The Weatherman (40 page)

Squads from the housing patrol tried to keep the angry crowd on the curbs and off the streets. Les Angelbeck sucked cigarette smoke into his rotting lungs. The river between blacks and whites was so wide maybe it could never be bridged-not even in Minnesota.

“‘Squad four-ten, make twenty-three-seventeen Fremont on a domestic dispute. She’s got a restraining order … he’s there.”

The inner cities had become a darker version of the Old West. Instead of white, the gunfighters were usually black. Instead of facing each other in the middle of the street, they faced each other toe to toe on cracked sidewalks. The guns, smaller and deadlier, didn’t hang from the hip; they were hidden in jacket pockets, tucked into a holster, slid beneath a belt. Donnell Redmond waited for answers to his questions. “Where you from? You from Gary? Chicago? East St. Louie? You ain’t from around here.”

The White Sox fan, probably a gang member, maybe a rapist, looked about to run. He was shivering up a storm. Redmond’s police instincts told him to go for his gun before the suspect went for his. But it was too late. The magnum force came out of the Sox jacket so fast he saw only the exploding flashes, heard the roaring thunder, then felt the body blows to his midsection. In the end there were four shots fired. Lieutenant Donnell Redmond only got off one of them. The last thing the tall cop saw as he fell that cold night was the pair of horny sneakers stumbling down Plymouth Avenue. Somebody was crying, “I been shot,” but he couldn’t tell who. It may have been himself.

“Three-ten Able. Twelfth and Queen. See the yellow cab there on a no pay.”

The shooter was found dead on North Emerson, four blocks away. There was a big handprint on his shiny white sneakers where his last gesture on this earth was a feeble attempt to wipe away the specks of blood.

The mob in the street didn’t know exactly who was dead or why, but their inner-city instincts told them a cop had shot a black man. Black leaders were already shouting warnings into the TV cameras. They could sort out the details in the morning. Tonight they were promising the revolution.

Les Angelbeck rolled his window down and flicked the cigarette butt into the street. The biting north wind blew the last sparks into the crowd. They were beginning to disperse, retreating to their subsidized housing. It was too cold to protest. The revolution would have to wait until summer.

One by one the muddy white squad cars of the Minneapolis Police Department began to pull away. So did the State Patrol and the housing authority. When the news photographers saw that the cops were leaving, they too packed up their vans and got the hell out of there. Yellow tape was left strung from tree to tree, as was the chalk outline of a tall man curled up on frozen grass beneath bare trees. Tomorrow the TV reporters would stand in front of the spot and reduce the man’s life to one minute and thirty seconds. The old cop turned up the heater to fend off the cold. He dropped the squad into drive, wiped an angry tear from the corner of his good eye, and rolled away.

“All squads, Lieutenant Donnell Redmond of the Minneapolis Bureau of Criminal Apprehension was killed in the line of duty tonight in our city. Lieutenant Redmond leaves behind a wife and three children. Funeral arrange—

merits will be announced. See your supervisor for burial duties. All squads at two-fifty-eight. ”

Anatomy of a television news story:

Begin with a brown-haired, brown-eyed beauty in her mid-twenties. Her name is Melissa. Or Alyssa. Or let’s call her Tricia. She earns nineteen thousand dollars a year on a two-year contract. When her contract is up and she asks for a raise she’ll be television history. She begins her story with a live shot, standing in front of a hospital emergency entrance talking at the camera. It is nighttime. An ambulance can be seen behind her. “Well, Brad, it seems our friends up at Channel 7 make as much news these days as they report. This is the remarkable story of an award-winning reporter and Vietnam veteran apparently determined to commit suicide. But fate intervened.” Tricia the TV reporter glances down at her portable monitor.

Flash to a grainy black-and-white photograph of Rick Beanblossom at work in the Star Tribune newsroom on the day he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting. The photo was snapped from a distance because he refused to have his picture taken. Tricia’s voice was recorded over a slow zoom of the photograph. “Rick Beanblossom is a burn victim who can often be seen around town in his trademark blue pullover mask. Four years ago he left his job at the Star Tribune and took a news producer’s job at Channel 7. Newsroom co-workers say he wrestled with bouts of depression, and severe headaches for which he took prescription painkillers.”

Go to tape of the St. Croix Valley. Camera pans the width of the Soo Line Bridge. Tricia is still blabbing away. “Last night the news producer, a highly decorated veteran of the Vietnam War, came to this abandoned railroad bridge over the St. Croix River, apparently determined to take his own life.”

Throw in a sound bite from a sheriff’s deputy, not to exceed ten seconds.

“From the needle kit found in his car, it appears he shot a large amount of heroin into his arm and laid down to die. He had no other reason to be up there. ”

Back to scenic shots of the St. Croix River. Tricia talking. “But what the ex-marine didn’t know was that last night we were headed for record low temperatures for this time of the year. He also couldn’t know two canoeists would be paddling beneath the bridge at the crack of dawn.”

Cut to sound bite of canoeist pointing up at the bridge. This bite most important; it can run fifteen seconds.

“We were on the river watching the sun coming up … It was really bright and it felt good because it was so cold. Anyway, I saw this reflection off the bridge up there, like somebody signaling us with a mirror or something … so I climbed up there … and this guy with the mask was lying there … and I thought he was dead … and this cross around his neck was hanging over the bridge reflecting the sun. We never would have seen him up there if it hadn ‘t been for that cross.”

Go to tape of the cross displayed at the hospital. Tricia speaking over it. “That cross was the Navy Cross that Rick Beanblossom was awarded for saving the lives of his men during a napalm attack in Vietnam. An attack that cost him his face, and like last night, almost cost him his life.”

Cut to a sound bite from the doctor at the hospital. Be sure to flash his name and title on the screen as he speaks. Give him five seconds.

“If it hadn’t been for the cold, and being found so early this morning, he’d have died last night. Somebody up there is watching over him,”

Next, Tricia the TV reporter does a fifteen-second stand-up atop the Soo Line Bridge, taped earlier in the day, talking into the camera as she walks with trepidation along the railroad tracks on the rickety span two hundred feet above the river, about the height of an eighteen-story building. It’s scenic as a postcard, but she looks scared to death. The photographer made her do it. “Doctors say the record low temperatures last night slowed Beanblossom’s heartbeat, thickened his blood, and prevented the overdose from killing him. But the Pulitzer Prize-winning newsman isn’t out of the woods yet. He was rushed from this bridge near death to Lakeview Hospital in Stillwater-ironically, his hometown.”

Master shot of the hospital, then a quick cut to a second sound bite from the doctor.

“Basically he’s in a light coma … but comas are still a medical mystery. He could be in it for days, or weeks. That much poison is a tremendous shock … But his vital signs are strong.”

Return to a live shot of Tricia standing in front of the emergency entrance at the hospital. “And Brad, the latest word from Lakeview here is more of the same. News producer Rick Beanblossom is still in a coma. Serious but stable condition. Back to you.”

‘Thank you, Tricia.” At the studio the anchor turns to the anchorette. “Our prayers are with him tonight.”

Anchorette nods her head in sympathy. “I’ll say, he’s a good one.”

Anchor turns to camera two. “By the way, we want to welcome Tricia to our news team. She’s an award-winning reporter from station
WTOL
in Toledo, Ohio.”

Anchorette nods her head in agreement. “We were really lucky to get her. We’ll take a stab at tomorrow’s weather next. Stay tuned.”

“Master Sergeant Beanblossom, I’m Lieutenant Russell.

I know this is a torturous time for you, but the colored nurse, Angela, said you might be able to talk now.”

“Yes. I c-can talk.”

“What you did is a credit to the Marine Corps, son. Esprit de corps at its best. We’re very proud of you. And don’t you worry about your face. The burn unit at Fort Sam Houston is the best in the world. When you get back to the States they’ll fix you up like new.”

“Sem … sem … semper some shit.”

“Semper fi. Always faithful. I understand. Part of my job, Master Sergeant, and it’s not an easy job, is to log and classify casualties and MIAs. On the day you were wounded another Marine, who we know to have been Lance Corporal Robert Joseph Sax from Texarkana, Arkansas, was killed in action. He was the third Marine you tried to rescue that day. Do you remember?”

“Hard day to for … forget.”

“We don’t want you to forget just yet. You see, after the napalm attack we were unable to retrieve the lance

corporal’s body. The truth of the matter is when we withdrew from that position there was really nothing left of him to retrieve. Do you understand? The thing of it is, Lance Corporal Sax for the past several months has been listed as missing in action, even though we know that he was killed. What we need from you is confirmation of his death. We’d like to give his family the peace of mind they deserve. For the record, Master Sergeant Beanblossom, was it Lance Corporal Sax you tried to rescue that day? And was he dead?”

“Nnnn … no. Was not him.”

“But it had to be him. He was the only Marine unaccounted for.”

“Ef …
FNG
.”

“Excuse me, Master Sergeant, but there were no Fucking New Guys in your platoon that day.”

“Was not Sax.”

“I know what you’re trying to do here. On the one hand, it’s admirable. On the other hand, it’s illegal as hell. You could be court-martialed.”

“Nnnn … not Sax.”

“You men have to stop doing this. These families have a right to know the fate of their men. Sax left a wife and two children. Don’t do this to them.”

“Was … not Sax. Ef …
FNG
.”

“All right for now, Master Sergeant Beanblossom. I’ll give you to the end of the week to change your mind and tell me the truth. You’ll have to sign some papers one way or the other. Yes, you’re right. As long as he’s classified missing in action the checks keep coming to his wife and children. Once he’s declared dead, the checks stop. But I don’t think that’s worth a lifetime of anguish-the anguish of not knowing if and when he died. You think about that.”

“As long as he’s missing, the checks keep coming.”

“As long as he’s missing, the checks keep coming.”

“As long as he’s missing, the checks keep coming.”

Rick Beanblossom came out of his coma with a scream, sweat dripping down his chest. The sheets were soaked. He tripped getting out of bed and fell to the floor heaving from the gut. The IV needles were ripped from his arm.

A nurse was over him shouting, “Get the doctor! He’s back!”

The Marine came to his knees, covered his bare head as if in an air raid, and tried to bury his face in the linoleum. “You lying little son of a bitch!” he cried out. You lying little son of a bitch!”

It was a wonderful spring day. The rains had stopped. The sun fired the sky. Minnesota’s rivers had receded to livable levels. Lilacs and apple blossoms were in bloom. Trees were outlined in soft spring green. The fresh air smelled of new beginnings. It was the kind of day where a boy rides his bicycle through the gathering sun after school without a worry in the world. Such was the feeling Keenan Wakefield enjoyed as he rode his mountain bike over the ridge and followed his favorite paved path into the woods north of Stillwater.

He was sixteen now and completing his second year of college. Already his parents were talking about Oxford and Harvard Law. Four years had passed since his brother’s disappearance. At that age four years is an eternity. By the time they laid Harlan’s remains to rest it was hard for Keenan to remember he even had a brother, much less a twin. The publicity briefly flared up again, but soon died out as the case of Harlan Wakefield went from unsolved mystery to just another unresolved death. But still Keenan’s trust fund grew. The checks kept coming. As he pedaled swiftly through the trees he knew the finest education money could buy was within his grasp.

For four years, since the widely reported kidnapping of Harlan Wakefield, it had been the worst nightmare of every child in the Upper Midwest. While the child is out playing, a man in a mask emerges from the woods with a gun in his hand. On this sunny day, as he steered his bicycle through the darkest acres of woodland, that nightmare became instant reality for Keenan Wakefield. A man in a blue pullover mask stepped out of the woods with a large pistol in his hand and pointed it into the air. Keenan, scared out of his wits, swerved to miss the man in the mask. He lost control of his bike and tumbled into the woods. He rolled over on his back. The man in the mask was coming at him, gun in hand. It was a big, ugly handgun, black and green and caked with dry mud. Keenan froze, at first too frightened to cry out for help. The masked gunman grabbed him by the shirt and stuck his black leather nose up against his face. “Hi, kid. Remember me?”

Keenan gulped until he choked. His face broke out in a sweat.

The man’s eyes were on fire. “Me and you are going to go into the woods and I’m going to do to you want I did to your brother, Harlan.”

Keenan squirmed and kicked in a half-assed attempt to get free. He finally got up the courage to speak. “I know who you are. You’re that burned guy from Channel 7.”

Keenan Wakefield again tried to squirm away. Again the man with the gun pulled the kid’s face into his mask. “I’ve got a friend who is a policeman and he says the
FBI
wants to talk to you, but Mommy won’t let them. Why is that?”