The Weatherman by Steve Thayer Page A

Despite the hyperbole, it was often true. They came, played, and then they stayed.
    “I’d think by now you’d have learned to dress for the weather.”
    “I watched the weather,” Redmond told him. “The man said chance of sprinkles. He didn’t say nothing about monsoon season.”
    “What channel did you watch?”
    “Five.”
    “See, there you go. Watch Channel 7. That guy is right on the money. Every day.”
    “Channel 7 is a white-ass conspiracy. They haven’t had a black face on their news in two years. Just stuck-up, uptight, funky white bitches, hairdo white guys, and that big fat white weatherman with the baby face. You don’t seriously watch them, do you?”
    “They’re number one now.”
    “I’d rather drown.” He clobbered another mosquito on the dashboard.
    Angelbeck coughed, then cleared his throat. “I’m old, Donny. We old people have to know the weather.”
    “Right, yeah. You watch the weather like a goddamn weatherman so you can dress right and not get the sniffles, then you blow two packs of smokes every day. That cough of yours ain’t gettin’ any better, raincoat or none.”
    “Speaking of raincoats and cigarettes, look at that billboard.”
    The tall lieutenant bent his head over the steering wheel. “Looks like our boy Splat Man got another one. Your hero, too.”
    Under bright lights above the street the Marlboro Man was riding through the rain. But his head had been blown off and his horse was bleeding profusely. They’d taken two hits: one fluorescent orange splat to the cowboy’s face and a bright yellow splat to the horse’s neck. In the copious rain the dripping paint took on the hue of surreal art.
    They worked their way past the stadium and started for the freeway. Angry cops in black raincoats directed traffic. It was the seedy end of town: parking lots and vacant lots, railroad tracks and decaying shacks. The nasty weather only added to the gloom. Angelbeck glanced at the rearview mirror and saw a red blur of flashing lights leave the county medical center. The siren could barely be heard above the storm.
    “Three-ten Able.”
    “Three-ten.”
    “Metrodome ramp. We need a supervisor on the roof. Cancel the ambulance. Call eleven-ten. Suspect is GOA .”
    Donnell Redmond hit the brakes. “Man, we just passed there.”
    “Turn around. Let’s have a look.”
    To most people the police chatter that night was just routine mumbo jumbo, mostly weather-related. But to cops, newsrooms, and scanner freaks the message was as clear as the night was stormy. A supervisor was needed to seal the scene. Cancel the ambulance because the victim is dead. Eleven-ten was homicide. Suspect was gone on arrival.
    Redmond raced the car in circles up the parking ramp. Water was already tumbling down the levels and spilling through the walls. He drove back into the torrential rains
    on the blackened roof and parked next to the one-man squad known as three-ten Able.
    Les Angelbeck buttoned up his raincoat and threw his cigarette at the weather. Donnell Redmond grabbed a newspaper off the seat and draped it over his head. They walked over to the patrolman and looked down at where his flashlight shined. They had to shout to be heard over the storm.
    “Who called it in?”
    “Anonymous caller. Hung up on the dispatcher,” he told them. “I bent down to check her. I could move her head around with my pinky.”
    The victim was on her back, peering up at the wind and rain, her innocent eyes not quite closed. “This girl’s not out of her teens,” Angelbeck declared. “What’s that uniform she’s wearing?”
    “Looks like a vendor,” the patrolman answered. “There was a Twins game tonight. I think they park free if they park on the roof.”
    The newspaper Lieutenant Redmond held over his head disintegrated. He threw the wads of worthless ink to the floor and swore. “Bitchin’ rain is washing everything away, man.”
    Another Minneapolis squad pulled onto the roof of the parking