Gnomes Have Ways
All of this, just because he had been playing office supply baseball with the Duck Brothers in the bullpen. Ray Kowalski was a damned good detective, a fact of which Welsh was fully aware, so sending him on a wild goose chase to the suburbs was just revenge, plain and simple.
Who was he trying to kid? Stolen gnome duty wasn't revenge, it was torture. Ray felt sure that if pressed, Fraser would be able to list off subsection and paragraph of the Geneva Convention -- the part that specifically dealt with gnomes, and how he, Ray Kowalski, Detective First Class, should never, ever have to go looking for small, scary lawn ornaments.
He shouldn't have been surprised that Mrs Gustafson wasn't much help. She had taken a liking to him though, offering him cookies and something that looked like it might have been a tea cozy in a former life, but she didn't know anything about the disappearance of her beloved garden gnome. Heard something in the middle of the night, she said. Didn't think anything of it, she said.
Ray had wanted to boggle. What elderly lady didn't go completely apeshit when they heard a mouse squeak in the middle of the night? Half the calls into dispatch were from gals like her. All Mrs Gustafson could tell him was that David, her gnome, was two feet tall, wore a blue jacket, a red hat and had a hard on for geraniums.
Ray took her statement and drove back to the station, grumbling all the way. In what way, shape or form did gnome theft qualify as a major crime? And just before he pulled into the station parking lot he realized the worst insult of all -- Welsh had turned the GTO into the Gnome Recovery-mobile.
By the time he climbed up the stairs, shot a dirty look at Welsh's office and turned towards his desk, Ray was in a foul mood. Seeing Fraser standing there patiently didn't do anything to ease his frazzled nerves. No doubt Fraser would try to apply reason to the situation. Ha, fat chance. No matter what, if Fraser tried to apply reason to something, it very quickly got unreasonable. With Ray right in the middle of it.
Damn David the Gnome and the fox he rode in on.
Ray worked every bit of charm trying to get out of the investigation, but it was of no use. Especially once Fraser found out that an old lady had been victimized.
"Victimized, Fraser? It was a gnome. You know, gnomes, right? Little queer looking plaster things that old ladies stick in their yards. They lurk under bridges waiting to eat people too."
"I believe tradition holds that those are trolls, Ray."
"Whatever. My point is that they are not things that need saving, certainly not by the two of us. We've got better things to do, right?"
"Do we? I thought the Pararo investigation was on hold until Mr --"
"Fraser!" Ray's voice reverberated through the GTO. They were on their way to Mrs Tuttle's; seemed that she had had three of her gnomes stolen recently as well.
"Yes, Ray," Frasier said, chastened somewhat.
"So what if people are stealing chubby little men off people's lawns? Is that really a crime? Shouldn't it qualify more as a public service?"
"Lawn ornamentation is a deep expression of personality."
Ray could feel one of Fraser's dissertations coming on. He sniffed derisively, and from the backseat, he heard Dief make a similar noise. Well, at least someone shared his opinion of this hare-brained endeavor.
"I read an article recently regarding this very subject. It seems that what one chooses to display on the exterior of one's home, ie. one's garden or lawn, is just as, if not more, important than what one places in one's home. The whole world passes by our front doors, Ray. We all make judgments as to the character of the individual based on what they display in and around their natural environment."
Well, at least he hadn't made an Inuit reference yet.
"I can go with about half of that theory, Frase," Ray said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "But my parents have a couple of those pink flamingoes hanging around in front of their trailer. In no way does that make them whimsical or fans of John Waters. Sometimes a plastic bird is just a plastic bird, and sometimes a freaky little fat guy with a bad wardrobe and a flower fetish is just that."
"Understood, Ray."
Over the next few hours they interviewed a few more people, all with stolen gnomes. Ray hated to admit it, but it looked like a pattern was growing. Lord help him, a fucking conspiracy of gnome abductions. They called into Frannie before returning to the station so that she could start collecting any similar complaint files.
It was well past lunch when the call came in. Someone had hung a gnome from its feet down at Navy Pier. A second call came in twenty minutes later -- there was another, hung from its neck this time, found in one of the old Ukrainian neighborhoods. Calls came in more frequently, Ray and Fraser both flooded with little bits of paper with names and addresses scrawled on them. Welsh called them both into his office just as Ray was about to kick someone in the head. Preferably one of the gnomes.
"Gentlemen, we have a hostage situation on our hands."
Fraser and Ray looked at Welsh expectantly. The requirement for a dramatic pause satisfied, Welsh continued.
"I have just received a call from the Gnome Liberation Front. They have set up an execution line in front of Queen of Angels. If their demands aren't satisfied by the end of the business day, the prisoners will be obliterated."
"Obliterated?"
"That's right, detective. They've kidnapped the gnomes and now they're using them as bargaining chips." Welsh looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. "The bastards."
Ray traded a loaded look with Fraser. "See, they make everyone they come into contact with crazy!" he whispered. Fraser just rolled his eyes in response.
"Sir, might I ask, what are their demands?"
"They want asylum and freedom for all captive gnomes in the city. But I think they're chiefly concerned with their own skins this time. France has wanted to extradite the American members for years now."
Fraser looked like he was thinking things over. Ray began to get nervous.
"I may have a plan, sir. If I could just use your phone?"
"By all means, Constable."
Fraser soon had the Ice Queen on the other line (after a short back-and-forth with Turnbull, of course). He explained the situation quickly and after a few "Hmmms" and "Ahhhhs", Fraser gave a quick, "Yes, sir. Exactly what I thought. Thank you, sir."
"So?"
Beaming, Fraser proclaimed, "The gnomes will be saved, sir. Canada is happy to help."
"Help? Help how?" Ray was bouncing on the balls of his feet. How had Fraser saved the day this time?
"Fraser!"
All the Constable could do was smile.
Late the next evening, five Americans arrived in Yellowknife. Their Timberlands were worn through, as were their fatigue pants. On their jackets they all bore the same faded patch, the letters GLF embroidered in blue with a small, portly fellow stitched below.
They carried with them two large crates. When their pilot asked what was in them, two of the men merely smiled. "They're our friends," one said. "They're finally going to be set free."
The pilot only hoped that the kid wasn't talking about nutria. He'd heard what damage exotic species could do to an unsuspecting area.
He heard them singing as they unloaded the plane.
"Trolls and wizards and fairy kings, Birds that talk and fish that sing. And if your heart is true, Then you will find them too. In every wish and dream and happy home, You will find a Kingdom of the Gnomes"