The Blackbird Papers

by Ian Smith

  Brusco reached inside a large manila envelope and slid a photograph across the table. An autopsy picture of the branded eagle. “Does this look familiar?”

  Tex smiled. “Ain't the symbol of liberty just a thing of beauty?”

  “Found on the dead body of Professor Bledsoe.”

  Tex looked at the picture again, as if taking a new interest. “Ain't our work then,” he said.

  “It's your signature. Your eagle has the diamond eye.”

  Tex pulled up his sleeve and showed Brusco his spindly right bicep. “Oh, it's definitely our eagle,” Tex said. “But I can tell you that none of my men killed that nigger. Unfortunately.”

  “Then how did this get there?”

  Tex shook his head. “You're the goddamn po-lice. Not me. You figure it out. As much as I'd like to lay claim to it, we ain't responsible for this. No way, no how.”

  “Maybe one of your members did it and you don't know about it. You just said you weren't your brother's keeper.”

  Tex moved in his chair. For the first time he seemed uncomfortable. He dragged twice on his cigarette before answering. “Let's not start twisting my words here. I know none of my men didn't do this 'cause I ain't commissioned it.”

  “Commissioned?”

  “That's right. Do you make moves without your superiors giving the goddamn okay? I know they're all sitting on the other side of that mirror watching you. Watching us. My men can't make a hit like this without me knowing.”

  “What about Buzz Gatlin? Does he need your approval before making a hit?”

  Tex thought hard. “Buzz and I are both generals,” he said. “Technically, one general ain't gotta consult the other, but out of respect, we always work as a team. Keeps our activities coordinated.”

  “Are you sure Buzz is gonna protect you like you're protecting him?”

  “Now the old divide-and-conquer routine, huh, Lonnie?” Tex choked a laugh. “Buzz and I go back a long way. We started this movement with just the two of us and built it up to what it is today. I know damn well that Buzz would never sell me out to a bunch of sorry-ass cowards hiding behind uniforms.”

  Brusco pulled back the photograph and slipped it into the envelope. There was a tap on the door, and the officer leaned his head out to talk to someone. He returned and whispered into Brusco's ear.

  “I think I'll be taking advantage of that voluntary clause and get the hell outta here,” Tex said. “It's obvious you boys ain't got nothing but a dead nigger.”

  “I'm afraid that option to leave is no longer valid,” Brusco said. Now he was the one smiling. “Seems like the computer found some of your outstanding summonses. You stood up Madame Justice a couple of times and now she wants an explanation.”

  “Bullshit!” Tex yelled, flicking the cigarette to the ground and jumping to his feet. His first display of physical aggression. The door flew open and a gang of police officers swarmed Tex; every one of them was needed to restrain his flailing limbs.

  Brusco turned back before leaving. “And as for your partner, Buzz Gatlin. In my experience, the prospect of serving life in the joint can make a man think real hard about what it means to be loyal.”

  19

  Buzz Gatlin sat solemnly at the small rectangular table, cracking his knuckles loud enough to be heard in the observation room on the other side of the one-way mirror. He was an enormous man, mostly fat, but his shoulders were broad and strong. His stump of a neck gingerly balanced his massive cranium. A woolly beard blanketed the lower half of his face, reducing his lips to nothing more than slits of dried flesh. His insulated plaid lumberjack shirt barely stretched across his chest and belly. What could be seen of his brass belt buckle looked like the shape of Texas. He was a big man no doubt, but he was surprisingly kempt. His rectangular wire-rimmed glasses softened his countenance, and Sterling could easily see him teaching a high-school chemistry class.

  Unlike Tex, who had asked for a cigarette the minute he sat down, Buzz requested three things: that day's edition of the New York Times crossword puzzle, a pen (because, according to him, he rarely if ever made mistakes), and a large black coffee with four packets of sugar. His only complaint was that the cuffs linking his legs to the chair were digging into his skin, something that couldn't be fixed since they had already used the biggest pair in the station.

  The locals had already convicted the two men of murder in their minds, but Sterling remained skeptical, even doubtful. Maybe it was because most of his cases had been complicated and the investigations long, but he had never been involved in a murder case with so few clues and suddenly the suspects got picked up so easily. The branded eagle was the only real evidence linking them to Wilson's murder, but even that was too convenient. They might as well have just walked themselves into the station and confessed.

  The observation room wasn't as packed as it had been in Hanover. There were either fewer officers attending the spectacle or the room was a little larger—Sterling couldn't tell which. But what remained the same was Chief Gaylor standing back from the rest, his arms folded across his chest, a look of disinterest turning down the corners of his mouth. He had no official role in the investigation, but Sterling had already surmised that he was the eyes and ears of the college. Mortimer might have been keeping a comfortable distance from the central investigation, but Sterling was certain he was being apprised of the developments. Solving the murder quickly meant the school could leave the whole horrible mess behind and get on with the business of education.

  Buzz sat quietly, sipping his coffee and working the crossword puzzle. He grunted occasionally when a question stumped him. Then he smiled when he finally figured out the answer.

  “Don't be fooled,” Wiley whispered to Sterling. “Looks like the perfect gentleman, but that sonuvabitch would carve your heart out with a dull pocket knife and not think twice about it.”

  “What does he do?”

  “According to the Claremont boys, he works part-time fixing televisions and other electronics. Supposed to be damn good at it, too. The rest of the time he's organizing the WLA, holding meetings and stuff. Informationals, they call 'em. He's the real brains behind the operation. Tex is more a front man.”

  “Any relatives?”

  “Not sure. They think a cousin or two somewhere out West, but they don't keep in touch much. At least according to the phone records. He was an only child and his parents died in a boating accident when he was a teenager. He spent some time with an aunt, but he nearly ate her out of house and home. A neighbor took him in till he was old enough to go out on his own.”

  “Have they found the neighbor?”

  “Moved somewhere up in northern Vermont. They're trying to track her down as we speak.”

  “Anything in the way of education? Not many people can do the Times puzzle with a pen.”

  “Not much, believe it or not. He taught himself most of what he knows. They say he's been reading books since he was little. Memorized the entire Constitution in grade school. He'd stand in front of the supermarket and recite it for anyone willing to part with some change. The man's got a decent head on his shoulders.”

  “Not your run-of-the-mill murderer.”

  “No, but he's more than capable. Just as sure as I'm standing here, he killed that man down in Claremont and chopped him up. He's got a mean streak running through him that don't wanna end.”

  Brusco entered the room, and Buzz looked up from his paper quizzically, then nodded in greeting.

  “I'm Special Agent Lonnie Brusco,” Brusco said as he took his seat. He dispensed with the bit about this being a voluntary appearance. Gatlin's background check already showed that he had missed two court dates for a speeding ticket on I-91 earlier in the year. The outstanding warrants were enough to keep him in for a few days, or as long as they could bungle the paperwork.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Brusco?” Buzz said. He creased the newspaper and straightened in his chair.

  “We've had some serious trouble up here,
and I was hoping you could answer a few questions for us.” Buzz said nothing. “Let's start by talking about your organization, the WLA. What exactly do you do?”

  “Are you forgetting something, Mr. Brusco?”

  Brusco shrugged his shoulders.

  “Don't you want to ask me if I want legal representation before answering your questions?”

  “You haven't been charged with anything. Yet. I'm just trying to get your help with some questions.”

  Buzz thought for a moment, flipping the pen in his hands. “Our organization is one of the purest patriotic groups in the country. We are constitutionalists, the protectors of the rights granted to us by our Founding Fathers.”

  “Would that include the right to commit murder?”

  “Consult the Second Amendment, Mr. Brusco. ‘A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.'”

  “But in your opinion, does that mean you have the right to commit murder?”

  “Depends on whether the government is protecting our rights.”

  “And which rights might those be?”

  “The inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Buzz paused for a pull of his coffee. “It's right in the second paragraph of the Declaration of Independence. ‘That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,—That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.' We have a right to be safe and happy.”

  Brusco nodded his head slowly. Buzz Gatlin would be much tougher to crack than Tex Norkin. He was not a dumb man.

  “Have you or any of your men had any activities up here?”

  “This is a dead zone,” Buzz said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “There aren't enough potential comrades to support the movement up here. We tried a few years back, but most of these kids are brainwashed with far-out liberal ideas. College towns aren't a great breeding ground for our mandate.”

  “So that means you haven't been here in the last couple of weeks?”

  “I haven't been here since Nixon swung through back in seventy-one. Talk about the fall of a great man. The party hasn't been right ever since.”

  “How many members do you have in the WLA?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Care to share their names?”

  “We're not a secret organization, Mr. Brusco. We're proud of what we stand for. Do you want to write them down or shall I?”

  Brusco motioned to the officer, who produced a small pad and placed it on the table. Buzz calmly wrote down the names and slid the pad to Brusco. Sterling didn't have a clear view of the pad, but Buzz's writing seemed to be neat and tight.

  “What kinds of activities is your army involved in?” Brusco asked.

  “Mostly community service,” Buzz said. “We do a lot with the veterans. After putting their lives on the line for this great country, they got a raw deal in the end. We try to help them out as much as we can. Everything from getting health benefits to work around the house if things need fixing.”

  “Noble,” Brusco sighed.

  “That's the idea behind the group. We do a lot of good, but most people just don't understand it.”

  “You know of a Professor Wilson Bledsoe?”

  “Who doesn't? His name has been all over the radio and papers. Even our little Claremont Bee has run stories on him. Who would kill a man doing such good?”

  “Cut the shit, Buzz. Your men killed Bledsoe and you couldn't give a damn.”

  Buzz took more coffee. “Killing isn't something I believe in. It's usually best to work things out peacefully, like civil-minded people.”

  Back in the observation room, Wiley rolled his eyes at Sterling.

  Brusco opened the envelope and slid the photograph across the table. “Is this your idea of peaceful?”

  Buzz surveyed the photo of Bledsoe's disfigured body. He swallowed hard, but his expression never changed. Then Brusco handed him a second photo. Buzz turned it several times until he got the correct orientation. He nodded slowly. “That's our eagle,” he said. “But we didn't put it there.”

  “Who did?”

  “No idea. Maybe someone trying to implicate us.”

  “Possibly commissioned by Tex Norkin?”

  “Not at all. I would've known beforehand.”

  “Not according to Tex. He said that as a general he could commission a hit without your approval.” Buzz flipped the pen in his hands. He didn't appear as calm as he had just minutes ago. “He also said that you could do the same,” Brusco said.

  “He told you all that, huh?”

  “Just an hour ago.” The two men stared at each other. “Anything you'd like to say about that?” Brusco asked.

  “Sure. Now I'd like to speak to my attorney.”

  There was a collective sigh in the observation room. Wiley nudged Sterling. A few of the men slapped hands.

  “They didn't do it,” Wiley whispered to Sterling. “I can't put my finger on it, but something's not right about this.”

  Gaylor walked toward the observation room door and opened his mouth for the first time. “Don't make it harder than it has to be, Agent Bledsoe,” he said. “These two lowlifes murdered your brother.” Then Gaylor unfolded his twill blazer and slipped it on. Time now for that round of golf.

  20

  After Kay had gone to bed that night, Sterling locked himself in Wilson's study and booted the computer. He waited patiently, then logged on to the Internet and called up Google. He typed in “chogan” and within seconds the search engine had produced more than three thousand hits. He scrolled through the first page and found an esoteric website index created by Chad Hogan. The garbled text spelled out a list of instructions that created a header and footer for Internet HTML pages. By the looks of Hogan's e-mail address, he was part of the astronomy department at the University of California, Irvine. Sterling jotted down the address, which began with chogan—an obvious combination of his first and last names.

  The next entry was more interesting. It was devoted to the game of polo, also known as chogan. The Circle of Ancient Iranian Studies, part of the School of Oriental and African Studies at the University of London, provided a detailed history, suggesting that the Chinese learned the game from Iranian nobility who sought refuge in Chinese courts after the invasion of the Iranian Empire by the Arabs. The history explored another possibility—that Indians were also taught by the Iranians. According to the website, polo claimed an exalted place in Chinese culture, especially under the rule of Ming Huang, the Radiant Emperor, an enthusiastic patron of equestrian activities. He was so fond of the sport that he mandated that chogan sticks appear on the Chinese royal coat of arms. But the game's acceptance quickly deteriorated under Emperor T'ai Tsu, who ordered all the other players beheaded after one of his favorite players was killed in a match.

  Sterling finished reading the history, but still couldn't find anything that might be in any way connected to Wilson or his research. He printed out the text and continued searching the other entries.

  Next he found the Chogan Ugama, part of the Royal Regalia of the Sultan of Brunei. The gallery photo showed an ancient silver religious mace. Nice but seemingly irrelevant. The next website was that of the Chogan Bed and Breakfast in Coventry, England. Wilson and Kay had visited the United Kingdom several times over the last few years, both for pleasure and as part of Wilson's lecture schedule. Maybe this was where they had stayed on one of their trips. Was Wilson directing him there? Sterling wrote down the address and phone number. He would ask Kay about it or call the bed-and-breakfast himself.

  Then he found it. Sitting in the middle of the third p
age of results. Damian Cherry's myth simply titled “The Story of Two Blackbirds.” Sterling clicked on the entry, and the brightness of the page lit up the room. Images of white cumulus clouds floating in a pale blue sky filled the background. The text was simple.

  THE STORY OF TWO BLACKBIRDS

  BY DAMIAN CHERRY

  Long ago there was a tribe called the Ojibwa. They were a large tribe of about 6,000 known for being great warriors and creative artists. They lived between the Nemadji River and Lake Superior in Minnesota, before being chased into eastern Wisconsin by the French explorers and traders. There was a little boy named Chogan who loved everyone and everything and was loved by all in return. Chogan had been given his name by the Ojibwa chieftain, because his jet-black hair and free spirit were similar to the friendly blackbird who traveled openly across the empty wilderness. Chogan had a warmth to his presence that could heat cold rooms on a winter day and make those who were sad feel good again. But what he was most known for was his singing. As he walked among the fields of crops or the banks of the river, he sang songs that he heard the animals sing. His voice was so beautiful that people would come from miles around to hear the singing Chogan. Even the French traders would ask for him, to hear his lovely voice.

  One summer day, Chogan was playing along the river, singing his songs and collecting rocks. Ganzera, the goddess of the mountain birds, heard his courageous voice and flew down in the form of a bald eagle to listen closely to the boy. Ganzera was known for her magical powers. She approached Chogan and told him that his love for the wild and his free spirit were qualities that others should always admire. As a reward for his gentle heart and beautiful voice, she would grant him any wish he desired. Chogan thought long and hard and even considered making himself the chief of the tribe or a rich French trader. Then he saw a pair of blackbirds flying together across the water, singing along as they played together, letting the world know how happy they felt. Chogan decided he would forever become not just one bird but two birds, to represent those he now watched flying loops in the sky. The first bird would be all black, except for the red feathers on his shoulders to represent the fire of passion to love all that is good. The second bird would be smaller and have black and white and brown feathers to represent the truth that the white traders and the different Indians could live together as one if they all agreed to be happy and kind.