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“Somebody needs to do it,” Virgil said.
“Okay, flower child. You’re as bad as Weather. I went online to our giving account at Fidelity, and she’s given ten grand to the various Heart charities over the past couple of years.”
“That’s so nice of you,” Virgil said. “I get tears in my eyes just thinking about it.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, really. I’m feeling a little emotional.”
“Fuck you again. We’re going home. Read that paper.”
9
All the investigators on the Sand case had discussed the possibility that Margaret Cooper had either done, or had orchestrated, the murders. Some had decided that she had not; some were still on the fence.
She hadn’t.
The killer had cruised the Sand home a half-dozen times since the night of the murders but had never seen a light in the house—it appeared that Margaret Cooper had moved out. Where she’d gone, he had no idea, and he was not the FBI, so he’d have to be creative.
He could stake out the house, he thought, but on that particular street, he’d be noticed and perhaps even questioned. He couldn’t take that chance. Instead, he went online to the University of Minnesota, downloaded a class schedule, and found that Cooper taughta late afternoon acting class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Was she even working? He didn’t know that, either.
The killer lived in a tiny St. Paul house that overlooked—if it overlooked anything—a narrow street in the front, and a set of abandoned railroad tracks in the back. He was a gig worker, employed at three different gymnasiums; none were willing to employ him long enough in any one week to be classified as full time, for which they’d have to pay more taxes and benefits.
His name was Hess. His house was a jumble of workout and electronics gear, a litter of dumbbells, laptops, stereo speakers, and an eighty-inch television that dangled beneath it three separate undisguised wires like kite strings. He had two leatherette easy chairs, pushed close together so he could put his feet on one while he sat on the other to watch television. The compact kitchen showed a stack of ramen noodle packages and also a large black tub of clarified whey protein.
He had no visitors.
Three weeks after the killings, he left his job at the noon gym and drove to the University of Minnesota, spotted what should have been Cooper’s late afternoon classroom. There was enough movement around down the halls that he could hang out; he carried a spiral notebook and a Nikon camera, was young enough to be a graduate student, and so fit in. Students moved past him without a second look.
At two o’clock that afternoon, he picked out Cooper as she walked down the hall toward the classroom, a brown file folder in her hands, a young woman walking next to her, talking rapidly, Cooper’s head tipped to listen. Hess turned away, because if she saw his face, it might spark a memory.
An hour later, he returned, watching from a distance as she left the classroom; he followed her to an office, where she disappeared inside. She showed no special wariness, which was a good thing. According to the schedule, her teaching day was over, so she should be moving.
There was a bench down the hall, outside another office, and Hess sat down, opened his notebook and began drawing a cartoon race car. He’d done that since high school, a way to kill boredom. A young woman came along, carrying a backpack over one shoulder, and asked, “Are you waiting for Dr. Seigel?”
He shook his head, smiled, said, “No,” and moved to the end of the bench so the woman could sit down. “Waiting for my friend.”
Ten minutes later, the door they were sitting next to opened, a bearded man poked his head out, looked at the woman and the killer, said, “Christine?” The woman stood up, gathered her purse and a notebook, and followed the man into his office.
Cooper appeared a minute later, her face turned away from him, walking down the hall, carrying her purse and a leather satchel. He followed her, at a distance, to a parking garage, which, it turned out, would be a terrible place to commit a murder. There were always people around, some of whom you couldn’t immediately see, lots of cameras, and the few escape hatches were all well-lit. Metal doors banged open, people called to each other, the echoes reverberating through the garage. A gunshot would sound like a cannon.
That would be a no-go.
He watched her as she got in her car and left the garage. He couldn’t follow, because he was on foot.
Hess didn’t particularlydesireto murder Margaret Cooper. Not like a psycho, with his mouth watering in anticipation. He wouldn’tmindkilling her, it wouldn’t bother him, but it was a risk, and the risk bothered him. Plagued him. So far, he’d committed analmostperfect crime.
Lying awake at night, reviewing everything he’d done, he could find only a single flaw: Cooper hadn’t been there. He’d carried out the shooting perfectly; had arrived and departed invisibly. He’d gotten rid of the gloves, the shoes, the rain suit, Sand’s wallet and watch, three cell phones, all at the bottom of the Mississippi, in separate packages. He’d thought he might keep the watch, until he’d looked at it and found Sand had been wearing an old Seiko quartz watch. An Internet sales site would sell him a better one for $306.
He’d taken the things from Sand because he’d hoped the cops would look on the killings as a robbery. Had they done that? He didn’t know. He’d seen the video the cops had released, of his arrival at the house, and his departure, and guess what: the cops had nothing.
Though he suspected it was a mistake, he’d kept the Mac laptops, because he couldn’t afford new ones of his own. He’d crack the passwords when he got around to it and wipe the hard drives, then find a way to trade or sell them online. He needed the cash, and besides, he thought, if the cops ever searched his house, he was already done for.
The gun—he still had the gun, but it was wrapped in plastic bags and buried under the abandoned railroad tracks behind his house, where it could never be found, not even with a metal detector, and where he could quickly retrieve it to use again, if he decided that was necessary. The gun should also be in the river, he knew, and it would be there, sooner or later. He’d stolen it, from a near stranger, who’d have no reason to connect him to the theft. He’d kept it because...
Because the murders were almost perfect. Almost.
Except that Cooper was alive. If Cooper were given his name, a light might come on. Life could get difficult. He didn’t know if there could ever be enough evidence against him to bring charges, but the criminal justice system was quirky, and prosecutors were known to play dirty.
