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Dear Diary:January 23rd

Cynthia is out with her mother so I thought I’d write. I must be losing my mind. It has happened again.

I watched the news, mostly to get the weather report. Anyway, Dr. Walter Miller was murdered last night. Or so they think it happened last night. His body was found in a parking garage downtown this morning.

All day I have been wondering if it has happened again. As soon as I woke up this morning, I tried to think about what I did last night. Cynthia was not here; she stayed at her parents’ house last night so I couldn’t ask her.

Am I doing this? Am I losing my mind? I must admit, I kind of blamed Dr. Miller but I don’t think I hated him for what he did. Or did I? Maybe I did and I don’t know. What am I doing that I can’t remember?

Dr. Phillip Friedman, the esteemed professor of psychiatry at the University of Minnesota Medical School, rode the elevator by himself. It was almost midnight, Tuesday, January 28 th . Tuesday was always a late night. He set aside time each Tuesday night to work on his latest writing project, a book on transgender psychiatry. How to diagnose it, help patients come to accept it and treating them after the process is complete.

The University Press had obtained a one hundred thousand dollar advance from a New York publisher. Friedman was proudly ahead of schedule to deliver the first draft manuscript.

The last week of January and, as was normal, the coldest of the year. Already minus fourteen outside and the temperature would not reach a positive number for several days.

The elevator came to a stop in the heated, underground parking garage. When Friedman reached his car, he noticed that the light next to it was out. One light out made that area quite dark. No matter, they will fix it tomorrow.

Suddenly, sensing the movement before seeing the object, Friedman turned to his left. From behind a large, square, concrete support beam, a dark shape suddenly appeared. A completely covered monster. In a flash, Friedman knew it was over. Frantically he turned back to his car and tried to open the door.

“Anybody check the video?” Lt. Owen Jefferson asked.

“Yeah, the broad is,” Detective Clyde Johnson answered.

The door of the elevator opened at that moment and Jefferson asked, “The what?”

“Oh, sorry, Lieutenant Woke. I meant Detective Donner is checking the video,” Johnson said.

“You’re a dinosaur, Johnson. You know that?” Jefferson asked.

“Yep, and proud of it.”

“So go find a tar pit and lie down in it.”

“Two more years,” Johnson said. Meaning two more years to max out his pension .

The two men silently walked down the ramp to the crime scene. Uniformed police had sealed off the area directing angry drivers with reserved parking away, most of whom were doctors, some with the ‘don’t you know who I am’ attitude.

“Dr. Benny, good morning,” Jefferson said to the on scene pathologist from the M.E. office. “What do we have?”

Dr. Buraid ‘Benny’ Shambhani was leaning over the body next to the new Lexus. Without looking up, Benny replied, “And a good morning to you, Owen.”

Benny then stood up, gestured Jefferson to follow him and walked away. When he had gone far enough to not be overheard, he stopped.

“Remember the nurse at the middle school a few weeks ago?” he asked Jefferson.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Jefferson answered.

“And the surgeon, Walter Miller? We got a serial, Owen. It looks like the same weapon. I’ll know more when we get him downtown. Looks like the same three-inch, straight claw hammer,” Benny whispered.

“Shit,” Jefferson quietly said. “Okay, let me know as soon as you’re sure.”

“Of course,” Benny said.

They went back to the body and found Detective Johnson’s partner there, Detective Shelby Donner.

“See anything?” Jefferson asked her.

“Great shot of our perp,” she replied. “Fully covered in a large rain poncho. Strings pulled the hood tight. Wearing a covering of some type over his face, ski goggles and gloves with duct tape wrapped around the wrist.

“Watched him walk all the way out to the sidewalk and gone.”

“The poncho would be for the spray,” Johnson said.

“The poncho would be for the spray,” Jefferson repeated in agreement.

“And probably every stitch of it on its way to a landfill by now,” Shelby Donner said.

“Characteristics?” Jefferson asked Donner.

“Average height, average build, probably average weight,” Donner replied.

“That narrows it down,” Johnson said .

“Who is he?” Jefferson asked, referring to the victim.

Johnson checked his notes and said, “A Phillip Friedman, Doctor. Licensed psychiatrist. His wallet was still on him with three hundred, forty dollars in it along with a Rolex on his wrist.”

“Rules out robbery,” Jefferson said.

“The guard who found him says he’s a member of the U’s hospital staff and a professor,” Donner said.

The three homicide detectives watched in silence as the body was placed on a gurney. The two aides from the M.E.’s office wheeled him away. Benny stopped to tell Jefferson he’d have something today.

Later, the night of the same morning Friedman was found, Jimmy Smith left the South End Bar and Pool Hall after midnight. He was feeling pretty smug about himself. He had over three hundred dollars in nontaxable cash in his pocket he had hustled from four suckers playing nine-ball.

Jimmy could shoot pool. Since dropping out of high school the day he turned sixteen, he had done little else. In fact, for tonight’s table of suckers Jimmy had purposely toned down his skill. Even letting one of them win once in a while.

Jimmy lit a cigarette then zipped up his fur-collared bomber jacket. It was a cold night tonight even though the temperature was rising a little. Once again Jimmy thought about Florida. Warm weather and low-hanging fruit to pick on pool tables.

As usual after shearing some sheep, Jimmy liked to call it, he went behind a random car in the bar’s lot, ducked down and waited. Sometimes the sheep realized they had been fleeced and followed him out. He smoked his cigarette and waited six or seven minutes. When none of them came out, he continued on to his car.

“Morning, Owen,” Detective Clyde Johnson said to Lt. Owen Jefferson.

Jefferson was just now arriving, his department car left on the street. They were in the parking lot of the South End Bar and Pool Hall. A place very familiar to every member of the MPD.

The Crime Scene Unit was finished and the on scene M.E. was walking toward them .

“Why was I called?” Jefferson asked the detective.

“I’ll let the kid doctor tell you,” Johnson replied.

“That kid doctor has been through medical school. From what I hear, you barely made it out of grade school. A little respect is in order, Detective,” Jefferson said.

Too early, again, for Johnson’s attitude , Jefferson thought.

The kid doctor was Nick Forner, a pathologist with Hennepin County. He was actually thirty-four but looked twenty-four.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” Forner said.

“Good morning, Doctor. What do you have?”

“For starters. He’s almost frozen. It looks like someone took a claw hammer to the top of his head.”

“Oh, shit,” Jefferson muttered.

“That’s why you got called,” Johnson said.

“Okay. Any ID?”

“Driver’s license has him as a James Smith. Address in North Minneapolis,” Johnson replied.

“What do you have?” Jefferson asked the CSU team leader, Kevin Sparks who had joined them along with Johnson’s partner, Shelby Donner.

“What he said,” Sparks said with a nod to Forner. “There’s blood, probably brain fluid, brain matter frozen next to the car. Looks like someone got him from behind. After he was dead, our victim was placed in the back seat of his car.”

“Who found him?” Jefferson asked.

“The bar’s cleaning crew. Showed up around six, six fifteen and saw the car by itself in the lot, which, by itself is not terribly unusual. They checked it out and found him,” Johnson said. “That’s four, Owen.”

“I can count, Detective. Have you checked with the FBI for similar killings?”

“Sure. None locally. Over the past year, more than a hundred homicides nationwide with a hammer. Only a couple dozen where the claws were used but none by a serial,” Shelby Donner answered.

“Closest ones?” Jefferson asked .

“Three. One in Milwaukee, two in Chicago. Local cops believe all were gang related. None have been solved,” Donner replied.

“We’ll cross-reference all three victims,” Johnson said.

“Last night’s bartender is inside. He says our victim is a pool hustler, usually with a big mouth. Get this, a couple weeks ago, Smith and another guy, first-name Scott, were in together. They had a little too much to drink and were bragging about what sounded like, maybe, a rape or two of quote, a couple of trans freaks,” Donner said reading from her notes.

Johnson, who knew none of this, practically had steam coming out of his ears. He said, “It would be nice if you would keep me informed of these things.”

“It would be nice if you’d show up more often than you do and on time when you do decide to come in,” Donner snapped back.

“I’ve been sick,” Johnson quickly told Jefferson.

“Stop,” Jefferson said. He turned and looked back toward where he parked and saw what he did not want to see.

“Great, the media is here. Okay, no one talks to the press and I better not see a reference to a claw hammer outside of our little circle. Understood?”

Everyone nodded or spoke their understanding. With that Jefferson walked across the parking lot to talk to them.

The next day, Marc Kadella spent a long day with a group of people he did not really like. Marc and Connie, his landlord, had clients involved with a large personal injury case. It involved several deaths and dozens of injuries, most of them quite serious injuries, from an apartment building collapse.

The defendants, mostly insurance companies, had increased their settlement offer. The majority of the lawyers representing the injured plaintiffs were pushing for a quick payday. A few of the plaintiff’s lawyers, including Marc and Connie, were pushing for more. The offer, in the minority groups’ opinion, was simply too low. Marc, being a real trial lawyer, was willing to push the case to trial. Those opposed acted as if the word trial carried a disease with it. Marc’s group prevailed .

Marc was on the living room couch waiting for the ten o’clock news to come on. Next to him, holding his hand, her head on his shoulder softly sleeping, was the love of his life, Maddy Rivers.

The Channel 8 news came on with a very serious looking male anchor somberly announcing a serious news item.

“It appears, although as of yet the Minneapolis Police will not confirm it, there is a serial killer on the loose. So far, we know of four possible victims.

“They are, a school nurse, Alice Griebler, age sixty-four, a U of M professor, Phillip Friedman, age fifty-eight, a surgeon, Walter Miller age fifty-three and James Smith, age, twenty-three. On the surface, it would appear that none of them have much in common except for the two doctors being M.D’s. Except, the unusual cause of death.

“According to trustworthy anonymous sources, they were all murdered using the same weapon; a three-inch, straight claw hammer driven into the top of the victims’ skull.

“The killings appear to be random by simple opportunity. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Of course, we will keep you informed as soon as we know more.”

The female anchor soberly added, “Be aware and please be careful out there.”

When Marc heard the name Phillip Friedman, his drowsiness disappeared. Of course, he knew Friedman had been assaulted and murdered but this news added an entirely new twist to his death.

The next morning, Scott McKay, a known associate of the recently departed Jimmy Smith, awoke with a hangover. Jimmy was a pool hustler, Scott fancied himself a poker hustler, which he almost was.

The night before he had hustled over a grand from four well off college boys. This morning, actually it was almost noon, he thought about the game for tonight.

Orange juice in hand, Scott flopped down on the couch he had retrieved from on a street with a FREE sign on it. He turned on the TV in time to catch the beginning of the local noon news. The lead story snapped Scott out of his hangover. His buddy, Jimmy Smith, his fellow street punk hustler’s picture was staring back at him.

In less than a half-hour, Scott McKay was packed up and in his five-year old Nissan entering southbound I-35. Maybe Jimmy’s murder was unrelated to their activities, but Scott decided a warmer climate might be a good idea.