Hidden Prey

the coat.”
    “Kellogg never went after him, didn’t try to find him.”
    Reasons shook his head. “No. He had to get help for the hurt guy, and all the cabins and the gangway and shit were all at the back of the boat, way back there . . .” He pointed again, to the far end of the slip. “Besides, he was scared shitless after he saw the blood.”
    “Have any thoughts?” Lucas had figured Reasons out during the ride between Duluth police headquarters and the grain terminal. Beneath an assumed cynicism, the muscleman was a fairly smart guy.
    Reasons scratched his head, as though stirring up a few thoughts. “Not many. There was . . . You know about the Minnesota Rangers?”
    Lucas touched his nose with his index finger, thinking. He had: “The militia guys?”
    “Yeah. Skinheads. Some old Vietnam veterans, Gulf War veterans, bikers. They go around in long black coats, like in that Matrix movie. Even in the summer. Shave their heads. They think that America is a socialist hell and that we’re all being turned into batteries.”
    Lucas showed a little skepticism. “You think one tried to prove his manhood by killing a Russian?”
    Reasons shook his head: “No. I don’t. This was too cold for a fruitcake. You’d maybe take a trophy, cut off an ear or something, but open his pants up and search him? I don’t think so. The killer was after something specific. But . . .” He turned his hands palms up, an I can’t help myself gesture.
    “What?”
    “One of our intelligence guys heard a rumor that the Rangers were taking credit. You know, like the PLO takes credit when they blow something up? I went out to see Dick Worley, he’s the leader out there at their war grounds. He said nobody he knew had heard anything. I put some bullshit on him, but he said that, honest to God, nobody knew anything about it. They hadn’t even heard the rumor that they’d done it.”
    “You believed him.”
    Reasons nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”
    “What are the war grounds?” Lucas asked.
    “One of those paint-ball places. They play capture the flag, and all that. War games.”
    Lucas looked up at the grain terminal. There was a tiny window at the top, with a man’s face framed in it. He was looking down at them. “Bummer.”
     
    T HEY MOOCHED AROUND the area again, and Lucas said, “The idea of a chase . . . that’s a little odd.”
    “Maybe it never happened,” Reasons said. “But that night, and thenext morning, you could see where somebody had been beating through the weeds. Falling down a lot, too, or wrestling around. And it was fresh, like the weeds had just been broken. I think maybe they’re connected. If somebody had another idea, though, I’d be happy to hear it.”
    “I got nothing.” Lucas looked at his watch, took a last look around the murder scene, and then asked, “You want to meet another Russian? The guy’ll be here in an hour. Or you could haul my ass back to the station, and I’ll go get him.”
    “I’ll go with you,” Reasons said.
    “Maybe you’ll hate him.”
    “Probably. But I go back to the office, they’re gonna have me chasing down bums.”
    “Yeah?” They started back toward the car, which Reasons had parked next to the terminal.
    “Somebody offed this old lady last night, street person, kinda crazy. You know. Schizo. Strangled her with a wire, we think. That’s what the doc thinks, anyway. Cut her throat with it. We got four guys going around interviewing winos—not my idea of a good day.”
    “Any leads?”
    “Nothing. Her pushcart—she had a shopping cart—found it a block away, down the hill. It’s possible that somebody tried to take it away from her.”
    “Killed her for a cart full of junk?” Lucas eyebrows were up.
    “Hey, if it was another wino . . . but we dunno. Found her on the sidewalk, head cut halfway off, big puddle of blood. Whoever did it was a strong motherfucker, is what the ME says.”
    “You’re a strong motherfucker,” Lucas observed.
    Reasons’s brown eyes snapped over at Lucas, and he grinned: “Yeah, I am. Lift every day. It made me wonder . . . you know, if I know the guy. Wonder if he pumps a little iron?” He thought about it, then shook his head: “Nah. Probably another wino.”
     
    T HE TRACK INTO the terminal was not much more than a long series of potholes and ruts. They bumped out of it, over a curb, and turned up toward the city.
    The south end of Superior is shaped like a pocketknife blade,