Blind Rage Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Copyright

  This book is dedicated to

  my brother, Joseph,

  his wife, Rita,

  and their children,

  Anthony, Robert, and Christina.

  They have always been there for me and mine

  with their love, faith, and sense of family.

  Acknowledgments

  My devoted husband, David, and our wonderful sons, Ryan and Patrick, keep me buoyant in this journey with their love and trust. I’m a blessed woman.

  I continue to be awed by the excellent work of my agent, Esther Newberg, and my editor, Phyllis Grann.

  I’m thankful for my supportive pals in the First Friday Club, a collection of cranky journalists and ex-journalists who meet once a month to gossip over soup and sandwiches. Where should we go for lunch next, guys?

  To my buddy John Camp: Thank you for the ongoing advice and friendship.

  Prologue

  THE HOUSE WAS FILLED WITH THE WARM AROMAS OF CHILI powder and fried ground beef, the only leftovers from taco night. In the white kitchen a boy sat at the table with his hands folded atop the white linen as if immersed in a postmeal prayer. He was dressed in a parochial school uniform: light blue oxford shirt, navy necktie, navy slacks, thick-soled black shoes. Without being given any instructions, he’d already wiped down the stovetop, cleared the table, scraped the plates, and loaded the dishwasher. The racket of the rinse cycle rumbled under the counter, but it was the noise overhead that made his eyes cloud with terror. The tub was running. In any other home, the musical drum of water hitting the porcelain would mean it was bath time. In this house the sound was a dirge.

  Though his body was immobile with fear, his mind was convulsing with questions and answers: What did I do? I didn’t do shit…Mid-quarter grades are coming out. Did I get a B in anything? No fucking way…Did the nuns bug Dad at the office over some bullshit, something I did during lunch or gym or mass? No. I’d know. School would have hauled me into the office before calling him…Did Mom find something in my room? Hell no. Nothing there to find…What is it, then? What did I do?

  The rinse cycle lurched to a halt, leaving the running tub to a solo performance. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to kid himself: Maybe Mom is taking one of her bubble baths. That must be it. All the worry for nothing. The harsh voice of reality broke through: Not this early. She’d miss her hospital show.

  Am I the one in trouble?

  The yells rolling down the stairs from the second floor answered his question.

  His father’s booming voice: “Care to explain this?”

  A teenager’s rebellious response: “Weren’t you listening? It’s not mine!”

  “Then whose is it? How did you end up with it?”

  His mother, using a sweet singsong tone that was more frightening than his dad’s loudest barks: “Answer your father. Tell the truth. We’ll find out if you’re lying. We always find out.”

  “It’s not mine,” the teen repeated.

  The sugar voice again: “Come on now. How stupid do you think your parents are? It was in your backpack.”

  “I don’t know how it got there. I swear to God. One of the kids at school must have put it in there.”

  “Who put it there?” bellowed his father. “When? How? Why would they?”

  A litany of excuses: “None of them like me…Maybe they didn’t want to get caught with it…They could have done it as a joke, while I was riding the bus…I don’t know. I just know it’s not mine.”

  “Fuck,” the boy breathed to the ceiling. The reasons for his sibling’s unworthiness scrolled through his head: Can’t even come up with a decent lie. Dummy deserves it. Always causing trouble. Always picking a fight with them.

  The tub faucet overhead squeaked to a stop, and all thought fled his mind in a panic.

  Heavy footsteps took the stairs down slowly and purposefully. The boy lowered his eyes as his father stepped into the kitchen. He was tall, lean, and square-shouldered. Though his eyes were cool, his face retained the flush from the upstairs shouting match. His close-cropped hair echoed the military-like trim of his son’s cut. He was still dressed for work, his only concession to being home was a slight loosening of his tie. Taking in the cleared table and countertop, he smiled. “Good job.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Taco night’s always fun, isn’t it?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “I need you to come upstairs now. You’ve got one more chore, and then you can hit the books. If you get done early, you can catch the second half of the Vikings.”

  The boy stayed seated, hoping to put off the inevitable.

  “Now, son.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy bolted up from his seat, knocking his chair backward onto the white tile. He righted the chair while stumbling over an apology. “Sorry, sir…sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it, son. Accidents happen.” The man checked his watch. “Now let’s get moving. I have some calls to make before the game starts.”

  Trying to stall, the boy looked down at his polished shoes. “Shouldn’t I…change first, sir? My school clothes might get…”

  “A little water never hurt anything,” said his father. He turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  The boy followed wordlessly. Head bent, he slowly mounted the stairs after his father. Silently, he delivered a petition to God: Please blind me. Don’t make me watch this time.

  Chapter 1

  MINNESOTA BRACED ITSELF FOR A WHITE HALLOWEEN. ONE of the wettest summers on record had been followed by a frigid fall, inviting speculation that there’d be snow on the ground by the end of October. Northland kids were accustomed to incorporating rain gear into their costumes, creating Spidermen in slickers and vampires armed with umbrellas. Being forced to add boots and mittens and down vests to their ensembles wouldn’t be a huge leap; the show would go on.

  In every neighborhood, picture windows were plastered with paper ghosts and Frankenstein monster heads, subtle declarations of war against the threatened early winter. Plastic tombstones were propped in front yards like protest signs. Bags of mini–candy bars were optimistically stockpiled in cupboards. Orange lights dripped from bushes and twined around tree limbs. Rubber skeletons dangled from porch ceilings while glowing skulls punched through the darkness.

  The scariest thing about the Midwest that autumn, however, was the water.

  Six college women had drowned in the Mississippi over a period of six mont
hs. Four had gone into the river at the University of Minnesota’s Minneapolis campus, and two had perished around the University of Wisconsin in La Crosse. Authorities determined that the women had killed themselves, but rumors of a serial killer and a cover-up persisted and grew. By that fall, the police and the public were at each other’s throats.

  Students demonstrated on both campuses, demanding the investigations into the deaths be reopened. During a press conference held in La Crosse, angry community members shouted down the cops and college administrators. The father of one of the Twin Cities victims took a swing at a university vice president in the middle of a regents’ meeting. The mood was so volatile, professors on both sides of the border teamed up to issue an open letter to the cities asking for calm.

  Bernadette Saint Clare, the FBI’s lone agent in its downtown St. Paul office—a subterranean cell in the Warren E. Burger Federal Building—was not invited to the investigation. She sat at her desk late Monday morning, reading a Star Tribune story that rehashed the deaths.

  The first drowning had taken place in April. No one witnessed the woman’s plunge into the river, but University of Minnesota police found a note on the upper deck of the Washington Avenue Bridge. They called the death a suicide. The freshman’s own parents agreed with the ruling, revealing that the girl had struggled with emotional problems and had been seeing psychiatrists off and on over the years.

  “Sounds pretty cut and dried,” Bernadette muttered, flipping to the next page of the news story.

  The second drowning took place a month later, probably in the middle of the night. No one saw the jump, but authorities believed the graduate student could have gone off the same bridge. In place of a note, police found a telltale scarf left at the base of a lamppost. Another troubled young woman, they said. Another suicide. A drowning in June left investigators and university officials fearing a rash of copycat suicides. A flurry of press releases from health organizations followed, warning the public about the signs of depression. Television news tapped assorted shrinks for interviews. Suicide help lines geared up for action.

  For two months, there were no drownings at the University of Minnesota. Downriver was another story. During the summer session at the University of Wisconsin in La Crosse, two girls died, one of them in July and the other in August. In each case, the young woman had left a tavern on a Saturday night and turned up floating in the Mississippi days later. Autopsies determined the girls had been drinking. While neither had left a suicide note, both had been battling depression and eating disorders.

  Come September, a medical student disappeared from the University of Minnesota campus after attending an evening seminar. Her high heels were found at the base of the rail lining the Washington Avenue Bridge, inspiring the editor of an underground student newspaper to dub the walkway “Murderer’s Alley.” Her body hadn’t been found.

  Reporters in both states connected the dots between the Twin Cities and La Crosse deaths, and the fists started flying.

  Bernadette knew there were things going on behind the scenes that could serve to either placate the fearful public or inflame it further. The FBI’s Milwaukee and Minneapolis offices were joining together to quietly review all the evidence in the deaths to see if local law enforcement had missed something. Were these drownings truly suicides, or were they the work of a serial killer?

  “I could figure it out,” Bernadette muttered to the newsprint.

  She’d begged her immediate supervisor—Assistant Special Agent in Charge Tony Garcia—to let her pitch in. Garcia had instead assigned her to tracking down yet another bank robber, this one dubbed the Fishing Hat Bandit. She suspected her ASAC was holding her back from the bigger case because he feared she’d mess it up, especially if she tried utilizing all of her abilities.

  She folded the newspaper and dropped it into the wastebasket next to her desk, one of three in her basement office. The other two were unoccupied, at least by living beings, and she used them as extra workspaces. They both contained dead computer monitors and were piled with paperwork.

  Reluctantly, she reached for the manila file folder she’d kept pushed to the side of her desktop like a moldy sandwich. Flipping it open, she started to read. Overhead, she heard banging and sawing. They were renovating the building, a project that had started over the summer and promised to stretch well into the next calendar year. The sound of a jackhammer joined the chorus.

  When her phone rang above the din, she was more than happy to drop the robber’s file and pick up the receiver. “Agent Saint Clare!”

  Garcia: “Why are you hollering at me?”

  The racket stopped, and she glanced up at the ceiling. “Sorry. Construction noise is making me deaf.”

  “We’ve got another one, Cat.”

  Bernadette ran a hand through her short blond hair. “Which bank?”

  “No. Another drowning victim. I need you at the scene.”

  She pushed the Fishing Hat file off to the side again. “What’s changed? Why do you want me now?”

  “This one turned up dead in her own bathtub.”

  She switched the phone to her other ear. “It can’t be a suicide, then, right? This is something else.”

  “I don’t know what it is. Just get over here.”

  Bernadette grabbed a pen and a pad. “Where am I going?”

  “Dinkytown,” Garcia said.

  Dinkytown was a Minneapolis neighborhood immediately north of the University of Minnesota’s east bank. “She lived in an apartment?”

  “Shared a house with a bunch of other gals. It’s off Fourth Street.”

  Bernadette scratched down the address and his directions. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

  “Take a company car,” he said. “Please.”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes. Garcia had been scolding her for continuing to drive her Ford pickup on the job. “All right. I’ll take the damn Vicky. You happy?”

  “Never,” he said, and hung up.

  She checked the holstered Glock tucked into her slacks, slipped her coat on over her blazer, and pulled on her leather gloves. It was cold out, but that’s not why she shielded her hands. She didn’t want any surprises this time. Even though it was a cloudy day, she plucked her sunglasses off her desk and dropped them in her pocket. Once she got to the scene, she didn’t want to surprise anybody with her eyes.

  SHE BUMPED OUT of the parking ramp and steered the Crown Vic to Wabasha Street. After a half mile of stop-and-go movement through the heart of downtown St. Paul, she turned onto Interstate 94 heading west. Traffic was heavy and got worse as she neared the Minneapolis border. Ever since she’d returned to her home state, she’d been struck by how congested the Twin Cities roads had become. She took the Huron Boulevard exit to the University of Minnesota. Huron Boulevard Southeast became Southeast Fourth Street.

  Braking at a red light, she took in the storefront shops and restaurants lining the street. While she’d been born and raised on a farm, she had cousins who’d lived in town and attended the “Zoo of M,” as they called it. They told her Minnesota native Bob Dylan wrote “Positively 4th Street” about this particular route and that he’d lived somewhere around Dinkytown. She’d visited the neighborhood a couple of times when she was a teenager. The Varsity Theater looked pretty much the way she remembered it, and so did many of the storefronts, but the students looked a little dressier. They seemed younger, too. Maybe that was because she was so much older than the last time she’d called the state home.

  Adjusting the rearview mirror of the bureau car, she noted that the woman in the reflection was pale and tired looking—she rarely got a full night’s sleep—but carried no lines on her face. When she dressed in jeans and sweatshirts (her preferred weekend attire), she could pass for a teenage boy. Was that a good thing or a bad thing for a thirty-eight-year-old woman? Frowning into the mirror, she took her sunglasses out of her coat and put them on. Now she looked like a teenage boy wearing shades.

  The light turned
green, and she accelerated.

  Chapter 2

  BERNADETTE DIDN’T NEED TO DOUBLE-CHECK THE ADDRESS as she approached the house; the circus had to be visible from outer space. A fleet of Minneapolis squad cars lined both sides of the narrow road. Parked on the street directly in front of the house were an EMS ambulance and a medical examiner’s wagon; only one of the rigs would be leaving with a passenger. Uniformed officers and plainclothes investigators milled around the walk leading up to the home. Police tape stretched across the front yard and ran down each side. The lawn was planted with cardboard tombstones. Television crews were going to have a field day setting up with those props in the background. She’d lay money at least one television reporter was going to use the word ironically during a live shot.

  What’s that behind you, Angela?

  Ironically, Jeff, Halloween grave markers decorate the victim’s front yard.

  Bernadette cruised past the house and drove two blocks down to the reporters’ ghetto. She parked between two television news vans, both plastered with propaganda claiming their station was number one in breaking news. While she walked, she dug her ID wallet out of her coat.

  When she got to the sidewalk that ran in front of the home, she could make out the tombstones’ inscriptions. Here rests the Pillsbury Doughboy. He will rise again. Another read: RIP. Barry M. Deep. The house was a two-story box covered in wood clapboard, with a sagging open porch running across the width of it. The front of the house was painted lemon yellow and the sides were lime green. She wondered which fruity clearance color decorated the back.

  Two uniforms from Minneapolis PD stopped her the instant she stepped over the yellow tape. She held up her identification, and the bigger officer took it. She waited for him to ask her to remove her shades, but he didn’t. He handed the ID back to her. “They’re waiting for you.”

  Bernadette stuffed the wallet back in her pocket and navigated around the police officers clogging the walk.