The Renegades: A Charlie Hood Novel

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “Oh?”

  “I’m sorry to be vague. But he seemed different to me after that big bust we made, the one where we took down the biker.”

  “He was different. Yes. I don’t know why. I thought it was our money situation, him wanting to make me happy with a horse property. But it worked out. We did a charitable remaindered trust, buying then donating this home to Build a Dream.”

  “Maybe that’s all it was. Maybe I was wrong about him being haunted by something he’d done.”

  “I honestly don’t think so. Terry was a Boy Scout. I mean that in a good way. He’d even found Jesus. That surprised me. It came out of nowhere but I don’t think it was because something was haunting him.”

  “Did Hood ask if Terry might be worried about something he’d done?”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “He didn’t suggest that Terry was hiding something from us?”

  “No.”

  “Because Internal Affairs can be prying and judgmental. And just plain wrong. That’s why I’m concerned.”

  Draper felt relief begin to flow in him. After another respectful silence he stood and Laurel stood and he bowed to her again.

  “If Hood comes back, it’s probably best if you don’t tell him I was here. He’s been questioning me about Terry’s behavior, looking for something that isn’t there. He may want another crack at you.”

  “No,” she said. “I won’t tell him we talked.”

  “If there’s anything I can do,” he said. “Anything. I want to honor him any way I can. Terry was my friend, and you are, too.”

  HE WAS BACK in Laguna by dinnertime. Juliet greeted him with her studied nonchalance. Her hair was wet and combed back and she was wearing a green satin robe snugly tied. Draper stood there with the dozen red roses he’d purchased at the same time as the sympathy bouquet for Laurel. Then he kissed her lightly on the lips and took the flowers to the kitchen. He cut the stems and placed the flowers in a heavy crystal vase. He added water, then walked around the kitchen island and set the vase on the dining room table and adjusted the arrangement. Then he pulled out a chair and turned it around and sat down facing her.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She stood in front of him and Draper brought her closer and parted the robe without untying it. He kissed her and heard her breath catch. Salt and perfume, her ass cool in his hands, her fingers in his hair.

  “I got us a very good Brunello,” she whispered. “And reservations at nine.”

  When he looked up her eyes were closed and she was smiling.

  17

  Atascadero State Hospital for the criminally insane sits in the coastal hills of California, midway between L.A. and San Francisco. It is one of the largest mental hospitals in the world.

  The surrounding countryside is rolling hills and oak glens and pastures. Smooth tan and sudden green. Hood saw horses and cattle. The March day was cool but the sun came through the oaks and lit the grass in pools of soft light. He was driving his ’86 IROC Camaro. The car had a stiff ride but Hood loved it anyway. He had once heard the Camaro described as a workingman’s muscle car. That’s me, he thought.

  He parked outside the administration building. The trees were bare and the buildings seemed industrial and secretive. The hospital looked like a prison trying to smile.

  Hood found his way to Unit 8, where prisoners are treated when they’re judged incompetent to stand trial. They’re called PC 1370s. The goal of Atascadero is to protect, evaluate and treat the 1370s so they can return to the courts and understand what’s expected of them. If the patient shows no progress, he’ll be transferred to a smaller hospital, where protection and maintenance are the goals and recovery is not expected.

  Dr. Able Rosen was an older man, dusty and gentle. He wore a sloping corduroy coat with shiny spots at the elbows and a Jerry Garcia necktie.

  “We’ll do another evaluation in June,” he said. “And if Shay hasn’t shown measurable progress, we’ll have to transfer him. Our philosophy is recovery. We’re a hospital, not a correctional facility.”

  “Can he talk?”

  “In fact, we’ve seen some improvement in his short-term memory and his speech. His speech center was damaged by the swelling caused by the beating. Brain cells do not regenerate but the compensatory powers of the brain are prodigious. His ability to retrieve memories and form sentences to communicate information is, unfortunately, still limited.”

  “Is he violent?”

  “He had one violent incident here. We try our best to provide a norm of nonviolence. He will be restrained. We have a special facility for this kind of visit.”

  Dr. Rosen tapped his fingers on the desk. “What do you hope to accomplish?”

  “I want to hear about his arrest and his crimes.”

  “Surely you’ve read the reports and court records.”

  “He couldn’t say much back then and I don’t expect him to be talkative now. I just want to hear what he says and how he says it.”

  “Why?”

  “There are some facts about the arrest, and about Mr.

  Eichrodt’s crimes, that don’t make sense to me. It’s very possible that some areas were overlooked.”

  “Areas?”

  “I believe that a large amount of money is unaccounted for. It’s possible that Shay hid it before his arrest.”

  Dr. Rosen raised his eyebrows. “How large?”

  “Three hundred grand. Give or take some.”

  “Drug money?”

  Hood nodded.

  “Have you been in contact with Ariel Reed, of the L.A. District Attorney’s office?”

  “We’ve talked.”

  “She was knowledgeable and rational. I also thought she was very…humane. For a prosecutor. That came out wrong.”

  “I understand.”

  “I was impressed by her. She might help you.”

  “Dr. Rosen, thank you for letting me visit. I’ll be happy to tell you what I learn, if I learn anything at all.”

  He looked at Hood oddly, as if not understanding what he meant. “I hope you’re not disappointed, Deputy. Shay has been a challenge for us all.”

  In the Unit 8 visitation center Hood was searched, and surrendered his wallet, badge, keys, change, digital recorder and penknife.

  He was then led downstairs to a narrow hallway. The orderly unlocked a door and stood back so he could enter.

  The room was small. It had a wooden chair and a stainless steel table. One wall was a thick plate of clear plastic, with a round speaker grille about mouth level. A small video camera was fastened to the ceiling behind Hood. On the other side of the plastic window was an identical room, as if a reflection of the one that he was in.

  Eichrodt was ushered in by two big men in navy scrubs. He wore a pale blue jumpsuit and slip-on canvas shoes. His hands were cuffed behind him and secured by a waist restraint. He wore ankle irons. He was nearly a head taller than his handlers, and much heavier. His head and face were shaved and his skin was white and his eyes were brown, with a distant glitter. A tattooed serpent’s head stared out from the hollow beneath his larynx.

  The orderlies backed out of the room and Hood heard the lock clank into place.

  Eichrodt sat and stared at him.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” Hood said.

  He kept staring. Some time went by.

  “The deputy who arrested you, the big one—he was murdered last week. A gangsta shot him down. I’m one of the investigators.”

  Eichrodt’s lips parted. He inhaled. He tried to say something but no sound came forth. He exhaled, and tried again. “Strong.”

  “Yes. Terry Laws was strong.”

  Again, Eichrodt’s lips parted and he seemed to be concentrating on controlling his breathing. It looked like he was waiting for just the right moment to begin forming a sound.

  “They used. Clubs.”

  “You put up quite a fight.”

  Eichrodt looked at Hood for a long time. Hood saw bla
nkness. If there were wheels turning, they were turning slowly. Something on the wall caught Eichrodt’s attention and he fixed his gaze on it, but Hood saw nothing. So he looked at the thick plastic window between them, the scratches and dull sheen, and thought about the thin line between the sane and the mad, and the way that line can vanish so quickly.

  Then Eichrodt shifted and turned and squinted at him and his breathing accelerated. Wheels turning, Hood could see it. Eichrodt opened his mouth and in the tension of his neck and jaw Hood saw the great effort it took for him to raise a memory and say something about it.

  “No. Reason.”

  “No reason for what?”

  “For the thing I told you about. The word went away from me just now.”

  “Clubs?”

  “Yes. No reason for clubs.”

  “You’re a big man, Shay. They were afraid of you. When you swept the deputy off his feet, they knew you had tricked them. So they used force.”

  He lowered his gaze. His mouth fell open again and his lips moved but no sound came out. He shook his head very slowly—bewildered, stymied, disbelieving—it was hard for Hood to tell what he was feeling. Then he inhaled very deeply, as before, and looked up, eyes narrow, mouth open, lips moving.

  “There was no…”

  “No what, Shay?”

  “No…shit, the word again. The words go away when I go to say them.”

  “No fight?”

  “No! There was no…”

  Eichrodt jumped out of his seat, raised his face to the ceiling and roared. Hood stood. Eichrodt banged his forehead against the window. Up that close Hood could see that his teeth were man-made, large and very white.

  He tried again. “No reason…”

  He looked down at Hood, growled, then shook his head violently and banged it against the window again.

  Then Hood got it.

  “No reason for the fight,” he said.

  He stared at Hood for a long beat, then very slowly nodded. His mouth hung open and he slumped back into the chair. Again Hood could see the wheels of Shay Eichrodt’s mind slow. Again he turned to the wall and stared. Minutes passed and Hood waited. He believed that Eichrodt wanted him to wait.

  “Cuffed. Then clubs.”

  “Cuffed, then clubs? What, you were cuffed when they beat you?”

  He nodded again.

  “That’s not in the transcript,” Hood said. “Did you tell your lawyer that?”

  Eichrodt stared off at nothing for a moment. Then at Hood. “I couldn’t remember that, back then. It comes back. The words come back. The worst is when I have a memory but no words to describe it. But I used to have the words.”

  “You had no memory, then.”

  He shook his head, looking down at the steel counter before him. It took Hood a minute to fully absorb what Eichrodt was claiming. Of course it was his word against that of a sworn deputy and a sworn reserve, Hood thought. And Eichrodt could be faking a memory, and lying.

  Then Hood realized something.

  “Shay, did you hide some money?”

  Eichrodt stared at him with a blankness that looked eternal. But then he blinked and frowned and his dramatically refurbished mouth hung open again and Hood could see him straining to get at another memory.

  “There was no money.”

  “You took money from the men in the van. Vasquez and Lopes. You had four thousand in the toolbox of your truck. But they were carrying more, weren’t they?”

  His breath came fast again and he struggled to slow it down, inhaling and exhaling as he stared at Hood.

  “No van. No men except cops. No money.”

  “You never saw a van, or Vasquez and Lopes, or any money?”

  He looked at Hood with fury. “No.”

  Hood remembered the court transcript. Eichrodt had been unable to remember a van, or murder victims, or money.

  But now, Hood realized, he was saying that he never saw them.

  Hood sat for a moment, listening to the restless thump of his heart. He took a deep breath and told it to slow down but it didn’t.

  He had the black thought that Laws and Draper had killed the two couriers and taken the real money. Eichrodt was the fall guy. All they had to do was cuff him, beat him back into the dark ages of his own consciousness, plant some evidence and cover the rest in their official report.

  It would account for Laws and Draper not calling backup.

  It would account for Vasquez and Lopes pulling over on the shoulder of the off-ramp, right out in the open—they’d seen the law enforcement car behind them and done what anybody would do.

  It would account for the fact that they had not drawn the weapons that were so close at hand.

  It would account for Terry Laws’s sudden fortune.

  It would account for the something that had died inside him after the arrest.

  “Shay, do you understand that if you tell this story to your doctors, and to the court, that you can be tried for murder?”

  He looked at Hood blankly. Then his expression changed to curiosity. He smiled at Hood with his large, perfectly white teeth.

  “Let them.”

  HOOD HAD just come back upstairs when Dr. Rosen pulled him back into his office.

  Rosen closed the door behind them, but he didn’t sit. His expression was intense and his words came fast. “I’m very encouraged by what I saw. He broke through to things he couldn’t recall—right before our eyes. It’s very unusual. We rarely see such recovery after so long a time. I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”

  “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that,” Hood said.

  The doctor looked at him. “That’s a big accusation he’s making.”

  “You don’t know how big.”

  “Do you hope he’s lying?”

  “What does my hope have to do with anything?”

  “No. I apologize.” He went to his desk and sat. “I’m tempted to move the evaluation up to next week. I want to run a CAT scan and an MRI. See what’s really going on in that brain of his.”

  “I’d like to know, too.”

  “It would be a capital case, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t he be eligible for a death penalty?”

  “Very eligible.”

  “Did you believe what he said?”

  “I believe that he did.”

  The doctor nodded. “Truth can be a powerful weapon. But first you have to find it.”

  Hood was half an hour down the road to L.A. when Keith Franks called.

  “The heavy blood on the casings didn’t come from Vasquez or Lopes. It was Eichrodt’s. So was the blood on the grip, the trigger, and the guard of the murder gun.”

  Hood tried to speculate why Eichrodt was bleeding so generously as he gunned down the couriers and picked up the brass. He couldn’t make the scene play right, because Eichrodt’s bleeding came later, at the hands of Draper and Laws. But there was one way it could make sense: the murder weapon never touched Eichrodt’s hands until after he’d been knocked unconscious by two LASD deputies.

  “What do you think?” asked Franks.

  “I’m afraid to think what I think.”

  Hood called Warren before he made L.A. and asked him to get Coleman Draper’s package.

  And a copy of the anonymous 911 call reporting the red pickup truck leaving the murder scene.

  Warren told him to consider it done.

  18

  Hood got to the Pomona Raceway early, bought a pit pass and walked down among the dragsters and the drivers and the crews. It was Saturday and more rain was on the way. The air smelled of burnt racing fuel from the early elimination runs. Hood liked the smell, the unmistakable scent of power and speed and internal combustion.

  The event was sponsored by DRAW—the Drag Racing Association of Women—and its purpose was to raise money to help people hurt in drag races at a track.

  The pit was congested with brilliantly painted dragsters and funny cars. The hoods were propped up so people could appr
eciate the lavishly chromed engines. The drivers and mechanics were dressed in the same bright colors as their cars. They answered questions and let themselves be photographed. During lulls Hood heard them talking with quiet specificity about what needed to be done to their cars before the racing began.

  Ariel Reed stood with a group of fans, autographing photos and programs. She was wearing red leathers with gold trim and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her car stood behind her, a sleek red AA alcohol dragster with a mountainous engine. A teenaged boy stared at her while she signed a photo, then he croaked his thanks and stood there smiling at her. She looked up at Hood and winked, then went back to signing.

  He joined the little crowd around her and listened as she related dragster facts: top fuel diggers can put out more than 6,000 horse, hit 330 miles per hour and cover a quarter mile in less than five seconds. She said that a vehicle going 200 miles per hour as it crosses the starting line will lose to a top fuel dragster starting from a dead stop at the same time. She said that the noise outputs have been measured at 3.9 on the Richter scale and the G force exerted on the driver is enough to detach her retina.

  Someone asked about fuel efficiency and Ariel said she got more than five hundred feet per gallon out of this puppy.

  Someone asked if she was afraid when she raced and she said don’t be silly, she was too scared to be afraid.

  A few minutes later the fans had drifted away to the next car.

  “I love my molecule. It’s on my desk at work. I can split atoms anytime I want!”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “Thanks for coming.

  “I like the drags.”

  “You’re a fan?”

  “Since I was a kid. Dad would drive us down from Bakersfield.”

  “I learned here. Raced for the first time when I was eighteen. Ran twelve seconds in a borrowed Dodge. How’s our friend Shay Eichrodt?”

  She looked at Hood with her level, opinionless gaze. He thought it would have been unsettling from across a poker table.

  “Better,” he said. “The doctor was surprised.”