Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Forget something, Tom?”

  “I’m taking this man in to see Baker.”

  Cross Dog checked his gun, while the policeman patted down Rosen. Then the two men walked past the counter and through a heavy steel door.

  The cellblock, smelling of sweat and urine, reminded Rosen of a zoo. The smell, the iron bars, but mostly the prisoners with their listlessness and furtive eyes. The Torah said that man was made in God’s image. Looking at these brutish creatures half-hidden in shadows, Rosen fought against the question that had troubled him ever since his father had sent him away. What kind of God sat on His throne in heaven?

  Cross Dog opened the door to the third cell on the right. Dressed in prison-green, the man slumped over the bunk seemed a stranger, not the cocky, glad-handing policeman Rosen had known. Baker’s mouth twitched as if he were unable to speak.

  Rosen stopped just inside the cell door. “Hello, Elroy.”

  Cross Dog said, “You remember True Sky’s lawyer. He wants to ask you some questions. You don’t have to answer, or if you want me to call your lawyer . . .”

  “No, that’s all right. I want you both to know I didn’t do nothing wrong. I mean, nothing serious. You and me go back a long way, Tom.”

  Rosen sat on the bunk next to Baker, who smelled from layers of sweat. The prisoner kept staring at the floor.

  Rosen asked Cross Dog, “What’s he been charged with?”

  “Accepting bribes.”

  “That’s all,” Baker said, stepping on an ant, then grinding it into the floor. “I was a fool, Tom. They ain’t gonna put me away just for taking a few hundred bucks.”

  “What happened?” Rosen asked.

  Baker shrugged like a schoolboy caught cheating. “Wasn’t my fault. I mean, he was so nice to me. ‘Pals,’ he said.”

  “Cantrell?”

  “Uh-huh. At first it was just going for pizza and beer. I mean, he was always out with Huggins, Pearl Whistler, and Belle Gates. None of them ever paid any attention to me. Why should they pay any attention to the deputy chief of an eight-man police department?”

  “So Cantrell bought you a couple of beers. What else?”

  “He said somebody with my experience shouldn’t have to settle for second best, especially to an Indian—sorry, Tom. Said there wasn’t any reason why I shouldn’t be chief of police. Said he’d be willing to finance my campaign. He gave me a hundred-dollar bill right then. I ain’t ever known anybody who could peel off a hundred-dollar bill, just like that.”

  “And all he wanted from you was a little information now and then. What kind of information?”

  “Nothing special. Just whatever crossed Tom’s desk. Cantrell said he had some friends who’d like to invest in Bear Coat but wanted to be sure it was a safe, quiet town.”

  Cross Dog sighed. “You believed him?”

  “Yeah . . . I don’t . . . hell, Tom!” He looked up, tears running from his pale eyes. “You didn’t hear the way he could talk. It all sounded so natural. ‘Just business,’ he said.” Baker shook his head hard, his tears scattering upon the floor. “‘Just business.’”

  Rosen persisted. “What kind of information?”

  “I told you—anything. Like drunk-and-disorderlies.”

  “Did he ask about the Gates murder investigation?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What did he want to know?”

  “How it was going. Did we have enough evidence to convict True Sky.”

  “Did you tamper with the evidence?”

  “Huh?”

  “What was found in Gates’s hand—did you take it?”

  Again Baker shook his head. “No way. Tom, I swear it!”

  Rosen continued, “Couldn’t Cantrell have framed True Sky, then hired McCracken to kill him?”

  “I . . . I suppose so.”

  “And you killed McCracken. A nice cover-up.”

  “No I didn’t!”

  Cross Dog said, “You lie once about any of this, and the D.A. will bury you.”

  “All right. What I meant was, I didn’t kill McCracken for any cover-up. I . . . uh . . . was just . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “He was just a little quick on the trigger,” Cross Dog said softly.

  Baker looked up and wiped his eyes. “You knew?”

  “Yeah. That morning McCracken took a shot at True Sky, I raised you on the radio. You told me you saw McCracken’s car by the side door of the feedstore. Then three shots were fired. You said McCracken fired first, then you returned two rounds in self-defense. You lied.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I heard three shots over the radio, the first one loud, then two softer ones. You shot first—the bullet’s sound practically exploded into the speaker. You must’ve caught McCracken coming out the door. Man probably didn’t even see what hit him. He must’ve got a round off wild before he hit the ground, and you went over to finish him. Just like a horse with a broken leg.”

  “I shoulda warned him to stop, but I was scared. He was a real badass.”

  “Sure,” Rosen said. “Gunning him down at high noon made you quite a hero, and maybe the next police chief of Bear Coat. The question remains, did Cantrell order you to do it, so that McCracken wouldn’t talk?”

  “No!” Baker tried to grab Rosen’s arm, but his hand was so sweaty it slipped.

  Rosen, in turn, gripped Baker. “Cantrell did hire you, didn’t he?”

  “No!”

  “They’re going to bury you in here.”

  “That’s enough,” Cross Dog said, pushing the cell door wide open.

  Baker cowered on the corner of his bunk and started to sob. Rosen took a step toward the prisoner, but Cross Dog pulled him into the corridor, closing the door behind them. They walked silently through the cellblock, past the policeman still reading his magazine, and into the elevator.

  Rosen said, “I wanted to apologize to Baker. I got a little carried away.”

  “You believe him?”

  “What’s more interesting is that you do.”

  “I’ve known Elroy a long time. He may be a lot of things, but he’s no cold-blooded murderer.”

  “How long have you known Saul True Sky?”

  Cross Dog grimaced.

  “Don’t you think you’re letting what happened to your uncle poison your mind against True Sky? I think you and Grace . . .” Rosen stopped suddenly, remembering Keeshin’s intentions. As the elevator doors opened, Cross Dog held him back.

  “What about me and Grace?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Rosen said, checking his watch. He’d kept Andi waiting twenty-five minutes. That was enough trouble for one day.

  Chapter Fifteen – TUESDAY MORNING

  Grace looked at the clock on the courtroom wall, then checked her watch. 9:03. Where was the judge . . . Why couldn’t they get on with it! She sat between Stevie and Jack in the first row behind the prosecutor, her son’s hand warm in hers. It would be all right. What else could she do, after Stevie woke up from that nightmare and told her? Jack had agreed, last night on their way to pick up Dr. Hartrey from the airport. What else could she do?

  People around her were getting to their feet. She joined them as Judge Whistler stepped up to the bench. Stevie looked so grown-up, wearing the blue dress shirt they’d bought that morning and his father’s best tie. He looked like his father, tall and wiry with that one cowlick that never would stay in place. Only the smile was missing, but he’d be smiling soon—the doctor’d said so. He was doing real well, and this would help make him better.

  As they sat, Grace glanced at her father at the defense table. She looked away quickly and, cheeks burning, clutched her purse until her knuckles whitened. Damn it, he should be ashamed, not her!

  “Good morning,” Judge Whistler said. He looked tired and much older than he had the summer before, at the preliminary hearing. “Mr. Benton, would you like to call your first witness? I believe it’s Dr. Gustafson.”

  The district attor
ney leaned over the table, shuffling through a stack of papers. “If it please the court,” he said, looking up, “I’d like to reschedule Dr. Gustafson’s testimony for this afternoon. The prosecution has a new witness to call—that is, actually, two who are not listed.”

  “I don’t like such irregularities. They strike me as playing games with this court.”

  “Not at all, Your Honor. I myself only became aware of these witnesses yesterday, after court had adjourned, and didn’t meet with them until last night.”

  Judge Whistler frowned. “Very well. Call your witnesses, with the stipulation that Mr. Rosen must have sufficient time to prepare his cross-examination.”

  “Thank you. I call Dr. Karen Hartrey.”

  She’d been sitting in the second row, and, as she walked down the aisle, her perfume scented the air. She carried a leather slipcase. Dr. Hartrey took the oath and sat very straight in the witness stand. Grace had never realized how pretty the woman was. She wore a brown turtleneck with a plaid vest and matching pleated skirt of hunter green. Her hair was short, black with red highlights, and her green eyes sparkled when she smiled, which was often. It was easy to see why people trusted her. Grace felt a little better, now that she was here.

  Benton folded his hands on the table. “Would you please state your name, occupation, and current residence for the record.”

  “Karen Hartrey, doctor of psychiatry. I have my own practice and am attached to the staff of St. Theresa’s Hospital in Sioux Falls. That’s also where I live.”

  “I understand that you specialize in the psychiatric problems of children.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Benton looked at Judge Whistler. “Dr. Hartrey needs to lay the foundation for my next witness, whose testimony is crucial for the State’s case. Now, Dr. Hartrey, when did you first see Stevie Jenkins as a patient?”

  From the slipcase she removed and opened a manila folder. “On August 2 of last year.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “I was contacted by Mr. Jack Keeshin, a resident of Bear Coat. Mr. Keeshin brought Stevie and his mother to see me regarding a program of therapy for the boy.”

  “What sort of therapy?”

  Again Dr. Hartrey consulted her notes. “Of course, you understand that, although a child, Stevie has the same right to privacy as any adult. I’ll only touch upon what’s relevant to the proceedings in this courtroom and, more importantly, what Stevie and his mother both have permitted me to share.”

  “We understand that. We only need to establish, in general terms, why Mrs. Jenkins sought your help for her son.”

  “To put it as simply as possible, Stevie Jenkins had gone through some traumatic experiences within the last few years—most significantly, his father’s sudden death in a highway accident, and, more recently, his grandfather’s arrest for murder. These were the two most important men in Stevie’s life.”

  “So the boy had sort of an identity crisis.”

  Dr. Hartrey smiled. “Yes, but the cause went far deeper, having to do with Stevie’s background. He’s one-quarter Sioux—Lakota—and, growing up, had been very close to his grandfather.”

  “We’re talking about the defendant, Saul True Sky.”

  “Yes. Remember, Stevie’s father was a truck driver and on the road a great deal, and his mother worked nights. The boy was often alone with his grandfather, who believes-very deeply in the traditional Lakota religion. This belief was not shared by Stevie’s mother, who, in fact, discouraged her son’s involvement with his grandfather. She wanted him to grow up, to use her own words, ‘white like his father.’ Indeed, Stevie was taunted in school by classmates and even by one teacher, who found his grandfather’s ‘Injun’ ways odd. You could see the dilemma the boy was in. He loved his grandfather and the old customs and rituals, but the rest of the world, including his mother, was telling him he was wrong.”

  Dr. Hartrey spoke softly and so earnestly, like one of those women on a morning talk show. It seemed to Grace that this was like TV, that the people being spoken about publicly were somebody else, not her family.

  Benton nodded his head gravely. “What was your treatment for the boy?”

  “A combination of therapy and medication. Since August, Stevie’s seen me eight times.”

  “With his mother, Mrs. Jenkins?”

  Dr. Hartrey consulted her notes. “On three occasions we had a family session. Otherwise, I saw him alone.”

  “You mentioned medication.”

  “I’ve prescribed a medication which is often used to calm a child and keep him on task. One of Stevie’s symptoms was restlessness—he had difficulty sleeping, paying attention in school, and doing his homework.”

  Benton paused to look at Rosen, who leaned back in his chair, apparently unconcerned. Then the prosecutor returned to Dr. Hartrey. “I’m going to anticipate a question by the defense. Could this medication impair the boy’s memory, make him think he’s seen or heard things that weren’t there?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ve prescribed this medication to dozens of children. It doesn’t challenge reality. Quite the contrary. It helps the child see reality for what it is.”

  “‘For what it is.’ Well stated, doctor. Now let’s get to the reason why you’re here.”

  “Mrs. Jenkins called me Sunday night or, to be more accurate, about one a.m. Monday morning. Stevie had woken from a nightmare involving the murder of Albert Gates—the nightmare was probably triggered by his grandfather’s trial, which was to begin later that day. Stevie told his mother things he had seen and heard the night of Gates’s murder. These were the same things he’d told me in confidence at a session we’d had last month. After I talked to Stevie on the phone, the three of us agreed it would be best if he testified in court.”

  “‘Best’ in what way?”

  Dr. Hartrey looked past the prosecutor to Grace and Stevie. “As a doctor, I take a far greater interest in my patient’s recovery than in the outcome of this criminal proceeding. Stevie has tried to keep the events of that night, the night of the murder, buried. The resultant stress of that decision has only exacerbated his psychological problem. Fortunately, one value shared by his Lakota grandfather, his mother, and the Judeo-Christian institutions of white society, like his school, is a respect for the truth. It is this common respect for the truth that has allowed Stevie to state publicly what happened the night of Albert Gates’s murder.”

  Benton paused to let the weight of her words sink in. Half-bowing, he said, “I’d like to thank you for flying in from Sioux Falls. I know you must have a busy schedule. No further questions.”

  Judge Whistler turned to the defense. “Any questions for the witness?”

  Rosen shook his head. “Not at this time. However, I reserve the right to cross-examine Dr. Hartrey after we’ve heard the prosecution’s next witness.”

  “Very well. Mr. Benton?”

  “The state calls Stevie Jenkins.”

  Stevie stood, untangled his fingers from Grace’s hand, and walked toward the witness stand. As he passed Dr. Hartrey, she squeezed his shoulder and whispered something to him. He took the oath a little too loudly and sat straight in the chair without touching the back rest. He looked so grown-up, and yet Grace couldn’t help feeling he was a frightened little boy. She wanted to put her arms around him, but couldn’t. Reaching into her purse, she gripped Stevie’s turtle doll.

  Walking to the witness stand, Benton rested one arm on the railing. “You’re Stevie Jenkins, grandson of the defendant, Saul True Sky?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How’re you feeling this morning? Not nervous, I hope.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You just heard Dr. Hartrey testify about how she’s trying to help you. Would you say she was accurate about the problems you’ve been having?”

  “I been pretty messed-up. I been fighting, screwing up in school, making my mom miserable.”

  “And now?”

  Stevie shrugge
d. “Better, I guess. I’m not screwing up as much.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Talking to Dr. Hartrey helps, That and the stuff she gives me.”

  “The medication?”

  “I take it three times a day—once in the morning, once at school, and before going to bed. It gets me kinda zonked sometimes, but otherwise it’s okay.”

  Pursing his lips, Benton nodded. “By ‘okay’ you mean it doesn’t affect your memory.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you don’t see or hear things that aren’t there.”

  “You mean like the heyoka?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The heyoka—people who see visions of the Thunder Beings, and then they do exactly the opposite of what they say. Like if now I was to tell you we’re not really talking, or that you’re a woman and not a man. Like that?” Stevie paused, and when the prosecutor scratched his head, added, “No. I don’t see or hear what’s not there.”

  “Good. That heyoka thing . . . you learn that from your grandfather?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Benton waited, maybe to see how Stevie would react to his grandfather being mentioned. Grace, feeling a deep longing at the sound of the Lakota word, remembering the funny stories her father used to tell about the heyoka, tightened her grip on the turtle doll. If Stevie felt the same way, he didn’t show it. His face was like her father’s when talking to a white man—smooth as a stone.

  The prosecutor continued, “Let’s talk about the night Albert Gates was murdered. All right?”

  For a second, Grace watched the old Stevie bite his lower lip, while the boy’s hands shuffled along his thighs.

  “Would you like a glass of water?”

  He shook his head defiantly. “What do you wanna know?”

  Benton returned to his desk and skimmed a few pages in a file. “What time did you go to bed that night?”

  “I went up to my room about ten o’clock, but I didn’t go to sleep. Sometimes I didn’t go to sleep for hours.”

  “Did anything unusual happen after you went upstairs?”

  “The light.”