Madman on a Drum (6 page)

“There are twenty times more criminals on probation than in prison. That's because ninety-six percent of the felony convictions in Minnesota are achieved through guilty pleas and seventy-eight percent of those convictions result in probation—so, yeah, I can understand why you might get frustrated, you and the cops. Especially since thirty percent of the criminals are going to keep on offending and not much bad is going to happen to them. They'll commit one offense and get probation and then commit another offense and get probation and then another and another. Seven out of ten offenders are going to go straight; they're going to learn their lesson. But that thirty percent—I knew one offender who was serving twenty-two probations simultaneously, all of them theft related. The judges who sentenced him just didn't believe the nature of his new offenses warranted time.

“That's just the way it is. In Minnesota only the most nefarious offenders go to prison. The state legislators set it up that way. Maybe they did it because it costs over forty thousand dollars to send an offender to prison for a year and only eighteen hundred to monitor an offender who's on probation. Maybe they're just too cheap to spend the money to build more prisons to make room for all those offenders. I don't know. I only know it's not my fault and it isn't the fault of my parolees, so cut it out. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, but only to maintain peace in the car, only to secure Karen's future cooperation. See, it wasn't an offender out on probation that kidnapped Victoria Dunston. It was one of her parolees. Besides, two out of five ex-cons return to prison for one reason or another, I don't care how well they behave while on parole, so what difference did it make?

At Karen's direction I hung a right on University and headed east. On the way I called Harry on my cell. Probably I should have called Special Agent Honsa since he was in charge, but I didn't know him. I told Harry that we hadn't learned much so far, only that Scottie Thomforde had had the entire afternoon free to kidnap Victoria.

“Something else,” I said. “He has a friend called T-Man. I don't have anything more on him except that he apparently showed up a couple of weeks ago.”

“About the time the white van was stolen,” Harry said.

“He's big from weight lifting.”

“Big enough to carry a squirming eighty-pound girl to a waiting van, I bet.”

“Maybe he did his body building in prison.”

“He wouldn't be the first.”

As we drove toward the state capitol campus at the far end of University Avenue, it occurred to me that St. Paul was fast becoming the most boring city in America. Take the name. The city was originally called Pig's Eye Landing after its founder, Pierre “Pig's Eye” Parrant, a notorious and thoroughly likable fur trader turned moonshiner, until a French priest came along and decided it wasn't PC enough. That was just the beginning. St. Paul had always been a city of neighborhoods, and those neighborhoods used to have names with character: Beanville, Bohemian Flats, Frogtown, Swede's Hollow, Cornbread Valley, Oatmeal Hill, Shadow Falls. Sure, some people still use those names, old-timers mostly, only you'll rarely see them in official documents. That's because in 1975, St. Paul formed community councils in seventeen districts and charged them with creating new “neighborhoods” whose boundaries were influenced more by streets and traffic flow than by shared identity and communal history. These districts were given politically acceptable names like Como, Midway, Summit Hill, and Battle Creek. Take “the Badlands.” That's a name now known to only a few people who actually grew up there and a handful of researchers at the Minnesota Historical Society. Yet at one time, the Badlands was as prosperous a neighborhood as any in St. Paul. 'Course, that was before Interstates 94 and 35E carved it into pieces and scattered them among the conservatively named Thomas-Dale, Downtown, and Dayton's Bluff districts.

Karen directed me northeast from the capitol to a residential street near the Gillette Children's Hospital, where we found a sprawling two-story building shaped like a horse shoe with a courtyard at the center. It had once been a hotel, considered quite swank, that was rumored to have been the last hideout of Dillinger accomplice Homer Van Meter before he was gunned down by cops at University and Marion Street, about half a mile away.

That's another thing. We used to have celebrity gangsters living in our midst. Now it's just punks. And politicians.

The hotel was old and worn, with crumbling sidewalks and a facade in dire need of paint. There was a low Cyclone fence surrounding it, and I wondered if the people living nearby and sending their kids to the Franklin Elementary School knew what it was used for.

We parked in back on broken asphalt and hard-packed earth, found an opening in the fence, and followed it around the outside of the building to the top of the horse shoe. There was a balcony that ran the length of the second floor, and we walked beneath it toward the office. An old man sat in a frayed lawn chair at the base of the horse shoe. He was staring at the courtyard beyond. It was overgrown with weeds and uncut grass that grew between the broken stones. In the center was an unused fountain. The floor of the fountain was cracked, and I doubted it could hold water. It was an altogether depressing sight, yet the old man found something there that made him smile nonetheless.

We stepped inside two glass doors and were greeted by a long, high, battle-scarred desk that was once the center of the hotel. It now served a lone receptionist. Karen greeted her as Agnes and asked if Roger Colfax was in. Agnes smiled as if they were old friends, and I wondered if Karen spent a lot of time here.

“Yeah, sure, you betcha,” Agnes said, and I winced. Ever since the Coen brothers film came out, I am quick to tell outsiders that no one in Minnesota actually speaks with the vocabulary and accents of the characters in
Fargo.
Only to my embarrassment, I am reminded from time to time that some of us do.

Agnes led us to an office just off the reception area with badly chipped wood paneling, a threadbare carpet, and furniture that should have been replaced a decade ago. Cardboard boxes, used as file cabinets, were stacked on both sides of the desk. There was an ancient air conditioner sitting precariously on a windowsill; a stiff wind could probably topple it from its perch.

Agnes said, “Wouldja lookit who came for a visit, now.”

Roger rose quickly from the desk. “Karen, it's always a pleasure to see you,” he said, and from the way he said it, and the way his eyes swept over her body, I believed he was telling the truth. He took her hand and said, “You look wonderful, as usual.”

Karen said, “Thank you, Roger.”

Agnes smiled brightly, said “Okay, then,” and left the office.

“You've done something to your hair,” Roger said.

Karen glanced at me. “No. I just let it blow around in the wind a bit.”

“Very becoming.”

“You're too kind.”

Roger led her to a chair without releasing her hand until she was safely seated. He went to his own chair and tucked himself behind his desk. His grin reminded me of one of those middle-aged guys who won something in high school and still display the trophy.

“You're not here on a social call, are you?” he said.

“I'm looking for Scottie Thomforde,” she said. “Is he here?”

Roger shouted, “Agnes.” Agnes poked her head into the office. “Has Scottie reported in yet?”

“Not yet,” she said. She smiled benignly as though she expected him at any moment.

“Let me know when he does.”

“You betcha.”

“Tight ship you run here, pal,” I said.

Roger looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“He's with me,” Karen said.

“Are you going to violate Scottie?” he said. “Why?” He was staring at me when he spoke, giving me the impression that he thought I was a cop serving a warrant. Neither Karen nor I corrected him.

“I don't know that I'm going to do that,” Karen said.

“I've had no problems with him,” Roger said. “He's gone to all the meetings. He's never missed a counseling session. He hasn't broken a rule.”

“I did a spot check this afternoon. He left his job around one and hasn't been seen since. Do you know where he is?”

Roger leaned back in his chair; his left hand beat a monotonous rhythm on the desktop.

“Is that a yes or a no?” I said.

“He's on Huber,” Roger said.

“What's that mean?”

“Work release program. It allows offenders to leave the house to go to work as long as they return to the house immediately afterward. Scottie's not supposed to leave his place of business, but you have to understand”—he was lecturing me now—“it's our job to help prepare offenders for the outside world. We can't do that solely within these walls. You can't teach offenders how to behave in a free society unless you give them some freedom.”

Yeah, sure,
my inner voice replied.

“I give Scottie thirty minutes' travel time by bus,” Roger said, “plus an additional hour's grace in case he has to work overtime and doesn't have a chance to call in, before I become unduly anxious.”

“When does Scottie get off work?”

“Five thirty.”

“Add ninety minutes in case he wants to get his ashes hauled or score some blow—”

“That's unfair,” said Karen.

“And Scottie should be under your personal supervision no later than 7:00
P.M.
Right?”

“That is correct.”

“What time is it now?”

Roger glanced at the clock on the wall behind me. “Seven forty-five,” he said.

“Are you anxious yet?”

Roger slouched in his chair, disappointment etched across his face. He turned his head reluctantly and looked at Karen. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

“Nothing, for now,” she said. “We don't know that he's in the wind. Maybe he was hit by a truck. You men”—she was looking at me now— “if you expect the worst, you'll usually find it.”

Roger shrugged. “He could be at his mother's home. I've given him furloughs so he could spend the weekend there twice.”

“When was the last time?” I asked.

“Two weeks ago.”

I almost told him that Scottie was sighted at Lehane's two weeks ago, but let it slide.

“Could be at his mom's,” Karen said. “We'll take a look.”

“Do you want the address?” Roger asked.

“I know her,” Karen said.

I almost said, “So do I,” but caught myself.

I wanted to interview the other parolees in the house, find out who Scottie's friends were. I let that slide, too. I could hear Special Agent Honsa's voice in my ear telling me not to tip our hand, not to alert anyone that we were searching for Scottie who wouldn't normally learn about it through Karen's employment. Besides, there was plenty of time for interrogations once Victoria was returned and the FBI launched a full-scale investigation.

Karen and Roger walked side by side to the door. He had his hands clasped behind his back and she was gripping her bag, and they moved carefully as if they were afraid to bump into each other. When they reached the door, Karen rested her hand on Roger's arm and said, “This probably isn't as big a deal as it seems. As far as we know, Scottie hasn't done anything to cause any trouble for anyone, except for being tardy. We can't let that go unpunished.”

“Of course not.”

“It doesn't mean we have to violate him.”

“No.”

“When he returns, call me. Don't tell him that I was here. Just call me.”

“I will.”

“You have my cell number?”

“It's on speed dial,” Roger said.

The warm smiles they flashed at each other were so fleeting that you had to be an unlicensed, semiprofessional private investigator with years of experience to notice them. It occurred to me then that Roger and Karen had once been lovers, perhaps still were, and didn't want anyone to know.

“One more thing,” I said.

“What?” I could tell that Roger wanted me out the door and down the street.

“Do you have any offenders housed here that they call T-Man, or who might be referred to as T-Man?” I asked.

Roger thought about it for a few moments, then shook his head and said, “No.”

I almost believed him.

 

It took about fifteen minutes to work our way through St. Paul back to the Merriam Park neighborhood. Karen spoke only twice during the trip. The first time was when we left the parking lot and she offered directions to Scottie Thomforde's mother's home. I told her I knew the way. She seemed surprised by that. The second time was ten minutes later when I hung a right off Snelling Avenue onto Marshall, heading west. “How do you know where Scottie Thomforde's mother lives?” she asked. She had been nursing the question all that time.

“I grew up with him,” I said.

“You were friends?”

“Yeah.”

“You were friends with Scottie?”

“Yeah.”

Karen seemed to have a difficult time wrapping her head around the idea. “Were you good friends?” she asked.

“For a while we were.”

“Why aren't you friends anymore?”

“He kidnapped Victoria Dunston.”

“We don't know that for sure.”

“If you say so.” I wasn't in the mood to argue with her.

“I don't believe you and Scottie were good friends,” she said.

“Good enough that I testified on his behalf when he killed a guy.”

“Scottie never killed anyone.”

“Yes, he did. Right”—I pulled the Audi to the curb between Herschel and Wheeler and pointed across the street—“there.”

Karen looked at the spot I had indicated and back at me. “I don't believe it,” she said.

“We were sixteen. I was driving my father's car, and he was driving his mother's car. We had driven to the Wabasha Caves down by the river one night and had drunk some beer, me and Scottie and Bobby Dunston and six or seven others. When we were driving home, Scottie took a hard right turn off Fairview onto Marshall. An old man dressed all in black was crossing the street in front of us. Scottie didn't see him until he hit him. Guy flew over his hood, over his car. I was driving behind Scottie. I almost hit the man myself. We stopped. Someone, Bobby, I think, ran to one of the houses”—I gestured toward the homes on the far side of the street—“and called the police.

“This was before Mothers Against Drunk Driving, before driving while intoxicated was considered such a horrendous crime. This was before the term ‘designated driver' even entered our collective vocabulary. So when they came to investigate, the cops didn't bother asking Scottie to blow into a PBT to see if his breath could change the color of the crystals. There was no blood test. Instead, they asked him to touch his nose and walk in a straight line, and Scottie did. Then they measured his skid marks and decided that he hadn't been speeding. The next day an investigator from the county attorney's office questioned me because I had been driving the other car, because I had seen everything. He asked if Scottie had been drinking. I said no. I said the other kids had been drinking but Scottie and I hadn't because our parents would have killed us if they caught us drinking and driving. That was good enough for the investigator. They let Scottie go. No charges were ever filed.”

“You lied,” Karen said.

“Yes, I did.”

“To protect Scottie.”

“To protect myself. My father was sitting there when the investigator questioned me. If I had said Scottie was drinking, I would have had to admit that I had been drinking, too, and I was far too frightened of my father to do it. It was an act of cowardice that's haunted me on and off ever since. But at the time, Scottie thanked me profusely. So did his mother. Now he's kidnapped a young girl that I love from her mother and father that I love and has demanded one million dollars of my money for her safe return.”

“That's why you're so angry?”

“That's it.”

“I understand,” she said. I doubted that she did.

I checked the traffic, pulled onto Marshall, and hung a right at the next intersection. A couple of turns later I was parked in front of the house where Scottie Thomforde had once lived.