by Bruce Kading
But McCloud knew it didn’t work that way. Prompt removal for non-Mexicans was a relatively unusual event. All they had to do was request a deportation hearing, and soft-hearted judges could be counted on to lower the bond to as little as five hundred dollars, or release the alien on his own recognizance, even if he had an arrest record. Once released, the delays could be endless. A deportation hearing could be scheduled a year or more after the initial arrest, and attorneys could get delays of many months or years after that.
Cano had been released, probably after posting a nominal bond, and hadn’t shown up for his deportation hearing. A warrant would have been issued, and the file would have been sent to investigations to locate and arrest him. There were several large file cabinets in area control containing hundreds of these cases, which were supposed to be worked by agents when they had time between daily field operations. McCloud scratched Cano’s eight-digit file number on a notepad. He’d check on it later.
Beneath the rap sheet, McCloud found another property envelope, this one filled with the investigator’s notes scribbled on the backs of business cards and scraps of paper. The handwriting had a distinctive quality—small, precise lettering with sharpness at the corners that suggested rigidity. It was vaguely familiar. He tried to match the writing with a name, but all he could summon was the unpleasant essence of somebody from the past.
McCloud looked at the pink sheet on the right side of the file. INVESTIGATOR’S REPORT had been stamped across it in large black letters. He flipped past it to the administrative page. There, in the middle of the page, was the author’s typed name: WILLARD SMITH.
“Oh no, not that son of a bitch,” he said aloud.
Willard Smith had come to the Chicago office from Texas in 1967—about the same time as McCloud. They were soon followed by Joe Willis, Buck Tatum, and Sam Payton, among other Border Patrol agents—the agency’s belated response to the presence of vast and growing communities of illegals in America’s big cities. Some, like Smith, who had left the Patrol for higher grade plainclothes positions, had spent their lives in the rural Southwest and now became immigrants themselves, as disoriented in a sprawling metropolis as the illegals they pursued.
Images of Willard Smith flooded McCloud’s mind. Six feet tall, the rugged Smith exuded an air of confidence, though he found the noise, size, and diversity of Chicago intimidating. Smith, never timid about expressing his opinions, frequently lashed out at Chicago and other large cities as fostering the “moral decay” of America.
McCloud was initially partnered with Smith—an awkward pairing to say the least. The two of them patrolled the South Side of Chicago, picking up illegal Mexicans at bus stops or looking for ship-jumpers who had fled foreign vessels docked at Calumet Harbor, south of the city. Smith would drive slowly to their destination, defying the rush of the city while chain smoking Camels, his eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses. Wearing polyester slacks that were too short, a bolo tie, and cowboy boots, Smith was uncomfortable around McCloud, who was considered an intellectual by other agents.
“Why’d a smart boy like you wanna go down to the border in the first place?” Smith had asked one morning as they cruised down Damen Avenue.
“That’s where the work was.”
“Didn’t care for it down there, did ya?”
“It was fine. I got along OK,” McCloud had replied, refusing to take the bait.
Smith and most of his former Border Patrol colleagues had been adamantly opposed to hiring investigators “off the street”—those who hadn’t first passed through the Border Patrol gauntlet. When the agency began doing so a couple of years after Smith arrived in Chicago, the policy shift represented a challenge to the Border Patrol’s preeminent position within the enforcement hierarchy. Smith and other former Border Patrol agents felt slighted by the perceived disrespect to the Patrol and threatened by the new recruits, most of whom had college degrees and more contemporary views of society. Several trainees had been dismissed on specious grounds at the conclusion of their one-year probationary period. Meanwhile, former Border Patrol agents who came north had been welcomed with open arms.
Tolerance and flexibility had no place in Smith’s emotional universe, McCloud had observed. He was instinctively opposed to change or anything that did not reinforce his prejudices and narrow worldview. As the country moved through the turbulent 1960s, the status quo had to be fiercely defended, and Smith had been determined to do his small part.
In 1972 Willard Smith had moved on to the regional office in Minneapolis for a higher grade, survived two tedious years there, retired, and returned to Texas at the end of 1974. A month later, he had dropped dead from a heart attack. Shortly before retiring, however, he had been tapped to conduct the Kelso shooting investigation. It had evidently not occurred to regional officials that Smith’s previous assignment at the Chicago office created a rather obvious conflict of interest.
McCloud flipped to the synopsis page and began reading Smith’s summary:
On March 9, 1974, Criminal Investigators Kelso, Tatum, and Landau attempted to arrest Antonio Cano, an illegal alien from Argentina. Cano violently resisted, disarmed Investigator Kelso, and shot Investigator Kelso in the chest with Kelso’s service-issued, .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. Investigator Tatum, in justified self-defense, shot Cano in the head. Investigator Kelso and Cano both died at the scene.
It was the second paragraph that had spelled the end of Michael Landau’s career with INS:
Investigator Tatum used an appropriate level of force, and the use of his revolver to subdue the offender was fully justified. The shooting of Investigator Kelso might have been prevented if Investigator Landau had taken more positive and forceful action.
McCloud cringed. Smith had stated an opinion as though it were fact. Any opinion, if necessary at all, was reserved for a clearly labeled investigator’s comments section. It had no legitimate place on the synopsis page, which was supposed to be purely factual.
McCloud gulped what was left of the coffee and flung the paper cup into the wastebasket. He folded the synopsis page back and started in on the details section of the report.
Smith, with the help of a Chicago homicide detective, had put together a series of diagrams showing the positions of the individuals involved in the shooting in relation to physical landmarks such as the street and nearby businesses. He had attached and summarized the coroner’s report to establish Cano’s and Kelso’s causes of death.
Finally, there was Smith’s description of the shooting itself:
Investigator Kelso encountered Cano near Cleo’s Vintage Books in the 5300 block of North Clark Street at approximately 5:45 PM. As he attempted to place the subject under arrest, Cano resisted and was able to remove Investigator Kelso’s .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband holster. A struggle followed during which Investigator Landau attempted to restrain Cano but, without the use of deadly force, was not able to prevent the shooting of Investigator Kelso. Cano fired one deadly shot into Investigator Kelso’s heart. Investigator William “Buck” Tatum then used his .357-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver to fire one deadly shot to Cano’s head. Both Investigator Kelso and Cano died at the scene before medical personnel arrived.
McCloud was shocked and disgusted. Smith had compressed an enormously complex event into a one-paragraph summary without details provided by Landau and Tatum. As a result, there was no way to visualize, except in a general way, what had actually happened that night. Nor was it possible to examine discrepancies between their accounts or to reconcile those discrepancies with the physical evidence. There was no indication that Smith had attempted to locate other witnesses to the shooting, nor was there mention of the position of Kelso’s holster on his left hip. McCloud’s eyes fell to the next short paragraph:
The interviews of Investigators Tatum and Landau concerning this incident were tape-recorded by this investigator. No other persons were present during the interviews. The cassette tapes are attached in
a property envelope in this file.
McCloud flipped the page over to the last item in the file, a mustard-colored property envelope. Willard’s distinctive handwriting was at the bottom: TAPES OF INTERVIEWS WITH TATUM AND LANDAU.
McCloud lifted the envelope from the bottom but could see it was empty and completely flat, without the creases usually formed over time by the edges of a tape or tape case.
Unless the tapes could be located, it wouldn’t be easy to piece together what actually happened that night. A search of Smith’s notes revealed nothing concerning his interviews with Tatum or Landau. That, too, was odd, even if the interviews had been recorded.
McCloud realized his shirt was damp with sweat. He felt trapped in his small office, bombarded with visions of the unsavory Willard Smith and gripped by a sense that something had gone terribly wrong in the wake of the shooting. He suddenly felt the need to get out of there and breathe fresh air.
It was past ten o’clock when he stepped away from the building, the night air cool and bracing against his face. He noticed the huge American flag on the plaza across the street hadn’t been taken down and was whipping in the wind. A clasp on the flag’s rope clanged loudly against the metal pole—a discordant note on an otherwise quiet evening.
* * *
The next day McCloud called Balsam to inform him that the tapes were missing from the shooting file. “There’s an envelope for them, but it’s empty. I need you to look for the tapes up there, Hank.”
Balsam quickly checked the regional evidence locker and found nothing. He then conducted a thorough search of the filing cabinet where the shooting file had been stored to make sure nothing related to Smith’s investigation had been misfiled, but again found nothing.
McCloud could think of only one other place where the tapes might turn up. “Hank, I need Landau’s personnel file. They may have needed the tapes for the probation hearing and left them in his file.”
“I’ll check the file and if the tapes are there, I’ll send them to you.”
“No, I need to see the personnel file.” There was a moment of silence before McCloud continued. “Look, I’m very suspicious about how Smith handled this investigation. I don’t even know exactly what I’m looking for, but I want to see every piece of paper connected to this thing.”
“We both know a personnel file is even more sensitive. What’s my cover for sending it to you?”
“Chicago’s training officer requested it. I’ll take full responsibility if there are any questions.”
There was only a brief hesitation before Balsam spoke: “What the hell—maybe I’ll have a better chance of getting out of here if I piss them off. OK, I’ll send it.”
A large, yellow envelope appeared on Charlie McCloud’s desk three days later. He immediately tore it open and found the pale green personnel file of Michael Landau. He laid the file flat on his desk and went through both sides, not pausing to read anything, just looking for a property envelope that might contain the tapes. But there were no tapes to be found and no indication they had ever been there. Though disappointed, McCloud began a more thorough examination of the file’s contents.
On the very top was a clipping from the obituary section of a Portland newspaper that reported the death of Michael Landau. There was no photo. It was the kind of lean article one would expect to see for a skid row bum.
Beneath the news clipping, McCloud found a form that documented Landau’s dismissal on May 25, 1974. PROBATIONARY NONRETENTION had been typed into one of the blocks.
The review panel recommendation form was next. McCloud’s eyes fell to the signature blocks at the bottom of the form for the three review panel members. To his amazement he found the signature of the suddenly ubiquitous Willard Smith. Even after Smith’s damning report on the shooting, somebody had allowed him to be on the panel that would decide Landau’s fate. Next to Smith’s signature was an X in the square indicating recommendation for nonretention.
The next signature was that of Thomas Reilly, the head of investigations at the Chicago office at the time of Landau’s hearing. Reilly would certainly not have resisted Willard Smith’s recommendation, especially if he’d believed that Landau couldn’t be relied upon in difficult situations. The third and final signature was that of the head of investigations for the Detroit office. All had recommended nonretention.
On the second page of the review panel recommendation form, one sentence was scrawled in the hand of Thomas Reilly:
Although Agent Landau received acceptable performance ratings his first year, his actions in the shooting death of Agent Frank Kelso, as outlined in the report by Willard Smith, cast doubt on his ability to use deadly force.
That had made it clear. The entire hearing would have been perfunctory at best.
McCloud flipped through the remaining documents in the file. There was a copy of Smith’s report, along with evaluations by journeyman agents who had worked with Landau. He had done extremely well on written examinations and had finished second in his class at the academy.
Then, a final document, buried at the very bottom: Landau’s original application for employment, the standard government form SF-171, which included personal biographic information. McCloud scanned the blocks. Landau was born in 1940 in Hinsdale, Illinois; graduated with honors from the University of Illinois; received bachelor’s and master’s degrees in social work; was hired by the Veterans Administration in 1965. This guy was even more of a misfit than I’d imagined, thought McCloud. It reminded him of Hayden, or the way Hayden had once been. He moved down the page to the section for dependents and relatives. Michael Landau’s spouse, Joyce Landau, then her maiden name: Hayden.
In the space for the couple’s children, there was one entry: Nicolas, age eleven years.
* * *
Hayden spent two hours alone in McCloud’s office combing through every piece of paper in the shooting file. Even the smallest details held a lurid fascination for him. But when he was finished, he felt empty. He’d hoped he could fit the pieces together into something coherent and conclusive, but that hadn’t happened. He now had more information, but the crucial question—whether his father had acted appropriately under the circumstances—remained unanswered.
Hayden knew that if his father had not used deadly force when it was necessary to save the life of another agent—if he’d been unable to respond appropriately—his dismissal was justified. But that case hadn’t been made by Willard Smith, and the tapes that might have provided some clarity were missing. There was a glaring absence of detail about what had happened in the moments before the shooting.
Though he was trying to keep an open mind about his father’s conduct, he couldn’t help feeling resentful toward Smith for what appeared to be a lack of thoroughness and for improperly stating opinions instead of simply presenting facts. The report suggested that Smith was either inept or biased against his father. As a result, Nick was left with a picture that was far from complete, and it appeared Buck Tatum was the only potential source of additional information—if he was still alive.
When McCloud returned to his office, Nick, careful to conceal his emotions, offered his observations about the position of Kelso’s holster and what appeared to be unorthodox liberties taken by the report’s author. “We still don’t know what really happened, Charlie.”
“Yeah, there’s definitely something missing here, and the principals aren’t around to clear things up—except maybe Tatum. Even if Smith were alive, you couldn’t trust anything he’d say. I worked with him here in Chicago. He was a horrible investigator—driven by animosities and prejudices. He thought the Border Patrol was the only worthwhile part of INS. Anything he said in that report is suspect.” McCloud paused. “By the way, I found Cano’s file. The judge set bond at five hundred dollars, so he had no trouble making it, and he never showed up at his deportation hearing—ordered deported in absentia. Only thing that seemed strange was that there’s no indication the file was sent to investigations to
locate him. Maybe the court screwed up and it was sent to the file room by mistake.”
Silence lingered for several moments until Hayden became aware that McCloud was looking at him differently. He wasn’t sure if it was sympathy or suspicion, but it was now McCloud who was hiding something.
“You know, don’t you?” Hayden asked softly.
McCloud nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
* * *
Though Hayden had concealed his relationship with former INS agent Michael Landau, McCloud wasn’t angry, only curious about what else might have been covered up. He assured Nick that he hadn’t yet told anybody in the office but would need more details before deciding what to do. They agreed to meet after work in a side room at McGinty’s that was usually deserted and fairly quiet, except for the muffled sound of traffic on Dearborn.
Nick busied himself with paperwork for the rest of the afternoon and arrived early. He wanted to be as clear-headed as possible, so he ordered a Coke instead of a beer and waited anxiously at one of the tables. McCloud soon came in and set his mug of beer down across from Hayden. “I’ve got plenty of time, Nick, so don’t feel rushed,” he said, draping his coat over the back of a chair and taking a seat.
“I hope you didn’t have to rearrange your schedule,” said Hayden.
“No. It’s not like I have a thriving social life. Besides, this is important.” McCloud paused and fixed Nick with a sober stare. “Listen, I don’t want to be blindsided, so I need you to be straight and not hold anything back, OK?”