Days of Atonement

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Mr. Jernigan didn’t do classified work.”

  “I can’t know that one way or another.”

  “Let’s see the warrant,” Loren said.

  “Mr. Jernigan’s contract with the labs covers this contingency,” Patience said.

  “Then let’s see the contract.”

  “You don’t need to see it.”

  “Yes, I do.” Brutal anger sang through him. “I am here to view the same information from the point of view of the murder of John Doe on Saturday. I am here to collect that information with Mrs. Jernigan’s permission, and I am in possession of it now. If you want to look at any of this stuff, you better show me some kind of contract that supersedes my jurisdiction.”

  Patience’s eyes were level with Loren’s. Loren wondered how long the man could go without blinking.

  Jurisdictional disputes, Loren thought. A lot of county sheriffs and city marshals used to shoot each other over this kind of thing back in the 1800s. Sometimes they were so busy blowing each other’s brains out that the prisoner they were fighting over got clean away.

  Maybe things hadn’t changed much since then.

  Electric tension buzzed in Loren’s nerves. He knew it would take him too long to get to his gun: the holster safety strap was buckled and Patience probably had one of those spring-loaded quick-draw shoulder holsters, anyway. If Patience made a move for the gun under his arm, Loren figured to lunge forward, clamp his left hand over Patience’s arm to keep him from drawing, and drive a couple stiffened fingers into Patience’s eyeballs. That would still leave Nazzarett to deal with, but with luck Patience would be so shocked by the loss of his vision that Loren could get the gun away from him and use it.

  Anyway, he couldn’t anticipate everything.

  Patience licked his lips. “Vista Linda isn’t in your jurisdiction,” he said.

  “Firstly, it doesn’t matter, because I’m here with Mrs. Jernigan’s permission. Secondly, the murder was in my jurisdiction. And thirdly, I don’t think the sheriff is going to mind. Shall we call him and ask?”

  “Where’s Dad?” asked Max. He sounded frightened.

  Patience turned to Nazzarett. “Get on the phone to Personnel. Get a copy of Mr. Jernigan’s contract, and get our attorney out here.”

  A little tension went out of Loren’s nerves. Whenever people started calling for lawyers, issues would take a while to settle.

  “Where’s Dad?” Max asked again. Loren’s heart gave a wrench.

  “Mrs. Jernigan,” Loren said. He never quite dared take his eyes off Patience. “Why don’t you take Max into Werner’s room and have a talk with them both.”

  “Yes.”

  Pale, her hands trembling, she moved past Patience in the doorway, put a hand on Max’s shoulder, and guided him down the corridor.

  There was a stab of music from Werner’s room as the door opened, then the noise lessened.

  Loren heard the whooping sound of a police siren. Relief eased into his body.

  “I believe that’s my backup,” Loren said.

  “I didn’t think you were stupid enough to do this.”

  “I don’t see you walking out of here with anything in your box. How stupid can I be?”

  “Pretty stupid,” Patience said, and for the first time he smiled, “since the sheriff’s department probably just solved your murder for you.”

  Loren’s mind spun like a brakeless flywheel as he tried to work out what Patience was saying.

  “One of the sheriff’s boys found a case in the train wreck,” Patience said. “It had a pair of pistols in it, both .41 Tanfoglios. We figure that Jernigan killed Doe and hid his pistols somewhere in his office. He was taking them home with him when the train crashed. Of course that will have to wait for lab tests to see if these are the pair that shot Doe, but I’m fairly confident.”

  Loren’s mind whirled. Green spots flashed through his vision.

  Patience’s smile broadened. He walked into the room and picked up the phone. “Now, why don’t you call your city attorney,” he said, “and have him come here and talk with our company attorney? And I’ll call the mayor, and he can call your city attorney, and your city attorney can give our attorney everything we want and make it official, okay?”

  It’s not true, Loren hoped desperately. But his heart had already fallen into his boots.

  Patience held out the phone. “Or shall I dial for you?” he said.

  Loren took the phone.

  He had lost

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Patience’s scenario played itself out just as he had described it. Loren left the Jernigans’ house with only the five photocopies from the Panaboard folded in his breast pocket. Mrs. Jernigan and the children were left with the Presbyterian pastor. Loren drove to Atocha and found Cipriano taking a brown briefcase out of the big walk-in safe. Cipriano heard Loren coming in, turned, held out the case.

  “I’ve been calling you all afternoon. Looks like Jernigan plugged the guy, after all. His pistols got found in the wreck.”

  Loren looked at him. “Do you believe that?”

  Cipriano looked dubiously at the case in his hands. “You got some reason not to believe it?”

  “Where was it found? Just lying in the wreckage, right? Like maybe we were meant to find it? And who sabotaged the train?”

  “Eco-terrorists, somebody was saying. People who didn’t like Torrey’s game ranch.”

  “I think Patience and his goons did it. Because Jernigan was on his way to visit Cantwell and spill what he knew about the John Doe murder. And it’s my working hypothesis that Patience did that killing, too.”

  Cipriano thought for a moment. “That’s pretty wild, jefe,” he said. “You got evidence for any of that?”

  “Jernigan passed the Shibano test on the night Doe was killed— and that’ll show positive if you’ve used a firearm in the last few weeks, and do it no matter how many times you wash your hand. Primary traces penetrate most clothing, so wearing gloves wouldn’t help. And Jernigan’s wife says that his alibi was cooked up with Patience’s help.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean Patience did it.”

  “Why would he help Jernigan establish an alibi if he weren’t covering his own ass, too? He and one of his other men killed Doe and then pulled the train sabotage to cover it up. Think about it. The ATL people are the only people around here who would know how to sabotage that train. It wasn’t done by just parking a truck across the tracks. They had to disable a whole sensor array.”

  “Can I sit down for a minute, jefe? I gotta think about this.”

  “Sure.”

  Cipriano put the briefcase on Loren’s desk, took one of the old wooden seats under the BUY AMERICAN sign, and stuck his legs out. Loren sat behind his desk and reached for the briefcase. “This been dusted for fingerprints?” Loren said.

  “Yep. Not a one.”

  “Isn’t that a little suspicious?”

  “It shows that if the guy was a killer, he was careful to clean his gun.” Cipriano frowned and stared at his boot tips, “Jefe, I got a problem with your scenario.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If Patience did the killing, why did Jernigan agree to help him cover it up? If he was so goddamn innocent.”

  “Maybe Patience threatened him.” Loren opened the briefcase and took out a green plastic box. Inside the box were a brace of pistols and spare magazines. He hefted a pistol and sniffed at the barrel, smelling only gun oil. He dropped the magazine and pulled the action back and looked down the barrel. Clean as a whistle.

  “He coulda gone to the D.A. and got protection,” Cipriano said.

  “That’s the part I’ve got to work on. Something happened at ATL between Friday night and Saturday night. Once I find out what it was, it’ll explain everything.” He picked up the dropped magazine and popped one of the bullets out. Black fingerprint powder marred the gleaming brass: .41 caliber, Blazer brand.

  “There’s a messenger waiting for that gu
n in my office, jefe,” Cipriano said. “I’m sending it to the lab in Albuquerque. We should have news by tomorrow noon.”

  Loren let the action snap shut, put the gun in its box, then in the briefcase. It was a cheap case made of brown leather, with a little brass clasp. He looked at it for a moment, then reached into his bottom drawer for the phone book. He looked up the Jernigans’ number and called it. Sondra Jernigan answered.

  “Mrs. Jernigan? This is Loren Hawn again. I’m sorry to bother you, but did your husband own a brown briefcase?”

  “No.”

  “Thin leather, like a document case. Brass clasp.”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Thank you.” He put the phone down and looked at Cipriano. “She says not. Patience’s guys planted the case for us to find.”

  “She also says her husband didn’t have a gun. If she never saw the gun, it would only be logical that she wouldn’t see the case he kept it in.”

  “How d’you beat the Shibano test?”

  Cipriano thought for a moment. “The guy was a scientist. Maybe he knew enough chemistry to neutralize the test.”

  Irritation griped at Loren. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “I’m just saying what Patience would say. Or Little-Eddie-the-mayor. Your theory ain’t got no proof, jefe.”

  “Could he beat the Shibano test on such short notice? We gave him the test just a couple hours after the shooting. With all the bullets fired into the car, his hand and arm should have been covered with gunpowder traces. Even if he was wearing gloves.”

  “Like I say, he was a scientist. Ask another scientist if the test can be beaten.”

  “Okay. I’ll get on the LAWSAT and query the FBI lab in Washington.”

  “That messenger’s waiting, jefe.” Rising from his chair.

  Loren handed the guns to Cipriano. Cipriano put the case under his arm and left the room. Loren dialed the front desk.

  “Begley checked in?”

  “Yeah, Chief. He’s sitting here waiting for Quantrill to bring his car in. We’ve been shooting the shit.”

  “Send him this way, will you?”

  “Can do, boss.”

  Begley appeared in the door, a blond shock of hair hanging in his pale blue eyes. He brushed it back with a freckled hand. Loren remembered seeing him grinning on Connie Duvauchelle’s wall. At least he hadn’t been in uniform when the picture was taken.

  “You wanted to see me, Chief?”

  “Sit down for a sec. I wanted to ask you about the guy you know who works for ATL.”

  Begley rearranged his gun, flashlight, and baton, then sat. “Paul Rivers? What about him?”

  “What’s his job, first of all?”

  Begley shrugged. “He works for their security service. Plainclothes, not a gate guard. Cruises the town, the perimeter. Escorts VIPs, that kind of thing.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Saturday afternoon. We went dove hunting.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “We each got about a dozen.”

  “A good afternoon. Do you know whether he was on duty later?”

  “No. I was, but he said he was going out on the Line for some fun.” Begley frowned. “That’s kind of funny, though. He was supposed to have the day shift on Saturday, so on Friday night I borrowed his springer spaniel so that I could go hunting by myself, but he called me early Saturday morning to tell me he’d been taken off the day shift and he could join me.”

  Loren absorbed this news with quiet triumph. Something had happened on Friday night to change everybody’s plans.

  “Did he say anything about what happened on Friday night?”

  “There was some kind of alert or something. I remember he was cruising the town and caught a squeal about closing off the facility, and he was ordered to come out and patrol the perimeter in his jeep to look for intruders. But they lowered the alert level at midnight and he went off shift and went to bed.”

  “Did he see anything on the perimeter?”

  “Not even a cow.” Grinning. “You heard that story?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It drives Patience crazy. He thinks Luis Figueracion or somebody is playing practical jokes on him. Hoisting cows over the fence with cranes or something. And people rag him about it, and that really pisses him off.”

  “I bet.” Loren thought for a moment. “How unusual was that Friday night alert?”

  “Patience is always coming up with some chickenshit drill or other. Paul really hates it. He thinks Patience is a walking anus.”

  “Do the other security people agree with him?”

  “Paul has to be careful who he talks to. Some of the guys think Patience is God. The rest just think he’s a pain in the ass.”

  “Do you know if Paul’s on duty right now?”

  “Day shift all this week.”

  “So he’d be home later.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call him and ask him a few things.”

  “He’s real friendly, Chief. I’m sure he’d be happy to answer your questions.”

  We’ll see, Loren thought. After I arrested three of his cuates.

  Begley left and Loren used the LAWSAT antenna to log on to FBI LAWNET and posted a message on a bulletin board on “Ask Dr. Zarkov,” the forum run by the New Jersey blood-spatter expert. In addition to handing out arcane criminalistics information, Zarkov filled his bulletin board with bizarre pathology trivia and an endless round of gruesome morgue jokes. Loren posted a message asking whether or not there was a known way of beating the Shibano test. It was after 1700 hours in Jersey, so he wouldn’t get the answer till the next day.

  He logged off and stared for a moment at the old gray walls. They killed my witness, he thought. My witness and some guy who wasn’t even connected with the case.

  Anger simmered quietly in his blood.

  I had Vlasic’s arm in my hand!

  Patience had to be out of control. A rogue. His superiors couldn’t have endorsed any of this.

  Then he thought about John Doe’s body disappearing and wondered who had authorized that.

  He wondered who was in charge at ATL. And whether that person knew what this was about.

  How well had Patience covered himself?

  He thought about Jernigan’s head sneering out from its nest of crumpled metal, and remembered pink-faced Vlasic nodding at him politely as he got on the maglev.

  He remembered the convict’s head butting up against his nose in the fight at the Ringside. The way heat lightning seemed to roll across his stunned brain while his cornerman screamed at him to get his head down and cover up.

  Randal Dudenhof, lying on the yellowed old tile with foamy blood pouring from his mouth.

  No. Not Randal. John Doe.

  Keep this, he thought, at a level somewhere near sanity.

  He needed a drink. He locked his office and checked out and headed home. The house was full of the warm scent of cooking chiles, garlic, and onions. The girls were in their rooms doing homework and Debra was on the phone. Loren got a bottle of Cutty Sark out of the liquor cabinet— a Christmas present from Bill Forsythe, he remembered— and poured himself three fingers. He dropped two ice cubes in the glass and took it into the living room. He sat in front of the dead television set and let the drink scald its way down his throat.

  Bits of bodies floated through his thoughts.

  Loren took the five sheets of Jernigan’s writing out of his breast pocket and looked at them. The incomprehensible mathematics danced hopelessly in front of his eyes.

  Debra got off the phone and started work in the kitchen.

  John Doe’s death played itself out in Loren’s mind. He remembered the taste of the slippery blood in his mouth.

  Randal’s blood.

  The Cutty was fire in his veins.

  He lurched out of his chair and went to the phone. He got Sheila Lowrey’s name up on the liquid-crystal directory and pressed the D
ial button.

  “Lowrey.” As if she knew it was business.

  “Sheila. This is Loren.”

  “You got what you wanted, Loren. Your little thugs are going to trial.”

  Loren tried to concentrate. “Who?”

  “Wasn’t that what you called about? I talked Castrejon into trying to plea-bargain Cisneros and his friends, but Axelrod turned us down flat. He didn’t even consult his clients, just refused the offer.”

  “Castrejon tried to plea-bargain?” He hadn’t thought the D.A. would actually follow Sheila’s advice.

  “Axelrod is going to try to nail your balls to the courthouse door, my friend. That’s the only way he can save Medina and Archuleta. To make it an issue of your character and fitness.”

  Loren licked his lips, tried to get his mind on track. “Castrejon really thinks we should plea-bargain, huh?”

  “Yeah. Because just before the clerk’s office closed this afternoon, Axelrod showed up with a civil suit and official complaint from Cisneros and from Mack Bonniwell and A.J. Dunlop’s dad about the way you beat up their kids. You’ll probably get the subpoenas tomorrow.”

  Probably delivered by one of my own men, Loren thought.

  “I hope this makes you happy, Loren,” Sheila said.

  Castrejon tried to plea-bargain. Loren’s mind spun as he tried to think about it.

  Maybe Castrejon had been right. And Loren had other things to worry about now that he had three murders to concern himself with.

  “I can arrange for them to plea-bargain,” Loren said. “If you really think that would be best.”

  “What? How?”

  Sheila’s voice turned suspicious. “Loren, what the hell are you up to? You could get us in a lot of trouble here.”

  “No trouble will result,” Loren said. “But what I called you about is something different.”

  “Okay.” Still dubious. “What other bad news have you got?”

  “I wanted a legal opinion,” Loren said, “on whether it’s possible to prosecute a person for the murder of someone who’s already been declared dead.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, cautiously, “Could you make this a little more clear?”