“And he defended the father,” Mac said thoughtfully. “He’s so committed to gun rights he defends someone who let his son have access to an AR-15. What the fuck? Who does that? The kid is angry at a girl who won’t go out with him. So, he goes home, gets the gun, goes to school and kills all of his friends?”
“I’m surprised he didn’t have something to say about the girl,” Angie said. “Bet he would if you pushed him.”
Mac nodded. “I will tomorrow if I can,” he said. “But what I really want to know more about is the wilderness trips. And if I can go on one. But I interviewed Anderson recently. He may hesitate.”
“See if I can go? I’d love to photograph that!”
“I don’t think they’re keen on women going,” he said.
“Ask?”
Mac nodded. He’d ask.
He paid the bill, got the receipt, and they headed out to his truck.
“So, will you teach me to shoot?” Angie asked as she buckled in.
“Why?”
She shrugged. “I want to know what it feels like,” she said. “I don’t necessarily want a gun. I just want to know what shooting a gun is like.”
“Sure,” Mac said. “I’ll take you to a gun range sometime this week. Especially if you get to go along on a wilderness training exercise. You at least need to know which end to hold and which end the bullet goes out.”
She wrinkled her nose at him and got in the car.
“OK, copilot,” Mac said, thinking the wrinkled nose thing was pretty cute. “Where are we going? Mrs. Jorgensen first.”
She did a search, mapped it, and gave him directions.
The house they were led to was small, white and in need of painting. A bicycle was locked up to the front porch railing. The two of them got out and walked up the sidewalk. “You do the meet and greet?” Mac said under his breath. Angie nodded.
A tall, thin woman, with dark hair and eyes, peered at them from behind a half-closed door. “Yes?” she said, not timidly really, Mac thought, but anxiously? Maybe.
Angie explained who they were. “We spent the afternoon with Sheriff Norton,” she said. “And we were with him when he went out to serve papers on your husband. It raised questions — and concern, to be honest. Are you OK?”
Mac blinked, not the way he would have handled it, but he was curious how it went.
The woman, Carole, and Angie looked at each other for a moment. And then Carole nodded, and opened the door. “Come in,” she said. “We don’t want to talk on the porch where people can see us. Small town, you know?”
The house was obviously home to small children, but it seemed clean. And someone was an artist. Mac walked over to a watercolor and admired it. “This is good,” he said. “Yours?”
“Yes, it’s my hobby,” she said, self-depreciating.
Mac shook his head. “It should be more than a hobby,” he said seriously, moving onto another one. He opened his wallet and pulled out a business card. On the back of it he wrote his aunt’s name and telephone number. He pulled out his phone. “Do you mind if I take a picture of a few? My aunt is an art professor at the U. She’s always looking for artists who deserve notice.”
He looked over his shoulder, and the woman looked like she was trying not to cry. “Whoa,” he said with alarm. “I won’t if you don’t want me to! I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shook her head. “Go ahead,” she whispered. “It’s just... no one’s ever said anything like that before.”
Mac looked at Angie for confirmation. Angie nodded, and she reached over and squeezed Carole’s hand. “He doesn’t say things like that if they aren’t true,” she said gently. “They are good.”
Mac took a couple of shots, and sent them to Lindy with a short explanation. He gave his business card to Carole Jorgensen. “Follow up and email her, or call her,” he said. “Truly. I’ve seen her do this before.”
The woman nodded, and the drew in a ragged breath and found a sense of composure. “So, you saw my husband at his finest, did you?”
Angie laughed, and even Mac had to grin.
“It looked to me like he’s selling guns and porn out the front door, and probably drugs — meth? — out the back. He’s on edge, and he shot at a deputy. He’s making threats. So why didn’t the sheriff put him in jail?” Mac asked.
She sighed. “I threw him out when he started selling drugs. As if the guns and porn weren’t bad enough. He always thought there had to be a faster, easier way to make money, you know? And we’ve got two preschoolers, so child-care costs mean I wouldn’t make much if I worked. Unless he took on some child care, which God forbid, you know? So now he’s a loose cannon, and he’s drinking on top of it all. So those papers? A restraining order and a court date. He’s fighting the divorce. Who does that these days?”
Mac patiently listened to her rant. He didn’t blame her for ranting. Not at all.
“City police, the ones you’d call for enforcing the restraining order?” Angie asked.
Carole nodded. “Not Sheriff Norton. He won’t do a blasted thing to help a woman who needs help. That’s why he was sounding sympathetic. He is sympathetic. And he’s also so pro-guns he won’t bust my husband even when he shoots at a deputy.”
“You heard about that before we got here,” Mac observed.
She laughed. “Small town,” she repeated. “The deputy is married to a high school friend. He called me to tell me the papers were served. But then he told me what happened. He was shook up.”
“Don’t blame him,” Mac said. “Did he think your husband was truly aiming at him or was he firing in their direction to get them to leave?”
“He said it came close. Scared them all back. They called Norton, not expecting much, but that’s what you do, right?”
“Norton got the papers served, but he didn’t even scold him for shooting,” Mac said.
Carole sighed. “Norton follows the law, the law as he sees it. So, he’d serve the papers, because the courts ordered it. But he believes the Constitution allows a man to shoot his guns in his defense. And trespassing is grounds, I guess, even if it’s a cop.”
Mac frowned. “You got family you can go to?” he asked. He wasn’t usually much of an activist when he was reporting. Tell the story, let people figure out what they should do. But he didn’t like what he was hearing.
“I want to move down to Marysville,” she said. “But Lucas filed a motion — I guess that’s what it was — that I shouldn’t be able to leave the county with the kids until the divorce and custody is final. That’s what this next court date is for. He scares me, no lie, but I don’t think he’d harm the kids. So, we stay quiet and in town.”
Mac nodded. “So, is this a pattern? Norton takes the husband’s side? Leaves the wives to fend for themselves?”
She rocked her hand indicating more or less. “It got worse after his own divorce. Do you know about that?”
“She’s on our interview list,” Mac said. “Bad?”
Carole nodded. “So bad, it was the talk of the town for months. And it happened during his last re-election campaign. She finds out he’s cheating — he’s known for chasing women — and his mistress is pregnant. Can you imagine? His opponent for sheriff is a lawyer in town. And she hires him to represent her in the divorce.”
Mac grinned. Had to admire a woman who knew how to get even.
“The attorney lost the race; no one expected him to win,” she continued. She was smiling too. “But he took Norton to the cleaners in court. Aired all the dirty laundry. Called the pregnant mistress as a witness. It was glorious.”
“So, what two years ago?”
“Nearly three,” she agreed. “Only problem is Anne, his ex, wants to leave town now, and he won’t let her go. Says the shared custody agreement means she can’t leave, because his work hours are erratic and prevent him from going to Seattle for his time with the boys.”
“Is he the one that’s giving your husband ideas?” Mac asked.
&nb
sp; She frowned. “They’ve got some kind of wilderness survival club going,” she said. “Lucas changed a bit after he started going. He was never a good man, and I made a mistake when I was young and thought I could fix him. And you can’t. But he wasn’t a mean man. Now he is. And the drugs? I don’t know what that’s about.”
“You’re going to be OK,” Mac said, liking the woman. “You’re smart, and you see things clearly. And your artwork is really good. So, contact my aunt. You’ll like her. She’s a take-no-prisoners kind of woman. And be careful?”
She nodded, and looked at the business card clutched in her hand. “You think she’ll like them?” she whispered anxiously.
Mac looked at his phone in his hand. He grinned. “Yup,” he said. “I think she likes them.”
Angie looked at him curiously as they walked back down the sidewalk to the car. “You always that helpful?”
He started the car before answering. “My aunt raised me through my teen years,” he said slowly. “A single mom with a son and a nephew. She’s a magnificent artist, and she’s really intelligent. So now she’s got a PhD in art — which isn’t traditional for practicing artists even in higher ed — and she teaches. But getting there wasn’t easy. She gives back to women, especially single moms, who have artistic talent. Especially the ones who don’t realize what a gift they have. I’ve learned to send women her way.”
“You’re a nice man,” Angie said smiling. “You don’t let people see it much, though.”
He snorted. “I’m not a nice man,” he denied. “I’m a bastard who occasionally does something nice. Don’t confuse the two. Where are we headed next?”
She smiled at him, and then gave directions to the former Mrs. Norton. “Her name is Anne,” she added.
Anne Norton lived in a ranch style house in one of the cul-de-sac suburban neighborhoods. Within the city limits, Mac noted.
She opened the door when they knocked. “Come in,” she said before they even introduced themselves. “Carole called. I’ll talk to you, but I think he watches sometimes, and I’d just as soon he didn’t know you were here.”
Mac raised his eyebrow at Angie as they stepped inside. But she seemed to leave this one in his hands. He introduced them. She nodded.
“Would you like something to drink? I have iced tea,” Anne Norton said.
“Sure,” Mac said. He’d learned to say yes, it seemed to calm people — especially women — down a bit. He didn’t understand it. He just filed it under weird shit about people and went about his business.
Anne Norton poured iced tea for the three of them and led the way to a dining table off the kitchen. It was a pleasant home, far from the abject poverty of Carole Jorgensen’s home. But Mac noticed things. Until he was 12, Mac had grown up with a single mom who lived on the edge between homeless and poverty. He was finely attuned to the markers. There were repairs to the house that should have been made. When she got the tea out of the refrigerator, it was nearly empty. And she had kids? He frowned.
“How old are your children?” he asked.
“Two boys, 10 and 13,” she replied. “They’ll be home soon. Baseball games this evening.”
“So, I’m up here to do a profile on your husband,” he began. “My editor is interested in how he might have changed since the school shooting. But I’m allowed to follow the story as it goes, and it’s led in a couple of strange directions. Wilderness survival training and his less-than-protective stance toward women with abusive husbands. You seemed like someone we should talk to.”
Anne snorted. She twisted her hands, and then said, to his surprise, “Those damn weekends. I’m not sure what they’re doing out there, but it isn’t healthy. Brings in money, though, not that I see any of it.”
She sighed. “Pete Norton is a first-class domineering asshole. And he’s furious that I’m out from under his thumb, and worse, might be able to leave here and go to Seattle, and take the boys. You’d think it’s to the ends of the earth the way he’s carrying on instead of an hour drive, on I-5 no less. I’ve even said I will bring the boys up on his weekends, and that’s not acceptable to him. My attorney doesn’t think he’ll prevail in the end, but he’s able to delay and delay. And that’s expensive, money I don’t have because he won’t let me go to Seattle where I will make better money.”
“What do you do?”
She shrugged. “I’m a social services administrator. I work for Children Services Division here, and they’ve promised me a job in Seattle. It’s a good raise, but mostly it would get me out of here. Don’t get me wrong. I love Mount Vernon, but I have to get away from my ex.”
“Anne,” Angie said slowly, “Your husband said he was raised in California, came up to WWU to play baseball, fell in love with the area, and stayed. Something seemed off. Is that the truth?”
Anne smiled at her. “Smart girl,” she said. “It’s not a lie, but there are some things missing. I’m not sure what, because that’s all he says. No reminiscing. He’s never gone back to California to visit family or friends in the 15 years I’ve known him. Calls his mother on special occasions, but that’s it. Wouldn’t tell me about it, and once when I pressed him, it was the first time he hit me. I didn’t ask again.”
“Well that seems like a red flag,” Mac muttered, jotting it down. There were so many red flags with this man.
“One I ignored, unfortunately,” she said. “But I knew him to be a well-respected police officer who was good with child victims. And CSD right? What better way to my heart?”
“Is that a false image?” Mac asked.
“No, he is well-respected among male officers,” she said, stressing male. “And he is great with children who are victims. He’s not with women, however; he thinks they deserve it, that they ask for it. And that they’re bitches who try to take the children away from their fathers.”
“And that was true before your divorced him?” Mac asked. “Not blaming you, just curious if that set him off?” he added hastily.
“It was always true, although I didn’t see it clearly,” Anne said. “Probably got worse after. Have you heard the story of our divorce?”
Mac laughed, and Angie giggled.
“I see you have,” she said, laughing herself. “The woman wasn’t the first, and hasn’t been the last. But her pregnancy was just the last straw. I may have over-reacted.” She laughed some more.
“So, he didn’t marry her?” Mac asked, incredulously.
“Huh? No, he denied it was his when he contested the divorce. She said she would swear to it in court the baby was his,” Anne said, shaking her head. “He backed down, and compromised on child support for our kids. He was refusing to pay any. The amount he does pay isn’t enough, but we’re getting by. It would be enough if I could go to Seattle.
“Sorry,” she added. “I know I sound like a broken record, but it’s been dragging on for months. And I’m frustrated.”
“Don’t blame you,” Mac assured her and meant it. He was frustrated for her.
“So, what is he like as a cop? You’re in a job to hear things, as well as having been his wife?” he asked.
She considered that. “Day-to-day, he does a good job,” she said. “Like getting those papers served on Lucas. A bit of charm, and there you go. But long term? He didn’t back up his officer who got shot at for God’s sake. His turnover is high, he’s constantly being dinged for his lack of female officers. He hires them if the county attorney yells at him long enough, but he’s big on this constitutional sheriff bit, that no one can tell him what to do.”
“And to some degree, that’s the law,” Mac said. “Sheriffs are elected so they’re equal to the commissioners or to the county attorney. Not like the police chief who is hired and answers to the city council.”
“That’s why he ran for sheriff,” she agreed. “He didn’t like being told what to do. And even if he became police chief one day, he still would answer to someone. But the constitutionalists go beyond that. You know about that right?”
Mac nodded. “Has he always been there or is that new?”
“Right after he got elected, he got a visit from this organization. Must have been 2008? When Obama got elected? He didn’t like President Obama at all. Thought we’d be in a hostile takeover situation. That we’d have to fight to defend the country from our own government,” she rolled her eyes. “I was astounded. I hadn’t seen any kind of evidence of that kind of racist, right-wing rhetoric before we married. But we married shortly before 9/11 and a lot of cops changed then. Became more hardline, you know?”
Mac nodded. “I was 16 when 9/11 happened,” he said. “I enlisted two years later.”
Anne shook her head. “Bad times. But President Obama has been good for this country and these guys can’t see it because of his color. They’re all about false flags and New World Order and so on. So, he hooks up with a couple of guys and gets hard core into gun culture. And runs these damn wilderness weekends.”
“Not this weekend,” Mac said. “Every other week?”
“Thereabouts,” she agreed. “Craig Anderson organizes them. There’s a guy in Sedro-Woolley who does the actual trip planning — food and such. A lot of guys from the city get involved. I don’t get it. But I know they are egging each other on in this militia rhetoric. And this don’t let the bitches take our kids and guns rhetoric. My God, the number of guns. That’s how Jorgensen got into it. He wanted them to buy from him. But I don’t think they do. Mostly they buy from Craig Anderson.”
Well, there’s how it all connects up, he thought. So which one was Sensei? Or was there yet another person unseen? “You got a name for the guy in Sedro-Woolley?” he asked.
She thought for a moment, got out her phone and googled something. “Northern Cascades Wilderness Adventures,” she said. “Ken Bryson. I’ve met him. He’s not the most stable man in town, and Sedro-Woolley is kind of the jumping off point for a lot of men who come back from war and head to the hills. You know the kind I mean?”
Mac did.
“Ken Bryson is 60, leather tough, and mean,” she said slowly. “He can’t compromise, won’t back down. There’ve been incidents. I keep waiting for him and Pete to lock horns. So far, they haven’t. But that surprises me.”
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