by Ian Smith
“This is no coincidence,” Sterling said. “It's a signature. Someone knew we'd find this.”
“WLA,” Wiley announced from the back. He stepped closer to the body and everyone turned to face him. “White Liberation Army. A group of rednecks down in Claremont. Nothing but a bunch of beer-swigging rabble-rousers.”
“Where's Claremont?” Sterling asked.
“About twenty-five minutes or so down Route 120. Used to be a small farming town, but now they have commerce and transportation.”
“What does the WLA do?” Sterling asked.
“Not much of anything. But they talk a big game, how they hate everyone who's not white and born in America. I've read some of their flyers. Pure venom. But nobody really pays 'em much mind.”
Sterling thought about Wiley's words. It just seemed too damn convenient for Wilson's death to come at the hands of white supremacists. Content to drink and brawl, most of those groups never acted on their words. Why would they suddenly elevate their rhetoric to murder? And why would they decide to hit the highest-profile member of the Dartmouth faculty?
“How many are in this group?” Sterling asked.
“Not many,” Wiley said. “I don't have the exact number, but I'd be surprised if there were even a dozen.”
“Do you know them?”
“Not really, but the boys down in Claremont do. I'm sure they can help us round 'em up and bring 'em in for questioning.”
“If they can still be found.”
“Oh, don't worry. If they're still in Claremont, we'll find 'em. Not many places to hide down there.”
Withcott continued his methodical autopsy, saying very little, rarely lifting his head from the body. He had settled into what pathologists, like athletes, call “the zone,” something familiar to Sterling from his own hours of examining lifeless bodies in cold, sterile rooms, the smell of alcohol and preservatives keeping his mind alert. Dissecting a cadaver requires detailed knowledge of the tissues and organs and their relation to one another, but it also requires immense concentration, especially when one is looking for subtle abnormalities. There's a point when the dissector has reached a state of ultimate detachment—the cadaver no longer has a name or face or history. Even for Sterling, the body on the table, once a vibrant person—once his brother—had become nothing more than an elegant network of failed organ systems holding tiny clues to the cause of death.
“Down here,” Patrick called. He held Professor Bledsoe's stiff right ankle above the table. “There's something written here.”
The others quickly gathered around and Dr. Withcott flashed his light on the block letters:
CHOGAN
It could have easily been mistaken for a tattoo. They took turns pronouncing the strange word that no one recognized. Then Sterling took a closer look at the letters—neat, but definitely rushed. He had never seen the word before, but he recognized the writing style. He thought hard, searching his memory. It had been in his childhood, somewhere around the house. Then it hit him. Wilson had written the word in his own hand. It was exactly the style he used for all of those letters and postcards he sent home to their mother. Sterling thought about the postcards stacked on the television set. Wilson only wrote that way for her, because her eyesight had gone bad after years of poorly controlled diabetes. Her vision had faltered so much in her later years that even her glasses failed to help her make out most of what she read. So when Wilson wrote home, he'd write it just like this—neat block letters—so perfect you'd think they had been written by machine. These letters weren't as neat, understandable given the situation, but that was his G with the unmistakable tail hanging down. His trademark. Sterling started to share this with the others, but quickly decided against it. He figured Wilson must've written it this way for a reason. Wilson was clever. Maybe he counted on Sterling seeing this and only wanted him to know that it was his hand. Wilson's last message before he died—maybe the key to finding his killers.
Withcott took the final measurements and consulted briefly with his assistants. Then he turned to the others and announced his preliminary conclusion. Professor Wilson Bledsoe died from manual strangulation after a blunt trauma to the side of his skull. The word “nigger” had been carved into his chest by some type of electric saw, but only after he had already expired.
17
Sterling drove out of town with no particular destination in mind. He opened up the engine and challenged the car's engineering, making it prove why it should be called a sports car. He took in the beauty of the land, as the winding roads brought him to the peaks of mountains, his tires spinning only feet from the edges of cliffs. The strong sun and racing wind felt good as he sang along with Bob Marley's “I Shot the Sheriff.” For the next hour, he allowed nature's freedom to take him away from all that had troubled him the last couple of days.
He climbed another mountain and pulled over to the side of the road in an area that, according to the sign, offered the best scenic viewing. The Mustang's engine kicked a few extra revs, then sighed to rest. Sterling walked to the front of the car, pleased by the smell of burned rubber and hot oil. He thought about his Porsche back home. It was good for a sports car to get a thorough cleansing every once in a while, especially when it spent most of its time leisurely traveling the streets of a small country town.
Sterling stretched his eyes across the valley. He was only a few hundred miles from New York City, but still in another world. He thought about how invigorating a trip to the great outdoors would be for so many of his fellow New Yorkers who fought the inevitable hassles of the fast life, cramming onto packed subway cars, holding on for dear life as the trains screeched and careened down the dark tracks, or else waiting endlessly in the back of boiling cabs stuck on gridlocked streets.
Wilson's death had been an immeasurable blow, but the surrounding irony gave it the sting. When Wilson had told his family and friends that he wanted to settle down in a small mountain town, they laughed. Had it not been for Dartmouth, Hanover wouldn't have even registered on the map, and it certainly didn't figure in the consciousness of black America. His friends had teased Wilson that he better not get caught out late at night because people in the mountains would mistake him for a predator and shoot him dead. As a going-away gift, they had given him a bright orange vest emblazoned with the words DON'T SHOOT, I'M HUMAN.
Now those playful taunts took on an ominous resonance. Wilson had been murdered in the very place that he'd equated with his freedom. A place where front doors were left unlocked and gas stations didn't ask customers to pay before pumping. Students had their professors' home numbers, calling at any hour they needed help.
A cooing sound disturbed the silence. Sterling looked up as a crow appeared overhead, floating effortlessly on the invisible gusts of wind. It flew lazy circles in the sky, flapping its wings only when necessary, slowly descending out of sight into the valley below. If Wilson had been alive, he would have loved to be sitting right here where Sterling was—alone and observing the open space only wildlife claimed as home. For the first time since his brother's body had been discovered, Sterling Bledsoe didn't just tear up, he cried. Big sloppy tears. He hated himself for hating his brother and hated whoever had taken Wilson away before he had the chance to apologize.
18
Four days after the discovery of Professor Wilson Bledsoe's body, an army of state trooper sedans and police cruisers raced down Route 120 and descended on the small town of Claremont, New Hampshire. Billy “Tex” Norkin, one of two founding leaders of the WLA, was their first stop. They found him in the back of his two-room trailer parked in an abandoned lot behind De Franco's Used Cars. It was almost noon, but he was still sleeping off a hard night of boozing. His body was too long for everything, especially the small mattress wedged into the corner. When they finally roused him to his feet, he had to duck to walk down the narrow corridor. His face was thin with a three-day stubble spiking underneath his chin and across the top of his lip. His long black hair had been
tied back into a ponytail with a rubber band. A real hard-ass.
The troopers apprehended Tex quickly and without incident, but when they searched his trailer, they found a stash of weapons and ammunition that could outfit an entire battalion. “I got licenses,” Tex snarled as he watched them carry out the guns by the armful. “All my papers is in proper order.”
Anyone who knew the history of the Norkin clan knew that the privileged Norkin bloodline made Tex the unlikeliest of insurrectionists. He descended from a long line of prominent Norkins who at one time owned practically the entire village of Claremont. The Norkins made most of their money on livestock and dairy farming, at one point producing almost the entire supply of milk for the state of New Hampshire and most of southern Vermont. Norkin Farms and its vast commercial interests were as close to a monopoly as the state had ever seen.
One Friday some years back, the entire clan of aunts and uncles, cousins and in-laws had assembled inside the basement of the enormous farmhouse for their weekly all-night poker game. Old Grandpa Jedsell Norkin still officiated at the family gatherings. While the Norkins built most of their fortune peddling milk, they found their greatest pleasure emptying liquor bottles. Alcohol, cards, money, and loaded shotguns were, for the Norkins, a time-honored family tradition.
After a couple of hours of intense competition and steady drinking, an argument erupted when Priscilla Norkin, Jedsell's oldest daughter, accused her only brother, Weymouth, of cheating in a game of seven-card stud. The argument stretched beyond the game to inheritance and who rightfully deserved the bulk of the Norkin fortune. Anger and greed quickly drew the battle line between the offspring of Priscilla and Weymouth. By the time the last bullet had been fired, Lynn Norkin was the only bloodline left standing. Her son was born a few months later in a small hotel room in Texas, thus his name, William “Tex” Norkin.
Brusco joined the team that drove Tex up to Hanover. They had decided to separate Tex from his partner, Gordie “Buzz” Gatlin. So while Tex would be questioned at the Hanover Police Department, Buzz would be taken to Norwich. It was the old ploy of separating co-conspirators for interrogation.
As they took Tex in, another group of officers broke into the apartment of Sheila McCray, Buzz Gatlin's on-again, off-again girlfriend. Sheila and Buzz bunked in a small two-room apartment perched over the garage of Mr. Haskins's gas station. Buzz and Sheila were inside the tiny bathroom enjoying each other when the door suddenly flew open. “Goddammit! At least let me finish my business,” Buzz growled at the officers and the phalanx of drawn guns. “Just settle on back and I'll be right with you.”
The troopers wrapped Sheila in a sheet and gave Buzz enough time to throw on jeans and work boots. They were surprised at his calm when he placed his own hands behind his back, as if he had been expecting them. “Don't worry, honey,” Buzz said to a crying Sheila. “Let me have a conversation with these boys, and ole Buzz will be back to finish what he started.”
Sterling and Wiley watched from one of the cruisers as they packed Buzz into the car. He was a big man with a heavy beard, but he looked entirely peaceful.
“That's one mean bastard,” Wiley said to Sterling.
“Why do they call him Buzz?” Sterling asked.
“One night he caught some guy hitting on his girlfriend and nasty words spilled into a brawl. Buzz was in a drunken stupor, and the other fella let him have it. But about two weeks later, they found the poor guy underneath one of the bridges. His body had been cut up into small pieces with a chain saw and stuffed into a crate.”
“Why is Buzz still a free man?”
“Never could pin it on him. Everyone knew he did it, but after years of trying to connect him to the murder, they came up with nothing. They've called him Buzz ever since.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Must've been about ten years ago. It was right before I was promoted to lieutenant.”
“Do you think he killed Wilson?”
Wiley shrugged. “Tough call,” he said. “Ever since that murder, Buzz has been kinda quiet. He talks the liberation bullshit, but that's about it. The question that has to be answered is why after all these years of just preaching hate, he would decide to commit murder and get caught so easily. Buzz Gatlin might be a country boy, but he ain't nobody's fool.”
The Hanover Police Department had squeezed in a makeshift interrogation room on the other side of the pit. Tex Norkin slumped back in his chair, pulling nonchalant drags on a cigarette, his long legs handcuffed to the table. A nervous-eyed officer stood in the corner of the room, his hand impatiently resting on his revolver. On the other side of the one-way mirror, it seemed like the entire investigation team had crammed inside the tiny observation room. Even Chief Gaylor graced them with an appearance, his first since the investigation started. Sterling eyed him carefully as he stood off in the corner, avoiding contact with the others. Though little light seeped into the room, his polished dome still shone like a fresh wax job. Unlike the other officers, he was dressed in street clothes. Sterling studied his face and wondered if he always wore that expression of apathy or if he was simply uninterested in the proceedings because they were interrupting his daily round of golf.
Brusco entered the interrogation room and took a seat across from Tex. The two men sized up each other before Brusco began.
“Tex, we want to ask you a few questions.”
“What's your name?” Tex said. His voice had the scratchy hoarseness of a chain-smoker whose larynx had finally been destroyed.
“Agent Brusco.”
“You don't have a first name?”
“Lonnie. Special Agent Lonnie Brusco.”
“Good, now we're getting somewhere. Are you arresting me, Lonnie?”
“No,” Brusco said. “We've just brought you in for questioning.”
“Then why am I strapped down like some goddamn criminal who raped your mother?” Tex pulled so hard on his cigarette, the insides of his hollow cheeks almost touched.
Brusco nodded to the officer, who unfastened the cuffs on Tex's legs. The officer's right hand remained near his holster.
“I have to tell you that this is completely voluntary,” Brusco said.
“So that means I can get up and walk out of here anytime I want?”
“Technically.”
Tex flashed a smile of rotten teeth. “Let me hear what you have to say first, then I'll make a decision.”
“Have you been in Hanover the last couple of weeks?”
“Nope. Not much up here I'm interested in. Well, 'cept those little college sweeties. You ever had 'em real young, Lonnie? They taste a lot better right after mommy and daddy drop 'em off at school. You look about old enough to have a daughter just the perfect age.”
Brusco kept his gaze fixed on Tex. He had handled a lot tougher. This lowlife was nothing more than a rookie. “Have any of your friends been up here? Anybody from the WLA?”
“Does she wear those tight little sweaters? Your daughter, that is. You know, the ones you almost have to rip when you take 'em off.” Brusco wasn't biting. “Looking at you,” Tex said, “I bet she's got a good head on her shoulders. Did you know the smart ones are the best? They almost always got some inferiority complex about their looks 'cause every boy in the school is running the other way after Susie the cheerleader. All you gotta do is whisper a few nice things to 'em, and they just melt in your hands.”
“Have any of your boys from the WLA been up here lately?” Brusco persisted.
Tex sucked on the cigarette, looked at the officer standing in the corner, then blew across the table into Brusco's face. “You're gonna have to ask them, Lonnie,” he said. “I ain't my brother's keeper.”
“Okay, then what have you been doing lately?”
“What I'm always doing—enlightenin' the masses to the importance of white liberation. This is our land, ya know. We have to protect our rights against foreigners and niggers and them damn Jews. Every time you turn around, another one has taken so
mething of ours.”
“How many members do you have?”
“Why? You wanna join?” Tex said, snickering. He tapped a long column of ashes on the table.
Sterling mentally recorded everything, including the way Tex held the cigarette with his thumb and index finger. He was a lanky, almost gaunt man, the kind whose pants were always too big and sleeves too short. But what most caught Sterling's attention were his fingernails—remarkably manicured, sparkling under a fresh coat of clear polish. Most women would be jealous. Most men would find it odd.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Professor Wilson Bledsoe?” Brusco asked.
Tex shook his head. “Don't ring a bell.”
“Jog your memory again,” Brusco said.
“I heard of a Wilson Bledsoe,” Tex said. “No nigger need to be walking around with the title Professor.”
“How do you know Professor Bledsoe?”
“I might not have some fancy degree and high-paying job, Lonnie. But even us mountain folk read the paper, ya know. Let me guess where you're from. Somewhere from the boring Midwest. That's right, the heartland of America, maybe Missouri or Kansas. But now you're all grown up, living near Boston. I can hear that cheap-sounding accent you adopted. All those ‘ahs' where you can't pronounce ‘r' anymore. And you don't live in the city, do ya? Still too fast for a prairie boy. Maybe a little ways out, somewhere like Revere or Waltham.”
Brusco never broke his stare. “Professor Bledsoe was murdered five days ago.”
“And whoever did it should be congratulated.” Tex smiled. “Them highfalutin niggers can be the worst, demanding equal rights and memberships in things they ain't even got no interest in. They just wanna join to ruin our purity. Slave mentality.”
Sterling stood quietly behind the mirror, watching Tex but also continuing to observe Gaylor. The security chief still hadn't said a word to any of the other men. He remained aloof, almost as if his mind were somewhere else. He looked uncomfortable with his arms folded tightly across his chest.