No Man's Dog: A Detective Sergeant Mulheisen Mystery (Detective Sergeant Mulheisen Mysteries)

by Jon Jackson

  The house was as clean and spare as a barracks. In the kitchen, where Joe had entered, the linoleum floor was waxed, the empty chairs propped against an old Formica-topped red table with chrome legs. The counter was also red Formica and bare, the glass-fronted cabinets containing a few colorful Fiestaware plates, with matching cups and bowls, a collection of colored plastic glasses. One cupboard seemed filled with packages of food and cans of chili. There was an enameled white tin bread box next to the gleaming toaster, and a Mr. Coffee with an empty carafe nestled on the warmer. A microwave oven sat on the counter near the sink, which was an old-fashioned affair with a high, swivel faucet, everything scoured and smelling of Bon Ami. The kitchen exhaust fan was on, doing battle against a haze of cigarette smoke.

  “Dr. Moos, I presume,” Joe said, leaning on the doorjamb. The reference was to Brooker’s clean white lab coat, in the pocket of which was a plastic “nerd pack” filled with pens.

  Brooker looked up and jumped. “How did you get in? I thought I said—”

  “I figured it was better to just come on,” Joe interrupted. “We could spend days screwing around. I didn’t see any sign of surveillance. So what’s up?”

  “No, I mean it . . . how did you get in? I’ve got electronics . . . the gate, the porch . . .”

  “Professional secret,” Joe quipped. “Sorry, I can’t tell you. Maybe later, if you’re good. So, what did you find out?”

  “I think I’m tapped,” Brooker said. He pushed his castered chair back from the console. He was smoking a cigarette. A large ashtray was already overflowing with butts. Next to it was a can of Faygo orange soda.

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  Brooker shrugged. “It started a few weeks ago. Strange clicking noises, a kind of . . . hollow sound? Not that I use the phone that much, anyway, but I thought . . . just to be on the safe side.”

  “You in any kind of trouble?”

  “No. I’m clean. A few bills in arrears, that’s all.”

  Joe took out a wad of money and tossed it on the table that Brooker used for a workplace. The table was actually an old door, resting on two small filing cabinets. There were two large-screen terminals, their accompanying computer towers next to them, but with gray or black boxes in between and other boxes under the table. Joe supposed they were copiers, or scanners, or something. The other computers were similarly disposed about the room on card tables. Cables ran everywhere, with cords plugged into heavy-duty multiple-jack connectors that had glowing red lights.

  “You evidently pay your power bill,” Joe said.

  “Got to,” Brooker said. He mashed out the cigarette and picked up the wad of money, fanned through it, and smiled. His teeth were a dull yellow. “Thanks, Joe. This will keep me online for a while.”

  “Gotta keep the data flowing,” Joe said. “Well, did you . . .?”

  “Oh, yeah. All kinds of stuff. Care for a pop?”

  “Sure.” Joe went out to the kitchen and looked in the old round-shouldered reefer. It was full of Faygo and little else—a package of hot dogs, a jar of mustard, some relish, a block of cheese wrapped in a ziplock plastic bag, and the inevitable jar of peanut butter. He plucked a can of Faygo ginger ale from a plastic-ringed collar and opened it as he returned to the living room.

  “Don’t you eat any veggies?” Joe asked. He was always interested in people like Brooker, how they lived, what they ate, how they kept it all together.

  “Don’t have to,” Brooker said. “I take vitamins, and supplements. That’s all you really need, Joe. Doesn’t your wife make sure you take your vitamins?”

  “My wife? What makes you think I’m married?”

  “It’s all over the Internet, Joe. You’re married to Helen Sedlacek, the daughter of the late Sid. You live near Butte, Montana, under the name of Joe Humann.

  “Here,” Brooker said. He pulled up to one of the computers and typed rapidly on an orthopedic-looking keyboard. A Web site soon appeared on the screen. The home page was a lovely photograph of a bucolic scene, with drooping willow trees, a red barn, an elegant old farmhouse. Bright letters welcomed the viewer to Lynn Park and out of the speakers on either side of the console poured the melodious strains of “My Old Kentucky Home,” played on banjo and mandolin.

  “What the—” Joe said. He leaned over Brooker’s back, looking.

  “Wait,” Brooker said. He typed some more, then manipulated his roller mouse, clicking away. A series of pages flickered past until the display stopped with a screenful of text. Brooker scanned down the screen, which rolled up quickly, until he paused and highlighted the name “Joe Service.”

  “A good man to know,” the text read. “Now goes by Joe Humann. Retired. Married to Helen, nee Sedlacek . . .” A blue Web link referred the viewer to another site, or perhaps just another place on this site, Joe couldn’t tell. “Retired with a difference,” the commentary went on. “Joe is now employed by the U.S. government! Who’d have thought?”

  “There’s a lot of other info scattered around, on this site and others,” Brooker said. He pushed back and looked triumphantly at Joe.

  Joe did not attempt to conceal his shock. “What the hell is this? How can they do this? Where do they get their information?”

  “It’s just gossip, Joe. The Internet is all about gossip. There are a million Web sites, maybe more. A lot of them are like this one. Family sites. This guy is John Lynn. Do you know him?”

  “John Lynn?” Joe thought. “Big John Lynn? The Peter Man?”

  “Peter Man?”

  “Safecracker. The explosives guy,” Joe said.

  “That’s him,” Brooker said. “He’s lamed up now. Maybe he blew himself up. Spent some time in the pen, which may be where he got onto the Web. Now he runs this site. There are several like this, but this is one of the better ones. He keeps track of all his old pals, passes on messages, et cetera.”

  “But how can they do this? It’s crazy,” Joe said. He was not over his shock.

  Brooker explained how it worked. The criminal world had gotten online, inevitably. It was the new grapevine. But in order to access the grapevine you had to be in the Life. It was very much an inside thing. Elaborate codes, which one knew if one were in the Life, opened it up. This site, for instance, appeared to be just one of the thousands of family sites spread all across the country, around the world. There were sites for Stewarts, complete with the plaid background; for Smiths, in their hundreds of different families and first names; for Jacksons and Millers and Purdys and Pritchards and Baums. But if you knew the code you could find access to the “back pages.” Other kinds of sites existed, of course, as fronts for the “inside poop.”

  “But it’s all right out there,” Joe said, pointing at the screen in horror. “The cops . . . anyone can crack in there. Can’t they?”

  “Well, they can,” Moos conceded, “but it isn’t so easy. For that matter, the cops already know how to crack into the street grapevine. They have funds built into their budgets for paying for that kind of info. Actually, this is a lot more secure. There are so many of these sites, and new ones coming online all the time . . . I don’t think the cops could keep up. Besides, if they do crack into it, what do they learn? Just a bunch of gossip. Who knows if any of it is true? Even if you were a cop and knew what you were looking for, could you trust something like this, even if you found it in the first place?”

  “Well, Big John got one thing wrong,” Joe said, calming down. “I’m not married.”

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Brooker said. “You live in Montana and there, if you represent yourself as married, you’re married. Even if you and Helen say you’re Mr. and Mrs. Humann. You’re married.”

  “Good lord! Is it true?” Joe was aghast. “Can’t I do something about this? Do I have to get divorced?”

  “Do you want to be divorced?”

  “Well, I sure as hell don’t want to be married,” Joe said. “I mean, that wasn’t the point.”

  “Relax,” Brooker said. “It pro
bably won’t make any difference, as long as Helen doesn’t contest it in court.”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” Joe said.

  “So, what’s the prob?”

  “Well, it’s right there, on the Internet.”

  “Oh, that. I can take care of that. In fact, I was going to discuss that with you. I’ve decided to start a service. I’ll be your private little eraser and go through the Internet, constantly, and remove or change any data that mention you. For a fee, of course.”

  Joe was relieved. “That’s a great service. Can you actually do that? I mean, that there . . .”—he pointed at the screen—“that’s Big John’s site. How can you change stuff on his site?”

  “I haff mein vays,” Brooker said, mimicking a movie SS man. He bent to the keyboard and began to type in instructions. Soon he was presented with a series of technical-looking sites, with numbers and odd code figures. He typed some more, hit a final key with a flourish, and sat back. Shortly, they were presented with the page they had been looking at. It now reported that Jim Sarris was living in Crested Butte, Colorado, married to Hallie Bury, under the name of Jim Sarkisian.

  “Big John will see that,” Joe said. “He’ll change it back.”

  “You know what?” Brooker said. “I’ll bet he won’t see it. These guys put up tons of stuff every day. They rarely, if ever, go back to read what’s on there. But if he does change it, I’ve left a little invisible code. It’ll notify me that ‘Joe Service’ has been mentioned. I’ll change it again, or even delete it, make it impossible for the page to function, to be called up. If John notices that, he’ll fiddle with it for a while, then go on to something else. He’ll think something has gone haywire with the formatting on that page and it isn’t worth his time to fix it. Don’t forget, he isn’t that interested in these ‘items.’ In the meantime, I have a search device out, constantly scanning the network, looking for your name. I get messages all the time. I’ve got some waiting on those computers over there. I’ll get to them in a bit.”

  “That’s great,” Joe said. “Uh, what do you charge?”

  “Well, you know, Joe, I’m going to make you a deal. I only thought of this after I started looking for your name, this morning. When your name started popping up, I have to admit, I was a little surprised. My first thought was, Joe ain’t gonna like this. And then it occurred to me, How can I remove this stuff? I figured it out in about twenty minutes, maybe an hour. It’s a great gambit, eh? I can market this. I’m always looking for something to pay the rent. You know? There’s got to be a lot of guys like you out there who’d pay for this service.”

  “How much?” Joe said, tiring of Brooker’s gleeful prating.

  “Well, you’ve been very generous, over the years,” Brooker said, “and you just laid a bundle on me. This first time is free. How’s that? That would include the stuff I already gleaned, that’s waiting for me to work on. All subsequent ‘hits,’ how about a hundred a hit?”

  “Hey, sure,” Joe said. “It sounds like a deal. Only . . . ,” he hesitated.

  “How many are there likely to be? Over a week? I don’t know,” Brooker admitted. “I’ll tell you what, though. I’m not a guy to skin you. How about we put a cap on it? Say, a grand a month, max.”

  “That’s quite a nut,” Joe said.

  “Well, you think about it,” Brooker said. “I’m excited about this prospect. It may turn out to be lucrative. Right now, I don’t know what to charge. If I get a lot of clients, I can drop the fee down. I’m not looking to get rich, just looking for a way, at last, to make a decent living. I have a lot of expen—”

  “I hear you, I hear you,” Joe said. “Okay, let’s go with that plan. We can work it out. Now, what else have you got?”

  Brooker smiled and set to work. Shortly, he pointed to a Web site on the screen filled with a text. “This is the site of a weirdo over in Michigan—www.hillmartin.net. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but these sites often have bizarre names. It’s run by a guy named M. P. Luck, some kind of kooky patriot-militia nut. He’s got quite a bit about that bombing. And look.”

  Brooker moved the cursor on the screen until it highlighted “Joe Service.”

  “What’s he got to say?”

  “Sit down, you can read the whole thing. But basically it says that you’re a federal agent, that you provided the explosives and the whole plan, although you didn’t personally attend the action.”

  Joe was startled anew. “I did all that?”

  “Well, according to Luck, you did. He also mentions that he’s being investigated, despite the fact that he was nowhere near and knew nothing about it until he saw it on television. It’s all a government plot.” Brooker looked at him expectantly.

  “It’s nuts,” Joe said. He sipped his soda. It wasn’t bad ginger ale. “What’s the source of this guy’s info? Does he say?”

  “He has inside sources, he says. The official line is that the bombing was related to drugs, to the cocaine and heroin trade. Apparently, a known drug dealer was being arraigned at the time. The plot was supposed to cause a diversion, to spring this guy. Unfortunately, the explosions were too big. The drug kingpin, or whatever he was, got killed.”

  “No kidding? Well, it’s all wrapped up, then,” Joe said. “All they have to do is find me.”

  “Well, the Homeland Security doesn’t mention you. They’re still not sure that the drug stuff wasn’t just a subterfuge, that it was really a terrorist act, possibly involving Islamic radicals. And there are other possibilities that the feds aren’t revealing yet.”

  Joe nodded. “And why are they investigating this Luck?”

  Brooker said that it seemed the “other possibilities” might point to a homegrown terrorist group, such as the one that blew up the Oklahoma City federal building.

  “The thing about Luck’s site,” Brooker pointed out, “it’s all in the open. Anyone can read it and he gets lots of hits, has a regular group of subscribers, and so on. His deal is he’s a nut on so-called takings. Property that’s confiscated by the feds, condemned, phony legal claims. Apparently, he’s had property problems himself, and he’s livid about the legal expense. The info about you is sort of unusual for him. Where he got his poop, I don’t know, but I get the feeling that he doesn’t have the inside track on these other sites, like Big John’s. Someone fingered you to him.”

  “Can you tamper with his site?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, sure, but do you want me to? This is just hearsay. It’s of no value. Maybe he got it from someone on the inside at Homeland Security, maybe he just deduced it from questions he was asked, say a detective mentioned your name. Maybe he’s just guessing, made it up. It’s not worth changing. And I’d say that Luck is not like Lynn, that he’ll notice if something is changed on his site. He’ll be upset and pursue it. I’ve got asbestos firewalls, but he might be able to track it back to me. I don’t know. I’d leave it.”

  “Who was questioning him?” Joe said.

  “Some ex-Detroit cop, a guy named Mulheisen.”

  8

  Dogs of War

  The deputy director of operations was a stocky man who liked to dress in a kind of faux military way—tan gabardine twill suits, preferably, with dark green ties that could be mistaken for army neckwear. Recent events in American history had offered him new and improved opportunities to take a militaristic posture, but while he was the civil service equivalent of a full-bird colonel, he still wasn’t entitled to wear the neat little silver eagles on the epaulets that he coveted. He had never been in the military, as it happened, but he felt like a general at times. He was frankly envious of his underling’s career, that underling being Vernon Tucker (Lt. Col., USAF, ret.).

  The DDO could spend minutes lost in reverie, wondering what it had been like for Tucker to drive an F-105 downtown, to bomb Hanoi. That’s the way he thought about it: “drive a Thud,” a fighter-bomber. “Go downtown.” That was how veteran jet jockeys talked, as he understood it. Jinking to evad
e SAMs. Hot damn!

  He hadn’t even heard what Tucker was saying, standing before his desk. Dodging a firecan! He looked at Tucker, a rather small man, compared to himself, but with an unmistakable military air, albeit the casually studied manner of those kinds of officers who had done dashing things—pilots, tank commanders, cavalrymen. What did Tucker have that he didn’t? Tucker was a goddamn cowboy, as best as he could figure, but of course that was valued in today’s government.

  The DDO longed to say, “At ease, colonel,” but Tucker was at ease. Instead, he said, “Who is this guy again?”

  “Joe Service,” Tucker said. He didn’t register any annoyance, although he’d just spent five minutes explaining about Service. Evidently, the DDO hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

  “I came to you,” Tucker said, “because, of course, even though I’m seconded to Homeland Security, my first loyalty is always to the agency. And in the past, we’ve had dealings with Service.”

  “What’s he to us?” the DDO asked. “He’s not one of our agents, is he? I think I know all the agents, and I don’t remember the name.”

  “No, sir,” Tucker said. “He was just a contact. We interrogated him in Denver, a while back. He gave us some interesting background information on Echeverria.”

  “Ah, yes, Echeverria. That’s the guy who was involved in the bombing in Detroit.”

  “Well, that’s one theory,” Tucker said. “Others think it may have been a homegrown militia outfit. Actually, the attack was in Wards Cove, a little town north of Detroit.”

  “What do you think?”

  “It could have been Echeverria. The connection between him and the prisoner who was killed is tenuous, but real.”

  “Whatever happened to the al-Qaeda connection?” the DDO wanted to know.

  “Not proven, sir. There could be a connection.”

  “That would be ideal,” the DDO pointed out. “The guys upstairs would like that. Any chance of making that connection? Man, that would be great.”