The Bitter Season (Kovac and Liska, #5)(110)

“Then we’d better get it solved before he can make that happen,” Seley said, getting up from her desk and scooping up a file folder. “I printed off a stack of the Gordon Krauss photos in case he’s our man. Let’s go check out these places where Nilsen might have been seen.”


*



FOR A CITY WITH months of inhospitable weather, Minneapolis seemed to have more than its share of homelessness. The truth of that pressed down on Nikki’s heart like an anvil. And the fact that too many of the men living on the street had been discarded after serving their country made her angry.

At lunchtime on a raw, wet, cold November day, the line for lunch snaked outside the Daily Bread mission and partway down the street. Sullen men in dirty clothes hunched their shoulders against the wind and avoided eye contact while they waited for a hot bowl of beef stew.

“Minnesota has an aggressive initiative to eliminate homelessness among veterans,” the director of the shelter told them. Leonard Westin was a smallish balding man in his forties, with glasses and a polite expression. “We’ve reduced our numbers by forty-seven percent since 2010. But it’s still a problem, especially for soldiers coming back with significant psychiatric issues. If they end up on the street with paranoia, PTSD, drug problems, any and all of the above—that’s a difficult situation. The programs are voluntary. We can’t force people to accept help. And when a person doesn’t trust anyone, or their primary objective in life has become scoring crack, that person isn’t coming in here asking to sign up.”

They stood in the hall between the administrative offices and the dining room of the shelter, where the moods of the clientele had improved with calories, and conversations rose and fell and were interspersed with occasional laughter.

Seley held out the photograph of Gordon Krauss to the director. “This is the man we’re searching for. Does he look familiar?”

Westin squinted at the picture, frowning, searching his memory. “Possibly. We get so many men through here, it’s tough to remember faces unless they’re regulars. Who is he?”

“He’s calling himself Gordon Krauss,” Nikki said. “But he was found to have half a dozen IDs in his possession, one of them belonging to a Jeremy Nilsen. We’re trying to determine if the two might be one and the same.”

“I know we’ve had a Jeremy Nilsen come through here,” he said. “I found the name several times in our roster from the last year. We try to keep track as much as we can. If we don’t, who will? But I couldn’t say I remember what he looked like. He wasn’t a regular, and according to the list, he hasn’t been in for several months.”

“Have you heard anything about guys getting their IDs stolen?”

“It happens. Life on the street is no picnic. Men get rolled for their drugs, for their pocket money, because they looked at someone the wrong way. Most of them don’t want to deal with the police, so crime goes unreported. It’s a transient population, so if we stop seeing a face, we assume they moved on, not that something happened to them.”

Nikki sighed, frustrated.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. That’s the situation we’re dealing with.”

“Thanks anyway,” Seley said. “Do you mind if we show this around the room? Maybe someone will recognize him.”

“By all means, and good luck.”

They drifted up and down the rows of tables, trying to get people to look closely at the photograph of Gordon Krauss. Most weren’t interested, glancing at the picture and passing it on, wanting nothing to do with cops. Then one man looked at the picture and sat up a little straighter.

“Do you know that guy?” Nikki put the man in his late fifties. With curly gray hair that had receded halfway back on his skull, he had the regal profile of an African king. The name on his army jacket read, KUMAR.

“Yeah. He’s a bad dude,” Kumar said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Dude hit my friend Martin in the head with a hammer!”

“When was this?”

“Couple months ago. Down by the river. There’s a camp down there in the summer. Some guys were passing a pipe. This guy brought some substances, if you get my drift.”

“This guy brought drugs to the party?”

“Yes, ma’am. And when they was all high—I don’t partake, myself—this guy pulled a hammer and hit Martin a couple of licks in the head. BAM! BAM! Just like that!” he said, pounding a fist on the table.

“Martin had cashed his benefits check that day and bought some liquor. It was a nice party up until the hammer came out,” he said wistfully.

“Do you think he was going to rob your friend? Or was he just freaking out?”

“Oh yeah,” he nodded. “I had my eye on him. He was hardly smoking. He was a man with a plan, for sure. We got more selective about our party guests after that.”

“And what happened then?”

“Cops heard the commotion and pulled up on the bank. Everybody went their own way.”

“Did you ever see this guy again after that?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you remember his name?”

He gave her a look. “We’re not big on names at the parties.”

“What happened to your friend?”