragments of it ricocheted around the room. A piece of hot metal like the ripped-off rim of a dime hit Sloan in the lip and hung there, protruding from the skin. Sloan peeled it off and flicked it away, tasting the blood in his mouth.

Shrake nodded. “Good shooting.”

LUCAS HEARD THE
BOOM
of the gun, turned his head that way. Then he caught the movement coming up the stairwell, turned back, and saw a man coming toward him. The man’s head was a mass of blood, and he seemed to be trying to stanch the bleeding with his hands.

Lucas said, “Just sit down, the doctors are . . .” and the man jumped at him, screaming, grabbing Lucas by the broken arm, and Lucas screamed back, swung awkwardly with his .45, and then they both went down the concrete stairs, rolling over and over each other.

Grant, or Roy Rogers, or whatever the fuck his name was. His face was shattered, but Lucas recognized the good half. Grant was soaked in blood, holding to Lucas’s broken arm with one hand, swinging with the other, screaming incoherently. Lucas hit the stairs upside down, tumbled, Grant falling over him; he squeezed the trigger of the .45 involuntarily, and the flash lit the stairwell and the surprise and the pain from the broken arm and the recoil pulled the gun out of his hand and he heard it clattering down the stairs.

Grant was underneath him now and they turned again and Grant was on top, scrambling, and Lucas pulled him down and they rolled across the landing and Grant smashed Lucas in the nose; blood flooded into Lucas’s mouth and he sputtered, came up close to Grant’s face, sprayed blood into Grant’s good eye, and they were turning again.

Grant was above him, then, and Lucas saw that he was going for something, the gun, probably, and Lucas managed to tangle up Grant’s knees and Grant went down again and Lucas rolled up on top of him. Got his good arm around Grant’s neck, got his legs around Grant’s body, locked them at the ankles so that he had Grant in a scissors hold.

Grant tried to pull away along the long axis of their bodies, trying to knee or kick Lucas, and they turned again, upside down on the stairs, and he heard the gun clank, thought, “He’s got it,” and heaved upward as his body weight pushed Grant down.

The gun went off, a flash and a
boom,
then Lucas got his feet braced against a step, groaned and lifted Grant’s head up, gave a final desperate jerk . . .

Grant’s neck snapped like a tree branch.

He went limp, and Lucas fell on top of him.

Around them, he thought, was nothing but pain and silence: but he was wrong about the silence. In a second or two, when he’d caught his breath and had gotten upright again, he began to hear the screaming, and realized it was coming from everywhere.

27

THE HOSPITAL WAS A SHAMBLES.

A half dozen fires and two dozen fights added to the chaos of the shootings. When the smoke got dense in one wing of the security section, maintenance men used a forklift to break through a locked door to the outside, and frightened, angry, and medicated patients scattered over half a square mile of woods and farmland.

The Big Three, with Grant, killed six people and seriously wounded eight more. The final death toll, including the four killers, was ten.

Of the three people in the cage, one, a woman, had survived because Beloit had gotten to her quickly enough to keep her from drowning in her own blood. The bullet had gone through her cheekbone, her palate, and out through a jawbone, taking along a couple of upper teeth.

The shooting was ending when the fire department got to the hospital, and the paramedics, and three doctors in the hospital itself, quickly got to the other shooting victims.

LUCAS WAS TAKEN to the hospital in Mankato. Sloan rode with him. Sloan kept saying, “This is not a problem. This is not a problem . . .”

Lucas finally said, “Sloan, shut the fuck up. This is definitely a problem.”

THE MORE SERIOUSLY INJURED were flown to Regions Hospital in St. Paul or to the Mayo in Rochester, except for two who needed immediate blood transfusions. They were taken to Mankato to be stabilized.

Lucas was evaluated at Mankato. The bone in his upper arm had been broken by Biggie’s bullet. The bullet itself had not gone through but was stuck on the underside of the skin at the back of his arm. With his good hand, Lucas could actually feel the bullet under the skin.

“So what?” he asked. “I’m gonna need a splint or something?”

“More than that,” the doc said. “We’ll have to go in there to put your arm back together. This will be a little complicated.”

After talking with Sloan, Lucas insisted on being reevaluated at Regions. He was flown out with one of the more severely wounded victims who had been taken to Mankato to be stabilized.

At Regions, as at Mankato, he was told that the arm would need an operation to place screws to hold the bones together. He could expect to be in a cast for three to six months; and there would be physical rehabilitation after that.

“Am I gonna lose anything? Any function?”

“Shouldn’t,” the doctor said. “Maybe a little sensation on the back of your arm.”

SLOAN, JENKINS, Shrake, Del, and Rose Marie crowded in to see him before the operation. Sloan had briefed Rose Marie on the shootings.

“There are already people running around, trying to figure out whom to hang,” Rose Marie said, before Lucas was rolled into the OR. “It’s amazing. It’s like the second reaction. The first is to ask how many are dead, the second is to ask whom we can hang.”

THE OPERATION TOOK two hours and was routine, the surgeon told Lucas in the recovery room. He was given additional sedation when he came out of the recovery room and slept through the night, waking at six o’clock.

A nurse came to see him: “Hurt?”

“Not much,” he said. “I’d like cup of coffee, is what I’d like. And a
New York Times
or a
Wall Street Journal
?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “How about a nice glass of orange juice?”

“How about if you hand me my cell phone? And I gotta take a leak . . .”

Both his arm and his face hurt—his nose had been recracked in the fight—but he was able to walk to the bathroom without a problem, pulling a saline drip along behind him.

The lying had already begun.

He added to it.

WEATHER CALLED AT SEVEN, an hour earlier than usual. She’d heard about the shooting after she’d finished her morning work in the operating theater, and called in a panic. Lucas had kept his cell phone on a bedside table.

“I’m fine,” Lucas lied. “But I gotta get into the office. There’s gonna be a political shit storm starting about ten o’clock. Soon as the politicians finish their double-latte grandes.”

“Were you involved in the shooting? Were you in there?” she asked, still scared.

“Yeah, I was right there,” Lucas said. “It’s a goddamn mess, Weather. I don’t want you to think about it. I gotta talk to everybody on the face of the earth in the next two days, covering our asses and getting the story right. I don’t want to have to worry about you, too.”

“You sound . . . hoarse.”

He was, from the anesthesia. He said, “I spent all yesterday screaming at people. I need a couple of cough drops.”

She asked, “What about Sloan?”

“He’s bummed. I gotta get to him, too,” Lucas said.

“Take care of yourself—don’t worry about everybody else,” Weather said.

“Hey, I’m fine,” he lied. When he hung up, he was satisfied that he’d pulled it off.

Then Weather called Sloan’s wife, worried about Sloan’s state of mind, and Sloan’s wife said, “We stayed for the operation, but Lucas was pretty groggy when he came out of it. They said everything went okay . . .”

“What operation?” Weather asked.

Lucas was talking to the docs about getting out and was being told “No,” when Weather called back.

“LUCAS . . . ,” she wailed.

“Ah, shit . . .”

Trapped like a rat.

SLOAN AND JENKINS lied about Biggie’s death.

Jenkins gave the blow-by-blow. He was a superb liar: “He had his back against the wall. I made a move and he fired at me, six feet away, right through the doorway.” He talked with his hands and eyes as much as with his words. “Goddamn, I’m lucky to be here. Sloan came in low, right under Biggie’s shot, and shot him twice. It was all so fast, not even Biggie knew the gun was empty. I mean, we’re talking
Bam! Bam-Bam!
”

Everybody bought that.

And why not? All the bullet holes were right there. Besides, the reconstruction of events suggested that Biggie’s .45 had killed three people and wounded three more, including Lucas.

SHRAKE’S DESCRIPTION OF Chase’s death had Chase pointing his weapon at the second woman’s face, ready to pull the trigger. The rescued woman was incoherent for two days after the shootings and kept talking about Chase rolling the other body’s eyes back and forth with his fingers.

Nobody wanted to know much more about Chase.

LUCAS TOLD THE absolute truth about Taylor and Grant, and blood analysis proved it.

Later analysis also indicated why the shootings weren’t more deadly than they were. O’Donnell’s guns, used by Biggie and Taylor, were loaded with target loads and cast slugs, apparently homemade by O’Donnell himself, for shooting close range at metal plates. They punched holes in the victims but didn’t expand, and most didn’t penetrate as deeply as combat loads would have. The third gun, a 9mm that did have combat loads, was used by Chase and had only had two or three rounds fired.

SLOAN, DURING ONE OF his visits, reconstructed Grant’s—or Rogers’s, or whoever he was—movements after O’Donnell disappeared. “He killed O’Donnell and dumped him, planted the evidence, and drove up to the airport and left the car where we’d find it,” Sloan said. “Then he took a shuttle back to Mankato and a cab back to his place, and went to work the next day. We know about the cab and shuttle for sure. That night, after work, he actually drove to Chicago, made the call to us, and drove back. The next day, he’s back at work again.”

“Risky . . . ,” Lucas said.

“Yeah. He took risks. And there’s no way to prove he drove to Chicago, but we checked the stewardesses, and nobody remembers him on a flight. Also, he had an oil change at a Jiffy Lube a week and a half ago and got a mileage sticker on his window. He’s driven almost two thousand miles in that time.”

“That’s good,” Lucas said. “You know, if he’d faked a suicide with O’Donnell . . . I don’t know that we ever would have broken it out. He got too complicated for himself.”

THE CRIME-SCENE PEOPLE believed that Angela Larson was killed in O’Donnell’s workshop; they found traces of blood, with indications that somebody had tried to clean it up with commercial liquid cleanser; the cleanser had actually ruined the blood for DNA analysis, but chemical analysis of the concrete dust on Larson’s feet matched the concrete of O’Donnell’s garage floor. O’Donnell, according to the security hospital records, was working the night that Larson was killed but was not working the night that Peterson was kidnapped. Was he involved? Lucas didn’t think so. He thought O’Donnell was probably Grant’s—or Rogers’s—last line of defense, and had been carefully set up.

THE BIGGEST, MOST complicated lie—if it was a lie, and many people would have denied that it was—appeared in the
Minneapolis Star-Tribune
four days after the shootings, under the byline of Ruffe Ignace.

LIKE THIS:

The Twin Cities were saturated with media. Reporters were looking for explanations, going to funerals, interviewing people who didn’t know anything.

Rose Marie called Lucas and outlined the problem: “The media want a public execution. The legislature is behaving with its usual courage, so there’ll probably be one. The only candidates are the Department of Human Services, and us. Some of the DHS guys are semipublicly wondering why you were driving down there to pick up Grant? Why didn’t you call the sheriff and have him grabbed earlier in the day?”

They talked about it for an hour, and then Lucas called Ignace. Ignace came into the hospital on the evening of the day after the shooting, armed with six steno pads and half a dozen pens.

“We want to tell the truth before too many innocent people get hurt,” Lucas said piously.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’m here for,” Ignace said.

“You gotta cover me,” Lucas said. “I’m not supposed to be talking. So . . . you’ve got multiple sources, okay?”

Ignace said, “That’s fine with me. I’ve already talked to a couple of people. I haven’t gotten much, but I can use them. So, saying I had multiple sources wouldn’t exactly be a lie.”

Not
exactly
.

LUCAS LED HIM THROUGH the chain of events, from the discovery of Pope’s body, to O’Donnell’s disappearance, to the call to the Cancun clinic, to the attack on Millie Lincoln and Mihovil, through the fight and the evacuations of the wounded to the various hospitals.

IGNACE TOOK a full day to write the story. It said, in part:

“. . . spent days looking for O’Donnell but couldn’t find him,” according to one investigator. “We decided we had to look at other staff members. We had the feeling that O’Donnell was another red herring, like Charlie Pope. We also decided that we couldn’t really trust the hospital personnel records, so we began researching the records on our own, vetting the staff members.”

A BCA researcher eventually contacted a clinic in Cancun, where, he was surprised to learn, Dr. Leopold Grant still worked. “That was the key,” said a source close to the investigation. “That’s when we knew we had identified the killer.”

Asked why they didn’t simply call the sheriff’s office and have “Roy Rogers” arrested at the hospital, the source said that “when O’Donnell disappeared, everybody thought he must be the killer. The Sheriff’s Department was involved in the search of O’Donnell’s house, and within a couple of hours, it seemed that everybody in Mankato knew we were looking for him. We didn’t know whether the Sheriff’s Department was leaking, or the hospital—but there was a big leak somewhere. When it came to Rogers, we didn’t want to take any chances. We knew he had at least two guns, taken from O’Donnell’s house, and we knew he was a complete madman. We wanted to take him down quickly, and secretly, without any warning. That’s why we did it the way we did, why we sent Davenport down with his team. These were all very experienced men, as we saw in the way they handled the firefight. And remember, we were only talking about an hour, not a long period of time. There was no long delay.”

Fatefully, when one of the researchers was looking into the “Leo Grant” personnel file, a direct call was made to the hospital. The research request was leaked inside the hospital, and apparently reached “Roy Rogers’s ” ears, who concluded correctly that he had been identified. He rushed from the hospital, back to his apartment, where the confrontation with Millie Lincoln and Mihovil took place, and the race to the hospital began.

ONE QUESTION POSED by Ignace and left out of the story when Lucas couldn’t answer it was “Why did O’Donnell take all of his money out of the bank the day he disappeared?”

Lucas shook his head. “We don’t know. We may never know.”

IGNACE IDENTIFIED LUCAS variously as a BCA official, an investigator, a state law-enforcement officer, a researcher, a source close to the investigation, a source who asked not to be identified, and a highly placed state official.

Because he actually named Rose Marie Roux, Carlton Aspen, the commissioner of the Department of Human Services, and Jerald Wald, the Senate majority leader, Ignace felt safe in saying that his sources included “police officers, state officials, legislators, and people directly involved in the firefight at St. John’s.”

ON THE EVENING THAT he finished the story, Ignace spent several hours on the Internet, checking apartment prices in Manhattan.

ROSE MARIE, ON READING the story the next morning, was pleased. “It might not be
the
truth, but it’s
one
truth, and best of all, its
ours
,” she said. She added, with some satisfaction, “The goddamn DHS is fucked.”

THE MORNING AFTER he talked to Ignace, Lucas woke up, expecting to get out of the hospital, to find an exhausted and angry Weather sitting next to his bed.

“Wait’ll I get you home,” she said. Her eyes drifted toward a nurse.

“Where’s everybody else?” Lucas said.

“They’re still back in London. I didn’t have time to get everybody here. Lucas, we gotta talk. I’m your wife. You don’t get shot and don’t tell me about it . . .” Tears started down her face.