by Bruce Kading
Hayden shut off the engine, got out of the car, and scanned the area. The door to the trailer had to be on the other side, facing the lake. He waited a few moments for Tatum to acknowledge his presence, but it remained quiet.
“Mr. Tatum,” he called out. “I’m Michael Landau’s son.” He waited for a response but heard only the sound of a small animal scurrying beneath the pickup.
A well-worn path led to the front of the trailer. He followed it, noticing that the area beyond the trailer sloped down to the lake and a weathered dock. A few steps more and he came alongside a screened porch that had been built onto the trailer. Looking up, Nick froze. A large man was sitting heavily in a captain’s chair on the porch, a shotgun resting on his lap.
After a brief hesitation, Nick spoke. “Mr. Tatum? I’m Nick Landau . . . Michael Landau’s son.”
The man didn’t move, just glared suspiciously at his unexpected visitor.
“Now I go by Nick Hayden.”
“Step closer, if ya don’t mind,” said the man with a raspy twang. Hayden turned the corner of the rough-hewn porch and paused at the steps up to the screen door. The man furrowed his eyebrows as he scrutinized his visitor, and gradually the taut facial muscles relaxed. He lifted the barrel of the shotgun away.
“Come on in,” he said, standing and setting the shotgun down against the side of the trailer. Nick went up the steps and inside. Tatum thrust a hand forward. “I’m Buck Tatum. I guess you knew that.” After shaking hands, there was a moment of stiff silence as they sized each other up.
Buck Tatum could have made a convincing department-store Santa Claus were it not for the palpable air of sadness that enveloped him. White hair fell to his shoulders, and there was a sunburned bald spot on the top of his head. A snowy beard flowed abundantly beneath his chin. His ruddy cheeks gave his face a cherubic glow, which seemed to evaporate beneath the brooding countenance of deep-set, owlish eyes.
He was wearing faded blue-jean overalls with straps over his bare shoulders and a pair of knee-high waders. Though large-boned, Tatum was no longer robust. Only his large, thick-fingered hands and muscular forearms projected strength. He appeared deeply exhausted—every movement an effort.
“You can use that chair,” said Tatum, gesturing toward a metal folding chair leaning against the trailer. “I’ll get some water.”
Everything in Tatum’s body language suggested that he was prepared for a serious discussion, as though he was not at all surprised that Nick had tracked him down. He stepped heavily through an open door into the trailer and returned with a pitcher of ice water and two coffee mugs, which he set between them on a small table. They sat facing the lake, their chairs angled toward each other. Hayden filled his mug and looked out at the lake while Tatum stared distractedly at the floor.
“Gators give you any trouble, Mr. Tatum?” asked Hayden.
“I’ve had to shoot a couple, but they generally stay clear of the trailer.” Hayden noticed that the right corner of Tatum’s mouth was slightly palsied, not moving in sync with the left side, but it didn’t seem to affect his speech.
Tatum reached behind his chair and picked up a canteen off the porch. He unscrewed the top and poured the amber liquid into his ice water. “Want some Jack Daniel’s?”
“No, thanks.”
“If you change yer mind, just help yerself. What happened to yer arm?”
“A little mishap. It’s better now.”
There was a pause before Tatum spoke. “I know why you’re here, son. Nobody told me you were comin’, but I’m not surprised . . . you wantin’ to know.”
“I’m sorry to ask you about something like this after so many years,” said Nick. He paused for a moment. “I’ve actually been working for INS in Chicago for the last four years.” He then explained how he’d dug into the shooting as best he could, but still didn’t have the full picture. Tatum listened, but seemed distracted and uneasy, which made Hayden feel vulnerable with the shotgun leaning against the trailer.
“I just wanted to hear from you what really happened . . . the night of the shooting. Do you mind if I call you Buck?” Nick asked gently.
Tatum pulled a wrinkled white handkerchief from a side pocket of his overalls and wiped it over his face. His hands were shaking. “Sure, you can call me Buck. I reckon you got a right to call me anything you want, seein’ as how I was responsible for yer pa’s death.” Tatum let the statement hang in the air. He picked up his cup and took a swallow before continuing. “It was bad enough I caused Kelso’s death.”
Though taken aback, Hayden was uncertain about Tatum’s mental state and the reliability of his statements. He waited a moment, hoping Tatum would continue on his own, but he’d gone silent again, so Hayden pushed ahead. “Maybe we can go back to the shooting itself.”
Tatum blinked his eyes and shifted in his chair.
“I talked to people and read the shooting report,” said Nick. “It didn’t say much about what happened when my father tried to help Kelso with the arrest—no specifics.”
“No, a’course not.” Tatum’s eyes narrowed, and a bitter smile lifted the left side of his mouth. He reached into a front pocket of his overalls, pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette, and gestured with it to Hayden, who shook his head. Tatum fished a wooden matchstick from the same pocket and scraped it on the porch. He lit the cigarette and released a cloud of bluish smoke.
“Yer pa was in a tough situation, havin’ to work with a bunch of guys from the Patrol. They didn’t take kindly to the idea of hirin’ people off the street, an’ he was one of the first. They sized him up real quick—guys like Willard Smith. He did the investigation.”
“Yes, I know.”
“They knew he’d been a social worker, had a college degree—wasn’t one of the good ol’ boys. I rode with yer father for a few days. Then he was Kelso’s partner. He wasn’t tryin’ to be somebody else or change to fit in. I liked that about him. He didn’t go drinkin’ with the others or try to impress ’em . . . wouldn’t play the game. They thought he was aloof an’ arrogant.
“But yer pa wasn’t givin’ ’em anything to justify firin’ him at the end of his probationary year. He was smart, an’ he knew how to handle himself. Then it happened, an’ Smith had what he was lookin’ for. But he needed me to make it stick.”
Tatum took a deep breath, as though girding himself for what lay ahead.
“It looked like any other arrest at the start,” he continued. “We were on North Clark Street. I was followin’ yer father an’ Kelso. When I pulled up, Kelso was already havin’ trouble with the guy—yer dad was runnin’ over to help. Kelso was wearin’ his holster backwards on his left hip. He shoulda known better, a’course—made it real easy for Cano to grab the gun. That’s probably what gave Cano the idea; it was just too easy. So Cano got hold of the gun, an’ it went from a routine arrest into somethin’ a lot worse. The gun was already out when your pa got there. They were strugglin’ for control of the gun, an’ it was pointed at Kelso. Your pa jumped right in and tried to push the gun away.”
Tatum paused to flick ashes from the cigarette.
“But Cano was strong an’ got a round off, even with yer pa an’ Kelso tryin’ to push it away. By that time, I was close enough to get a clear shot. Once Cano had the gun, if yer father had pulled his hand away to reach for his own gun, Cano probably woulda been able to fire off more than one round into Kelso. Tryin’ to push the gun away was the only thing yer father could do at that moment to save Kelso. He needed both hands to try an’ throw off Cano’s aim. If yer pa hadn’t done that, Cano might have gotten all three of us.”
Tatum took a final drag on the cigarette and crushed the butt on the porch with his boot.
“Yer father did nothin’ wrong. In fact, he did everything right. He got screwed because Smith was lookin’ for an excuse to get rid of him. They were lookin’ for a scapegoat because one of their Patrol buddies was dead. In their eyes it was proof that they shouldn’a been hirin’ guys off th
e street. The fact he never fired his weapon looked suspicious to anybody who wasn’t there an’ had doubts about him in the first place. I could have stopped all that, but then Smith showed up.”
Tatum’s eyes shifted toward the lake.
“How soon after the shooting did Smith show up?” Hayden asked.
“The next day. Smelled blood in the water.”
Nick waited, but Tatum seemed reluctant to continue. He’d come to the really difficult part, thought Hayden.
“So Smith talked to you about it?”
“Wasn’t much of an investigator, Smith—wasn’t into details. But when he found the file, he figured he had me . . . had the pressure he needed.”
“What file?”
“Cano’s file,” said Tatum.
“Where did he find Cano’s file?”
“My file cabinet. Been there for almost two years,” Tatum said, his voice wavering. “It was assigned to me. Then I knew why the guy’s face looked familiar, from the photo in his file. There was a warrant for deportation on Cano. He just had to be picked up. He was walkin’ around Chicago the whole time I had the file. His rap sheet was in the file so we knew he was a bad guy, had a criminal record, including an armed robbery. It was easy to forget about those cases with all that was goin’ on in area control. But that’s no excuse. Because of my negligence, Kelso lost his life. An’ yer pa—”
Hayden cut in: “Those cases probably weren’t considered that important. They still aren’t. If they were, your supervisor would have intervened.” In reality Hayden suspected that even with low-priority cases, two years was not tolerated—not with call-ups every three months to review case status. But even if Tatum had been negligent, it didn’t make him responsible for Kelso’s death.
“Connelly was my supervisor,” Tatum continued. “He hadn’t done the case reviews like he was supposed to. Would have messed up his career if they found out. But he an’ Smith were buddies—had been at the same station in the Patrol.”
“So what did Smith say about it?”
“That he would bury the information about our negligence if I cooperated. I told him straight what happened with the shooting, but he didn’t like how that sounded. He was convinced that the fact that I had to shoot Cano meant yer father wasn’t able to pull the trigger, even after I explained it. He didn’t wanna hear the truth. He said there was no reason why it had to come out about the Cano case—that he wouldn’t put it in his report, an’ there’d be no record I ever had the file.”
“Sounds like he had all the bases covered,” said Nick.
“An’ I let him write his report like he wanted. He said yer pa wasn’t right for the job. He would have to go, an’ the shootin’ incident would convince the probationary review panel. He knew that if any question came up about an agent’s willingness to use deadly force, the agent wouldn’t be retained. I knew what he wanted. He was obsessed with keepin’ the ‘old Patrol’ in charge. Yer father had no chance without me to clear things up. I stayed quiet because I woulda been tainted in everybody’s eyes—the guy whose negligence caused Kelso’s death.”
“Did Smith tape your conversation?” asked Hayden.
“Yeah, but he cut it short when he didn’t like what I was sayin’ about how it went down. I’m pretty sure he destroyed that tape an’ the one with yer father. It woulda contradicted what he wanted in his report.”
“There’s an envelope for the tapes in the shooting file,” said Nick. “But they aren’t there, and it looks like they never were.”
“No, Smith couldn’t risk somebody hearin’ them tapes. An’ he was determined to get rid of yer pa. So I asked myself: Why should I go down with him? There woulda been disciplinary action against me an’ Connelly for how we handled the case.”
“Did my father ever come to you to talk about it?”
Tatum took a sip of Jack Daniel’s before answering. “Yeah, he came to me. I said that I’d told Smith the truth, but I never told yer pa he’d done nothin’ wrong. Never gave him that peace of mind. He probably took that to mean I thought he screwed up. Smith’s version became gospel, maybe even to yer father. The truth is yer father wasn’t quite sure he hadn’t done somethin’ wrong. There was part of him that felt guilty, like maybe he coulda done somethin’ different to save Kelso.”
There were a few moments of silence before Tatum continued. “It was a terrible thing I did—lettin’ Smith railroad your pa. It was cowardly. I screwed up an’ ended up wreckin’ other people’s lives just to save myself . . . my goddamn reputation. I know it isn’t much consolation, but I’m sorry, son. Real sorry.”
It was now clear: the resistance to change personified by Smith and the pressure to reject anybody who didn’t fit the mold. For Tatum, it was the fear of being judged by his peers that made him believe he had to choose between his own reputation and that of Michael Landau. And it was obvious that Tatum had already paid an enormous emotional price.
Tatum wiped his eyes with the handkerchief. “I told myself that he was a smart guy an’ was better off leavin’—gettin’ away from INS an’ guys like Smith. That’s how I lived with it. Later I heard about what happened when your pa went to Portland. That’s when I retired. I couldn’t be there anymore . . . had no right to carry the badge . . . an’ couldn’t deny it.”
“Deny what?”
“That I managed to kill three guys: Cano, Kelso, an’ yer pa.” He paused and searched Hayden’s eyes. “Nobody knew, except Smith an’ Connelly. An’ now you know.” Tatum stared at Hayden warily—fear in his eyes.
It would take very little to send Buck Tatum even deeper into the web of guilt he’d been trapped in for almost two decades. Tatum’s pain was so acute, so debilitating, that Hayden could muster no anger, only pity.
“By shooting Cano, you probably saved my father’s life,” said Hayden. “What happened later was the system—the pressures built into it. It wasn’t you, Buck.” He leaned over and patted Tatum on the knee.
Tatum began weeping, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Nick, too, felt a rush of emotion—and a profound sadness. But he also felt a deep sense of relief in finally knowing the truth—a long overdue vindication of his father.
Tatum took a couple of deep breaths, wiped the moisture off his face, and stuffed his handkerchief into a front pocket. They sat quietly for a minute.
“Want to walk down to the dock, Buck?” asked Nick.
“OK,” said Tatum softly. Standing and moving seemed to relax both of them. As they descended the sandy slope, Tatum noticed Hayden scouring the shoreline. “Don’t worry. The gators won’t bother us.”
“Do any fishing from the dock?”
“Yeah, there’s a lot of bass an’ sunfish.”
They were standing at the foot of the narrow dock—the wood planks sun-dried and cracked. “Will this support both of us?” asked Hayden.
“Yeah,” said Tatum, brightening. “It’s stronger than it looks.”
19
The dismantling of Rico’s document empire sparked extensive news coverage, plaudits from headquarters, and even a congratulatory nod from the Justice Department. Stark, Farber, and the entire Chicago office were widely hailed. The fact that an informant had killed Rico with an unauthorized weapon was considered rather minor in light of what had been accomplished. The prosecutor hadn’t yet decided what to do about Chacon but was considering seizing the bar in addition to filing criminal charges. Felix Pinal was facing a long prison sentence.
The whole affair was a boon for McGinty’s, which instantly became a command post for gossip and rumor. Cops from other agencies, envious of any high-profile criminal case that wasn’t theirs, now packed the saloon and vented their theories and opinions about how the deal had gone down, most of it based on pure speculation. It was an irony Charlie McCloud had noted on many occasions: those who earned their living collecting hard evidence were often the ones most inclined, when not on the job, to arrive at hasty conclusions tainted by cynicism and ego.
During his three weeks of doctor-ordered convalescence, Nick kept in close touch with Kane. He also contacted Joe Willis, as promised, to fill him in on details that hadn’t appeared in news stories, and it seemed to lift Joe’s spirits a bit.
When Hayden returned to the office, now without the need of a sling, several agents expressed concern about his shoulder, but there were few congratulations. Considering the success of the case, the reception was rather cool—apparently the result of lingering suspicion about his conduct during the operation.
Meanwhile, Richard Stark was avoiding Hayden as if he were radioactive; all communication suddenly went through Kane. That was how Nick found out that they’d been given another month in fraud, into the middle of November, to clean up loose ends. They’d be informed within the next few weeks about their permanent assignments—whether they would continue in fraud or be moved back to area control. Hayden thought there was the possibility of disciplinary action, if only for negligence in the matter of Miguel’s having a gun, but he hoped that the overall success of the case would give him a chance at remaining in fraud.
Though Nick had a clear conscience about shooting down Nieto, he still felt a sense of loss—a heaviness that was only gradually diminishing. He quietly resumed his duties but noticed the same questioning eyes his father must have seen—evoking a sort of surreal camaraderie with his father.
Over beers at McGinty’s, Nick told McCloud what he’d learned from Buck Tatum.
“It must be a relief to finally know the truth,” said McCloud.
“Yeah, like a weight has been lifted off me.”
“The whole thing shows how important reputation is in this business. Even good, experienced guys like Tatum will do anything to avoid being tagged by their colleagues.”
They sipped their beers quietly for a minute.
“So, have you told your mother what you found out?” asked McCloud.
“No. I thought about it. Part of me wants to tell her, but it would only churn up the past and make her feel guilty. She’s moved on and dealt with it in her own way.”