Endgame

(Length: 92,000+ words)

There’s a serial killer afoot in Bloomington, Minnesota, a community new to such lethal assaults. Moreover, each victim is dispatched in creative fashion, using the products of a particular advertising agency, which, in itself, seems targeted for extinction. 

The killings soon spill into surrounding communities of the Twin Cities and reaches the lake country of central Minnesota with the product theme intact. 

The City of Bloomington’s crimes-against-persons officer, Lieuten­ant Douglas Hank­enson, must rise to the challenge he’s presented—especially since he is singled out to play a game of fact and fantasy, choreographed by a diabolical assassin. 

Darcy Austin, who discovers the first murder victim, must escape the danger facing her, as well. Why and how does the advertising agency, Williams/Bailey, fit into the pattern of death? The comic-book characters of Fantasy Publications are fictitious, aren’t they? What role can they possibly play in the scenario? 

And what of the notorious vigilante, the Rifleman? Does he have a part in the killings . . . or is he pursuing his own personal agenda? There’s a galvanic ride leading to the master killer’s endgame. 

Bob Rueff is a native Min­ne­sotan and a longtime resident of Bloomington. He was an advertising executive for much of his career. Rueff is the author of Minnesota Heat, a satirical statewide bestseller based on the Minnesota psyche and way of life.

“Bob Rueff’s Endgame is a triple threat: The reader gets a panoramic view of Minnesota, a fascinating look into the world of advertising, and crackling good mystery to boot.” —Dave Wood, Syndicated reviewer and former book-page editor for the Minneapolis StarTribune 

“Endgame is a lethal romp that will grab any mystery lover, with a smashing climax that has all the ingredients of an action movie.” —Dan Cohen, author/columnist/critic 

“A wonderful sleuth, let’s hope we see more of crimes-against-persons Lieutenant Hank Hankenson in a sequel to a Bob Rueff page-turner.” —Sharon Darby Hendry, author of Glensheen’s Daughter, The Marjorie Congdon Story and SoLiAh: The Sara Jane Olson Story. 

“Endgame: Action, intrigue, sex, violence, mystery, suspense, murder, romance, humor, wonderfully inventive characters, witty dialogue in some familiar and some strange places. Good writing, moving, funny, and full of good sense and goodwill.” —Tom Dubbe, Ph.D., Author of Aberration at Jordan 

“Endgame gets past the formula mystery thriller, blending a taunting killer, an unlikely cop, an alluring heroine, and a fantasy sub-world, all leading to an elaborate, deadly . . . endgame.” —Clark Griffith, Attorney at Law, former executive vice-president Minnesota Twins

Chapter 1

Terminus

Edson Janes was into one of his all-nighters. When was he going to learn? Never. He was too old. More often than not he went into these sessions planning to finish up somewhere around the witching hour, but it seldom worked out that way. In his younger days, he remembered working through the night and returning home for a shower and change of clothes before boarding an early flight from Min­neapolis/St. Paul Inter­national Airport to make an all-day strategy session with a client in Detroit reviewing “the plan”—on more than one occasion. He hadn’t done that for several years now, but the all-nighters continued as a part of his regimen. Advertising was a business of deadlines, and too much money was riding on things occurring on schedule to tolerate any major postponements. And, of course, it was always the agency’s fault when deadlines or budgets weren’t met, even when the client’s indecision, machinations, or other dithering effected either factor. That aside, the hectic environment of an advertising agency’s normal business hours, with all its distractions, were not conducive to developing an in-depth marketing plan. 

Thus the all-night sessions . . . cohesive concentration.

He was laboring at what he regarded as the most critical part of any marketing plan: Targeting. It shaped everything. The tone of the advertising, what words were used to relate to the target consumer in copy, what media were chosen to convey the message, which in turn, determined the most proficient budget for the campaign. To Edson Janes, effective targeting meant going beyond demographics, the Holy Grail common to most advertisers. Sure, there was market research that provided specific information about current customers, customer prospects, and rejecters of the product. Along with the demographics of each group. But none of this revealed the target consumer’s basic beliefs, motivations or intrinsic values—the “why” of certain behavior, not just the behavior itself. Yet the slavish seeking of eighteen- to thirty-five-year olds re­mained the reigning import to marketers everywhere, with education and income kicked in. It was as if everyone in an age and income bracket was the same, Edson Janes thought. To him, eighteen to thirty-five wasn’t a segment, it was a national convention—practically anyone who can fog a mirror. 

Janes’ approach was through the VALS psychographic service, providing a much better fix on prime consumers of any particular product, to his mind—this particular product. The problem was convincing the client of that. Hell, most agencies needed convincing themselves. It didn’t make sense to him, yet demographics remained supreme. But then, the VALS program required an understanding and application of principles and techniques not readily decipherable without some study and trial. Like a fine violin, one had to learn how to play it before it made music. Compounding that, agencies were sometimes more interested in pleasing their clients, or worse, with winning awards—a big deal in the ad game—than they were in pursuing new marketing disciplines that were often re­sist­ed by their clients anyway, in his opinion.

No, Edson Janes could not absolve clients in this scenario. Bad advertising often resulted from client intervention and dictates, rather than the doings of their agencies. He’d seen successful advertising results dissed out of corporate-culture assertion, trashing successful campaigns; and, at times, an agency was fired because the client simply didn’t like it, or them. In doing so, the powers that be would always find some justification for their actions, perhaps out of self-denial. Results be damned. One of his favorite sayings was, “What has success got to do with it?” 

He knew that many excellent campaign proposals never saw the light of day because of client rejection out of the box. A dread among agencies is when the CEO takes a campaign presentation home to his wife for her critique. Hang on for that one.

The ad game was not always played in the most forthright manner, from either side, he knew full well—self-interests, egos, and just plain ignorance resulted in potentials lost and successes curtailed. 

Edson Janes could just go along with his client’s inclinations and make life easier for himself, but his professionalism wouldn’t let him. He knew the prime target for Midland, the psychographic target, was a narrower portion of the demo­graphic grouping than the client was prone to chase—causing a waste of media monies plus ads that didn’t cut to the core of a more defined, more efficient target. “Too generic,” he was told, when it came to applying his psychographic approach when, in reality, the opposite was true. Another errant assertion made out of hand.

Demos gave him age, income, education, and 2.3 kids. Psycho­graphics gave him richness beyond that. He was able to determine that Midland’s prime target was a very traditional sort, playing out traditional family roles. That they were independent to the extreme and resented government restriction on personal liberties, opposed gun control legislation, and generally mistrusted politicians, news media, and large corporations. That they mostly desired to travel inside the United States—often camping out in preference to staying at hotels or resorts. That home cooking was more appealing to them than dining out. That they drank domestic rather than imported beer, preferred white bread to whole wheat, bought American cars and trucks—mostly trucks—and didn’t try to impress their neighbors with their possessions. Keeping up with the Joneses was not important, here. He was also aware of their media preferences, including viewing/listening/reading proclivities. Not just what they tuned into, but why they tuned into it. Too generic? What the hell are demographics if not too generic?

He ran his hand through forelocks a decade past thickness. He’d pull this off if it killed him—achieve a marketing plan honed to a tighter, more pertinent target, while not tipping his hand to Lakeland Recreational as to how he got there. Perhaps he could fake a primary market-research study, gratis, of course, that the agency supposedly conducted on its own for Lakeland. Lakeland was in love with market research and doled out tens of thousands of dollars every other year, to the exclusion of the dynamic marketing tool they could subscribe to for a relative pittance. True, primary market research told them a lot about the likes and dislikes of RV consumers, and Midland’s customers in particular, but little about what drove the segment from a psychological standpoint—which can be critical to a marketing strategist worth his salt. 

Still pondering how he’d proceed, Edson Janes came up hungry as well as agitated. Glancing at his watch he saw it was three a.m.—time for a reprieve.

Making his way down the corridor to the agency kitchen, he pulled down a family-size can of Mother Svendsen’s Soup from the food cabinet. Using its new pull-tab top—that his agency introduced in an ad campaign he supervised—he opened the container to an accompanying poof. He poured the generous contents into an oversized porcelain bowl, added a shot of water, shoved it into the microwave and punched the keys for six minutes at full power. He liked it hot.

Pacing back and forth on the tile floor until four beeps signaled “soup’s on,” he removed the container from the oven and tested it with a sip from a spoon. Satisfied it didn’t need any more rays, he transported his steaming meal to a room-center table, along with a pitcher of water, pulled up a chair, and began slurping its contents while reviewing scribbles on a yellow pad he brought from his office. He put down his spoon, underlined, “Why certain people do what they do,” with his pen, and went back to his spoon.

He was not alone in the office that night. Someone watched from an unlit hallway leading into the kitchen area. Unnoticed by Edson Janes, that person was now approaching from behind him. 

The leather-bound sap struck the adman on the back of the head, splashing his face down into the hot soup he was no longer capable of tasting. The person stepped up alongside the adman, seized the back of his head and plunged his face down into the large bowl to where his lungs sucked up its contents. 

As Mother Svendson’s Soup advertising proclaimed: “It’s a goodly-sized portion. Although you can add a smidgen of water, should you desire even more.” And so it was done.

There were the reflexive spasms common to a drowning person—the body’s attempt to discharge the liquid invasion of its lungs. But Edson Janes was held secure. His struggling became weaker, and then there was calm. 

“Bon appétit,” the person at his back uttered, toasting with a half-full pitcher of water no longer needed. 

Why certain people do what they do, was the last conscious thought Edson Janes had in a lifetime career in that pursuit.

Chapter 2

Crime Scene

The offices of Williams/Bailey on the eleventh floor of Normandale Tower, Bloomington, Minnesota, were sealed off. Employees arriving for work found themselves docketed for later questioning and sent home. A distraught Williams/Bailey receptionist fielded calls from an off-premise station set up by the Bloomington Police. All calls, including direct-line voicemail, were being electronically monitored and recorded for later scrutiny. 

As far as Darcy Austin knew, she was the only W/B employee on the premises. On that she was correct—except for the dead one. She sat behind her desk, a police lieutenant in one of the two barrel chairs opposite her. They had been at it for a while.

“Do you normally show up at the office at five in the morning?” Lieutenant Douglas Hankenson asked with a demeanor more FBI than local cop, in Darcy Austin’s opinion, along with the arrogance she imagined of a Fed. Perhaps his was a logical line of inquiry, but no matter. It was taken as insinuating and added to what already seemed an accusatory tone to her. And he was poking into some disturbing issues covered earlier in the session. She was resentful, and it showed. 

“It happens in the ad business,” she answered. “There are demands. Deadlines. We have to get the job done.” 

A stare, no response.

“Do you only chase after criminals between 9:00 and 5:00, Lieutenant?” she asked, knowing that was a little too smart-ass as soon as it was out of her mouth.

If it bothered the policeman he didn’t react. “You found the body when you went to the lunchroom to make coffee around five-fifteen. Right?” Another irritating redundancy.

“Exactly five-twelve—I told you. I checked the time when I called 911.” Take that.

“So you did. Lot of presence of mind—weren’t you a little bit concerned the perpetrator might still be on the premises?”

Panicked was more like it. Darcy Austin was still shaken. Why she struggled so hard to cover it up she didn’t un­derstand, herself. She suspected she’d appear more sympathetic to this cop, and he might just back off, if she’d let go a little. But no! Something inside ­wouldn’t let her, lest she display some terrible vulnerability. Maybe it was her job conditioning—not letting the client see her sweat—like in presentations important to the agency in dollars as well as creative investiture—or when things weren’t going all that well with the folks paying the bills, or any other reason. Sometimes that reason stemmed from a lack of client backbone when the creative got too edgy for them—or so the agency was prone to believe. In any case, a big part of the account manager’s job was to help pull situations like those out of the fire. And one could only hope to do that appearing cool and confident under siege—even when one wasn’t. Darcy Austin learned that lesson well. Now she was faced with pulling herself out of the fire. 

Lieutenant Hankenson sat back in the barrel chair, looking much like he could be a prospective new client for the agency in his well-fitted suit. He examined the reactions of Ms. Austin with discernment, knowing that the discoverer of the body was many times the murderer, drawn back to the scene out of nervousness about the situation. And he knew that a nervous murderer might appear as distraught as an innocent intruder on the crime scene. Is Ms. Austin distraught? Yeah, but also petulant. That was a twist. He needed to push further, and putting her on the defensive served his purposes. 

Unlike Lieutenant Hankenson’s formal business attire, Darcy Austin was wearing a casual blouse with worn-before jeans, and her auburn hair was done up in a bun, not with great care. No client presentation scheduled for today. 

She brushed some wayward strands from her face “Per­pe­trator?” she responded to his latest assertion, more shrilly than she intended. “How can you be so sure there was one? Couldn’t he . . . Mr. Janes . . . have fainted or something and just happened to fall . . . into the soup that way.” It sounded so preposterous as she proposed it—drowning in a bowl of soup, she barely got it all out—might even have snickered if it weren’t so damned awful. Her nerves were playing tricks with her.

She had been pretty sure Janes’ death was no accident when she discovered him. Too messy—there’d been at least some sort of violent action. A chill passed through her now, as she acknowledged to herself that the murderer could have been lurking about when she found the body, just as the lieutenant had proffered. Maybe even watching her. Another chill.

“Believe me, he had help dying,” Lieutenant Hankenson said.

“I know,” Darcy Austin said, lowering her voice in concession. Nothing for a time, then offered, “Our soup, too,” from under her breath. 

“What?”

She raised her eyes to his. “Our client. Mother Svend­sen’s—you know, the brand. I saw the empty container . . . in the lunchroom.”

“Mother Svendsen’s ‘The soup to die for’?” he asked.

“We created that slogan, here at the agency.” She an­swered, then trailed: “Minnesota wild rice flavor” as though that were somehow significant.

Lieutenant Hankenson jotted in his pad, shaking his head at what he was hearing.

Sounds from the lunchroom tumbled down the hall from time to time. The detective seemed to ignore them. Darcy Austin couldn’t. It brought images to her of investigators pouring over the fateful scene—all the things she’d seen in movies and TV cop shows so many times before. She wondered how they’d draw the chalk outline around Edson Janes’ body hunched over the table with his face in that bowl. Would it include the Mother Svendsen’s empty container as well? Ludicrous thoughts again—she couldn’t help it.

More questions, more answers, more notes. Some rehashed, some new:

“How close were you to Edson Janes?” Then Lieutenant Hankenson thought he should propitiously add: “At work.”

“He was my group supervisor,” she answered. “He is . . . was . . . over all of our food accounts, and I handle Gold’n Tender Chicken.”

“Did he have enemies, antagonists?”

“None in the agency. I don’t know about his private life.” Then she thought about it and added: “He clashed with two people who left the firm, though.” 

“Did you?

“Did I what?

“Get along with him.”

“Of course.”

“Two people left because of him?”

“In large part, I guess.” A wave of her hand.

“Who were they?” Note book poised.

“Roland Bennett, a former partner. He has his own agency now. And Frank Ramstead. Used to be our executive vice president. He went to another agency.”

“When did they leave?”

“Less then a year ago. They left close together. H.R. can give you all that.”

“And where they can be reached?”

“I think so.”

“Who’s normally around here late at night?” 

“The cleaning crew that the building provides, but not that late. There usually are some hangers-on in the office, but again, not that late. Then there’s Terry.” 

“Terry?”

“A handyman around here. Works crazy hours. Terry Barnhard.”

“Ah-huh. Anyone else?” 

“Could be anyone of us, working late. Or starting early,” she added, reflecting on this very day.

“How many people work at Williams/Bailey?” 

“Mmm . . . fifty-seven, I think, not counting Fantasy. Again, you can get that from H.R.” 

“Fantasy?” 

“Fantasy Publications. A subsidiary of W/B down in the warehouse district. Half a dozen people or thereabouts.”

“What’s Fantasy got to do with Williams/Bailey?”

“Nothing directly, except maybe for some financing,” Darcy answered. She’d given up being difficult for the moment, lost in explanation. “Fantasy publishes a couple of comic books. Mr. Williams set it up for Josh, his son. Lets him do his thing. He’s creator and illustrator of the comics.” 

“Didn’t want to join the agency?” Lieutenant Hankenson wondered out loud. “He’d have a better thing going right here in the shop, wouldn’t he?”

“Josh marches to his own drummer. Free spirit. Different motivations. Besides, it’s not that easy to just insert your son into a thriving agency without causing problems.”

“Oh?”

“People get nervous—pecking orders, things like that. Anyway, the guy’s done pretty well. Magenta is his creation. He’s got Sterling and Cobalt, too, but Magenta’s the one that’s really caught on.” 

“No kiddin’. I’ve heard of her. Isn’t she supposed to be the Dark Avenger, or something?”

“That’s Batman. She’s the Night Vigilante. He’s found a niche with Magenta. 

Hankenson jotted down “Josh Williams—Fantasy publ.” He’d check it out.

After several more desultory questions and cross tabbing, the detective tucked his note pad inside his breast pocket and stood up, signaling that the session was over. He was medium height, Darcy Austin noticed, and his dark suit was accordant to an adman at a new-business presentation—Shelby-knotted wide-rep tie, spread-collar pale-blue dress shirt, and tasseled loafers completing the ensemble. Quality was way up there, too, she could tell—good as any around the agency. And as with most advertising agencies, the threads were exceptional at Williams/Bailey. 

He was a few inches taller than her five-foot-eight, she guessed, probably just under six feet. In her heels they’d almost be eye to eye. Almost. 

“That’s all for now Ms. Austin—or can I call you Darcy?”—friendlier than the staccato interrogation just ended. 

“Darcy,” she said with some reluctance, while accepting the business card he held out to her. She didn’t know just how friendly she wanted to be in return.

“Good. I go by Hank,” a smile turning up on one side more than the other as he said it—different, yet kind of engaging. “There’s an office number and home number there,” he added, gesturing to the card in her hand. “Call anytime if you think of something else—even if it doesn’t seem important. You never know.” 

How many times had she heard that on TV before? “I’m not one of your suspects am I, Lieutenant?” she asked in an acerbic tone, sidestepping his “Hank” offering. 

“Just doing my job. Questions first, suspects later,” he said with a disarming wave of his hand. “I’d like you to stick around, though. I’ll probably need to ask you a few more questions as we move along. Okay?” His one-sided grin again: “Unless a motive turns up . . . no, you’re not a suspect, Darcy.”

“Nice to know, Lieutenant. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Well, not here,” he replied. “Not for the rest of the day, anyway. Everyone at Williams/Bailey is on furlough till the crime-scene folk wrap up.”

“Will it count against vacation days?” That acerbity again, but she smiled.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask your management about that,” he grinned back. Then more seriously: “I’m going to the lunchroom for a moment. Stay put till I get back. Then I’m escorting you out of this place. There’s an officer posted out here in the hall—just so you know.” No venturing out on your own Ms. Austin. He closed the door to her office as he left.

Darcy turned Lieutenant Douglas L. Hankenson’s card in her hand as she stared out her office window overlooking Nor­man­dale Lake. The leaves would be turning before long, her favorite time of the year in Minnesota. She fixed on the Normandale ski jump looming above the hilly tree-lined backdrop to the lake in the foreground—larger than the storm-damaged one it replaced a few years before. Suddenly it seemed strangely out of place to her, surrounded, as it was, by greenery—the thought hadn’t struck her before now. Well in a few more months it’ll be very much in sync with its surroundings, she reflected. Stick around—in Minnesota you soon had weather befitting any situation. But could she ever be in sync with her surroundings, again? She wondered. 

A tear rolled down her cheek and splashed on her hand still holding the business card the detective had given her. She glanced at the card, noting, for the first time, the inscription under Lieutenant Douglas L. Hankenson read Crimes Against Persons—not Homicide as she would have expected. Then it occurred to her. How many homicides do they have in clean-cut Bloomington, Minnesota? The prospect only served to point out the rare circumstance into which she had stumbled. Somehow, that was all the more frightening to her.

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