Untold Damage

by Robert K. Lewis

And there it fuckin’ was: the small, two-door sedan he’d seen earlier. Right after talking to that Mallen dude.

  Could be coincidence, a part of his mind told him. Hell, the city was small. People always running into people. But then again, maybe it wasn’t like that. He picked up his pace. Turned on the next block. Headed east to downtown. The car didn’t follow him, and he laughed softly to himself for being so on edge. Easy to be that way when you done time.

  After another block he decided to go see Soldier. He’d have a spare clip to sell. Kept walking down the street, nice and easy. Was another block on when he again saw the sedan. It had just turned onto the street ahead of him, moving east, in the direction he was heading.

  Motherfuck …

  Dockery turned on his heel and walked away, picking up speed. The sighting of the car was too fucking weird. Now he had to get to Soldier’s. And fast. Walked quickly, crossing back over Fillmore as he went west. The car was rolling up Fillmore toward him. Fucker must’ve high-tailed it in a double-back. What the fuck? Now he ran, ran at top speed down the street. Soldier’s was only ten blocks away. As he ran, he took a jigsaw route: one block up, one block over, one block up, two blocks over in the opposite direction from before. Zigged his way to his goal, always checking behind him. He lost the car two blocks from his destination. Immediately hid on some steps leading down to a dark basement access door of an old apartment building. Lay on the stairs, keeping his eyes just above street level.

  Paranoid? Maybe. Wanting to stay alive? Sure as fuck. Waited about another five minutes. Listened and watched. There was no traffic on the street now. Only a passing motorcycle, then a woman strolling by with a baby carriage.

  Figured it was safe to go on. He did so quickly, scanning all around him as he went. There was no sign of the car.

  Oberon checked his notes again. Made sure he had the right place. Looked once more at the building. Hadn’t really expected such a nicely kept, Inner Richmond apartment building. They might even be condos in there. Expensive condos. Got out of his car, went to the door. He’d found very little in his search regarding felons who’d not only known both dead men but who were also still out on the street. It had only been in doing some checking with Narco that he’d come up with a couple names. Thank God for repeat offenders once in awhile, he thought. Every time a criminal went through the system, they learned a little more about him or her. And sometimes they learned some items regarding their previous time inside.

  He entered the building’s vestibule. Again, very nice, with subway tile polished a brilliant white. Found the name he was looking for on the glass and brass directory. Pushed the buzzer. A woman’s voice answered. Strong and firm. “Yes?”

  “This is Detective Inspector Oberon Kane, Ma’am. San Francisco Police. I was wondering if a Mr. Robert Jenks was in?”

  There was a pause. “What’s this about?”

  “Just some routine questions, Ma’am. Let me in please.” He hated sounding so formal, but he also hated standing outside a building and speaking to what amounted to a squawk box. It was things like this that made cops nervous, and he was no exception. What was going on inside? Was there someone up in that room dumping drugs down a drain? Hiding drugs? Loading a gun? Strange how something so simple as walking up to a door could be a life-or-death experience.

  The lock buzzed open, and he pushed on the heavy oak door. He went up the heavily carpeted stairs to the third floor. Knocked and waited, ears tuned to any noises from the other side that might alert him to trouble.

  The door was opened by a man. About six feet, solidly built. Hair cut military short. Wire-rimmed, John Lennon–like glasses. The clothes were business casual for the home. Like something out of a Territory Ahead catalog.

  “Robert Jenks?” he asked the man.

  Jenks nodded. Smiled as he held out a hand. “Yeah, but my friends call me Bobby, Officer. Care to come in?”

  The two men shook hands. Oberon couldn’t help but notice that Jenks had a pretty powerful grip, and he didn’t think the man was even trying too hard. The flat was done up tastefully. Very neat and tidy. Lots of dark, chocolate-brown leather furniture and heavily lacquered maple. The formal dining room had been given over as an office. The large dining table was now a desk strewn with papers. A white board stood nearby, covered with words such as persevere, integrity, and strength. There were also phrases like “The best way to predict your future is to create it.”

  Jenks went to the table and picked up a business card. Brought it over to him. Written on it were two lines in a professional, business-type font: Inner Iron. Bobby Jenks, Motivational Speaker.

  “This is what I’ve been doing since I got out,” Jenks said, proud of his accomplishment. “I’m trying to use my own experience to help others to leverage their lives in a positive and meaningful manner.”

  “That’s impressive, Mr. Jenks,” Oberon said as he slipped the card into his coat pocket. “How is it going?”

  “Great.” Jenks beamed. “I’m opening my first location next week. Renting a storefront and offices over on Union. I’ll be able to give seminars there. And, after training two or three hires to run that, I’ll be able to personally ‘take it on the road’, as they say.”

  “My,” Oberon said as he pulled out his notebook, “this must have cost a helluva lot to get going.”

  A woman entered the room from the kitchen. Incredibly beautiful. Long blonde hair, model-caliber figure. Carried herself well, in a way that made Oberon think she must’ve gone to some big-shot Eastern college. She smiled at Jenks, kissed him on the cheek. Put her arm around his waist as she studied Oberon for a moment. Then she turned back to Jenks, saying, “I’m going to the market, honey. Need anything?”

  “No, I’m good, Kate. Thanks.” They kissed. She grabbed keys off a side table and left.

  After she was gone, Jenks went to the couch and sat. “Kate’s how I was able to start Inner Iron. Her folks have been wonderful to me. It helped that her father felt it would be a good investment. I had to give him one of my speeches, of course. The old dog wanted to see if I could really do it. Gave me the seal of approval, then gave me the check.”

  Was that a slight inference of derision, Oberon wondered? Couldn’t tell, but he made a mental note of it all the same.

  Jenks looked him in the eye for a second, then said, “Why are you here, Officer … Kane, was it?”

  “Inspector. Yes, Kane,” he said, noticing that Jenks didn’t offer him a chair. “I’m trying to track down anyone who might have known either a Carl Kaslowski or an Anthony Scarsdale.”

  At the names, Jenks sighed. Shifted on the couch. “I always thought Carl would be able to stay clean,” he said sadly, then started, shocked as the news really sank in. “Wait. ‘Might have known’? What’s happened?”

  “They’ve been murdered, Mr. Jenks. Both by the same gun.” The sentence left Jenks with a stunned look on his face. “How well did you know them?”

  “Dead? Jesus … Carl? Dead?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes. You don’t mention Scarsdale. You didn’t like him as much as Kaslowski?”

  Jenks shook his head. “No. Tony was a grimy, craven piece of shit. I had no respect for him. Carl, though, he really didn’t belong there. I could tell he was going to turn it around when he got out. It was talking with him, trying to help him, that gave me the idea for Inner Iron. Helped him all I could. Kept the brothers off his ass. It felt good to be able to do some good, especially in there.”

  “I can understand that.” Oberon looked down at his notes for a moment. “You went in for assault?”

  “Yes.”

  “And not your first time, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Still reporting to your probation officer on schedule, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good to hear it,” he said. “Did Kaslowski and Scars
dale like each other? Hang together?”

  Jenks thought for a moment. “Not that I remember,” he said slowly, “but nobody wants to remember their days inside. You know how it is, right?” Thought some more, then said, “No, I don’t think they hung out much. But then again, I wasn’t around them all the time.”

  “Of course. Do you think they kept up on the outside?”

  “Doubt it. Carl didn’t like Tony much, either. On the inside, you do what you need to do to survive. You hang with the people you need to hang with in order to get by. You have to learn to survive in there, any way you can. It’s a horrible system we’ve got going. Overpopulated, underfunded. There’s really no real way to help the men who are in there. They end up surviving by using each other, exploiting and abusing each other, or … imploding.”

  “You didn’t implode. Kaslowski didn’t. Both of you survived.”

  A shrug. “We were strong enough to realize that what we did inside was only for survival. Strong enough to know that once we got out, every day we worked to turn our life around was like an absolution, of a sort.” Jenks then stopped for a moment. Remembering. “Hell,” he added with a sigh, “maybe that’s just what we just told ourselves to stay sane, I don’t know.”

  Oberon looked around the room. It was a place struggling people would give their eyeteeth for. “You seem to be doing very well, Mr. Jenks. You’re a good example for those men inside to follow.”

  “I was lucky. I found Kate.”

  “Is there anyone else you can think of that both men knew on the inside and mixed with while they were there?”

  After a moment of thinking, Jenks shook his head. “There was a guy they seemed to be around all the time, but I can’t remember his name. Black guy. Sorta big. Been awhile now, and I—wait …” He sat there, staring at nothing as he seemed to struggle with remembering. Looked up at Oberon. Smiled. “Dockery,” he said. “That was the guy’s name. Dockery.”

  Oberon wasn’t buying the memory act, and he made a note next to Dockery’s name to that effect. “No first name?”

  A shrug. “Sorry, that’s all I remember. I think he was local, though. I remember Carl once saying something to me about how Dockery couldn’t wait to get home to the Fillmore.”

  Oberon folded up his notebook. Stuck it in his pocket as he stood. “Don’t apologize, Mr. Jenks. You gave me something to go on when I was having the feeling I was chasing a long shot. Thank you for your time.” Put one of his cards on the side table. “If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Of course,” Jenks said as he led Oberon to the door. “You know, if Inner Iron works out, I’m planning on giving the seminar to young kids who are growing up in problem areas of the city. Hunters Point. The Mission. I think I could really make a difference.”

  “Well,” Oberon said as Jenks opened the door for him, “then I’ll be rooting for you.”

  Twenty-Seven

  There was a sharp knock on the door, making Dockery jump awake. He’d fallen asleep in his chair, the one he’d turned toward the door. He’d sent his girl and kid to visit her family. Didn’t want to take any chances with them, even though he knew shit all about what the hell was going down. Better safe than sorry, though. Like back in Folsom. Had to keep your head on a swivel in that place. You just never knew where a shiv might come from if someone declared your number up. There’d been guys who’d never done nothing to no one there, but ended up dead just the same. Then there were the others, like Eric, who’d come out more fucked up than when they went in. Not everyone in prison was a bad guy, even though the papers liked to write it that way.

  Another knock at his door. Dockery pulled his gun out from between the chair pillow and arm. It felt like a real gun again, now that he’d gotten that fully loaded clip. Went to the door. Peered through the curtain. Saw an older-looking dude with silver hair standing there. By the cut of the suit, he could tell the fucker was a cop. But then again, what if it was the dude in the car? What if it was some sort of setup? His mind filled with conspiracy theories and hidden traps that only waited for him to step into and get killed. Another knock. Dockery pulled the hammer back on the gun, then reconsidered. Whatever this guy was going to do, he couldn’t do it outside, right there on the street …

  Oberon stood outside of the frayed Victorian duplex. Checked to make sure he had the correct address. He did. It hadn’t taken long to run down Leon Dockery in the computers. Certainly not a model citizen, but society had bred way worse. Still, there was enough violence and repeat offending to make him unhook the catch that kept his sidearm safe in its little nest.

  He hoped to get more from Dockery than he’d gotten from Jenks. There was something about Jenks that bothered him. Maybe it was the interchange between the man and his girlfriend. His gut told him it felt forced, like they were performing for him. Maybe it was the man’s personality, which he felt also rang false. Or, more likely, maybe he was beginning to be frustrated by the lack of leads. Frustration was bad, he knew, and could lead to poor decisions.

  The door opened and a good-sized man stood there. Over six feet, with a heavy build. Knew instantly from the booking photo in Dockery’s file that this was the man he’d come to see. Wondered what fight he’d been in recently with that very swollen eye and big walnut on the side of his forehead. Sure looked like he got the worst of it.

  “Mr. Dockery?” he said as he pulled out his badge. “My name is Detective Inspector Kane, Homicide.”

  “Okay,” came the cold reply. “What can I do for you, Officer?” There was something about the way the man said it that put Oberon’s antenna on alert. Dockery was edgy. Nervous.

  “May I come in? I’m looking for people who knew Carl Kaslowski and or Anthony Scarsdale. I’ve received some information that leads me to believe you might have known these gentlemen.”

  “Kas is dead?” The shock was genuine, that was for sure. “What’s this about, man? I just found out about Tony from his moms. Happen to call her, looking for him.” Dockery stood back to let him in. The place was furnished from what looked like various second-hand stores. There was evidence of a child in the home. Dockery went and sat heavily in a overstuffed chair that faced the front door. Oberon stood in front of the fireplace mantel, his back to it as he pulled out his notebook.

  “So you did know both men?” Oberon asked.

  Dockery still seemed stunned by the news of Kaslowski’s death. “I can’t believe Carl is dead, too. How’d he die?”

  “He was shot, like Scarsdale.”

  “Same gun?”

  “Why would you be interested in that, Mr. Dockery?”

  A shrug. “I was just wondering, is all. If it was the same guy. That’s all, man.”

  Oberon studied him for a moment. Seemed an honest answer. “It is, as they say, a definite possibility. What can you tell me about your time with these men?”

  “I … I don’t know, man. It’s just a crazy coincidence, is all, right? That we were inside together, and …” He let his voice trail off then. Shook his head. The shock of Kaslowski’s death certainly had the ring of truth to it.

  “Just a crazy coincidence?” Oberon replied. “Really? You really think that, Mr. Dockery?”

  “Sure,” Dockery shrugged. “What else could it be?”

  “So you knew both these men well?”

  Dockery shuffled a bit in his chair. Another shrug.

  “Why don’t you want to tell me about your time inside? I’ve already read your file. I’m just trying to solve a couple murders here. You know that Kaslowski was a new father? His child had—”

  “Heck, man,” Dockery said, his voice getting an edge to it, “you know that guys don’t like talking about their time behind bars. You a cop. You know that.”

  “Yes, I do know that. But I’m looking at a double homicide. Please don’t make me pull my leverage and turn this int
o something more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know how it goes. I have to visit anyone and everyone who has a history with the victims. We could of course talk downtown, if you prefer.”

  Dockery sat there for a minute, seeming to get more and more nervous. Maybe it was the mention of going downtown. Repositioned himself in his chair, the weight of his hand pushing down on the cushion. Oberon caught the faint glint of metal. Knew what it was immediately, though he didn’t show it. There was no way he could get his weapon out before Dockery got to his. No way at all. A sense of quiet overcame him. Of calm. Everything slowed down. Ice-floe slow. He could feel every tick of the clock. Feel the very energy that lived in the house itself.

  Oberon stared down at his notebook for a moment. Tapped the pen on the page as he angled his upper body to get his hand as near as possible to the holster hanging under his left arm. “Mr. Dockery,” he said quietly, “would you please stand up and away from the chair?”

  Dockery’s expression was one of surrender. Shoulders sagged. Brought his hands up as he stood. Eyes had gone opaque. Oberon pulled his Glock from its holster and trained it on him. “Step away from the chair and toward me, please,” he said.

  “That gun’s for my defense, man,” Dockery said as he complied with Oberon’s command. “I’m being followed. From what you tell me, it might be something to do with Carl and Tony gettin’ killed.”

  “Turn around.”

  Dockery did as he was told and Oberon pulled out his cuffs. Went to slap one around Dockery’s left wrist, intending to pull that arm down without having to holster his weapon. He’d done it that way hundreds of times.

  This time it went wrong.

  As he reached up for Dockery’s wrist, the man—who outweighed him by a good forty pounds—spun around, elbow coming around in an arc that caught him right on his cheekbone. He cursed as he dropped the cuffs and started to fall backward, off balance. Dockery seemed possessed, moving with the speed of a tiger. Maybe he was supercharged with fear at going back into the system. Dockery chopped him on the right forearm and the gun dropped from his nerveless hand. He was then smashed in the face with a huge fist that sent him flying backward into the mantel. His skull crashed into the carved hardwood, sending off a blast of sharp pain and fireworks. Fell hard to the floor, barely able to make out Dockery as the man pulled the gun from his chair. He then kicked Oberon’s pistol under the couch, grabbed up a coat, and bolted out of the apartment through the front door.