Dark of the Moon

alive—this would be Todd Williamson’s grandparents. Then, check the NCIC for a Lane, unknown first name, born seven twenty sixty-nine.”
    “You think he used his mother’s name?” Sandy asked.
    “If he got a birth certificate, he could use it to get a driver’s license, and he could use that to get a Social Security number. He could do the same thing with his adoptive parents’ names, have two perfectly good IDs based on official state documents.”
    “How soon do you need it?”
    “I’m on the way up there, hundred miles an hour,” Virgil said. “Feed it to me as you get it. If you find people, route me to their locations.”
    When he got off, he looked down at the speedometer. Hundred and five. He’d always liked speed—but the truck was squealing like a pig.
     
    S ANDY CALLED BACK as he was making the turn north on I-35. “The NCIC has a William Lane, seven twenty sixty-nine, showing arrests in eighty-seven and twice in eighty-eight, possession of a small amount of cocaine on the first one, and then two assault charges in eighty-eight, apparently a domestic thing. He spent four months in the Hennepin County jail on the second assault…let me look, blah, blah, a Karen Biggs, I’ll see if I can find her…”
    “E-mail it to me…”
     
    S HE CALLED fifteen minutes later: “I’ve got the Biggs woman, she lives in Cottage Grove now, her name is Johannsen, got a bunch of DWIs. I checked William Lane, he shared an address with Todd Williamson in ’eighty-eight and ’eighty-nine…”
    “Got him,” Virgil said.
    “Yup. Haven’t found his parents yet, they left too long ago,” Sandy said.
    “Keep looking. How about the grandmother?” Virgil asked.
    “Ralph and Helen Lane. Ralph died a long time ago. Helen is still alive, she lives up in Roseville, but I haven’t been able to reach her.”
    “Give me those addresses.” He propped his notebook in the center of the steering wheel, kept one eye half-cocked toward the highway, took the addresses down.
     
    T EN MINUTES AFTER THAT, Sandy was back. “The Williamsons are in Arizona. I’ve got an address but no phone number. I’ll try to get one.”
    “Good. If you have to, check on neighbors, have them go next door and find out the number.”
    “Okay. I’m looking at license photos on Williamson and Lane and they are indeed the same person, though Lane has some facial hair and an earring,” Sandy said.
    “E-mail them.”
    He got off the phone, stayed on the accelerator, took a call from Davenport as he swung onto I-35E south of the Cities. “I talked to Sandy. She says you’re rolling on this thing.”
    “I think so.”
    “You got anything for a trial?” Davenport asked. “Gotta think about trial.”
    “Not yet. Gonna have to think of something cute, to get that. Right now, I’m trying to nail down the fact that my guy’s a psycho.”
    “All right. Stay in touch.”
     
    H E CAME OFF I-35E, cut east across the south end of the Cities on I-494, and then south on Highway 61, the same one that Bob Dylan revisited, heading into Cottage Grove. Off at 80th Street, he called Sandy, who got on MapQuest and took him straight in to Johannsen’s place.
    Johannsen’s son came to the door, wearing rapper jeans with the crotch at knee level, and a T-shirt that was four sizes too big; he had a GameBoy in his hand. His eyes were at half-mast, and the odor of marijuana floated out of the house when he opened the door.
    “She’s at work,” he said, sullenly.
    “Where?”
    “Either SuperAmerica or Tom Thumb. She works at both of them,” he said. “I don’t know where she’s working today.”
     
    K AREN J OHANNSEN was at the SuperAmerica, throwing expired doughnuts in a dumpster. “I have some questions about William Lane, who was convicted of assaulting you,” Virgil said, flashing his ID.
    “Shoot. That was twenty years ago, almost.” She was a short, broad woman with black hair and watery brown eyes, a pushed-in nose, older-looking than her years.
    “I know that,” Virgil said. “What we’re trying to do is, we’re trying get a grip on what kind of a guy he is. The assaults…were they heavy-duty, or just sort of…routine domestic fighting?”
    “He was trying to kill me,” Johannsen said, matter-of-factly. She waved her hand in front of her face, like a fan. They were too close to the dumpster, which smelled of spoiled bananas and meat, and sour milk. “He would have, too, if he’d been stronger. The first time,