Now They Call Me Gunner

by Thom Whalen

  * * *

  When I awoke early on Wednesday morning, I was bleary with fatigue but I knew that I’d never get back to sleep. I dressed and rode straight to the police station.

  Officer Monsour recognized me. “What are you doing here? Your buddy Randal is long gone. You know that.”

  “I’ve got to speak to Chief Albertson.”

  “What about?”

  “About the murder of Billy Paul.”

  “You know something about the murder?”

  “I know everything about the murder.”

  “What do you know?”

  “What I’m going to tell Chief Albertson.”

  “You can tell me and I’ll pass the word along. Then he can decide if he wants to talk to you.”

  “No. I’ll talk to him directly.” I might have only one kick at the can, so I wasn’t going to let my story get mangled in the re-telling. Albertson was going to hear the whole thing straight from the horse’s mouth.

  “Well, he’s not in yet. He doesn’t get in until nine.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “That’ll be an hour and forty-five minutes from now.”

  “I’ll wait.” I sat on the bench that was pushed against the wall facing Monsour’s desk. After a minute, I said, “You got a pad of paper and a pen. And some place I can write?”

  “You going to write out a confession?”

  “A report. I didn’t kill anybody. I’m just a witness.”

  “You saw Billy Paul get killed?”

  “No. I wasn’t there. I’ve just learned some stuff since then.”

  “We don’t have any spare desks. You’re going to have to write in your lap.”

  “Okay.”

  He disappeared through a door and returned a minute later with two pens and a ruled pad. “If you want a table, you can wait in the interrogation room.”

  “Okay.”

  He led me into a small room in the back that had two chairs and a small table between them. I sat and he closed the door.

  It clicked. I got up and tried to turn the knob. Locked. No matter; I had a lot to write about.

  It took about an hour and a half to write out more than ten pages but I got it all down. How I’d convinced the Road Snakes that I could help them join the Hells Angels and how they’d told me the whole story of The Doll’s rape and their murder of Billy Paul to avenge her and where the evidence could be found.

  I could only hope that the police would get to the evidence before Wasp got smart and destroyed it.

  I left out any mention of drugs, Betty being offered to me, Katie almost getting raped, or high-speed motorcycle chases in the night. There was a lot that the police didn’t need to know.

  When the door opened, Albertson and Monsour both came into the room.

  “Officer Monsour tells me that you have information about the murder of Billy Paul,” Albertson said.

  “I wrote it all down,” I replied, pushing the pad toward him.

  “Tell me.” He ignored the pad and took the other seat.

  I told him pretty much what I’d written down.

  When I finished, he said, “That’s a pretty tall tale, son. I find it hard to believe a word of it.”

  “You don’t have to believe it. You just have to get a search warrant for the Road Snakes’ clubhouse and go get the evidence. That’s what will convict them, not my story.”

  “Nothing in your story will convict anyone. It’s all hearsay. You didn’t see anything yourself. You just heard someone else telling stories. Tall tales to make themselves look good.”

  “I saw the knives that they used. And Billy Paul’s things. I saw that with my own eyes. You have to go get the evidence before they destroy it. And then you have to question the Road Snakes individually. You’ll have all that you need to convict them quick enough.”

  “You don’t tell me how to do my job.” He stared at me with open hostility.

  “I’m not telling you how to do your job. I’m just giving you all the information that I can so that you can investigate further.”

  “I don’t know why I should do that. I’ve got Randal dead to rights for the murder.”

  “You’ve got a soap opera motive and a knife with some unidentified blood on it. If you think that’s enough, you should check with the district attorney.”

  “You telling me what to do, again?”

  “No. I’m just telling you that what I’ve got written down there is enough reasonable doubt that Randal will never even go to trial.”

  He gestured to the open door. “Get out of my police station.”

  I stood. But before I left, I said, “You’ve got to search the clubhouse right away. If you don’t act quickly on what I’ve told you, there’ll be questions about whether you did your job. Questions that Randal’s defense attorney will raise in open court.”

  “Get out!” This time Albertson was yelling it.

  I left.