The Weatherman (25 page)

There was no way Andrea Labore could duck the assignment. Not the lead story. And when the press conference was over with, she would stand in the melting snow in front of the State Capitol Building, adjust her earpiece, stare into a camera, and feed one-minute reports to affiliated stations around the heartland: “Detroit, what is the name of your anchorman? . .. Can you hear me, St. Louis? ... Talk to me, Omaha … Milwaukee, which anchor do I get it from, and which anchor do I throw it back to?” After that charade Andrea would hang around the Capitol and do live reports for Channel 7 at five, six, and ten. It was the kind of assignment no TV reporter could afford to turn down. The fact that Jack Napoleon handed her the job propelled her to the front of the pack at Sky High News-heir apparent to Charleen Barington, who was almost forty years old. Fortunately for Andrea, the governor’s office said the governor would not be answering questions or granting interviews afterwards. What they didn’t say was whether he was going to sign the death penalty bill or veto it.

Andrea signed in at the anteroom, then pushed her way into the crowded Governor’s Reception Room, one of the most magnificent rooms in the state. The last rays of winter sunshine spilled through tall windows that framed the cathedral. Crimson draperies around the glass were faithful reproductions of the 1905 originals. The high walls of intricate woodwork were lined with great, beautiful paintings that had been commissioned by famed architect Cass Gilbert to portray Minnesota’s history. Two hundred-pound chandeliers hung from the gilded ceiling.

Andrea put on a difficult smile and chatted with colleagues as she made her way to the back wall, where she hoped she could see but not be seen.

A podium stood in front of a white marble fireplace, the state seal attached. Folding chairs crowded out from there. Leather couches and matching armchairs ran along the walls. Every seat was taken. Sitting on the couch nearest the podium was an old man with a cane. He was wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. A tall black man sat next to him. The staff and the curious were standing in the aisles. Legislators led by the bill’s sponsor, Smith Jameson, stood squeezed together behind the podium, along with the attorney general and other state office holders.

Andrea flipped open her notebook and dated the paper. Above her head was a painting of Father Louis Hennepin, crucifix in hand, blessing the Falls of St. Anthony. The Indians who had led him to this natural wonder looked on, their fate sealed.

The door to the governor’s office opened. The bright lights of the TV cameras came up. The governor’s minions preceded him. Then he appeared. Per Ellefson moved with purpose to the podium.

The line between love and hate is so fine Andrea didn’t know which side of it she was standing on. They hadn’t been together since the fight, though they’d talked on the phone a few times. Andrea wished her personal life were on a par with her career. But love makes weak the power of reason. She could see him through the shoulders of the men in front of her. On television Per Ellefson looked like a governor out of Central Casting. In person he was polite to a fault. He brought a lot of women into government, but they were young and attractive. Older women claimed he ignored them. Nobody blamed him for the killings. His ratings in media polls remained respectable. He kept the lunatics in the legislature in check.

The governor’s voice resonated through the room. “If you’re a governor, or ever dreamed to be, this will be your most difficult decision.” He held up the bill. “I’ve always believed that meeting violence with violence solves nothing.”

Directly behind the governor, above the fireplace and staring everybody in the face, was a mural depicting the signing of the Treaty of Traverse des Sioux. Standing on a platform was Territorial Governor Alexander Ramsey. Seated to his right was General, and future governor, Henry Sibley. Seated in between the two was Sioux Chief Little Crow. In 1851 the Dakota Indians were starving. The government threatened to hold back promised food and horses unless they signed two treaties: the politics of life and death. Little Crow signed. The Dakota Sioux sold southern Minnesota for twelve and a half cents an acre and were given a small reservation along the Minnesota River. After the Sioux uprising of 1863, Congress abrogated both treaties and the Sioux were driven out of Minnesota. Little Crow was shot by settlers, scalped, beheaded, and his remains put on display. For a hundred years his skull lay in the basement of the historical society across the street.

“As the courts and Congress narrow the grounds to block executions,” Per Ellefson went on, “the twin burdens of justice and mercy fall more and more on the nation’s governors. The judge and the jury can say they were just doing their part. The man who throws the switch can say he was just doing his job. But governors have no such refuge. In this bill before me today the governor retains the power of clemency … the power of justice and mercy.”

Watching the tall Norwegian speak made her uncomfortable. Andrea swallowed hard and looked away. On the wall to the governor’s right was a Civil War painting of the Fourth Minnesota Regiment entering Vlcksburg, Mississippi. They were the first regiment to march into the city after its surrender. The Old Warren County Courthouse could be seen on the hill in the background. War was something Andrea Labore had never understood. She thought of what Vietnam had done to Rick Beanblossom. He was still haunting her, but in a different way. What kind of a relationship can a woman have with a man without a face? In the newsroom her newfound friend was betting the governor of Viking descent would sign the bill into law. “It’s in his blood,” he was telling people. Before Christmas Andrea would have taken that bet.

“I have never been one to follow the polls,” the governor said, announcing his decision, “but this is something the people of Minnesota want. To veto this bill would be the height of arrogance.”

The politics of life and death. Per Ellefson signed. And on March 19, capital punishment in Minnesota was law once again.

And with the height of arrogance, on March 20, the last day of winter, the Calendar Killer struck once again.

THE
F0G

Fog the color of skim milk shrouded the suburban hills of Edina. Warm temperatures, snowy ground, and cloudy skies were pouring moisture into the air. The rising sun was of little help. Even the poles supporting street lamps disappeared into the soup.

In squad car nine Officer Shelly Sumter cruised slowly through the spooky hills, her fog lights on, her shift near its end. Shelly’s father worked for the railroad. Her grandfather was a janitor at the state prison in Stillwater. He had the wood shop there make her a billy club with her initials carved into it; she carried it with pride. She was in high school before she learned her granddaddy had done time in Stillwater. A long time. The family secret. Never discussed. Shelly always meant to research the crime through court records. Then she’d put it off.

“Car nine. Mud Lake Town Homes. Sandpiper Court and Oriole. Possible prowler.”

Edina police still gave priority to prowler calls. The rapist who appeared in bedrooms out of thin air had never been caught. Shelly radioed her affirmative. She almost had to drive by memory up to the town homes. Where the fog met the snow it was blinding white.

She turned her spotlight on the row of attached houses and cruised by slowly. The young police officer at first saw nothing. Then suddenly she spotted a shadow on a snow-covered hill across the street. The large, ghostlike figure ducked out of one cloud patch and disappeared into another. She radioed for backup. She flipped OH the cherry-red roof lights and got out of the car. She drew her gun-a first for her. In her other hand was a heavy flashlight.

Shelly Sumter made her way up the bank through the soft, sloppy snow, but in the fog her memory was playing tricks on her. Were there more town homes on this side of the street, or was this the bank into the park? She kept the flashing red lights of her squad car over her shoulder.

A pair of headlights came, parting the suburban fog. Her backup? She turned to signal. But the headlights kept on going, a Cadillac that couldn’t care less.

Then it had her by the throat. Her flashlight went cutting through the milky morning air like a crazed beacon. She dropped it and grabbed at the arm, a big, powerful arm. Only her toes were scraping the snow. The gun was , taken from her hand like it was candy and tossed into the slush. She clawed at the arm with her fingernails but couldn’t get a grip on the jacket, a slippery nylon, so she clawed at a hand, drawing blood.

Shelly Sumter had done everything right. Given her exact location. Called for backup. Turned on the squad lights. Drawn her gun. Proceeded with caution. But now the suspect had her in the crook of the arm and was choking the life out of her. The only sound she was aware of was her own desperate gasps for air. For every move there’s a countermove, she thought. What was it? Starved of oxygen, her brain couldn’t come up with the answer. The last thing she saw was another pair of headlights penetrating the deadly fog.

Shelly was alive and breathing, but she didn’t feel her assailant drop her and run. She was still alive and breathing when her backup arrived and found her lying facedown in the muddy snow. She was gasping for life inside the oxygen mask when they loaded her into the ambulance. Officer Shelly Sumter kept on breathing all the way to the Hennepin County Medical Center, where they hooked her up to life-support systems and plugged her in.

In the spring of my senior year I dropped out of Vicksburg High School and joined the Air Force. All because of a girl. A real Southern belle. I was a teenager in love. Worse yet, I was a Southern teenager in love. Had my honor to think about. But she wasn’t in love with me. Far from it.

I sat behind her in homeroom class for three years. We sat in alphabetical order, and her name being Lisa Beauregard, I sat by her in other classes too. It took me two years to build up enough stature and nerve to ask her out on a date. In the South we live for football and beauty pageants so finally my senior year I asked her to the Homecoming Dance. Lisa was nominated for queen and I got nominated for king. I was feeling pretty good about myself when I asked her.

Well, she didn’t really say no. She said she planned on going with a bunch of girlfriends and that we should all meet at the dance and all have a good time. She promised me a real date in the future. So despite the fact that the night before I had won the Homecoming game with a legendary run, I went to the dance by myself and kind of pretended I was with Lisa. As it turned out she got elected Homecoming Queen that night, but I lost out to my good friend Bobby Conn in my bid for Homecoming King. So I waited a few humble weeks and then asked her to honor me with that promised date.

She wrote me a letter, a note really, folded here on this page.

My Dear Dixon About the date I owe you … isn’t there some other way I could repay you for the wonderful friend you’ve been? I didn’t mean for you to misunderstand my feelings for you. One of the reasons why I won’t go out with you’s because, I’ve been going out steady with this older boy I met during this summer in Jackson and Fam awful fond of him still. I guess things never happen that please everyone envolved, but I didn’t mean to hurt you … honest.

Your Dear friend Lisa Beauregard

I was shocked! This is America and I was nominated for Homecoming King and I was the starting end for the Vicksburg Greenies and she’s telling me about some slick from Jackson.

So this goes on my whole senior year … I ask her out … she says no. Vicksburg is just a small town. The end of high school is in sight and I’ve got no wife in sight. The prom is coming up … in high school, the ultimate beauty pageant. I decided to shoot the works. Go whole hog. I would write her a love letter. Spill my guts. Lay it all on the line. What the hell, my honor was already in the toilet. I stopped in at the Rexall Drug Store downtown and bought a new ink pen and some real nice paper. I cleaned my sloppy room. I dusted the old desk my granddaddy had given me. Then I took a shower. I dressed up in good clean clothes and then sat down at my granddaddy’s desk to write the most important letter of my life. I began, My Dear Lisa …

I told Lisa the whole sad story, how I didn’t like her … love was the word I was looking for. I underlined love three times. I told her how I had been loyal to her for three years. That all my heroics under the bright lights of Vicksburg Memorial Stadium were just for her … two hundred thirty-eight yards receiving and two touchdowns my senior year. Okay, it wasn’t a great year, but it wasn’t bad. One of those touchdowns came against Yazoo City, and with the other touchdown, the long run, we won the Homecoming game. And they were both for her. I told her how much I wanted to take her to the prom. I pointed out what I thought my attributes to be and what she’d be losing out on. I begged her, and yes siree it was begging,

I begged her to please, please go out with me. Give this boy half a chance.

The next week Lisa was so kind to me, so sweet, I swear it was the happiest week of my life. She didn’t talk about it, but it was there. I could feel it. It worked. Move over William Shakespeare, my pen breaks hearts. Then she wrote back.

I took the letter into study hall and read it… every ungrateful, selfish, cruel, heartless, wanton, merciless, savage, inhumane, malicious, malevolent, fucking word of it!

Letter folded here on this page.

My Dear Dixon

I read your letter and have thought about it ever since. I wish you wouldn’t refer to it as your “sad story”, because it is only “you” who has made it sad. You have asked me out so many times and each time I have tried to say no as sweetly as I can. I was nice to you because I liked you as a friend. So you see you have made it a “sad story” by not being able to face up to the fact that I will never go out with you. For going out with someone is about a girls only choice in this world. And I choose not to go out with you.

You say that you think you love me, how can you love someone you’ve never even been out with? So you think, why don’t I go out with you and give you a chance? Because if it really is love you feel, and maybe it is, then it is one sided love.