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Culling Minneapolis, May 25, 2020: George Floyd’s death while in the custody of police unleashes a violent orgy of arson, looting, gunfire, and mindless destruction by an enraged primeval mob. Not content to vandalize local businesses, the rabble burns a post office, bank, stores, cars, and ultimately torches a precinct building. The city’s smoldering embers hide a multitude of sins, including a reign of terror buried for years until a veteran newspaper reporter looks beyond the recent chaos to unearth a secret evil. Sometimes at odds with his most trusted source—a lieutenant leading the department’s homicide unit—journalist and detective work together to uncover the truth.

Chapter 29  St. Croix River

A hatless unshaven man, sandy hair poking from under his hat, his denim jacket worn open over a plaid shirt and hunter’s camouflage pants, strolled through woods at the foot of a bluff along the river. Pausing at a small rug of fur in the decaying leaf carpet, he probed with a boot, uncovering scattered bones. The bleached skeletal remains were those of a deer, perhaps felled by starvation. This past winter had been a hard one and the approaching autumn had already arrived with its first frost. Above him, trees swayed, their naked crowns clicking against each other in the raw wind. A dog would make a good hiking companion on a day like this, thought the man. Just as quickly, he dismissed the thought. A dog would be rooting about, sniffing the air, barking, and disturbing the silence. 

Solitude like this is good for the soul. Thinking’s easier out here along the quiet river. Pausing at a fallen hardwood giant, he settled in a moss-covered throne formed by a pair of crooked limbs. Moments of precious silence passed. Flowing serenely past his perch on the massive trunk, the river produced a blissful hiker’s nirvana. 

Breaking the spell, a cell phone’s harsh warble startled him. Seldom used, it was an old flip phone buried in this older jacket, a favorite. He had forgotten. 

Only one caller had the number. 

Fishing it from his pocket, the hiker pried open the lid and studied the incoming number. It matched. Sliding reluctantly from the comfort of his seat on the weathered log, he listened to the caller’s scolding voice. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

His silence prompted another question. “You there? Say something.”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Do you realize what a mess you’ve made of things these last three months?”

“I don’t agree.”

“Of course not. But you’ve upset everything by doing what you damn well please. There’s no way in hell you can justify what you’ve been up to. Don’t for one moment think I’m fooled. I know you. I see your hand at work. We had an agreement to do things my way.” 

Staring at the treetops, the hiker prodded the forest floor with his walking stick. “Originally, yes. But I happen to believe we were moving too slowly.”

Profanity barked from the phone, followed by, “That’s bullshit. We agreed. I set the schedule and you agreed to meet it.”

“That was then. Things change.” Phone to his ear, the man began walking toward the foot of the bluffs towering above him. He aimed for the beginnings of a beaten path—a bald spot amidst mottled, leafy carpeting. Leading to higher ground, the trail skirted sandstone buttresses near the river bottom. “You weren’t moving fast enough. We were falling behind. Things got ahead of you.”

“So you decided to branch out on your own?”

“In a manner of speaking. Doesn’t change things.” 

He began climbing the path, anxious to be done with the irritating call. “I saw things you missed. Added a few projects here and there. It’s working rather well don’t you think?”

“The hell it is. A priest? The lawyer? Since when did we add them to the list? I may have to end my part in this. You’ve gone off the reservation. I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”