Free Monkeewrench by P. J. Tracy

Leo,” Gino said over the phone. “We got a real sparkler this time. BCA’s on their way.”
    “Shit.”
    “Shit is right, my friend.”
    Magozzi moaned, tossing his warm covers aside and cringing at the rush of frigid air he hoped would shock him into consciousness. “Why the hell do you sound like you’ve been up for an hour already?”
    “Whaddaya think? I been up half the night with the Accident.” He was talking about his six-month-old son, a surprise arrival thirteen years after the last one.
    Magozzi let out a long-suffering sigh. “You got coffee?”
    “I got coffee—my sainted wife is loading up the thermos as we speak. And bring your parka. It’s frigging freezing.”
    Half an hour later, Magozzi and Gino were standing in Lakewood Cemetery, staring up in shocked silence at an enormous stone statue of an angel with massive wings extended. A dead girl was draped over one wing, arms and legs danglingon either side, her face partially obscured by a curtain of blood-stained blond hair. She wore a red dress, net nylons, and stiletto heels.
    Crime Scene had set up bright white lights on tall aluminum tripods to illuminate the gruesome tableau and the whole effect was surreal. Magozzi couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d been transported to the set of a Kubrick film. Or a B horror flick.
    He looked over at a row of crumbling grave markers backlit by the kliegs and saw little tendrils of mist curling on the ground around them.
    He blinked a couple times, trying to dispel the image. Then he realized that it was real fog, and sometimes in real cemeteries, real fog crept along the ground the same way it did in the movies.
    Gino took a gulp of coffee. “Christ. This looks like some cult bullshit to me.”
    Jimmy Grimm from BCA forensics was making a meticulous circuit around the pedestal of the grave marker, tweezing up minuscule pieces of evidence and bagging them.
    Anantanand Rambachan stood off to one side, waiting for Jimmy to finish. He gave the detectives a melancholy nod. No banter this morning.
    Magozzi looked back up at the body. “She’s young,” he said quietly. “Just a kid.”
    Gino took a closer look. Not much older than Helen, he thought, then pushed that thought right out of his mind. His fourteen-year-old daughter didn’t belong in the same mind where images of dead girls were floating. “Christ,” he muttered again.
    Magozzi moved in a little closer, examining the dark drip marks down the angel’s side. “Who found her?”
    Grateful for the distraction, Gino nodded toward a pair of bedraggled-looking college boys wearing U of M letter jackets.A uniform was interviewing the lanky, blond one while the shorter, dark kid dry-heaved on his hands and knees.
    Magozzi clucked his tongue, genuinely sorry for the kids. How many years would it take before the nightmares stopped for them? Maybe never. “Let’s go talk to them so we can send the poor bastards home.”
    As they approached, the officer turned and gave them a grateful look. “They’re all yours.” He leaned forward and spoke confidentially. “You want some advice? Talk to the blond kid, name’s Jeff Rasmussen. The other one’s still drunk as a skunk and as you might have noticed, he pukes every time you ask him a question.”
    Gino moved in on Jeff Rasmussen, while Magozzi hung back and watched. Sometimes body language told a better story than words.
    Jeff bobbed his head up and down nervously when Gino introduced himself. He had glittery, pale blue eyes shot through with red that kept darting toward the statue. His friend looked up miserably and tried to focus without much success.
    “You want to tell us what happened, Jeff?”
    Jeff bobbed his head again. “Sure. Sure. Yeah.” Very nervous. Very wired. “We were at the hockey game … then after, we went out for a couple drinks … they have three-for-ones at Chelsea’s on Mondays. So we stayed until bar close—we were a little lit, you know? Hitched a ride with