I had had a lot to drink that night, but apparently not enough, because the dream returned—with extras. In the past it had nearly always ended with the actual shooting. This time it replayed the aftermath.
It began with my commanding officer shaking my hand and telling me, “The Ramsey County grand jury refused to indict. It ruled that you had acted properly and within the scope and range of your duties.”
The scene then shifted abruptly and I was watching TV in my apartment. I had been placed on administrative leave—with pay—as was the custom whenever an a St. Paul PD officer discharged his or her weapon. WCCO-TV News at Noon was showing an excerpt of a press conference filmed at city hall just an hour before.
The minister who stood behind a makeshift podium was tall and severe-looking and reminded me of Denzel Washington when he played Malcolm X, yet his voice had a pleasant rhythm to it, and when he said “This assassin, this slayer of children,” the words sounded like poetry. It took a while for their meaning to sink in.
“Did he just call me a murderer?” I asked the TV set.
Behind the minister stood the black man and woman who had driven into the convenience store parking lot that evening. They stood like statues, looking neither right nor left, up nor down. The minister said these good folks witnessed Rushmore McKenzie’s cold-blooded execution of nineteen-year-old Benjamin Simbi—for that was the brother’s name—while he was raising his hands to surrender. He claimed it was yet another example of racism in the police department. He said the grand jury’s verdict was just another example of what they already knew—“it is impossible for the black man to get justice in a white man’s court”—adding that “there is no hope in the system.”
“This is nuts,” I told the TV set.
When I woke up, I said the same thing. “This is nuts.”
6
I have known Clayton Rask for many years. He has been to my home. I’ve fed him cherry sno-cones and mini-donuts that he claimed were better than the ones you can get at the Minnesota State Fair. Today he wasn’t talking to me like a friend. He was talking to me like the commander of the Minneapolis Police Department’s Homicide Unit.
He said, “Meet me at the Anoka County Sheriff’s Office. Do you know where it is?”
“I know where it is.”
“Meet me at 9:00 A.M. Don’t be late.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Tell me now.”
“McKenzie, you’ll be doing us both a favor if you just show up. You really don’t want me to come looking for you.”
He hung up the phone before I could protest further.
Rask had given me plenty of time to get to Anoka, but first I needed another toasted bagel with cream cheese and a second cup of coffee, which I consumed while reading the St. Paul Pioneer Press sports page. The Twins and the hated White Sox (at least I hate them) were slugging it out yet again for the Central Division title, and I decided that their statistics required careful examination. Once on the road, I stopped at a service station to top off my gas tank, and since I was there, I had my Audi washed. After I reached Anoka, it took a few minutes to locate a parking space in the shade. That’s why it was 9:23 A.M. when I entered 325 East Main Street.
Rask was waiting for me in the lobby. His clothes were rumpled, his face was unshaved, and his eyes looked like they hadn’t been shut for a while. That should have told me something, but it didn’t. He shook his head and said, “You are such an asshole.”
“Didn’t you say nine thirty?”
“You think you’re funny?”
For a moment, the man made me nervous—but no more than freeway traffic.
“C’mon,” he barked.
Rask led me through the labyrinth of offices and corridors that was the Anoka County Sheriff’s Department like a man who actually worked there until we reached a large corner office. A sign next to the door frame read LT. JOHN WEINER, CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DIVISION. The door was open, but Rask knocked just the same before entering.
Lieutenant Weiner was sitting behind a polished desk; silver-framed reading glasses were perched on the tip of his nose. He was wearing a white shirt with a black tie, black epaulets, black flaps over his shirt pockets, an American flag over his right breast, a silver five-pointed star over his left breast, and a large blue patch on his left shoulder that screamed ANOKA COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT in case anyone was confused. The creases in his shirt and pants were sharp enough to cut butter.
He glanced up from the file folder he was reading. “McKenzie, you’re late.”
“I’ve been called worse,” I told him.
He stared at me with an expression that was harder than calculus. Apparently, he didn’t think I was funny, but then why should he be different from everyone else?
Rask sat on a comfortable-looking chair next to Weiner’s desk without being asked, leaving me standing alone in the center of the room.
“It’s your case,” Weiner told him.
“So, McKenzie,” Rask said. “Where were you last night?”
“Breaking up with my girlfriend.”