Darel Pleasant, Moving Man – The First Day

            Darel Pleasant was his own man. He owned his own truck, he kept his own schedule and he minded his own business. 

He kept a room at the Francis Drake, he enjoyed listening to a Miller’s game on the radio, he liked playing a hand of cards and placing a bet from time to time.

Darel didn’t have a job lined up for the day, so he spent the morning fishing at the river, off Main Street above Saint Anthony’s Fall. 

If he caught a good fish he would bring it home to fry for his dinner, which he didn’t, so at noon he packed up his rod and tackle and drove south through downtown to Lake Street, where he parked his rig across the street from Nicollet Field.

Darel liked to park set-up in the lot across from the ballpark, he figured the sign on the side of his truck was good advertising, like a billboard, only it didn’t cost him anything.

It was a hot day and Darrel was over heated in the thick-humid air that had taken hold of the city, but it was laced with cool-swift currents that provided some relief.

It felt to Darel like a storm was coming, but Lake Street was busy nevertheless, and he thought it was worth his time to stay on site at least until the storm came in.

A little after 2:00 pm, Darel decided he wouldn’t get any work for the day; so he walked the block and half to the Round-up for a bucket of beer and a ham sandwich. They served the bottles on ice, and put that good Everett’s smoked pig, on soft Swedish bread from Ingebretson’s. He liked his ham sandwich with butter, mustard and pickles, which at the Round-up, they made in house.

Darel took his bounty back to the truck and turned the radio on, hoping the baseball game would at least get started, maybe-even finished before the rain came through. 

He carried a couple of folding chairs and a card table in the back of his truck for days like this. He set them up on the shady side, with his beers and his sandwich and a paper bag filled with kettle chips. 

He uncapped a beer, shuffled a deck of cards and started a game of solitaire. 

Before he began to eat he crossed himself and said a little prayer.

Darel was content to watch the world go by, it was a pleasant afternoon and he was enjoying himself with nothing on his mind but the hit parade playing on the radio; before too long he saw his diminutive friend, Hank Jeffers, walking his way, heading east on Lake Street. 

With a wave of his hand he motioned for Hank to come over and join him

Hank was his friend, and also his bookie. 

Darel opened a beer for the little fellow as he climbed up into the open chair. Hank took the beer, said “Thank you,” and pulled a long swallow, then he helped himself to a quarter of Darel’s sandwich…Darel didn’t mind.

Hank started talking about his tall-blonde girlfriend, a dame named Angela, who was more than twice his height. She worked up the street at a bookstore and looked like a movie star. 

Darel had seen them together, he didn’t think she was really his girlfriend, but he knew that they were friends.  

He enjoyed Hank’s stories, they went well with the music and beer.

Together they played a few hands of gin for a penny a point and talked about the weather, they kept talking until the big-heavy drops of rain, the size of silver dollars began to fall hard soak the pavement.

Hank excused himself and headed for the Round-up.

Darel said, “So-long,” packed his things and went home.

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Sigurd Olavson, Boy Toy – The First Day

                     Sigurd Olavson stood at the back entrance to Ingrid Magnusson’s warehouse-studio. He was smoking and watching the rain fall in the dark alley.

            It was hot and humid, and the downpour was heavy. It had been raining for hours and he was in poor spirits.

            There was no gig tonight, and no Ingrid; the rain had shut him in, leaving Sig by himself in the cavernous warehouse waiting for her to return from wherever it is that she went.

The note she left at the hotel said she would be back by 5:00 pm, that was hours ago.

            Sig was worried about her, not because he loved her, he didn’t, but he needed her, when she was gone and he couldn’t see her or hear her voice, Sig felt like a dope-fiend jonesing for a fix.

He had no idea who he was without her, he would begin to go blind,

Ever since he had joined her entourage in Stockholm she was all he thought about. When she wasn’t near him he felt thirsty…and right now he was parched.

Sig blew a long cloud of smoke through his pursed lips, when he was at the end of his breath a powerful bolt of lightning struck somewhere nearby, it’s flash sent shadows dancing down the alley and across the loading dock, its thunder shook the ground beneath his feet and sent a jolt up his spine.

He flicked the butt of his square into the dark and listened to the rain as he concentrated on an image of Ingrid he held in his mind.

It was like clinging to a lifeline, which did nothing to settle his nerves.

A mere ninety seconds later Sig heard the sound of heavy feet running toward the loading dock from further down the alley, and there was shouting the runner that sounded like police.

Sig stepped inside the building, shut the door and locked it.

He ducked into the small office to the right of the door and peered out the small window just in time to see Karl Thorrson running up the ramp.

Sig froze; he was terrified.

He could hear the giant gangster fumbling with a set of keys, trying to get through the door, so he bolted from the office, ran up the iron stairs onto the catwalk suspended above the studio space and crossed its full length. He ran into place where the shadows would be deepest, even if the lights were on.

Ingrid kept him there secretly, she told him that Karl Thorrson might just kill him with a swat of his hand if he discovered him in the sanctum, she told Sig that it had happened before.

He found his spot just as he heard the door open, and Karl Thorrson walking below him, coming down the hall.

He sat in the dark as quietly as he could and trembled with a sick mixture of fear and withdrawal.

He could see Thorrson below him, pacing about the room.

He was sweating profusely and clearly unnerved, Sig had been in his company many times and had never seen the gangster in the state he was in.

Sig would not have believed it was possible and he could not help but wonder what could have caused his distress. Thorrson was the man with lightning in his eye, it is believed that he communed with the dead.

He watched the giant fumble about with a number of vials and decanters on top of Ingrid’s worktable, he moved as if he was a mad bartender mixing a cocktail, then suddenly there was the sound of car outside.

Thorrson straightened and quaffed whatever it was that he had prepared and then went back down the hall to greet whoever had just pulled in.

Sig prayed that it was Ingrid. 

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Alvin Penn, Park Police Investigator – The First Day

        Detective Alvin Penn sat in his office at Park Police headquarters reading the newspaper and talking to the boys on duty.

It had been a long night with nothing much happening. It had been raining for hours, leaving the streets, parks and waterfronts quiet.

Penn figured that St. Anthony would not stay this way for long.

There had been some action earlier in the evening in the Red-Light district on Lake Street; a bar-boy who worked at the Round-up had been struck by lightning and died.

Lake Street was not under the authority of the Commissioner of Parks, not officially, so the city police had been tasked with handling the investigation, which had not been ruled a homicide, but the incident did involve Karl Thorrson whose criminal enterprise was a protected racket, so a couple of rangers had been dispatched to make sure that Thorrson didn’t get harassed by anyone who might have the wrong idea about what was happening on the streets.

Thorrson and his crew had taken over St. Anthony, it had been a long bloody summer and the Park Commissioner was behind it. Through Karl Thorrson the Commissioner now owned all the gambling, prostitution and other vice on the west side of the river, all the way down Lake Street from Pig’s Eys to Excelsior, and the Big Island with it’s amusement park and casino.

There wasn’t any trouble regarding the dead-boy, a Kid by the name of Tom Kaplan; there were plenty of eyewitnesses who saw it happen and there was nothing to cover-up.

What Penn was having trouble understanding, was why Thorrson had been on the street by himself, and for some inexplicable reason had gotten into a physical altercation with a group of ROTC candidates from the University of St. Thomas at the bar.

Penn had been surprised to learn that the young men had managed to push the giant out of the door, they even knocked him off his feet…a feat Penn thought would be impossible.

The dead-boy was struck down as he was bringing the gigantic Thorrson his hat, and his bill. Then, for yet another inexplicable reason, Thorrson ran from the scene, causing a foot chase with some Fifth Precinct beat police to ensue.

The beat cops did not know, or hadn’t taken the time to figure out who Thorrson was, as far as they were concerned they were just chasing a man who had run from the scene of a killing, but one of them had a heart attack, and the rangers who had been tasked to monitor the scene did not stop to render aid; the older cop, a veteran, died on the street.

Now the tension between the rangers and the city police, which had already been fraught, was becoming more volatile by the hour. It felt like there were battle lines forming and something ugly was about to happen.

Penn wondered if the Commissioner hadn’t overplayed his hand by backing the one-eyed Swedish gangster against the old power, Colonel Forrester, whose grip on St. Anthony had always felt as if it would never break.

Penn had learned that there was another incident with Thorrson following the chase, but the bosses had not made him privy to it; he heard about it anyway; there were whispers that a starlet had been killed at a property that Thorrson owned, the place to which he ran when he fled the Round-Up.

The woman, whose name was Ingrid Magnusson, was a popular singer and socialite, and she happened to be the gangster’s sister-in-law.

There was a cover-up there for sure...and it was well under way.

Detective Penn concluded that it didn’t matter whether the Commissioner had or had not overplayed his hand; the Colonel probably had all the bets covered, and if Thorrson ended up running the streets of St. Anthony, it was probably because the Colonel wanted it that way.

Penn might have come up through the Park Police, but he was from St. Anthony and for his entire life Colonel Forrester had been the boss. 

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Michael York, Park Police Investigator - The First Day

          Detective York sat in a well-cushioned club chair in the lobby of the National Hotel, legs crossed, looking at the sports page of the St. Anthony Tribune, with a cup of coffee steaming on the end table next to him. 

He casually read the box scores as he waited for his mark to come through the lobby, a woman named Ingrid Magnusson whom he had been following and keeping tabs on, as he had been instructed to do by his boss, the Commissioner of Parks. 

York had arrived early as he did on most days, even though the lady rarely left the hotel before noon...she was a singer, among other things, and she kept late nights. Nevertheless, had been tasked with watching her so he would leave early, going without sleep if he had to, in order to stay ahead of the game, which did not bother him because he was an insomniac. 

On this morning he was taken by surprise, and doubly grateful that he was a creature of routine, when he saw Ingrid Magnusson come into the Lobby and approach the front desk.

She was dressed for travel and spoke briefly with the concierge, who had the valet bring her car around for her.

York quickly folded the paper, got to his feet, took a last sip of coffee and left the building ahead of her.

He went to his own car so that he could get the engine started and pull into position to get a good-tail on her, wherever she might be going. 

He pulled up next to the driveway in front of the hotel and watched. 

Everything had happened quickly; now the wait made York anxious. 

After a couple of minutes passed he realized that he had been waiting too long for the valet to return with Ingrid’s car, and concluded she had hit the road in the minute or so that it took him to get to his own vehicle. 

When he saw the valet come out of the hotel a few seconds later with another guest, York knew that he was right.

He had lost her.

York cursed himself for having been too interested in the winners and losers of yesterday’s games than he had been with his duties.  

He began to formulate the explanation he would have to give to Commissioner Batelier, and the penance he would do to atone for his failure, later that night in his room; with that his breathing became labored.

York could have told himself that everyone made mistakes. He might have cut himself some slack, but he preferred to pay for his failures with the stiff lash of a cat o’nine, cutting into the flesh of his back…it was the least I can do, he told himself, for neglecting my duties.

He considered where Ingrid might be going, and he decided to try and pick up her trail at the reading room on lake street, or her studio in the red-light district, swearing to himself that if he managed to find her he would not let that stop him from taking a full set of stripes the lapses that had already occurred.

York was determined to pay the price regardless.

He got out of the car and approached the valet, a tall well-groomed black-man who went by the name of Jackie, who York knew to be a man of considerable status and influence regardless of his position at the Hotel.

York took a dollar out of his wallet and tried giving it to Jackie in exchange for a pledge to call him if Ingrid Magnusson when Ingrid Magnusson returned.

Jackie looked at him disdainfully and said, “No thank you detective York…your business is your own.” 

He turned his back on him, and walked back into the hotel. 

 

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Hal Colfax, Park Police - The First Day

Hal Colfax was bored.

He was bored sitting behind the wheel of the squad car. He was bored of the constant rain. He was bored of the August heat. He bored of working the night shift, of listening to his partner’s jokes and the endless stories about the problems he had with his wife. 

Hal could not care less about his partner’s domestic situation. 

The only hope he had for this night was to end his shift without having to do any paperwork, and then get on down to the Gay 90’s before the last floor show began.

Hal was sweet on one of the dancers and he wanted to see her tonight. He wanted to buy her a drink, maybe have a dance and press his bone against hers while they moved together as if they were one.

He wanted nothing more than to be one with her, but she never let him go further than to have a dance at the end of the night, while she blew some sweet nothings into his ear, and planted a few light kisses on his neck.

If that was all he was ever going to get, Hal would take it and not complain.

Hal liked her strong arms and her long legs, he liked the unapologetic way she walked through the world, and the way her sequins shimmered like stars in the stage lights.

To watch her dance was like walking through a dream, his pulse quickened and his head got all swimmy, it was a fevered dream from the world of faeries.   

When Hal heard the radio crackle, and his partner took the call, he spat a silent curse.

It was Lieutenant Standish’s voice over the radio and Hal really hated that prick, but Standish was one of the Commissioner’s heavies…the worst of them, a real sadist, and Hal had no intention of crossing him, or even appearing that he might.

A few years back, while in a sex club on Washington Avenue, he had watched Standish whip the skin of a trick’s back, just for the pleasure of it. 

The boy almost died.

Standish didn’t know and never found out that Hal had been in the audience that night, and because of that close call Hal had tried to stay out of his business, but some nights it was like rolling the dice, when you were on patrol you had no say about what calls came in, whether or not you could take them, or what you might get asked to do in the course of your duties.

That was the way of life for one of St. Anthony’s Rangers.

Hal put the car in gear and followed his partner’s directions.

He tried to put Bobbi out of his mind…he would see her another night. 

Hal was driving and only vaguely engaged with the mission they were on; they had been ordered to back up an investigation into an altercation in the Red Light District on Lake Street.

There had been a killing, and the notorious gangster, Karl Thorrson was involved, which meant that Standish was too.

Hal didn’t notice that there were two city cops huddled together under an awning, with their backs up against the wall of a storefront at the entrance to the alley when he pulled into it. 

He didn’t recognize the plea for help that one of them cast in his direction, He couldn’t see their faces clearly through the rain splattered window on the drivers side, they were only two dark shapes huddled together, one man holding the other in his arms…and once and again Hal thought of Bobbi. 

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Mikey “The Undertaker” Caldwell, Lakewood Cemetery – The First Day

 Mike Caldwell was old and tired, but he couldn’t sleep.

He sat on his stool under the awning of the maintenance shed and watched the storm make a mess of Lakewood Cemetery where he worked as the groundskeeper and gravedigger.

There were limbs down and whole trees fallen over. At least one that he knew of had been struck by lightning; he had seen it burst into flame and had watched it light up the night with an eerie orange glow. He could smell the smoke and char of the burnt-greenwood even through the rain.

The winds had been strong, especially in the past hour, but now it was nearly midnight, and the worst seemed to be over. It was still raining, but soon he would be able to walk the grounds with his lantern and surveille the damage.

Mikey knew that there were a half dozen open graves that he would need to pump the water from before the funeral services that were scheduled for the next day. He was hoping their would not be too many obstructions on the grounds, regardless, he was eager to get a jump on the work that lay ahead.

The electricity had gone out around 9:00 pm, and he didn’t expect it come back on anytime soon, so he got up and went to the kerosene stove, lit it and started a pot of water to boil, scooped some coffee grounds into the pot. Then he folded up the cot he had been trying to sleep on and neatened up the work space.

Mikey’s hands were shaking as his long-gnarled fingers gripped the can and spoon, then he emptied the last drops of clear-corn-liquor out of a mason jar, into his tin cup. He went back to his stool and sipped the acrid moonshine as he waited for the water to boil.

He told himself that he needed the strong liquor to lubricate his limbs, and prepare him for the day ahead.

Mikey thought about his wife sleeping at his grandmother’s rooming house south of the lake and west up-over the hills. He knew she wouldn’t be thinking of him at all, unless it was to assume that he had gotten drunk, maybe got lost in a dice game and decided not to come home.

Not that he had a choice…his wife was a prurient woman and didn’t want him around if he had been sipping.

Mikey slept in the shed on most, he knew better than to cross her; if he had gone home there would have been a fight.

He was out of the grounds after a little while, walking over the hills of the cemetery in his slick poncho, making mental notes of the work that would need to be done…there was plenty of it.

After a couple of hours he was coming back around to the shed when he saw something going on across the southside fence, over in the Bird Sanctuary.

There was a very large man, constructing what looked like a platform out in the cattail marsh.

He hadn’t been there when Mikey started his walk, there was quite a bit of lumber in the platform. It was hard for Mikey to believe that he had hauled it all in by himself, and built the rig in such a short amount of time…but apparently he had.

            Mikey stood beneath an old elm, doused his lantern and lit a Pall Mall. He took a swig from his flask and watched the man at work, who appeared to have hauled a body on top of the platform and was now performing some kind of ritual.

            He thought there was a good story here, and he made the decision to call his friend at the newspaper, rather than report it to the police.

            I might get a fin for the tip, he thought.

 

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Sister Anna Alm, A Poor Clare

Sister Anna Alm was grateful to see Father Luke on the grounds today. 

She had spent far too many minutes arguing with the maintenance men about the fate of a bat who had flown into the Basilica through an open window in the narthex.

The men had wanted to kill the little creature and they seemed to delight in the prospect, they were looking for tennis rackets or some other such device in order to make a game out of it, bragging to each other about how they had killed bats that had flow into their homes.

Sr. Anna thought they were being cruel and she was not having it.

It did not matter to her that the bat had disrupted morning prayer where she and her sisters, the Poor Clares, had gathered to sing the liturgy of the hours, as they did every at St. Mary’s. 

In the spirit of St. Francis, as the sisters perceived it, they were not going to allow the animal to be hurt, not even if it shat all over them as it flew above their heads during the divine office.

Life was precious, even the life of a bat.

Sr. Anna knew that she would have prevailed in the contest of wills she was having with the maintenance men. They may have been responsible for the building and the estate, and her demand that they capture and release the poor-creature may have been outside her sphere of authority, but she was more than a match for the men who had gathered in the transept to participate in the extermination of the little leather winged thing. 

Tiny as Sr. Anna was, the maintenance men and grounds keepers y were punching above their weight in dealing with her, which each of them was aware of even as they protested her demand.

Nevertheless, when she saw Fr. Luke she was eager to bring him into the discussion, and have him channel her will; it resolved the matter quickly and allowed the men to walk away from the dispute with their pride intact. 

The old priest listened to them, he took a moment to reflect and appear to be thoughtful; then he issued his judgement, ordering them to do as Anna had asked: “If you know what is good for you,” he concluded sardonically. 

More than one of the other Poor Clares cracked a silent smile as Fr. Luke warned the men to mind their manners.

Sr. Anna thanked them for their good will as she walked out of the church with the other nuns and made her toward the van that would take them back to their home Parish.

Before she got on board she stopped to look out over Jewett’s Park. 

It was a hot and humid morning, the sky was turning green, and the air smelled of rain. 

She and the Poor Clares had a couple of stops to make on their way home, and now Sr. Anna was eager to get on with the day.

She was sitting in the passenger’s seat next to the driver as they crossed the bridge over the railroad on twenty-ninth and Hennepin, approaching Lagoon Avenue. It was there that she saw a young man who she knew crossing the street the stairs of the Walker Library.

It was Johnny Holiday, a boy from the orphanage, the Washburn Home for Boys that was just up the hill from Saint Joan of Arc, her home church.

For a moment Sr. Anna was happy to see him, but then she perceived a darkness hanging about him, a darkness like a cloud that had nothing to do with the gathering storm…and suddenly Anna was worried for him.

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Imogene d’Alsace, The Woman in the Well - The First Day

Imogene d’Alsace came to consciousness in the dark.

She had no sense of her body or anything other than silence and cold.

This was not the utter darkness of the abyss, which she had once been preoccupied with; it was the near blackness that betokened the witching hour on a moonless night.

Though Imogene could not feel her body, she was connected to it and fixed to the place where it lay…a lifeless-rotting husk.  

She directed her gaze, or what passed for sight, upward as if through a tunnel or the long mouth of a cave; she looked up to a small round disk of shadow across which passed the deep-blue night, and in that place she tracked the tiny-bejeweled, pin-pricks of starry light.

The last thing Imogene remembered was being attacked by Amelie Elmquist, who madly came at her with a kitchen knife; upon recalling that memory, and having no sense of how much time has passed, she realized that she was dead and that her corpse was laying at the bottom of the well just a stone’s throw from her cabin in the woods.

The pieces were coming back to her; she had been arguing with Amelie, who fell into a rage and killed her, stabbing her at least three times with the knife that had been on the table, with the breadboard and cheese.

Amelie must have dumped me in the well, Imogene thought, she left me to the elements...to the worms and grubs.

Her spirit was restless; she felt disconnected from the world and wondered why her spirit had not moved on, if it had she had no memory of it and this perplexed her, causing her to question why she had woken to the world at this moment.

She waited and she listened; she was adept at many occult practices and had used her knowledge to keep her body in good health, and her mind sharp. She had grounded herself to this place and had used various pieces of Jewelry, like the broach she wore to anchor her consciousness during her meditations, and during those times when she would traverse the astral plane.

She considered whether those practices might have prevented her from moving on to the next world when her body had died, she considered whether it might have been the trauma of murder, or some combination of those factors that were holding her down.

She wondered if there might be a medium nearby who was seeking contact with specifically, or perhaps a clairvoyant who was seeking contact with any spirit who might be lingering in the in the vicinity; perhaps she had awakened and returned to the world due to their arts.

Imogene stretched her feelings into the world around her; she sensed nothing, no medium, no-one. After a time she gave up her speculation and waited…she waited, and waited until she felt a warm light glowing in the darkness.

The light was faint and distant, but it was golden.

Imogene focused her will on the light and the warmth. She wanted to apprehend it, but she could not translocate; her spirit was bound to the spot where her body lay.

She felt trapped.

Imogene turned her gaze back to the light, this time she concentrated on drawing it to her…and when she did it came with power, like an onrushing bear.

It was searching for something; the great-bear spirit was searching for her.

She sensed it on the grounds above her, she felt it in her house as it stopped over the dried pool of blood her corpse had left on the floor. Imogene focused her attention there and suddenly emerged in that spot.  

She saw then that the golden spirit was not a bear at all, but a tall young man who had recently by scared for his life, but was now calm and curious.

She stretched out her feelings, reaching toward his radiant aura, she brushed him with her essence…only slightly, but when she did they were joined and she knew him, though she had not seen him since he was an infant, she knew him because he was her son.

Imogene was overwhelmed with love him, but in that moment he began to recede into the void; she had returned to the bottom of the well and she was as before.

Voicelessly she called to him, pleading with him to remember where she was, at her home in the woods, above the quaking bog.

He did not respond, but she knew she had reached him , and that in touching him she had bequeathed to him the gift of sight.

 

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Ermes Batelier, Commissioner of Parks – The First Day

Ermes Batelier sat at his desk in the turret on the third floor of the mansion on top of King’s Hill. He was the Commissioner of Parks, and he was at home.

From his window he was able to see the headquarters of his private police force, the park “rangers,” as people called them…without affection. 

From where he sat, he could also see over the hills of Lakewood Cemetery, looking west-north-west he could see through the trees all the way to Loon Lake. Looking south and west he could see across the Sadler Bird Sanctuary and the Rose Gardens, all the way to the other lake, now named for Harriet Lovejoy.

He sat quietly as the morning sun pushed the pale and fading moon over the horizon. 

The aching in his joints told him that there would be a storm. It bothered him, but that was not the only thing bothering him that morning.

The Commissioner had just concluded a telephone call with Karl Thorrson, who had proven to be a reliable, though vexing ally in his struggle to wrest power from the hands of his adversary, the venerable Albert “Guy” Forrester…The Colonel as the folk of St. Anthony called.

Moments ago Thorrson had informed him of his plan to move on a tavern at the edge of the red-light district. A place called The Round-Up, just a short distance from Miller’s Field and Nicollet park that was technically still under the protection of the Fifth Precinct, which the Colonel still controlled.

Thorrson had consolidated power along Lake Street, he had done it while only facing token resistance; plenty of men died, but the Commissioner thought it had gone far to easily for Thorrson and his crew…unless his men were just that good.

The giant gangster had taken over and consolidated the gambling and prostitution markets, the sale of contraband and most of the protection racket, east and west, from the bridge to Pig’s Eye to the Big Island on Lake Minnetonka.

The Commissioner thought it was possible that the ancient Colonel had become less and less interested in the streets of Saint Anthony. He was impossibly old and in the last few years had become obsessed with finding suitable marriages for his daughters. 

Almost anyone who might offer an opinion on the matter thought that he might be dying and that he was thinking of his legacy. 

As things stood, Thorrson had nearly completed a hostile takeover of crime in Saint Anthony, and had done so with the Commissioner’s blessing, but the Commissioner was also paying for it, compensating the Colonel in cash and the promise of points on future profits to compensate him for his losses, points which his daughters would inherit. 

The Round-up however, posed a unique challenge. The proprietor had a relationship with the Colonel that would be difficult to manage, and impossible to get around. 

The Commissioner had attempted to make it clear to Thorrson that he wanted him to wait for his permission to move on the establishment, he did not agree with Thorrson’s timing. 

The gargantuan seemed overeager on the phone, there was a manic tone in his voice. 

The Commissioner told him that they did not need this last piece of Lake Street. He explained that it served their purposes to allow the Colonel some dignity, as well as the Fifth Precinct, allowing them the Round-up meant they would have a place of their own, which would be good insofar as they planned to continue to use those officers to police the action. 

No harm could come from waiting, the Commissioner thought…in another year the Colonel might just be gone.

Now, after his call with Thorrson he had come to the understanding that he had lost control of his man; The Commissioner had been unable to dissuade the giant from the course of action he had proposed.

It was then that he decided to remove Thorrson from the field of play, he had served his purpose and now he had to go. 

It was then that he placed a call to the man’s estranged wife, Helga Magnusson, where she was hiding out in a town just north of St. Cloud. 

The commissioner explained to her the connection between her husband’s recent activities and her disappearance of her lover, Bjorn Elmquist, who happened to be married to Colonel Forrester’s daughter. 

Helga had been expecting his call, and the Commissioner told her when and where she could find him. 

He knew Helga wanted revenge, he did not know if she would be able to get satisfaction, or what might come of it if she did. He only knew that turning Thorrson’s wife into his enemy would complicate the giant’s life; violence would ensue, he would become distracted, at the very least he would be compromised, weakened, and chaos would follow. Somewhere in the mix an opportunity to dispatch him present itself and the Commissioner would take advantage it.

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