“In my world, politics makes perception and perception is reality.”
“If you say so, Chief.”
“I want that report on my desk today, got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. I look forward to reading it.”
The line went dead, dial tone droning in Smith’s ear.
“Looking forward to reading it,” he imitated the Chief in irritation, his tinny voice floating across the empty room.
He replaced the phone back in its cradle. Bite me!
Smith scratched the scar on his chest; the healed wound’s itch a permanent reminder of his job’s intolerance of even the smallest lapse in judgment.
He mentally raked himself over the coals, hating the fact that Matarski was right. I did screw up. I never should have gone into that warehouse without back-up. My own arrogance almost got me killed…and it cost me my wife.
His thoughts drifted back to that night three months ago and he still cringed at the near-fatal blunder.
The dark building stood, silent and formidable in the afternoon sun as Smith approached. Getting a tip from a reliable snitch, he had wanted to move before his suspect got nervous and disappeared to Mexico or melted into the Phoenix underground. The guy killed two people during a drug deal, he remembered. I had to stop him. A week of searching led him to the warehouse…and disaster.
Smith recalled moving in on the faded steel front door and discovering it was unlocked. That should have been my first clue that something was wrong.
Weapon drawn, he’d searched the artificial maze of pallets and between neat rows of boxes reaching up sixteen feet.
It never occurred to him his snitch had sold him out…until the bullet ripped through his back. He’d played dead, lying on the dirty floor in an expanding pool of his own blood, unmoving as the would-be killer stepped from his hiding place to finish the job. Smith rolled and fired, hitting his mark, taking one life to save another.
Cassie told him that night in the hospital she couldn’t take any more. She’d said the long nights alone and the fear of the telephone ringing in the middle of the night had become too much for her to bear. When he was released a few days later, she asked him to move out of the home they’d shared for six years. How could I have been so stupid! He shook his head in self-aversion.
Pushing the useless self-flogging from his mind, he went back to the case at hand.
Once again looking back at the evidence list, he struggled to make some sense of the facts, trying in vain to line them up, to get them to point to a suspect.
One; you have a man shot in an alley behind a strip club. No witnesses.
Two; no known motive… so far.
Three; nothing in victim’s background that would suggest any suspects.
He chafed at having to wait for the crime lab to process the items collected at the scene. It just takes so freaking long sometimes.
Smith knew that, realistically, he was very lucky to belong to a department that had its own crime lab. Very few departments could afford a full-scale forensics lab and had to rely on the over-worked labs at the Department of Public Safety to process all the forensic evidence, including fingerprints and DNA. So, like it or not, he would have to wait for the test results. In the meantime, he worked on mapping out Grady’s movements in those hours before his death.
He already knew that Grady had spent that last day at home, alone, before going to a voluntary baseball practice session at Kindall Field. He had talked to Grady’s coach, the series of one word answers he received from the short, sedentary man turning up nothing new, only fed his sense of mounting aggravation as he reviewed his notes.
Q. Was there anyone you know of that would want to hurt Jason?
A. No.
Q. Did he receive any threats, have any arguments with teammates?
A. No.
Q. Did he have any problems with the fans, anyone upset with him in any way?
A. No.
Q. Was anyone stalking him? Sometimes that happens with athletes.
A. No.
Thanks for all your help. Smith thought. He sat in his office, bristling with an annoying sense of inaction, even though he could do little else before getting the autopsy and forensic results. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.
Chapter Eight
With no documentation requirements on sales of guns between private parties, Arizona remains a free-market Mecca for drug dealers and other criminals prevented from legally obtaining a firearm. The “no questions asked” policy of private sellers feeds an insatiable market and the gun shows and swap meets do a booming business in second-hand firearms of all types. It was for that precise reason Hailey now stood in a dirt lot enduring the searing heat.
She watched in detached interest and mild anger as the Spanish flowed between two men separated by a long black table a few feet away. She took in the younger man’s garish tattoos and abundance of gold jewelry as he pointed out several large handguns. The seller removed them from the case, smiling in greedy glee and arranging them in a neat row for closer inspection.
Not knowing a word of the language didn’t stop her from understanding what was taking place. Gang-banger arming up his posse. Nice.
Stopping his selections at five, the man reached for an over-sized leather wallet chained to his baggy pants and started counting off one hundred-dollar bills.
Nobody carries that much cash, she thought as he passed two thousand dollars. Dope business must be good. She grimly opined. That’s about the only business growing these days.
The heat was beginning to take a toll on her as she shopped. What the hell am I looking at? I don’t know anything about guns. Moving between the tables, Hailey searched for just the right one, waiting on something akin to divine inspiration to guide her hand. On her second walk-through, a polished revolver caught her eye, gleaming in the bright sunlight.
“You looking for a revolver or an automatic?” The voice came from the man sitting behind the table, his enormous bulk wedged into a plastic lawn chair.
“Revolver,” she said, mindful that they didn’t eject shells to be found by police. “For protection.”
Balding, fat and well over sixty, the redneck spit a mouthful of tobacco juice on the ground as he gave her the once-over. Ignoring the vulgar display, she took in the patched and fading jeans and the avalanche of beer-belly falling over his belt. Uggh. Gross.
The man answered her unasked question. “That one’s only four-hundred,” he said. “It’s a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum, it’s worth more like five-fifty.” He stood, prying his butt out of the chair and removing the weapon from the padded case. He flipped the cylinder open and passed it over the table, handle first. “Check it out.” he said.
She hefted the pistol, and noted the two-inch “snub nose” barrel. She snapped the cylinder shut and checked the balance, assessing the feel of the thing in her hand.
“That’s a lot of gun for a lady,” he said, looking her up and down, another vile stream of tobacco juice hitting the ground. “Sure you don’t want something lighter?”
Taking her non-answer as a call to action, he pulled a hammerless S&W .38 Special from the case and laid it down on the padded table top. “This one’s three seventy-five.”
She looked at the blue finish on the .38, then compared the feel to the larger weapon.
“Which one has more power?” she asked.
“The .357, by far,” he said, pointing to the shiny revolver gleaming in the sun. “That’s a small cannon.”
She replaced the blue pistol on the table and reclaimed the larger, heavier weapon.
“I’ll give you three-twenty-five, and you throw in a box of bullets.” She said.
“I shouldn’t let it go so cheap, but it’s late and I’m about to close for the week, so…Okay, three twenty-five.” he said, reaching into a dusty crate beneath the table for a small carton of ammunition. Digging in her purse, she brought out her wallet and handed over the required bills.<
br />
I can’t believe it’s that easy, she thought as she moved away from the table with the lethal purchase now tucked safely out of sight. No I.D., no registration papers…nothing. She thought grimly. Gotta love Arizona, it’s still very much ‘The Old West’. She sighed, moving across the parking lot toward her car…and some relief from the staggering heat.
Finally back in the air-conditioned comfort of her car, she thought about her recent purchase, now locked in the glove box. That was too easy. Arriving at her apartment, she went inside knowing she had another job to do today…one that couldn’t wait.
She took the automatic from her drawer and wiped the weapon carefully to remove any fingerprints she may have left behind. That done, she carefully wrapped the pistol in an old rag before hiding it in a gym bag.
She drove in quiet contemplation north on SR 89 toward Watson Lake.
I took a man’s life. Even if he was a pig, how do I justify that? The question nagged at her for long minutes as she passed the massive off-white boulders and palatial homes of many styles that made up the area known as Granite Dells.
She turned off the highway and parked her car. Walking down the rough trail to the lake’s edge, she stood on the floating pier. The question still plagued her as she looked out over the water and thought about what she had done to Grady. I didn’t mean to kill him, even though the son of a bitch had it coming! I just wanted him to admit what he did. I needed him to admit that he raped me that night.
She shuddered in the hot sun as the memories of the attack came flooding back, consuming her in an unbidden tidal wave of recollected terror.
She remembered being a little tipsy, okay, plastered. last Fourth of July, her heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk as she made her way home from the bar. She berated herself, not for the first time, for her petulant, childish attitude that night. Why didn’t I go with the girls? Why did I leave alone?
Her skin crawled anew as she relived the feel of rough hands pawing at her before they dragged her into the darkness of the dirty alley. Her stomach clenched nervously as she again saw the distorted faces of her attackers, the drunken grins twisted with lust. She swallowed the bile rising from her stomach as she remembered the feeling of the cold steel blade against her throat, its stinging bite buried in the blinding fear of the moment. For a fleeting instant, she was back in that alley, lying on the filthy ground, frozen in terror. She could still hear the ripping of her dress before they tore her panties off.
Even now, standing on the gently swaying dock with the sunshine warming her, she could smell the alcohol and sweat on the men as they lay on top of her, one by one, over and over. She shook her head, trying to make the horrible visions stop. She drew the automatic from the bag, the gun now feeling many times its true weight.
Consciously, she knew she was lucky to survive the attack, still the tears began to roll down her cheeks as she thought about what that horrible night had cost her.
David won’t even speak to me, not that I really blame him. I tried to tell him that I was different now. Just because I didn’t want to be afraid, didn’t mean that I wasn’t afraid. I can’t control the fear. He never understood that.
She remembered him telling her she needed a shrink. She had the image of his handsome face, the anger and hurt evident as she ended their relationship, forever burned into her memory. I still miss him. It wasn’t his fault, he just didn’t get it.
Pushing those painful thoughts aside, she considered the other people in her life affected by the assault’s aftermath.
Mother thinks I should move back home so she can keep an eye on me. Her grim thoughts moved faster and faster, despite her best efforts to control them.
My friends, the ones I could tell, don’t even know how to act when I’m around. They’re deathly afraid of saying the wrong thing. I’m not that fragile…am I?
The tears began to leak from her eyes, finally overflowing to spill down her cheeks.
I’ve been so afraid for so long. Why can’t I just move on? That question joined the others, circling her mind in random orbit as she stood there trembling in the sun.
Drying her eyes on her sleeve, she cocked back her arm and threw the pistol as hard as she could. She watched as it arched through the air and splashed in the dark water, sinking out of sight. Good riddance Grady. I hope you’re burning in Hell!
She drove back home, flashes of anger now replacing the gnawing despair as Granite Dells again passed by the window. She looked for a scapegoat. If the police had done their jobs then none of this would be happening now. She bristled with the overwhelming sense of outrage flowing through her. Why didn’t they arrest these men? Why did I have to wait a year for justice, and then have to go get it myself? I told them everything I remembered about that night, why didn’t they find them? She railed. They owed me that much!
She fought back an unexpected and peculiar sense of grief as she considered the emotional damage she’d suffered since that night.
Oh, my God! The time I’ve lost. How many nights did I sit home, scared and alone, knowing those four were still out there…somewhere. I gave up my life because of those bastards!
She began to sink into a deep well of self-pity before finally finding the kernel of truth buried beneath the despair.
Uncle Greg, you were right. I can’t let blind fear rule my life. Not anymore! She took a deep breath, fighting back the mounting tears. No more hiding. From now on, I go where I want, when I want.
Arriving back home, she tried to forget about the events of the morning. She attempted to eat some leftover Chinese food she found in the fridge, but after a few bites she couldn’t force herself to finish it. Her stomach knotted in consternation, she walked to the kitchen and threw the cardboard take-out carton into the trash can.
Needing a distraction from her dark thoughts, she decided to kill some time detailing the Hog. She dragged out the hose and bucket, carefully washing the motorcycle and buffing it dry. She looked at her reflection in the mirror-finish of the gas tank. Again the image of Grady’s falling body intruded on her thoughts. She shook her head to clear it and moved on to polishing the never-ending chrome on the gleaming machine. Rubbing furiously, she removed any dirt or water spots as she forcibly relegated the encounter with Grady to the far corner of her tumultuous mind.
Now that the Hog was immaculate, it was time for some procrastinated maintenance. Using the manual to learn how to change the oil proved a journey into yet another new world for the pretty co-ed. She had never worked on a motorcycle engine before and had little experience repairing her own car. One hand on the garage door, she hesitated before her uncle’s words, so eloquently written in his last letter, flashed in her head. You said I needed to learn how to do this. I trust you Uncle Greg.
Opening the garage, she unlocked the third part of Greg’s bequest, a three-tier rolling tool chest. I’m not stupid. I should be able to figure this out. She looked at the tool box, then back at the Hog. How hard can it be…right?
She pulled open one of the shallow drawers, the tray sliding silently on well-oiled ball bearings. Looking inside, she took in the rows of wrenches and screwdrivers lying inside the bright red box, neat and polished. The little mechanical soldiers lay in ready formation. Their very order seemed to taunt her. She sighed. At least they’re not metric.
As she carefully went through the routine of drain…fill…check for leaks…she could feel her uncle’s presence, the warm touch a soothing balm in the back of her consciousness. She became choked up with emotion as she realized how many times he must have performed the very same tasks she was now doing.
An hour, and a few choice words, later she wore a skinned knuckle and small spots of grease on her worn jeans, each mark a new merit badge for a job well done. That wasn’t so bad, she observed. Carefully wiping the oil from her delicate hands, she replaced the tools in their spaces.
After referring to the manual a second time, changing the spark plugs posed no real challenge, going off wi
thout a hitch. Confidence now bolstered, she listened to the Hog’s engine rumbling contentedly. Mission accomplished.
She looked at the Hog again and noticed it almost seemed bigger, like it was proud of its appearance, the paint and chrome shining in the sun.
She thought about how many hours of work her uncle must have put into this beloved machine, and vowed complete fidelity to the complicated maintenance schedule he left for her.
While she was mostly an indoor girl, she had to admit getting a little dirty and performing the tasks in such a precisely ordered fashion turned out to be almost therapeutic. Turning the wrenches changed the focus of her troubled mind, steering her thoughts away from the events of the weekend.
She looked at the gleaming machine and her mother’s harshly rendered order returned “You sell that bike immediately,” her mother had demanded. “You can use the money for something worthwhile.” Isn’t my sanity worthwhile?
She inwardly cringed, acknowledging her six-month lie of omission, then justified her silence. Mother would have a stroke if she knew I kept the bike. I’ll tell her…eventually…when I think the time is right.
Engine rumbling with controlled power; she pulled away from the curb for a test-ride, a feeling of calm spreading over her. Motorcycle maintenance really can be Zen. Who knew? In a flash of insight, she suddenly had the answer to her rhetorical question. Greg knew…and he wanted me to know too.
She drove east on Gurley Street and watched the traffic as she worked her way toward the town square. She found an open parking space and backed the Hog in, shutting down the engine.
She just wanted to relax and settle her emotions before the run later that day. The scenic park area around Whiskey Row and Courthouse Square provided an ideal setting to unwind.
Hailey's Hog Page 5