Kindness Goes Unpunished

by Craig Johnson

  I could feel the wood beginning to splinter between my teeth. “It makes sense. Somebody cares enough about Cady to follow her, cares enough to chance revealing himself after she’s hurt, and cares enough to possibly toss Devon off the bridge.”

  She finished hers. “That’s a lot of caring.”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you still hungry?”

  “Hmm?”

  She smiled. “You’re chewing the stick, and I thought you might want something else to eat.”

  I dropped it in the nearest trash can. Henry was with Cady this morning, and I wanted to get back to the hospital before he had to leave for the museum, but Lena was doing so much. I took a deep breath. “You want to tell me about this affair?”

  She laughed and then looked at me through the corner of an almond-shaped eye. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered that part of the conversation.”

  “I’m pretty good with details, especially those involving domestic disturbances.”

  She looked at the Indian maiden leaning modestly on her side against an excited swan. I had read the plaque after we had crossed the street and knew that the young girl represented Wissahickon Creek, but in Lena Moretti’s mind she was possibly emblematic of something more. “It was eight years ago. Victor had made inspector and just started working with the Mayor’s Task Force on Organized Crime. He wasn’t home a lot, and I guess I got bored.”

  I waited, but she didn’t say anything else. “It sounds like there’s more to this story.”

  She continued to watch the fountain. “There is, but that’s probably all you need to know.”

  I waited a respectful moment before replying. “Okay.” I watched the people around the fountain, and it was only after a moment that I realized I was looking for a thirty-year-old male with dark hair and a darker reflection.

  When I looked back, she had turned toward me and was smiling. “Who’s got the afternoon shift?”

  “I do, but if you could check on Dog and cover for me for a little while this evening I’d really appreciate it.”

  The smile held. “Buy me dinner?”

  I looked back at the Indians. “Sure.”

  She tossed her stick into the trash can as well and stood; she looked exactly like Vic. “My pick.”

  I put Lena in a cab and grabbed one going in the opposite direction for myself. It didn’t take long to get to Spring Garden, and I felt a release doing something to track down some answers.

  Tactical Training Specialists was the only going concern on the block, with gratings over the windows and a door that would have been more appropriate back home at Fort Fetter-man; it didn’t look like the best part of town. The sign on the glass read “Retail Handgun Sales—New and Used, Home Defense Classes, Indoor Shooting Range, and Basic through Advanced Training.” There was an adjacent parking lot with a side entrance that probably led to the range. I tried to remember what Cady had said about the instructor but could only come up with him being ex-army and a pretty good shot. I wondered casually how he handled throwing bodies over bridges.

  I pushed the door open and an entry bell sounded. There was every gun I’d ever seen lined against the walls all the way to the back of the place. Glass-topped counters held the handguns, while the rifles and shotguns stood at attention, chained to the racks behind the counters. There were displays of body armor and home security sensors with locks and alarms at the center of the shop along with three-dimensional targets and gun safes.

  “Can I help you?”

  Jimmie Tomko was a little younger than I was, of average height and build with a light complexion and pattern balding that did nothing to hide the fact that he was missing his left ear; it also looked like he had a glass eye. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter and to my right, where he could see whoever walked in before they could see him. I noticed he was wearing a shoulder holster with a Kimber .45 and was reading the Daily News, which was folded back to the second page and the continuation of the Devon Conliffe saga.

  I extended my hand. “Walt Longmire. My daughter is Cady Longmire.”

  He smiled without parting his lips. “Hello, Sheriff.”

  We went to his office, which overlooked the firing range, and he told me about his experiences in Quang Tri Province, which ended with a pressure-detonated mine made from one of our duds, a 105-millimeter round that had been booby-trapped. “Roughly two platoons had walked right by the damn thing, and I was next to last when the guy beside me stepped on something, and I turned.” He gestured toward his left eye. “Poached my eye just like an egg. They say the sand was probably the only thing that saved me and the guy in front of us.” I didn’t ask about the fellow who had stepped on it.

  Not for the first time, I was anxious to get out of Vietnam, so I changed the subject. “Jimmie, how long have you had this place?”

  “Since ’77.” He gestured toward the shooting gallery. “Put the firing range in about ten years ago, and it’s been the only thing that saved my butt.”

  “That many people want to learn how to shoot?”

  “There’s that, but it’s also the permits.” I looked at him questioningly. “A lot of these yuppies want concealed permits, but the chances of getting one in the city, even with training, are about as likely as Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command.”

  I vaguely remembered an instance in the city involving the ex-mayor, a helicopter, a bomb, and a housing project, and deduced that getting a concealed weapon permit in Philadelphia was nigh on impossible. “So, can they get limited permits through you?”

  “Yeah, that way they get to transport the weapon to and from the premises within a locked case in the trunk of their car, ammo separate.”

  “I gather that some of them have been abusing the privilege?”

  He sighed. “I had been making good money until we had a prominent assistant district attorney who unloaded on a Toyota station wagon on Roosevelt Boulevard. He said a couple of guys had chased him at speeds in excess of a hundred miles an hour.”

  I thought about it. “I wasn’t aware that Toyota station wagons could go a hundred miles an hour.”

  “He said it was drug dealers.”

  I thought about it some more. “Is the Toyota station wagon the vehicle of choice for Philadelphia drug dealers?”

  “No. So then he said it could have been the KKK, except that in the earlier statement he said the two occupants were not white.” Tomko watched me with the one eye. “Now, there could be two nonwhite members of the KKK cruising around Philly in a Japanese station wagon, but…”

  “There’s just as much a chance of Wilson Goode joining the Strategic Air Command?”

  “Exactly.” I was getting the hang of it. “Now, you are probably wondering why it is that I have told you this story.” He angled the front page of the paper toward me.

  I stared at him. “Devon Conliffe?”

  He nodded. “He was in the car with ADA Vince Osgood, a buddy of his.”

  “What were they doing being chased by drug dealers?”

  “There were a lot of questions along those lines.” He dropped the corner of the paper back on his desk. “Surprise, surprise, the charges were dropped. I think it might have been because Devon’s father, the judge, had pull with the court.”

  “His father?” Tomko nodded. “And Devon still came here?”

  “Lawyer League. They all come in on Thursdays.” He sat back in his chair and leaned a scarred chin on his fist. “They didn’t cancel his permit and, like I said, all the charges were dropped.”

  I thought about the judge’s son. “So he might have been involved in some things he shouldn’t have been.”

  “It’s likely.”

  “Can you think of anybody who might’ve wanted to kill him?” The one eye stared at me for a while. “Besides me.”

  “About half of Philadelphia.” He looked away for a second. “Look, I know your daughter was dating the guy, but he was a piece of shit. Did you ever see the two of ’em t
ogether?”

  “No.”

  “Not for nothin’, but it was like she was his personal servant.” His eye came back to me. “Why don’t you ask your daughter?”

  I studied him but could tell nothing. “I’m saving that as a last resort.”

  He nodded. “I’m not so sure why it is you’re concerned; best thing that could’ve happened to her.” He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Sheriff, in case you hadn’t noticed, your daughter is quite a looker, intelligent, and possibly one of the best shots I’ve ever had the pleasure of not teaching.” He folded his hands in his lap. “It’s none of my business, but I think she’s a lot better off.”

  I withheld comment. “You mind if I come in tomorrow night?”

  “Nah, but there’s a guest fee, thirty bucks plus ammo. What d’ya shoot?”

  “A .45 ACP.”

  He nodded; the caliber probably reminded him of Quang Tri, land mines, and poached eggs.

  It was close to one o’clock when I got back to the hospital. “When do I get to meet the mother?”

  I ignored Henry and watched Cady. “Anything?”

  “No, but I sang to her all morning.”

  I sat down. “Thank you.”

  His eyes stayed on Cady. “She hears us.”

  I had thought about it a great deal, but I wasn’t sure. “You think?”

  “Yes.” He exhaled a short laugh. “This may be your only chance to get the first, middle, and last word.” He looked at me now, his eyes steady. “She must hear our voices so that she can return to us.”

  I thought what a wonder it was that this individual should be with me, here, now. Even as a child, he had always known something the rest of us didn’t. I thought about the book I’d brought from Wyoming, the love-worn collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Maybe I could read her that. “Well, I don’t sing. Any suggestions on what I should say?”

  He smiled. “Tell her how much you love her; everything after that is small talk.”

  I talked to Cady for the next four hours, and then the nurses ran me off so that they could bathe her. I took my chair and sat in the hallway. The Daily News was at the nurse’s desk, so I appropriated it.

  JUDGE’S SON DIES IN BRIDGE FALL. I studied the photo of Devon Conliffe; it was most likely a publicity shot from his firm. There was no denying that he was a handsome kid, but there was a wayward quality to the eyes, something that said the young man was looking for a way out. I guess he found it, or it found him.

  I looked at the picture of the bridge that had a superimposed dotted line of his fall and an arrow showing where he had landed. I thought about the alley where I had spoken to the cop with the donut and made a mental note to return there in the morning when the police and the crime lab people had cleared out.

  “…10 P.M. as the traffic grew sparse on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, Devon Conliffe, son of judge Robert Conliffe, fell to his death.” The article was pretty straightforward, concentrating on Devon’s career in the law and on the assorted community services he was involved with, only mentioning the episode that Jimmie Tomko had described as “the incident on Roosevelt Boulevard.” Robert Conliffe was quoted as saying that his son was a good man and an excellent lawyer who would be sadly missed in society.

  There was no mention of Cady. I figured the Conliffes and I were off for dinner. The Roosevelt Boulevard thing bothered me; I needed to find out more about Devon’s background. I knew two detectives who might help me out. I dug Cady’s cell phone from my jacket, but the battery was dead. I put it back in my pocket and settled on brooding, something at which I was pretty good.

  It was possible that what had happened to Devon had been triggered by what had happened to Cady, but not exclusively. It appeared that the young man could have been involved in any number of situations that could have led to his violent end.

  The nurses had finished. I folded the paper, placed it back on the counter, and leaned my elbows on the ICU desk. Nancy Lyford, the head nurse, the one who had held my hand when we had first arrived, came over and stood by me. “Your friend has a beautiful voice.”

  “Yep, he does.”

  “He’s Native American?”

  I smiled. “Indian. Yes.”

  “Isn’t Native American the correct term?”

  “I suppose, but most of the Indians I know would laugh at you if you used it.” I figured I’d better explain. “Most Indians don’t identify themselves as American particularly, but as members of nations unto themselves.” She looked at me blankly. “A nation, like a tribe.”

  She thought about it. “He said he was Cheyenne?”

  “Northern Cheyenne and Lakota.”

  “Sioux?”

  I shook my head. “You start calling Lakota the Sioux, and you’re going to get in real trouble.”

  She laughed. “Sounds more complicated than Native American.”

  I gestured toward my daughter. “How’s she doing?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “The bilateral constriction subsided to a normal reaction of the pupils, which gives her a much better opportunity of recovery. The involuntary response to external stimuli is also a very good sign.”

  It was basically the same speech I’d gotten from Rissman the day before, and I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “Still a wait-and-see situation?”

  She nodded her head and looked a little sad. “It’s not like television. It’s a long process that takes a lot of effort, even if things go well.” I nodded, and she looked back at Cady. “I’m not sure if now is the time to mention it, but the things that people have been sending and bringing are beginning to pile up.” I guess I still looked blank. “Cards, stuffed animals, flowers, and things like that.” She smiled. “She’s a very popular young woman.”

  I had the flowers donated to other units and started to put the rest into a large shopping bag the head nurse thoughtfully provided. I was still talking to Cady. “I’ve half a mind to leave all this stuff here and have you lug it all home yourself.” There were stuffed animals, mostly indicative of the West—buffalo, horses, and a bear. There were assortments of candy and a stack of cards, most of which had her name on them, except for one that had mine. I held the little envelope up for her to see. “There, I’m popular, too.”

  It was the usual size of a thank you note, with a mechanical, typewritten print that read SHERIFF. I nudged my thumb under the flap and opened the sealed envelope. Inside was a plain white card that looked like the ones used for names at a place setting; it read, in the same type, YOU HAVE BEEN DONE A FAVOR, NOW DROP IT.

  I looked at it for a long time. I finally noticed that my finger and thumb were holding the card like a life preserver; I guess I thought that if I let go, the card might disappear. I studied the envelope. There was nothing to indicate where the note had come from or whom it was from. I held it up to the fluorescent light and could see the indentation of the mechanical typewriter’s strike, worn, with a small dropout at the bottom of the O. A typewriter? No one used one of those anymore.

  I stood and walked out to the nurse’s station. I held up the envelope. “Excuse me, but do you have any idea where this one might have come from?”

  She shook her head. “No, I really can’t say.”

  “Can you check with the rest of the staff and see if any of them remember anyone bringing this particular envelope?”

  She reached out for it. “Certainly.”

  I held on. “I need to keep this, but there aren’t any others that are typewritten. Do you think you could bring them here or describe it to them?” She looked uncertain. “It just says SHERIFF in capital letters.”

  “Yes.” She continued to sit and look at me.

  “I mean now.”

  The other three staff members who were on the floor had never seen the note and, after a few phone calls, it was ascertained that the others hadn’t either. I plucked a card from my wallet, looked at the great seal of the City of Philadelphia, and thought about the deep-set eyes that had watc
hed me so carefully this morning. Asa Katz, Detective, Homicide Unit, 8th and Race. There were four different phone numbers, and I didn’t call any of them.

  I was standing with the head nurse in Cady’s room when Lena Moretti arrived.

  The sun had set, but the last of its golden light reflected off the other sides of the building in a burnished brilliance of dying illumination, peaking and then dimming like a thought having passed.

  “No, I didn’t write it.”

  I reached out and held Cady’s foot; I felt the momentary reflex of response and the heat in my face as I looked at hers. “Well, I just wanted to give you the chance to give yourself up.” I heard her exhale with a smile.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I gave a little laugh myself. “You know, your daughter asks me that a lot.” The hot spots of the sun were reflecting back to my mountains in Wyoming, and I thought about how deceptively simple life seemed there. “I figure I’ll give the detectives a full report in the morning.”

  “Yeah, but what are you going to do tonight?” She was holding the card and stood in the golden light with her other hand propped at the small of her back.

  “That note seems to indicate that Devon Conliffe’s death is a direct result of Cady’s accident.” I smiled at the floor tile some more and didn’t answer.

  I stood there with the Cheyenne Nation, looking up at the tall building and the night sky. “Are you going to tell me that this is a bad idea, too?”

  He considered the streetlights running down Market. “Nah, this is a good idea.”

  Now I was worried.

  The clouds hadn’t given way to the moon and were still skimming along the tops of the buildings and reflecting the city’s light. It was a warm, balmy evening and, with the cloud cover, everything felt close.

  I looked at my pocket watch and glanced down both sides of the city street. Patti-with-an-i was to have met us at nine o’clock, but it was creeping up on a quarter past. “You think she changed her mind?” He didn’t say anything, just looked off toward City Hall. He looked remarkably like the Indian at Logan Circle.