Herbert Pond (Commissioner of Parks)

Herbert Pond sat at his desk in the turret of his house, on the third floor of the mansion that had been built on top of King’s Hill, built for him, the Commissioner of Parks.

From his window he was able to surveil the parking lot and headquarters of his police force, the “rangers” as people called them…without affection. From where he sat, he could see over the tops of the hills and through the trees of Lakewood Cemetery; looking west-north-west he could see all the way to Loon Lake; looking south and west he could see across the Robert Sadler Bird Sanctuary, and over the Rose Gardens, all the way to the other lake, the lake named for Harriet Lovejoy.

He sat quietly, watching the pale moon fade as the rising sun pushed it 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.

He had received a phone call from Karl Thorrson, a man who had proven to be a reliable, though vexing ally in his struggle to wrest power from the hands of the commissioner’s most prominent adversary, the ancient and esteemed Colonel Albert Forrester.

Thorrson had informed him of his plan to make a move on a popular tavern at the edge of Saint Anthony’s red-light district. A place called The Round-Up, a few blocks from Miller’s Field and under the protection of the Colonel, and the Fifth Precinct of the Saint Anthony Police Department, which the Colonel controlled.

Thorrson had consolidated power along Lake Street, doing so without much resistance from the Colonel. He had taken over and consolidated the gambling and prostitution markets, the sale of contraband and most of the protection racket as far east as the bridge to Pig’s Eye and as far west as the Big Island on Lake Minnetonka.

The commissioner believed that the Colonel was becoming less and less interested in the streets of Saint Anthony, he was impossibly old and he had become obsessed with finding suitable marriages for his daughters. He was thinking of his legacy.

Thorrson was engaged in a hostile takeover of crime in Saint Anthony, doing so with his blessing. But the commissioner was also taking the time to ensure that the Colonel was being compensated for his losses. However, the Round-Up posed a unique challenge, the proprietor had a relationship with the Colonel that would be difficult, if not impossible to get around. The commissioner had thought he had made it clear to the imposing Karl Thorrson that he wanted him to wait on the Round-Up. He did not agree with Thorrson’s timing. The gargantuan was overeager, in too much of a hurry seize this last little piece of territory, no harm could come from waiting…in another year the Colonel might just be gone, old age finally catching up with him.

This morning he understood that he was losing control of Thorrson, he was unable to dissuade him from the course of action the crime boss proposed. So, he decided to place a call to his estranged wife, Helga Magnusson, to give her a piece of information regarding her husband and her missing lover, Bjorn Elmquist, information that she had been waiting for.

The commissioner did not think it would be a good use of his resources to engage in a direct confrontation with Thorrson, so he decided to complicate the giant’s life by turning his wife into his enemy; violence would come from it, and chaos would follow, of that much he was certain.

Dr. Pierce Johnson Ph.D., (Antiquities)

Dr. Johnson cursed himself as he walked away from the lake as fast as he could, gripping his cane tightly in one hand, not even bothering to swing it.

He was rattled.

He had been followed from the Ingrid Magnusson’s bookstore by a man who looked like he could be police, or a prizefighter. A tall and broad-shouldered man who had been sitting in a chair at the reading room when he arrived.

Dr. Johnson had finally gotten permission to examine the Albigensian Grimoire, he had been waiting for more than a year for it to become available and he was eager to look into its pages, both to examine its ancient lore as well as the modern interpolations that had been made by Lord Crowley and company.

Now he had lost it and he feared Ingrid’s patron: Karl Thorrson the one-eyed giant, would not let him live it down.

Dr. Johnson was not a brave man, nor did he aspire to be one, a fear of violence reprisal had haunted him since childhood. He was graceless and physical weak, despite his height, which gave him a somewhat imposing disposition.

When he realized he was being followed he panicked and began walking toward Loon Lake.

He was hoping that he was imagining things, being paranoid as was his wont; perhaps the man was not following him after all, he thought, but then the man turned with him and matched his gait.

When Dr. Johnson got to the lake he attempted to lose him in the brushes of the steep hill that formed a ridge on the east side.

It did not work.

That is when he decided that the man must be one of the Park Police, the notorious squad of uniformed gangster that were the bane of Saint Anthony.

He did not want to be caught with the book in his hands so he decided to hide it beneath some shrubs. Then he walked away, and walked right past the man feeling as smug as could be, telling himself that he had outsmarted the sleuth, pretending that he was the better man.

The feeling did not last.

He knew the man would retrieve the book. His heart fell into his stomach as he contemplated the implications.

He would need to do something desperate if he was going to survive this blunder.

He looked out over the surface of the water as he turned away from the lake, fearing that he would be sleeping there, eighty feet below the surface before the night was through.