Shockwave, page 20
That, too, added up. Among certain people, the perception of “class” is what gives any product its value. Cocaine was once the high-class drug for the trendy “recreational” users, like a party favor. Now it’s for crackheads, about as low-class as there is.
But heroin isn’t for street junkies anymore; it’s for the wealthy. The new, high-purity product can be smoked, using designer-glass pipes. No needles means no risk of infection, and no track marks. A nicer, sweeter high, they claim. I don’t know about that, but I do know that the extreme prices high-purity heroin fetches would only make it even more desirable to those who make the claims.
But how would a neo-Nazi have information on major shipments of this product? What criminal organization would trust such a collection of …? Whatever the people who joined such groups were, they would share the one characteristic no professional would tolerate—unreliability.
The only possibility that I could see would be that some down-the-line bulk purchaser had enlisted a White Power group as a distributor to end users. But that was off—I could feel it—just not right, somehow.
I closed my eyes to help my mind see better. Huh! Hadn’t heroin wholesalers once used motorcycle gangs as distributors? Those gangs wouldn’t necessarily be Nazis themselves, but some of their members might say too much if they were in places where they felt safe. Among friends, if not brothers-in-arms.
Pretty much the same for child pornography. Whatever RAHOWA group Gomes belonged to wouldn’t have to be participating in some ongoing enterprise for him to know about it.
What an informant knows, an informant tells. And sells.
This “SAC” had gotten promoted thanks to information he got from Gomes, but the “Master Race” operation was noted as “aborted.” I took that to mean that the informant had passed along enough info for the FBI to stop some massive serial-bombing scheme in its tracks. It surprised me that this hadn’t made all the wire services. And not taking credit for saving lives, much less stopping “terrorism” in its tracks—that didn’t fit, either.
But if the FBI had pulled off a total takedown, it made sense that they’d want to keep it quiet. “Aborted” might signal that death was the method the government had used. Now, that fit nicely. They wouldn’t want publicity for executions, and claiming that a couple of dozen people in different places had all “resisted arrest” simultaneously might be a hard sell.
All guesses on my part, I knew. But I also knew I had no other choice: the cyber-shadow was too valuable to ask for anything I could work out by myself.
And I knew I was expected to do just that.
The blog was called Undercurrents, a not very subtle reference to the area it covered … and to the fact that there were parts of where we lived that tourists would never hear about.
I didn’t know if it was the work of one person with a lot of sources, or a collective of people digging on their own and posting whatever they found. But I knew it was way more popular than any of the local newspapers. Maybe people didn’t want to spend their money on “news” when all the coverage they got was of local sports and “the arts.”
For myself, I thought it really had nothing to do with not wasting money—there was some online rag you could get for free, but nobody paid much attention to it, either. Since it wasn’t a real newspaper, the only way it could get access to anything—especially crime news—was to have that “good working relationship” with the DA’s Office.
The print papers could at least sell space—anything from ads for local businesses to extra-fancy obits to houses for sale. And they had to have subscribers—writing “letters to the editor” was a hobby for a lot of folks, and they probably “scrap-booked” all their insights. For all I know, the papers might even turn a profit.
It came down to this: if you wanted anything even pretending to be an “independent investigation,” you were stuck with restaurant reviews. And if those restaurants were also advertisers …
“Look,” Dolly said, pointing at the screen of the tablet she took everywhere with her. When I asked her about that, she’d told me, “It’s not as fast as a cable connection, but if all you want is what’s already online, it’s a lot lighter to lug around than a laptop. And you can type on it just like on a regular keyboard, if you have to.”
I didn’t say anything about how we had a multi-boosted connection right in the house—I figured she must have been carrying the tablet around while she was out, got a call on her phone, and pulled up the page she was showing me before she’d gotten back.
IS THE WRONG MAN IN JAIL?
The headline was the opposite of the flabbed-up bias that coated every word of “crime news” in the local papers. The story itself was a fact-dense rundown of all the information they had gathered.
Homer Larkin has been held in the County Jail for almost two months, supposedly awaiting trial on the murder of a man whose body washed up on a local beach. Undercurrents has learned that local law enforcement does not believe Larkin is in any way involved with this crime. In fact, he is being detained simply to convince the public that the crime has been “solved.”
The KNOWN FACTS are as follows:
1. Larkin is a diagnosed schizophrenic, who, prior to his arrest, had been a resident of “Respite,” a facility which houses the mentally ill who are NOT believed to be violent.
2. The “body on the beach” has been identified. Fingerprints show him to be one Welter Thom Jordan, an ex-convict recently released from the State Penitentiary after serving a sentence for his participation in a “hate crime” assault that left the victim permanently brain-damaged.
3. Jordan is a known neo-Nazi, as the numerous tattoos found on his body clearly proclaim.
4. The photographer who took the shot of Jordan washed up on the beach—the photo which launched the police “investigation” after it appeared on the front page of three local newspapers—has not been questioned. This is because the mystery photographer’s identity remains unknown, despite the safe assumption that every newspaper in question would have cooperated fully. Not only because they act as the Public Relations Department of the District Attorney’s Office, but because no journalistic privilege would attach to an anonymous e-mailer of a photograph.
5. Larkin VOLUNTARILY showed police a watch he “found.” That watch apparently belonged to Jordan. This is the ONLY shred of evidence “linking” Larkin to the murder.
6. A social worker who knows Larkin well told Undercurrents that not only is Larkin nonviolent, he is physically incapable of committing the crime. “Homer’s an old man, with advanced osteoporosis and the muscle tone of a banana slug. He couldn’t break a plate glass window with a crowbar.”
7. X-rays of the victim’s skull show he was killed by a powerful blow with some sort of spiked instrument. The victim’s height was approximately five foot ten—roughly eight inches taller than Larkin. As the blow was struck from behind, it would have been physically impossible for Larkin to be the killer.
8. A gang of SHARPs (Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice) had been spotted less than ten miles from where the body washed up the week prior to the murder.
9. An FBI source confirmed that violence between these two extremes of the skinhead spectrum is common, and has been “escalating steadily over the past couple of years.”
The “sources” weren’t much of a mystery: Dolly’s pals for the X-rays, Mack for the social worker’s quote, and my vague hints to Dolly for any FBI agent talking to their reporters.
I also knew none of it would be much of a convincer. But the X-ray of the dead man’s skull was in the Undercurrents story, right on the screen. And neither Jordan’s nor Homer’s age, height, or physical condition would be in dispute.
So … maybe …?
But I should have known better. That sack of bleached dough we have for a district attorney immediately returned fire, using the “legitimate press” for a weapon. His definition of “legitimate” had nothing to do with paper versus cyber—it was his term for any news outlet that quoted him verbatim anytime he spoke but never asked him any questions.
I’ll say this for him: the guy was a sensei of empty language. Who could possibly find fault with: “The individual referred to was arrested, and is being held because no bail application has been filed, much less ruled on. He has not been indicted, and the investigation is ongoing.”
Hell, who could find anything in it?
“What if we got a lawyer to file a bail application for him?” I asked Dolly.
“A waste of time,” she told me. “Homer’s innocent, but a bail application isn’t about that; it’s about money.”
“And a million dollars wouldn’t do it,” Mack added. “They say bail is to make sure the guy shows up for his trial. And there’s already a ton of proof that Homer’s crazy. So the only way to make sure he shows up is to keep him locked up.”
“He trusts you, Mack. Couldn’t you—?”
“What? Handcuff myself to him? Remember, he’ll always be terrified of daylight, and he lost all his trust in those kids he hung out with because he was with them when he was arrested. He’s absolutely convinced they sent out a secret signal to summon the police.”
“But—”
“He’s getting his meds,” Mack assured Dolly. “I check on that. And he’s in an iso cell, all by himself. It’s got glass—on the outside of the bars—but I’ve got it worked out so he doesn’t see sunlight, ever. For most people, that would be torture, but for Homer, it’s the only way to keep him from …”
He didn’t have to finish that sentence.
“So their plan is … what?” Dolly bulldogged on. “They’re just going to leave him there?”
“I saw the lawyer,” I told them, and watched the look of surprise spread across Dolly’s face.
“Swift?” she asked, meaning the man who’d gone from shlub to star when he won the “Mighty Mary” case a while back.
“Yeah.”
“Well, he’s good,” she said, patting Mack’s forearm. “He was the one who got MaryLou off, remember?”
Mack nodded.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I told them. “The only way there’s ever going to be a trial is if Homer’s lawyer pushes for one. He’s not going to do that. Why should he? This way, he can keep right on billing for his time, and not have to do much of anything. And, sure, we could get Swift to step in and take his best shot. But that wouldn’t get it done. The judge—any judge, Swift said—would rule that Homer’s too crazy to even stand trial. Which means he stays locked up, only in a different place.”
When I asked Swift how much I owed him, he gave me a disappointed look. “I had to ask,” I told him by way of apology, offering my hand. He shook it, and checked my eyes, and the whole thing was over.
“This way, I can see him every day,” Mack added. “If they shipped him to someplace on the other side of the state, he’d lose it. Which means death inside stone walls, one way or the other.”
“We have to get him out,” Dolly said, crossing her arms over her chest, the way she does when she isn’t going to budge. Somehow, when it’s just her and me alone and she tries to do that, her chest is too big to pull it off; but when anyone else is around, she manages it. And everyone gets the message.
But everyone doesn’t get the same message. Dolly had crossed over the line, to that place where she knew I was going no matter what she said. We both knew what that could cost.
The question was: Did Mack?
“Remember when I asked you before? About how far you were willing to go?”
Mack just nodded.
“This would be harder. Doesn’t matter how flexible your job description is, it wouldn’t cover what needs to be done.”
He just nodded again.
“You get caught, you’re going to prison.”
“You, too, right?”
“No,” I told him, watching his face close. I had to know, and there was only one way to know for sure.
“I’ll be doing this alone?”
“No. But I’m not going to prison. I’m either going free or going in the ground. Understand?”
“If I get caught, I’m going to prison for life—that’s what you’re saying?”
“Things go haywire, I’m not drawing any lines—not around myself, I’m not. If you stand around and watch, you’ll be the only one going on trial. If you want to stand with me, you’ll have to do what I’m prepared to do.”
“How am I supposed to know—?”
“Try it this way. I’m not going to prison, period. I don’t care for how little or how long. For me, six months would be the same as life. For you, maybe not such a big deal.”
“You’re saying—”
“That I’ll kill anyone who tries to take me in? Yes.”
“So, even if I don’t … do that, I’ll be locked up?”
“If I get away, that depends on what I’d have to do. If I leave bodies behind, probably. And if I don’t get away at all, yes.”
“It’s that black-and-white for you?”
“Everything is.”
“Dolly wouldn’t want you to—”
“Die? No. Go to prison? No. But now she’s got her feet planted, ready to swing. Dolly wants Homer cut loose. And she knows what I might have to do,” I said, thinking, La mission est sacrée. Not the légionnaire mantra, not this time. Mine.
I let Mack light a cigarette. Waited until he was done with the smoke. Waited until he said, “I’m in.”
“Pack enough to last you a few days,” I told him. “I’ll be around to pick you up after dark. Then it’s a good ten, twelve-hour drive.”
“I can do it,” I whispered to my wife.
“Dell, listen. I want Homer out. And, like a fool, I told you I did. But what if—?”
“You know.”
“I won’t lose you.”
“You won’t. But—”
“Don’t even say it,” she said, very calmly. “Blood washes off. Wounds can be healed. Just make sure you—”
“That’s something you don’t need to say, baby.”
“You better come back,” Dolly said, reaching for me. Her gesture was a loving one, and followed by more.
I’d heard men curse God—all kinds of gods—but that was the first time I’d ever heard anyone threaten one.
“I’d bring you in myself,” Mack told the redheaded leader of the teenage crew we’d visited before.
“Yeah? You gonna bring me out, too?”
“There’s no paper out on you, Timmy. No wants, anywhere.”
“I know,” the kid said. Something in the way those words came out told me nobody had wanted him for a long time. If ever.
“Homer thinks you gave him up,” Mack said, holding up an opened palm to stop the redhead from interrupting. “I know you didn’t. But this isn’t something we can fix with logic. Homer’s got to see that I trust you, okay? Your crew, it was one of his safe places. I wouldn’t want him to lose that.”
“He’s getting out?”
“That’s being worked on. I’m going on a little trip now. When I get back, that’s when I’d like you to go in with me. It can be after dark,” he said, looking around at the inky night as if it was endorsing the statement.
“You want Homer to know you trust me, I get that. Unless what you really want to know is if I trust you.”
“I already know you do,” Mack told the redhead.
“Yeah? How?”
Mack nodded in my direction.
The redhead fist-bumped him.
“This isn’t my idea of camouflage,” Mack said, referring to our “farm-use only” Jeep.
“Mine, either” is all I said.
“When are you going to tell me—?”
“Before we go in.”
He went back to being quiet. I went back to driving.
I used a burner cell to dial a number. I let it ring once. Then the gates to what looked like a place to dispose of junked cars swung open. If Mack noticed the “B3” sign on the gate, he kept it to himself.
I’d only found out about this place by accident. Dolly’s landscaper friends had let me borrow their new Lexus SUV while I was doing something to help MaryLou. I’d needed paper credentials for that. A letter on Swift’s law-office stationery that said I was working for him as a private investigator was a good start, but I wanted to add some more to the package. Johnny and Martin’s permission to drive one of their cars had been perfect for that.
But permission to use means returning in the same condition you borrowed, and I hadn’t been able to do that. Maybe the Lexus really was an off-road vehicle—it sure didn’t drive like it was—but I’d still been forced to hide it deep enough in the brush to put scratches all over it. The car I returned needed a total repaint, and I’d made them take the money to have it done.
Martin was really the car guy—he had an old Facel Vega that he was going to restore “someday,” and when I’d talked about a new kind of paint that changes colors depending on the viewing angle, he couldn’t pass it up. And when he showed it to us later—showed it off, really—he told us where he’d gotten the work done.
“They’re the best,” he’d told us. “But you have to drive through the worst part of Portland to get there. Whoever heard of a custom-fabrication operation built out of cinder block with a barbed-wire fence, and a whole horde of pit bulls running around loose?”
I wouldn’t have had any trouble answering that question, but all I said was, “Apparently, you.”
Johnny thought that was pretty funny.
I filed the info away. Later, I checked out my suspicion. Then I did a favor for the boss of that place. When I came into the garage to tell him his problem had been solved, he looked at me strange—how did I even know he’d had a problem?
When I just shook my head after he said, “How much?” he looked a little anxious. But he settled down when I told him, “If you’d asked me to do it, I would have told you a price. If we’d had a deal, I would have gotten paid. We didn’t, so I don’t. All I want is for you to know I can be trusted. And that I always pay my way.”
