The concrete and asphalt meet in a modern, coherent way, offering both aesthetic and functionality. I definitely couldn’t be content in a place where the air itself seems to sweat, but I may also be more of a city boy than I previously thought.
I almost burn my hand on the steering wheel when I go to start the car, a side effect of the heat that two weeks’ worth of experience has not yet conditioned me for. It doesn’t help that Todd and I keep his car in a shady garage, so the sun doesn’t have opportunity to turn its accessories into lava-hot instruments of death.
After running the cooling for a minute, I enter Geoffrey Smith’s address into my phone’s navigational software, which in turn produces a solid blue line tracing my route-to-be through downtown Phoenix. He’s closer than I anticipated, and I almost consider walking.
Almost.
Instead, I embark on my short journey in Todd’s air-conditioned Honda. I scan through radio channels to try to find something I can stomach for the drive there, but only turning up commercials and overplayed pop music.
I arrive with my destination on my right at 7.36 p.m. The lights in the house are on, and though I can’t make out any definite shapes, there’s certainly activity going on in the house, shadows and silhouettes weaving and playing. I wonder whether Geoffrey has any kids, whether his friends and family call him Geoff, and what he likes to do with his free time. I wonder whether his family is on board with the whole white supremacy thing, or if they even know about it.
The house is boxy, modern, with plenty of windows. The exterior is mostly black, with splashes of white or gray in the form of decorative side beams or railings. The porch features a matching patio set, a soft, sky-blue in the cushions to contrast the vast amount of black. In front, a rectangular patch of earth has recently been upturned, in preparation for fall-winter planting.
To the side of the house, an enclosed carport houses a massive Ford pickup, lifted and gleaming. However, judging by the scuffs, scratches, and dents in the bed, it’s well used. The chrome rims complement the truck’s dark gray paint job, and a bumper sticker reads, “In God We Trust,” without additional commentary or an accompanying picture, as I would have expected. No political agenda or subtly racist rhetoric.
Just God and trucks, like a bad country song.
Parked next to the truck is an equally clean four-door sedan, bearing no bumper stickers, but with a decal of a pair of flip flops, accompanied by a wavy script: I’d rather be in Hawaii! The exclamation mark is dotted with a small, cartoonish hand: Hang loose!
What little grass has survived the scorching summer (so far) is neatly trimmed and clings to its last bit of green with admirable desperation, and the dirt and yellow grass that fill the rest of the modest yard even seem to have been groomed to a degree.
Potted cacti stand at attention as I approach the front door. I ring the doorbell, and the smooth chime echoes through the house for only a few seconds before the door swings open.
Geoff Smith is almost unrecognizable. His mugshot had displayed a man with no life in his eyes or his demeanor, with piercings in his ears, lips, septum, and even a cheekbone stud. He had worn the trying-too-hard-to-look-tough expression that we often see on those who think they have a reputation with which to preoccupy themselves. Eyes distant, chin up, slightly tilted to the side. He’d had a shaved head, his auburn eyebrows the only remaining indicator of his hair color.
The man standing before me has no visible piercings, a full head of that same auburn hair, and a face that has discovered not only life, but a love for it and love within it.
“Can I help you?” he asks. He smiles in a way that makes me think of Ned Flanders.
“Geoffrey Smith?” I say.
“Yes, sir. At your service.”
Well. This throws my game plan for a loop. I was expecting to have to go on the offensive right off the bat, keeping up an onslaught until he caved. Instead, I sense that he’d give me the food from his table if I so much as look famished.
“Geoffrey Smith of Whitehorse?”
At the mention of the name, he takes on a combination of shame, embarrassment, and defensiveness.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not like that anymore, though. Please don’t be angry with me.”
“I just need some information, if you’ve got it,” I say. I flash my badge.
“Ah, Jesus—another one? I thought they were done with those.”
“They?”
“Whitehorse. Umm … maybe you should come in. I’ll explain everything.”
The interior of the house is still kind of modern, but with far more homey, sentimental touches. Photographs line the walls in the main hall, pictures of Smith and … his black wife. If there was any remaining doubt in my mind about his transformation, it’s gone now.
He has two kids, by the look of it, both in their teens. A young man and a young woman, in pure ecstasy being in each other’s presence, or so the photograph suggests. But, as I hear them in some other part of the house, it’s not far from the truth.
The furniture in his living room is vibrantly cozy, a place where one can put his feet up after a hard day or entertain guests. A book is open, face up, on the side table at the far end of the couch, and a pair of reading glasses sits in its seam. I can’t tell what book it is, but it’s a thick, pungent volume whose odor stirs up memories of elementary school libraries and used book stores. The kind of book which one curls up with on a rainy Sunday morning.
“So. Where to begin …” Smith says.
I consider interrupting him, letting him save his breath and getting right to the point, but curiosity wins; I want to hear this story.
“Well,” he says,” I guess you already know about Whitehorse. I was in a dark, dark place when I started that. Heavy into hard drugs, a couch-surfing bum, just thinking about where I could get my next fix. It had taken over my life. But then I met Janae. She pissed me right off, at first, in my drug-induced hysteria. She talked to me in a stern, firm way and I couldn’t believe that some ethnic chick was going to try to tell me what to do. I was with some friends—other users, we’re not in touch anymore—and we got hungry. We walked into the first twenty-four-hour diner we could find and barged in, high as a kite and ready to fuck shit up. In walks a sassy black chick to tell us we need to shut up or get out. Well, my buddies at the time, they were pretty big dudes: all of ’em well over six foot, two hundred pounds. But there wasn’t a drop of fear in her eyes. And that’s when I realized that what I was, what I was doing—it wasn’t ordained of God, it was ordained of me. And I don’t have the authority to make something okay if it isn’t by its own merit.”
I nod, intrigued. This sounds like a show he’s put on before, and I itch to see the next act.
“So then I realized, if I’m not a man of God, like I’d been foolin’ myself into believing, then what am I? You know what I was? A bully. A bully and a coward, blaming God for my problems when I’m plenty good at causin’ ’em on my own.”
“Then what? What comes after discovering that you’re not quite who you thought you were?”
“Well, I had to rethink myself, obviously. Did a lot of reflecting on how I was treatin’ people. Good people, honest folks. And there I was tellin’ ’em to eat shit because they were black or Mexican or Vietnamese or whatever. I thought about that for a good long while, had a think on it. I went back to that little diner and Ms. Sassy almost has me back out the door ’fore I can say a word to her.”
I chuckle.
Geoffrey continues: “But finally I got to where she would let me apologize and we got to talkin’. Now, mister, uh …”
“Thorn.”
“Mr. Thorn, when you have such deep-seated prejudices and predispositions, they don’t go away overnight. After so long, your brain’s wired itself to react a certain way automatically. But Janae taught me a lesson real quick. Talked circles around me in art, science, history, politics, you name it. And then my world crumbled. My world of hate and hurt. It was foreig
n in a good, distant way and I learned to appreciate people as humans. And when that evil, hateful part of me melted away, it made room for the more positive, loving, hopeful parts of my personality to take root and grow.”
“Wow. Quite the story.” It’s true, but it doesn’t much help my mission. “All in under a year, huh?”
He laughs, an appreciative bark of a laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. Wow. Hey Janae, you realize we’ve known each other less than a year?”
“Damn, you’re right!” calls a voice from the kitchen. Janae has a sweet voice, like a mango milkshake brought to life and given sentience.
His eyes fade for a moment, likely reminiscing on the memories with his new lover. I don’t call him out of it.
When his gaze returns to now, I say, “Do you still have contact information from the old days? Anyone from Whitehorse?” At this point, I sincerely doubt his involvement, a doubt which extends to that of his past affiliates. Still, though, I intend to carry out what I came here to do.
“I don’t. I remember their names, though. Maybe you could find them on Facebook or something?”
I say, “Well, just tell me this: were there well-kept records of meetings and such?”
“Like, did we take roll? Sure. It was more formal than you might think. We were gathering, in large part, in order to effect political change. Nothing ever came of it, thank god, but at least until I left, attendance records were made of every meeting or other event.”
“And who might one contact to get ahold of such records?”
“Harvey Schickman. He’s been the historian since the beginning. Don’t use my name, or he’ll shoot you then and there; he and I had a serious falling out when I came to my senses. I’ll forever be known as ‘That Traitor Bitch’ to him.
“How did the rest of them take it?”
“They were fine with it. Not as much drama as I expected, honestly.”
The smells of dinner, which I can now identify as potatoes, gravy, and roast pork, are beginning to fade, to be replaced by the sweet odors of banana bread.
“What was your relationship with Martin Pacheco?” I suppose I jumped the gun a little bit with this one. Oops.
“Ah, that guy. I remember him. He was my neighbor, growing up. Back in Wometzia. We had this idea that he was this rude and grumpy old man, but most likely it was all in our heads. We kids just wanted a Boo Radley figure, I think. Heard he passed away a bit back. Sad news.”
“You heard right,” I say. It’s now that I decide not to mention his grandson, Pacheco III.
“How are things back in town? I haven’t been to The Metz in years.”
“We’re surviving. Things are a little uneasy, but we’ll manage.”
“Good. Good.”
A length of small talk takes place before I finally leave, Janae following me to the door with insistent urging to take half a loaf of bread with me (Go on, you’ll never find a better banana bread, says Geoff).
If I were told before going in that I would emerge with a hunk of banana bread under my arm, I’d have laughed my ass into next week. But alas, here I am, toting my treat, still yet no closer to my killer.
Have I just wasted an entire day? Letting it slip through its various hourglasses is a grave mistake—one that I don’t intend to repeat. Now I realize that indeed this could have been a phone call. But that’s not something I could have known beforehand. I took the necessary precautions, but in terms of time spent, they were quite expensive.
I get in the car and drive back to the hotel, grateful for the exaggerated shadows that accompany the summer sunset. The sky is a smattering of yelloworangered, with some life in it yet. I consider swinging by and picking up some food somewhere on my way back, but stop myself when I realize that Todd will probably want to get out of the motel to eat.
When I get back to the hotel, Todd is sitting in front of the noisy air conditioner in only his underwear. He looks at me when I walk in, in a sort of pleading, pitiful way.
“Get dressed,” I say. “Let’s go out to eat. Somewhere cold.”
“Done.”
He’s dressed in under a minute, and we end up in a mercifully cool Chipotle. Food takes priority over conversation this time, and by the time any meaningful words are exchanged, we’re both almost through our food.
“How was the racist guy?”
“Married to a black chick with two kids from her first husband.”
He laughs.
“No, I’m serious. It was bizarre. I’d have thought he was bullshitting me, but there’s no way he could execute that level of lying and staging. Just no way. It was this picture-perfect little interracial family. Quiet, respectful. Confusing as hell, honestly.”
“Well, did you get any good intel?”
“Nothing all that useful. I got the name of the historian for Whitehorse, but I think we’re wasting time here. I think you were right; we missed our exit, and now we need to backtrack.”
“So do we have anything else to do while we’re here?”
“I’m not sure. By the looks of it, there was no involvement from Smith and his guys, so our to-do list just shrank to nonexistence. I get the feeling that, more than any other case I’ve worked, at least, time is of the essence.” Lending voice to this thought brings on a sense of greater urgency.
“Wanna head back now, then? You’ll need to drive if so; I’m wrecked from the trip here.”
“What a waste of time, though.”
“Hmm. What can we do here before we leave, to make it worth it?”
“I can think of one thing, but I don’t trust the motel bed.”
“Ah, shit, you’re right,” Todd says. “Netflix sounds prime right now.”
We laugh and clear our table.
“Let’s be real though, that dump won’t have anything close to enough bandwidth for Netflix.”
“Truth.”
“Hmm. I think I may check out this Schickman guy, after all. Even for the small chance of coincidence or something. I’ll drop you off at the motel and come pick you up at nine? Even if I do have something else to do, I don’t much like the idea of getting eaten by whatever has infested that bed.”
“Just don’t let it hear you say that; it has a temper.”
“I’d hate to find that out the hard way.”
“It was rough.”
“Pun intended?”
“Always.”
Five
After I drop Todd off with the angry bed, I pull out the list I made earlier, to see if Harvey was among the masses that got copied and pasted.
Russon, Eileen and Sorenson, and Boomer sit snugly together; no room for Schickman here.
I get my phone out of my pants pocket and wipe a thin layer of sweat off the screen, knowing that I’ll have to do so again as soon as the conversation is over.
In my recent calls list, I see the number of the station (labeled in my phone as ‘Other Home’), but my thumb gravitates farther down the list, and before I can stop it, Beth picks up.
“Hey, nerd,” she says through a mouthful of something—probably a burger.
“Hey, Beth. How are things?”
“Hmmmmmmm,” she says. She draws out the noise as if each ‘m’ were a word in the spiel she’s about to firehose me with. “Well, the town is in a perpetual state of borderline riot, because you left. People every god damn day, protesting your departure, like it’ll do anything. We even had to shut down a small man hunt when they thought they knew who did it. They thought it was Jackson, but I kindly reminded them that he’s in fucking jail and has been for several months now! Meanwhile, Patrick surfaced again, apparently emboldened by your absence. He became much easier to handle when I told him that I might let it slip that he put a brick through your window all those years ago.”
“Jesus, I’d forgotten all about that,” I say.
Shortly after Beth broke things off with Patrick, he slipped into a sort of jealousy-fueled frenzy in which he mailed things to Beth, left them on her doorstep, and p
aid for her coffee before she could get there, so she changed her drink to the most expensive coffee they could possibly think up, just to spite him.
This was the type of rage in which, in Patrick’s mind, Beth was his sacred property, and anything having to do with her was, by extension, sacred. And any male friends Beth had were threats either to her sanctity or his possession of her. In my case, both. So one night, he showed up at my place, and threw a brick through my bedroom window. I figure he couldn’t bring himself to break the amount of glass housed in my living room window. The mere shock of what he had done rooted him to the broken, uneven asphalt outside my apartment for long enough for me to spot and identify him. I screamed a string of expletives at him and he ran away. Sometimes I amuse myself by imagining how many times it took him to hit his mark. He probably needed a couple of bricks; possibly even needed more bricks after the first rebounded off of the building wall and broke in two, three pieces from tumbling back to the ground.
Patrick. Oh, Patrick.
“Anyway, what’s up?” Beth says.
“Well, I’m working a case and was about to call the station but then I saw your name and now it’s now.”
“Succinct. I like it. What’s the case? Anything interesting?”
“Definitely. I might even be in over my head.”
“You?” The incredulity in her voice flatters me.
I tell her about the case and the very, very careful steps that the killer didn’t take. About the trip thus far, and my conversation with Geoffrey Smith.
“Do you think you’ll get anything useful from whatsisface? Dickman?”
“Schickman.”
“Close enough. Answer the question.”
“No, an—”
“Then get the fuck out of there. Damn, Thorn, ya got taxpayers’ money paying you to do this and you’re knowingly barking up the wrong tree? Go get a fresh lead and some fresh underwear and get your shit together. God damn.”
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