A Regular Guy Looks at Global Warming

I have always been suspicious of people who tell me about a massive problem that I cannot perceive for myself, but which they can solve for me if I hand them a bunch of money and power. So I have taken the idea of human-caused Global warming with a grain of salt. I added more salt last November when it was discovered that one of the primary groups responsible for studying the phenomenon was doctoring the data.

But I don't want to be political here. I'm interested in what the real science says. For the first time, I've actually begun to investigate it that way. So here, I'm sharing what I have learned about the scientific evidence for and against global warming. If you happen to see that I'm missing some vital information, please share it, but do so in the spirit of scientific truth and discovery, and not in a political, angry or mean way.

As far as I understand it, the advocates of doing something about human-caused-global warming (for brevity HCGW) offer this basic thesis:

Human beings have increased the amount of carbon dioxide (C02) in the atmosphere. C02 is a “greenhouse gas” (it retains a portion of radiation from the sun in the atmosphere). This extra C02 is causing the world to get warmer. Soon, because of human-generated C02, the world will warm so rapidly and so much that we will experience disastrous, catastrophic climate change. We might be able to avert this by controlling emissions of C02 into the atmosphere.

I am interested in this: what is the scientific evidence that pertains to this theory? Is the hypothesis theoretically and experimentally sound?

I have a Bachelor of Science degree – but that only means I had more science classes than liberal arts classes for my undergraduate degree. My Master's Degree is not in a scientific field. I am not a scientist. But I am a reasonably intelligent person. What follows is my understanding of the SCIENCE behind “Global Warming.” I gathered a lot of this from “Environmental Effects of Increased Atmospheric Carbon Dioxide” by Arthur B Robinson, Noah E Robinson and Willie Soon. This paper is a review and summary of a great deal of peer-reviewed scientific literature available about the history of global climate change. Over 31,000 trained scientists have signed a petition which states they generally agree with the conclusions of this review. It's worth your own time to read it, but in case you don't, I'll offer the main points (in simplified form) here.

First, my own disclaimer. Scientists on both sides of the debate must rely on secondary data. In other words, when studying climate change three thousand years ago, they rely on things like ice cores and the relative biomass found on sea floors and things like that. They also take into account historical records of crop production in various areas of the world, but these records are incomplete. My point is, no one had thermometers back then, and no one was recording specific temperatures or ice thicknesses or sea levels. So, all of this should be taken, at some level, as “informed guessing.” But both sides of the debate have this same liability.

I have had several questions about the science of global warming. First, is the world in a long term trend of warming? If so, is there anything unusual about a long warming trend? Second, is that warming trend (if it exists) the result of increased carbon dioxide in the atmosphere? Can Carbon dioxide really do that? Third, does the evidence show a connection between human activity and the alleged warming trend? Although I am suspicious of people who want more power and money to fix problems I can't see, I am open to be convinced by the science. I'll take each of these three questions, one at a time.

PART I: IS THE WORLD GETTING WARMER?

According to the data that are testable, verifiable and available, over the past three-thousand years, the temperature of the earth has varied within a range of about 3°C. If you drew a horizontal line to represent the average temperature, and then drew a graph over it to represent actual temperature, the graph would vary between 2° above average to 1.5° below the average. These variation trends occurred over periods of hundreds of years. The warmest times during the past three thousand years were around 1000 BC, and again around 500 BC.

When we are talking about the worldwide average temperature, this is actually a fairly large variation, with definite implications for climate change, though not catastrophic climate change. For instance, in 1000 AD (1000 years ago) the average world temperature was about 1° warmer than it is today. At that time, Europeans settled Greenland (and named it "Green-land") growing crops and keeping cattle and other livestock. That type of agriculture is not possible in Greenland today, though the average global temp is just 1° cooler. On the other hand, the polar bears survived that warm period just fine, as did all the other creatures on earth.

Looking at the past 3,000 years, our global temperature today would be marked right on, or slightly below, the “average” line, two degrees cooler than the warmest time periods.

The data show that three or four hundred years ago, the Northern Hemisphere experienced a “little ice age.” We have been climbing out of that unusually cool period now for about two hundred years. The rate of temperature increase has been, on average, about 0.5°C per century. Within that steadily increasing trend, are shorter, wider fluctuations (lasting a few years or decades) of both cooling and warming. For example, there were some very warm years in the 1920s and 1930s, and some very cool ones in the 1910s and 1970s, but when it is all averaged out, the trend is steady and unchanging at about 0.5° per 100 years.

Remember, this two-hundred year warming trend is in itself, an ordinary part of a larger trend of centuries-long fluctuations within a range of 3°C. We would have to climb an additional 2°C before equaling the warmest temperatures during this 3,000 year period. The current average rate of warming (0.5° per century) is not, by any measure, the steepest rate of temperature change during the period.

The conclusion: For the past two hundred years, the world has been gradually warming. In the context of the past 3,000 years, this warming is not unusual in its rate of increase, in its short term fluctuations or in actual temperatures.
NEXT TIME: CAN C02 CHANGE THE WORLD'S TEMPERATURE?

SUPERIOR JUSTICE CHAPTER FOUR

Wednesday morning, I was at Lorraine’s Café, eating Lorraine’s Superior Breakfast Skillet and drinking coffee by the quart. The skillet was, in truth, Superior. It came in a real-live cast iron skillet and consisted of hash browns, onions, peppers, mushrooms, chorizo sausage and two eggs (over-easy, in my case) topped with Hollandaise sauce and mozzarella cheese. Two plate-sized pancakes came with it.

I had eaten one of the pancakes and about two-thirds of the hash browns and eggs when Dan Jensen walked in with another cop. He looked around and I waved at him. He nodded to a few of the patrons as he and the other cop came over.

“Morning Jonah,” he said.

“It is, now that I’m drinking coffee,” I said. I looked at Jensen’s companion. He was medium height, with salt and pepper hair. Maybe about 45, I thought. He wore big square glasses with plastic rims, the kind that were fashionable back in the 1970s, when everyone was on drugs. He had one of those thick mustaches that hid his upper lip. Between the facial hair and the glasses, it would be hard to read this man’s expression. Probably a good thing for a cop.

“Jonah, this is Rex Burton, relatively new with the Sheriff’s department. Rex, Jonah Borden, pastor of Harbor Lutheran.”

“Nice to meet you Rex,” I said politely.

“Father,” said Burton.

“Have a seat.” I gestured to the empty bench across from me in the booth. As they were sliding in, I said to Rex, “By the way, you don’t have to call me ‘father.’ I’m a Lutheran, and we don’t really do that. You can call me pastor, if you want, but my name is Jonah, and that works fine too.”

Burton grunted noncommittally.

“Rex came from the Chicago PD, about six months ago” said Jensen. “He’s still getting used to life out here in the boondocks.”

“You must have got here right about the time the Missy Norstad business started up,” I said. “Murder, rape. Probably made you feel right at home.”

“I don’t like to discuss police business with civilians, father” said Burton.

“Hey, relax,” I said. “Just making conversation. But don’t call me father.”

“What are we doing here?” Burton asked Jensen as if I wasn’t there. I sipped some coffee.

“Lorraine’s got the best hash and pancakes in the county,” said Dan. He gave me an apologetic shrug.

“So what brought you to the North Shore of Minnesota, Rex?” I asked.

“Look,” said Burton. “I’m here ‘cause Chief Jensen dragged me along for the food. I don’t like religious people. I think they are interfering, ignorant idiots. Religion is for pansies, and I don’t need it, and I’m not interested in making nice with a priest.”


There’s one thing that really yanks my chain and Rex Burton had just done it. I can’t stand being stereotyped and judged just because I am a pastor. I mean, if religious people are going to be blamed for all the intolerance, then non-religious people simply have no right to be intolerant themselves.

“You’re sitting in my booth,” I said. “Feel free to leave any time.” I could feel my face starting to get hot. I looked at Jensen. “I could perform an exorcism on him, if you like. Is that why you brought him?”

Jensen glared at me, and then turned to Burton. “Look Rex, Pastor Borden is a stand up guy. He’s the chaplain for the city PD, and the sheriff’s department too. You wanna work this town, you might need him someday. You got a thing against ministers, leave it at home.”

“I am what I am,” said Burton. “And I am not a choir-boy, priest-lover religious bigot. I can get it done without him.”

“For Pete’s sake Burton, the man’s sitting in front of you. At least keep it to yourself, will you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Shut up, or get out of my booth. Better yet, do both.”

Burton looked at me with narrowed eyes.

“That’s right, I’m serious,” I said. “You probably never heard a minister talk like that. Probably makes you think we’re all hypocrites or something. I don’t care. Go someplace else and think about it.”
I met his gaze with a cold-fish stare I had learned years ago. Finally he stood up.

“You’re full of crap, father,” he said.

“Like looking in the mirror, isn’t it?” I said.

He spun on his heel and walked out.

Jensen blew out his breath. “What the heck was that?”

“Heck?” I inquired mildly.

“You are an unhealthy influence on me,” said Jensen.

“Never mind,” I said. “The cuss-words will come back to you someday.”

“But what about Burton? What bit him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Some people are like that – clergy haters. Could have been abused, or known someone who was abused by a priest or pastor or rabbi.”

“He got under your skin didn’t he?” said Jensen.

“Yeah. I shouldn’t be so easily riled. But I’m very intolerant of jerks.”

“Take it easy, Jonah. I had no idea he’d react that way.”

“It’s my magnetic personality. Some folks just can’t handle the charisma.”

“Sometimes that could be true, you know, though ‘charisma’ isn’t exactly the word I would have used.”

I grinned, then sipped some more coffee. “Any word on Doug Norstad?”

“No,” said Jensen seriously. “How about you?”

“Nothing,” I said.

Jensen left, and as I finished my breakfast, I called the church from my cell phone. Julie, the part-time secretary answered.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
“They teach you that at seminary?” asked Julie.

“Yeah,” I said, “but in Greek. Anything I need to know about?”

“Well it would help if you knew something about the Bible, or maybe if you had some people skills.”

“Nobody’s perfect,” I said. “I mean right now. Anything that can’t wait until I come in this evening?”

She was silent for moment.

“It’s OK,” I said. “You can’t have a snappy comeback for every single situation.”

“But it’s what I do.”
“I know, and you’re good at it. I take it there’s nothing urgent.”

“Well, the ladies downstairs at the quilting circle may get out of control and call a stripper or something.”

“ You’re pushing too hard,” I said. “You’ve got my cell number. Otherwise I’ll see you tonight at choir.”

I paid for my meal and stepped outside. It was just after eight and the air was fresh, clear and, for the northern realms, deliciously warm. I stretched and then got into my black Jetta.
I lost no time heading for the Tamarack. My waders and my rod were already in the trunk. I went south on 61, taking the faster, four-lane version when it split off north of Duluth. In downtown Duluth I took the bridge across the harbor to Wisconsin and east, toward the Tamarack.

Virtually all of the rivers and streams on the North Shore of Minnesota flow hard and fast through steep hills, dropping in numerous waterfalls down to the Great Lake. Most of them bear trout, even if only the small native brookies, but almost all of the big fish are confined within the last mile or so between the Lake and wherever the first big waterfall was. Because of that, decent trout fishing is spotty, depending on weather and steelhead migration patterns. But the Wisconsin shoreline is different. It runs almost due east-west and the hills are smaller. Most of the rivers flowing into Lake Superior have no waterfalls at all, and the rapids are easily negotiable by trout and Great Lakes salmon. The German immigrants to Wisconsin in the 1870s had brought with them Brown Trout, and the state subsequently maintained an aggressive stocking program in many waters. Of course, it is the pride of Wisconsin to say that many rivers now produce a healthy population of wild brown trout in addition to the stockings and the native brook trout. This is true, and makes it worth buying the out of state license and trout stamp. Seasonal salmon migrations were the icing on the cake.

The road in Wisconsin wandered several miles from the Great Lake. After about Fifteen miles I turned left off of Highway 13 and followed the Tamarck north, back toward Lake Superior. I pulled in to a small dirt parking lot and got out, stretching again. The air was still clear, with that strangely unmistakable look of a sky that looks down on a huge body of water nearby. Here, several miles from the coast, the chilling lake-effect was absent, and the air was soft and mild.
I popped the trunk and slipped on my neoprene waders, and then shrugged into my vest. Scooping up my rod, I started into the pine forest, working my way down a steep bluff toward the river.

The water flowed like liquid diamond over round golden stones. The pines towered above their stately reflections, and the birds chirped out a song of joy that my heart echoed. Stepping into the water was like the first taste of a juicy steak when you haven’t eaten all day. I sighed, braced myself against the current and lost myself in the pursuit of brown trout.

SUPERIOR JUSTICE - CHAPTER THREE

The Lake Superior coastline of Minnesota is known throughout the region as the “North Shore,” though in fact the coast here runs from the southwest toward the Northeast, and neither the shoreline, nor the lake are really north of one another. The water is sky-clear, colder than a Scandinavian fjord, and nearly as rocky. It plunges quickly towards depths of over 1000 feet, and so from a distance, the lake appears achingly blue and pristine. Up close it is much the same, rather like a cold Aegean sea. It is not, however, a popular place to swim.

In spite of the chill, the North Shore is the Riviera of Minnesota and northwest Wisconsin. People come here year round to look at the lake to the east and south, and to hike and ski in what native Minnesotans consider to be the mountains that border the coastline. I come from the West, so I can hardly be expected to call them mountains, but they’re pretty enough, and bigger than most Minnesota hills.
Years ago the people cut timber and mined the hills for iron ore. The big timber, the money trees are all gone now, and the iron industry is suffering too. And so highway 61 is the lifeblood of the North Shore, bringing tourists and their money to the resorts and cabins that sprout along the coast like dandelions in springtime.
Some of the resorts are world-class hotels and condos. There are many others too, much like that belonging to Doug Norstad and his family. Named appropriately, if not imaginatively, “Norstad’s North Shore Cabins,” Doug and his wife presided over about 3 acres of rocky shoreline, in which were crowded some ten, rather dilapidated cabins.

Dan Jensen pulled the unmarked police Blazer up to the little cabin that served as the resort office. Resort was probably too strong a word. “Camp” might have been closer.

No one was at the little counter when we walked in. The place smelled of woodsmoke, and cigarettes too. Lucy Norstad had started smoking again when her daughter Missy went missing. A door behind the counter hung ajar, and from the room beyond came the melancholy sounds of a daytime soap opera.

Dan looked at me. The man probably had trained to deal with hostile people armed with knives and automatic weapons, but he was scared to talk to a mild mannered Scandinavian who might have killed his daughter’s murderer. I didn’t blame him.
“Hello?” I called. “Doug? Lucy?” For good measure I banged the little bell that sat on the counter next to a pile of rental forms.

A chair scraped and Lucy Norstad came to the door. Her hair, a lustrous brown a year ago, now hung in straggling gray knots. She had on a pair of big glasses, with hexagonal plastic frames. A half-smoked cigarette hung from her mouth, and her plain dress was wrinkled and spotted.

“Hi Lucy,” I said.
She looked at me with dead eyes. “Hello Pastor.”
Her gaze shifted to Jensen. She looked back at me and shook her head.
“No” she said. “No, no.” She started backing away. “I don’t know what it is, but I can’t take it. Don’t tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.”
I could feel Jensen’s Scandinavian temperament floundering behind me. “It’s OK Lucy,” I said. “We were just looking for Doug.”
“Why?” she was still shaking her head. “Why are you looking for him?”
Jensen was reading the rental forms with avid interest. I was on my own.
“Lucy,” I said, “why don’t you sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down. I don’t want to know. Please just go away.” She gave a little sob, and I could almost see Jensen shriveling into himself.
“OK. It’s OK. Chief Jensen is here with me because someone killed Daniel Spooner this afternoon.”

A little life sparked behind her dull gray eyes. “Daniel Spooner is dead?”
“Shot through the heart,” I said. Very pastoral.
She nodded quickly. “Good. I know it’s wrong, pastor, but I still say good.” Her voice broke and now the tears started in earnest. I looked around the room for a box of Kleenex, but there was none. I let her cry. I thought maybe pretty soon Jensen would start blubbering too, from sheer embarrassment.
After a while I said, “Lucy, we need to talk to Doug. Is he around?”
She shook her head and wiped her nose on her rumpled sleeve. “He went to the Cities this morning.” I felt Jensen stiffen behind me.
“Do you know where he went? We’d like to get a hold of him.”
She nodded. The poor woman probably thought we just wanted to tell him the news.
“He goes down there every Tuesday to see his dad.” She shrugged as if I’d asked another question. “Doug’s dad and I don’t get along very well. In fact, neither did he and Doug until about six months ago, when Doug started going down real regular.”
“Is there a number we can call to reach him?”

Lucy looked around at the shabby, dusty little office. “We don’t have a cell phone,” she said. “You could try his dad’s place. I’ll get you the number.” She started rummaging around below the counter. Muttering under her breath she left the room. A few moments later she returned with a scrap of paper and a phone number.
“When will he be back?” I asked, taking the number.
“He usually stays overnight there, picks up anything special we need for the resort, and comes back Wednesday afternoons.”
Jensen seemed to come out of his shell. “Did anyone go with him today?”
Lucy Norstad looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Why do you want to know that?” she whispered. “Why does it matter?”
“We just want to talk to him,” I said, shooting Jensen a warning glance.
She kept staring at the Chief. “You think he did it,” she accused him. “You think he shot Daniel Spooner.” She whirled and pierced me with blazing eyes.
“Lucy,” I said, “Chief Jensen just wants to talk with Doug. There aren’t any warrants out for his arrest or anything.” I fervently hoped that was still true. “The Chief here will just call your father-in-law, and he’ll tell him that Doug’s been there all day, and then they’ll start looking for the person who killed Daniel Spooner.”
“But what if he wasn’t there? What if he hadn’t got there yet? What if he stopped for lunch or something, and he wasn’t there when – that scumbag – was killed.”
“Mrs Norstad, if he stopped for gas, or for lunch, or anything, there’ll be people who saw him, and receipts for food and stuff like that. If that’s the case, there’ll be no problem.” Jensen was getting braver.
“All right Lucy,” I said. “I’ll keep in touch. Do you want me to call someone to come out here and sit with you awhile?”
She shook her head, her eyes tearing up again. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Doug will come soon, and I’ll be fine.”

SUPERIOR JUSTICE - CHAPTER TWO

Jensen pulled into the church parking lot in a white unmarked SUV. I was a bit amused by the notion of an unmarked Grand Lake police car. Everyone in town knew it on sight, which, if Bach had sufficiently boosted my intelligence to understand correctly, destroyed the purpose of an unmarked vehicle.

I climbed in next to the chief. Dan Jensen was in his late thirties. He was tall and a bit heavy, but with a big frame that hid the extra weight well. His hair was blond, thin and short, peppered with almost indistinguishable spots of light gray. His wide Scandinavian face was clean shaved, and his most prominent feature was a pair of piercingly blue eyes. The impression of intelligence and acuity given by those eyes was backed up in reality by a fine brain.

“Hey Dan,” I said, and shook his hand, then climbed into the front seat next to him.

“Jonah,” he returned.

“Whaddya got?” I asked.

He looked at me sideways.

“Hey come on, like you said, I’m the police chaplain. That makes me part of the force. What do you think I’ll do, taint the evidence?”

“Department,” said Jensen.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It makes you part of the police department. We don’t really have a ‘force.’ We have a department.”

“I’d rather be part of a ‘force’ – it sounds so much more exciting than ‘department.’”

“May the force be with you then,” said Dan.

“You gonna tell me about this or not?” I said.

He sighed. “OK. But don’t think that means I won’t throw your rear-end in the slammer if you share evidence in an on-going investigation.”

“Hey do what you think is best,” I said. “Part of my job is keeping sensitive information confidential.”

“I have a feeling we’ll want you in on this one,” said Dan after a minute. “Here’s what we know: They were moving Spooner to the courthouse over the lunch hour. He was out in the open, and someone shot him, probably with a thirty-thirty.” Dan picked up a can of Coke from a cupholder and sipped it.

“You get ballistics back already?”

Jensen nodded his approval of the question. “Not yet. We found a weapon. May be the murder weapon.”

“That ought to make it a bit easier.”

“Not necessarily. We think this guy was smart. There were a few people around -- you know, the press, some rubberneckers, and of course, the cops who moved him. Most everyone we questioned thought the shot came from across the street, maybe up high.”

“Remind me, what’s across the street?”

“Tommy’s café is in the bottom floor. Top two floors are empty. We went over there, and up on the roof, behind the false front, we found the rifle and scope.”

“Shoot,” I said, “all you have to do it track it down.”

“Shoot?” asked Jensen incredulously.

“Hey whaddya expect?” I said, “I’m a pastor, after all. You think I’ll start cussing a blue streak?”

“I am deeply disappointed in you,” said Jensen.

“Get used to it,” I said. “It’s what I do best, disappoint people. Heck, even my mother wanted me to be cop, not a pastor.”

“Heck?” said Jensen.

“All right, we just covered my linguistic habits. Now, you got the gun. What’s the problem?”

“Jonah, it’s a thirty-thirty, an ordinary deer gun. You know how many un-registered deer rifles there are in this state?”

“No idea.”

“Neither does anyone else. You don’t have to register them. They’re bought and sold through papers, garage sales, you name it.”

“Shoot,” I said.

Jensen glared at me. I returned his look with wide-eyed innocence. A man must have his fun somehow.

“That’s not all,” he said finally. “He filed off the serial number – probably wouldnta had to, cause we don’t track ‘em, like I said. He also ran a rat-tail file down the barrel. If he did that after he fired, ballistics won’t match.”

“What about the brass?” I asked.

Jensen looked at me sharply. I shrugged “My dad was a cop,” I said.

“It was only one shot. He didn’t leave the brass. Probably at the bottom of Lake Superior right now.”

“Anything else at the scene?” I asked.

“Oh yeah. It gets better. He left his clothes.”

I envisioned a naked vigilante superhero, racing like a white wad of blubber through Grand Lake. “Anyone see a streaker about that time?”

“Very funny. These still had the Goodwill store smell on them. He probably wore them over the top of his other clothes to prevent powder residue.”

“Smart guy,” I commented. “I’m assuming then, no prints on the gun, or the area?”

“Nothing,” said Jensen.

I digested this for a minute. “Now Dan, not to be contentious, but why Norstad?”

“Come on Jonah, Spooner raped and murdered his daughter.”

“So, motive. Didn’t Missy have a boyfriend? How about him?”

“I’m so glad we have you to help us. Maybe we should promote you to chaplain-detective.”

“Sorry. You checked, of course.”

“In school,” said Jensen.

“So Doug had a motive, I’ll give him that. But if Johann Sebastian has adequately restored my memory, I recall that Spooner molested at least three other minors. What about their families?”

“Those were all out of state. We’re checking, of course, reverend-detective, but Norstad is closer.”

“Hey, Doug is a part of my church. I’m helping you, but I wanna help him too, if I can. I have a right to ask why you’re after him.”

“We’re not after him. But he had motive.” He took another sip of Coke, and turned north on Highway 61. “What about his guns? You ever hunt with him?”

I sighed. “OK, so Doug Norstad uses a thirty-thirty. So do half the men in Superior County, and about a third of the women. So do I, for that matter.”

“Doesn’t matter that much, I guess,” said Jensen. “Whoever this was he’s smart. He will have bought the gun from the paper or at a flea market or something. It won’t be his regular gun. But it will be one he’s comfortable with.” He slurped his soda again. I looked out the window at the lake to our right.

“It was a pretty fair shot,” said Jensen. “Norstad any good?”

“I don’t really like this, Chief.”

“Welcome to police work, pastor,” said Jensen. “Was he a good shot?”

“Dan, everyone up here hunts. You probably coulda made that shot. Heck, I probably coulda made it.”

“And so could Norstad. So we got motive, we got method, and you and I are going to find out if we got opportunity.”

“Motive, method and opportunity are all pretty circumstantial,” I said.

“So far, it looks like that’s all we’ll have. Doesn’t look like we’ll have any physical evidence we can use.” He sipped his Coke and glanced at me. “Look Jonah, Spooner was already a convicted rapist and pedophile. He confessed to killing Melissa Norstad. If Doug Norstad gets the right jury, he may even get off altogether.”

“You really want that, Dan? A killer gets off scot-free?”

“I don’t know what I want on this one. The whole thing stinks. Spooner deserved to die. If Norstad pulled the trigger, he did us all a favor.” Jensen grimaced and readjusted his Grand Lake PD ball cap.

“But you don’t like anyone taking the law into their own hands,” I said.

“Do you?”

“No. I believe in due process.”

“Yeah. It’s a lousy system, but it’s better than the alternatives.”

The car swooped up and down the hills, and I glanced at the rocky, pine-clad hill crests to the left and then turned to gaze again at the great sweep of Lake Superior to our right. I never tired of looking at that timeless horizon and the broad carpet of perfect blue beneath it. But I did turn left to look longingly upstream as we crossed the bubbling, clear water of the Blue River. I could almost feel my rod shudder as I imagined a big steelhead trout stripping line from my reel.

I turned back to Jensen. “Dan, I’ve spent a lot time with the Norstads over the past six months. First Melissa disappears. Then they find the body. Finally Spooner’s confession. That family has been through hell, and they don’t need this right now.”

“I know it,” said Jensen. “That’s why I brought you along.”

We were silent for a few more minutes.

“Did your mom really want you to be a cop?” he asked.

“Heck yeah,” I said.

SUPERIOR JUSTICE - CHAPTER ONE

Daniel Spooner died on a Tuesday in early May, just as the lunch hour was ending in Grand Lake. He died in custody, just in front of the courthouse. He died because his heart was broken into three pieces by a single thirty caliber bullet. Later, some called it a crime. Many more called it justice. For me, once Spooner’s killer told me his real alibi, it became a royal pain in the neck.

Two hours after Spooner was shot, I was sitting in my office, drinking smooth afternoon decaf and parsing Greek verbs. Bach played quietly in the background. I vaguely remembered that listening to classical music could actually make you more intelligent. That was good, because Greek verbs make me feel stupid. Even so, I was actually eager to study. Back in the day, I could never have imagined that feeling.

The phone beeped and the speaker crackled. It was my part-time secretary, Julie.

“Chief Jensen on line one.”

I grabbed the handset. “Julie, why do people say 'back in the day?'”

“I prefer the expression, 'time was,' myself.”

“Time was, back in the day, you could use 'em both at once.”

“I hope Chief Jensen enjoys talking with you as much I have,” said Julie, and broke the connection.

I punched the button for line one. “Borden,” I said.

“Jonah, it’s Dan Jensen.” Jensen was the chief of the Grand Lake police.

“Hi Dan, what can I do for you?” I sipped some more coffee. Surely God gave us coffee to show that he wants us to enjoy life.

“Well, somebody popped Daniel Spooner.”

“Spooner? The guy who confessed to killing Missy Norstad?”

“That’s him.”

“Wow,” I said. It’s a useful word when you’re waiting for people to give you more information, like why they really want to talk to you. There was a pause. I could tell it wasn’t comfortable for Jensen.

“Well, we don’t really know anything right now, of course, but our main suspect is Doug Norstad.”

“Missy’s dad,” I said. I waited while silence filled up the line.

“Come on Jonah. You’re supposed to be the perceptive and intuitive guy here.” There was a plaintive quality to his voice.

“Okay,” I said. “I intuit and perceive that you need to pick up Norstad for questioning, and you want me to go along to smooth things over.” I sipped some coffee. “You Minnesota Norwegians really have a hard time just asking for something, don’t you?”

“I’m a Swede,” said Dan stiffly. Then, after a moment, he added “Isn’t ‘intuit’ some kind of Eskimo?”

“Sorry about that. I’m sure you’re right about the Swede, of course. I think you’re wrong about the Eskimo though.”

“So, you gonna help me with Norstad? I mean, you are the police chaplain.”

“When do you want to do it?”

“Can I pick you up in fifteen minutes?”

“Sure,” I said. “Give me time for one more cup of coffee.”