“I met Mr. Richards with Chet Harkness the other day.”
“Robby’s fine,” Richards said and let go of my hand. “We just about ready? I have some editing.”
Behler snatched a tan trench coat off his folding chair. “Probably should go now. We only have Art for four hours,” he said. He pulled on the trench coat and buttoned it up to his neck. Robby did the same.
“Sorry, I forgot my trench coat,” I said. “Don’t we need a camera?”
“In the gym bag,” said Robby.
• • •
“The name Thomas Vogel mean anything to you?” asked Mark Behler from the back seat. Robby Richards had taken the shotgun seat because he had to wrestle the camera in and out of the car. I turned east on Michigan Avenue and started up the hill.
“Vogel?” I said. “Nothing comes to mind.”
“Peggy Shatner’s son,” said Behler. “After the divorce, she took back her maiden name.”
“He’s the one who went out sideways?”
“Sideways?” asked Robby.
“Suicide,” I said.
Robby groaned and then chuckled.
“Chet Harkness said the revolver she shot up the pizzeria with was the same one her son used to kill himself,” I said.
“Remember the gas station that used to be on the corner of Twenty-eighth and the Beltline?” asked Behler.
“Guy went bankrupt,” I said. “Turned out he’d financed the same tow truck four times using junkyard titles.”
“Thomas Vogel,” said Behler. “We did a segment on the story. The man Peggy Shatner shot at the pizzeria was the fraud investigator from the bank that held the paper. The woman was his daughter. She worked at the pizzeria. His office was in the bank across the parking lot, and he had lunch with his daughter every day.”
“So it wasn’t a random shooting?” I asked.
“The investigator at the prosecutor’s office and the man the Shatner woman shot took turns calling Vogel at the gas station and his home for three days. Every time he hung up the telephone, it rang again, and one of them asked him to send a tow truck. On the third day, he said he only had one tow truck.”
“I thought we’d be going down toward South Division,” said Robby.
“Criminal element?” I asked.
“Well, yeah,” said Robby.
“Not to worry,” I said. “Plenty of criminals where we’re going.”
He nodded.
“Vogel got five years,” said Behler. “When his father died, they let him come home for the funeral. He took his father’s gun out into the garage and blew his head off.”
“Why’d he do that?” asked Robby.
“He’d contracted HIV in jail,” said Behler. “Kind of an ugly story.”
“No, I mean why’d he go out into the garage? You know. People do that. They go into the bathroom or basement.”
“I guess suicide is kind of a private thing,” said Behler.
“Dutch tidiness,” I said, and turned south on Ball Avenue.
Robby wrinkled his face into a question mark.
“Cement or tile floor,” I said. “Easier to clean up the mess.”
“Oh,” said Robby, sounding ill.
“What did Peggy Shatner say to you just before she killed your tape recorder?” I asked.
Behler made a groan but didn’t answer.
“Hey,” said Robby, “that’s the county jail coming up here on the right.”
I flipped up my turn signal for a right-hand turn. “Like I said, no shortage of criminals.”
“What are you doing?” asked Behler.
I stole a glance at Behler in the rearview mirror and found his eyes locked on mine. “Kent County Sheriff’s Office. This is where you apply for a permit to purchase a firearm.”
“This isn’t what you were paid for,” said Behler.
“I was paid to walk you through the purchase of a firearm,” I said. “I’ve heard you hold forth on the sorry state of Michigan’s gun laws. Figured you’d know we had to start here.”
“This is pointless,” said Behler. He looked out the side window in disgust.
“Gee whiz, Mark,” I said. “‘This is just some paperwork.’ Isn’t that the way you put it on your show?”
“You were paid for your street acumen,” said Behler.
“You just got the benefit of it.”
Behler collapsed back into his seat and stared at his hands. Robby looked ready to bolt out of the car.
“Look, Mark,” I said and threw an arm over the seat so I could look at him directly. “Somebody went through this process to purchase the revolver that the Shatner woman used, and it sure as hell didn’t stop her from shooting up the restaurant. Doesn’t that kind of make your point?”
Behler looked up from his lap wearing a five-hundred-watt smile. Robby made an audible exhale.
• • •
The woman on the gun desk—Mildred, civilian attire, with a name tag—disappeared when Robby hauled out the camera. She said she needed to fix her hair. Thirty seconds after the door fanned her backside, the sheriff strolled in, all smiles and handshakes.
“A heads up would have been nice,” he said. “I don’t get many chances to wear my dress uniform.”
Mildred returned smelling of hair spray. “You fill out the form, we Teletype the State of Michigan, and they Teletype us back with the clearance. Takes about ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?” asked Behler, his face lighting up like a kid with an Easter basket.
Robby cranked up the camera. Behler told him to shoot from behind—he didn’t have his hair with him. Everyone delivered their lines deadpan. The sheriff planted himself in the background, shoulders square, hands folded, and made the occasional nod to convey his confidence and concern.
Behler filled out the forms and tendered his driver’s license. The woman on the gun desk scanned the form and turned it back to Behler. She pecked at a line with her finger. “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”
“Mark Behler has never been convicted of a felony,” he said.
“Then the answer is no,’” she said. “And there’s a blank for your Social Security number.”
Behler produced a pair of reading glasses and parked them on a sheepish face. He finished the form. The sheriff broke into his stump speech but let it taper off when Robby shut off the camera.
Mildred examined the form, pronounced it good with a nod, and swiveled her chair to face the Teletype. She rattled the keys with the same speed and confidence that left me in awe of Marg. She hit the send key. Nothing happened. She hit the send key again. Still nothing. “The Teletype is down,” she said.
“How long?” asked Behler.
“No way of telling,” said the sheriff. “I am sorry. This happens occasionally. The best bet is to come back tomorrow to pick up your purchase permit.”
“Isn’t there something we can do?” asked Behler. “I’ve got the cameraman today and a heavy schedule tomorrow.”
The sheriff made a growl out of clearing his throat and said, “Mr. Behler, the thing to do is come back.” With a nod and an arch of his eyebrows he added, “Tomorrow.” He smiled. “You know we’re going to take care of you.” He grabbed Behler’s hand for a shake and clapped him on the shoulder. “If tomorrow doesn’t work for you, pick a day when we can fit into your schedule.”
• • •
“Damn, Hardin,” said Mark, as we rolled out of the sheriff’s department parking lot. “When you’re right, you’re right. Ten minutes! That’s all the tape we need. Just that shot.” He patted Robby, the cameraman, on the shoulder. “Cut it so we have the sheriff on for a sentence or two. Doesn’t hurt to make a friend.”
“Back to the JC?” I asked.
“I want to hit some pawnshops,” said Behler. “Let’s see if we can find a Saturday night special.”
“The pawnshops around here don’t do handguns,” I said. “You might get a good price on a shotgun or a deer rifle, but handguns
attract too much official scrutiny.”
“Be a sport,” said Behler. “Let’s check it out.”
“Mind if I smoke?” asked Robby.
I put the window on his side down a couple of inches. “I got a question,” I said.
“Shoot,” said Behler.
“Some wacko blew up your studio, put your show on coast to coast, and made your name a household word. Why are you hanging on to this lame-ass local story?”
“I don’t think it’s lame,” said Behler. “Don’t you see the connection?”
“Completely in the dark.”
“The guns,” said Behler, making his voice a verbal shrug. “The same people who want to keep guns cheap and easy to get are the people who want America to be the bully of the world. This lame-ass local story is a chink in their armor. They’re the reason that the abused and desperate man who called my show blew himself up. I can insert the crowbar into this story and, maybe, pry some good into the world.”
“You want to make the world a better place?”
“Damn right,” said Behler. “That’s why I became a journalist.”
“I’d think the clergy, or maybe social work,” I said.
“I didn’t want to be a tool of the ruling class.”
“Whose tool are you now?”
“And that means what?” asked Behler.
“If you could push one button and it would kill all the global bullies in this ‘ruling class,’ would you push the button?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Next time you get one of these abused and desperate terrorists on the telephone, ask him if he’d push the button to get rid of all of us.”
“That wouldn’t lead to any real dialogue,” said Behler.
“What makes you think they want to talk?”
“They release audio tape and videos all the time.”
“Which you dutifully report and broadcast,” I said.
“Our national strength is founded on a free press,” said Behler.
“Maybe they think it’s a chink in our armor,” I said as we pulled into Suburban Pawn and Payday Loans on Plainfield Avenue. We found no handguns. Ditto two more pawnshops in the seedier sections of South Division Avenue. We finally strolled into Ned’s Sport Shop in Wyoming, and Behler got to shop some handguns.
“Nothing better for home security than a shotgun,” said Ned, a retired motorcycle cop with a chrome-molly knee brace strapped to his leg. “Why the camera?”
Behler offered his hand. “Mark Behler, The Mark Behler Show. Thought you’d like to be on TV.”
“You’re already on my camera,” said Ned, pointing to a video surveillance system in the ceiling. He shook Behler’s hand. “No reason I shouldn’t be on yours. I’ve got a great special on pump shotguns. Burglar hears you rack that sucker, and he’s on his way back out the window.”
“No,” said Behler. “I think a handgun would be best.”
Ned smiled into Robby’s camera and suggested a revolver. “It’s dependable, more intuitive for the occasional shooter, and inherently safer than an autoloader.”
Mark balked at the price of a new Colt or Smith. Ned said he had a good used .38 caliber Police Special with a four-inch barrel. Behler nodded, and Ned turned around to get the revolver out of a drawer in the back bar. Behler took a key chain made from a dummy .44 caliber round and a set of earplugs off the counter and slipped them into the pocket of his trench coat. Robby deflected the camera and rolled his eyes.
“A hundred and fifty-nine dollars,” said Ned. He flipped open the cylinder of a blue steel Smith & Wesson with the finish worn down to the metal on the trigger guard.
“Looks pretty rough,” I said.
Ned set the revolver on the counter. “County mounty carried it a lot and shot it a little. He got promoted to plainclothes and traded this on a brand-new SIG Sauer. Blue it, and it’s like brand-new.”
“I’ll take it,” said Behler, reaching for his wallet, “and I’ll need a box of bullets.”
“Need your purchase permit,” said Ned. He flopped a clipboard of federal firearms forms on the counter with a ballpoint pen.
Behler thumbed his wallet open and selected a credit card. “The Teletype was down,” he said and flipped the card on the counter. “The sheriff said I could pick it up tomorrow. Just wrap it up, and I’ll drop the permit by tomorrow. I can get the forms then, too. We’re in kind of a hurry now.”
Ned pushed the credit card back with his index finger. “Since you’ll be here tomorrow—”
“Tell him, Art,” said Behler. “We were just at the sheriff’s office. Takes ten minutes. Just a formality.”
“No ticky, no shirty,” I said. “That’s how it works.”
Ned made a relieved chuckle, and Behler picked up his credit card.
“I need a little B-roll of your back walking out of the shop,” said Robby. “Stay outside for a minute and then come back in so I can shoot some of you coming through the door.”
“I didn’t bring my hair,” said Behler. “How about if I just wait for you outside?”
“You’re the boss,” said Robby, hoisting the camera to his shoulder.
Behler squared his shoulders and marched out the door.
Robby turned off the camera, turned to Ned, and said, “How much for the earplugs and a key chain?”
“Two sixty-seven,” said Ned, reaching for a small bag.
“It’s all right,” said Robby. “Mark already has them. He doesn’t carry cash. I pick up things like this.”
“Oh,” said Ned with a flash of eyebrows. He took Robby’s fin and made change.
“I put it on my expenses,” said Robby.
“Right,” said Ned, handing over the receipt.
Robby stuffed his camera into the gym bag. On the way to the door I asked, “He always do that?”
“Just since the shooting in the pizzeria,” said Robby. “He doesn’t even know he has the stuff.”
“Maybe you ought to have a little heart-to-heart with him.”
“Maybe when things calm down. We just had the bombing at the studio. Probably a stress thing. It’ll pass.”
Robby loaded himself into the back seat of my car. Behler took the shotgun seat. “Back to JC?” I asked.
“Right,” said Behler.
“Sure you don’t want to scout a few street corners?”
“No,” said Behler. He laughed. “This went great. I’m glad you had the idea about going to apply for a permit to purchase. I’m going to lead with that and finish with your line about none of the paperwork stopping Peggy Shatner from shooting people in the pizzeria.”
“It’s the people, not the guns,” I said.
“That’s a cliché.”
“So is ‘a stitch in time.’”
“We only need one more stitch,” said Behler. “No guns in private hands.”
“Hitler agreed with you,” I said. “So did Mao.”
“I see you read your NRA talking points,” said Behler. “But that doesn’t change the fact that a terrorist can walk into a gun show and walk out with an assault rifle. It’s in the al-Qaeda manual the army captured in Afghanistan. God knows they’re here. They blew up my show.”
“You think they bought the explosives at a gun show?”
“Probably smuggled them,” said Behler.
“Maybe they could smuggle assault rifles too,” I said. “Then they would be the only ones with guns. I’m sure criminals would like that, too. All the law-abiding citizens would be easy prey.”
“‘When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns,’” said Behler. “I think that’s the NRA party line.”
“That’s a cliché,” I said. “Why not just tell your audience that what stopped Peggy Shatner was a private citizen with a licensed firearm?”
18
AFTER I DROPPED OFF Behler and Robby—you could have cut and stacked the polite silence like mud bricks—I headed for Meijer’s to pick up baked beans, potato salad, and ribs. The p
ork ribs came two racks to a package, but the beef ribs looked fantastic, so I bought some of them as well. Like my grandmother told me, “Never shop when you’re hungry.”
At the house, I found Archer Flynt parked at the end of my drive. He followed me in with his rollers on. I parked in front of my door, walked back to Flynt’s door, and leaned on his roof until he let down his window. I asked, “Now what, Flynt?”
“That’s Detective Flynt to you, Hardin,” he said, his collar loose, his eyes red, and his face rumpled.
“What do you want?”
“For one thing, you can quit leaning on my car,” said Flynt.
I took my hands off the roof of Flynt’s tan state plain-wrapper and stepped back. He rolled his window up and stepped out in the same suit I’d seen the day before.
“You want to talk here or at the state police post in Rockford?” he asked.
“I’ll call my attorney and see when he’s available.”
“Fine,” said Flynt. “You can cool your heels at the county jail until your attorney works us into his schedule.”
I held out my wrists. “I need the money.”
He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Hardin, you called me.”
“I didn’t invite you to my house.”
“I took the tone of your call. You wanted to help.”
“That’s why you’re parked in my drive with your rollers on?”
Flynt opened his car door and switched off the lights. “I turned them on because you piss me off.”
“You come on like the Mongol horde and get pissy when your neighbors start building walls.”
“Cuts down on the shuck and jive,” said Flynt.
I laughed.
He shrugged.
“So we’re back to what-do-you-want,” I said.
“Here’s what I’ve got,” said Flynt, jamming his hands into his pants pockets. “Detective Helen Kopinski retired from the Hamtramck Police in ninety-two and died this past January. Hamtramck doesn’t have a homicide file for John Vincenti. That leaves the photo featuring your thumbprint and Vincenti dead.”
“Probably cost me three or four hundred dollars for an attorney,” I said, “but we’ve been over that.”
“This is a homicide,” said Flynt.
“Sure is a lot of heat and friction for a thirty-year-old Mob hit.”
Dead Bang Page 16