Bedford sat unblinking before her and curled his fingers to coax out the story lingering deep beneath these nothing words.
“My partner and I were responding to a domestic abuse call in Lawndale,” she said. “We’d get called there every couple months, always to the same apartment. Always the same thing, every time. Father beating up on his kids. He used a belt, sometimes an open hand. But it’s tough with those sorts of calls because, when it’s a parent, they can just call it discipline.”
“Discipline,” Bedford repeated, smiling.
“So I take a report and have to hand it off to DCFS and let them take it from there. But they must have not found much, because every few months I was back down there knocking on that same door. Same thing every time. Then I got the call for a fourth time. I show up and I hear the kids behind the door screaming. A boy and a girl. It was like they were screaming so loud you can hardly make sense of it. Just terror. Pure terror. Even behind the door, I was hearing the slap of a leather belt against skin. Over and over and over. You want to talk about excessive force? What I heard behind that door was excessive force.”
She paused. This was the first time she had ever spoken the story aloud since being put on leave. She was frightened by the crystalline quality of the memory of that day, these months later.
“Keep going,” Bedford said. “You’re not done.”
“My partner knocked on the door, loud, and I was just sort of standing there. I must have been thinking something, but I just remember staring at the door. And as soon as the father opened the door with that fucking smile on his face I grabbed him by the neck and threw him to the ground. I wasn’t planning on doing it. It just happened. I did it, and I didn’t know why, but I did it. And it was like someone else was doing it, and I was only watching.”
“And then?” he said.
“And then? I pinned him under my knees and choked him. I felt his heartbeats slowing down. I felt it through my fingertips.”
“Keep going.”
“I dug my fingers in his neck like I wanted to pop his head off his body. And I might have done it, but my partner wrestled me off. Not until after the father lost consciousness. Of course, when he regained it, he threatened to sue, and I’m placed on unpaid administrative leave for ‘an indefinite period of time after review.’” She shook her head. “So, there you go,” she said, opening her hands, showed that they were empty, nothing left concealed. “You satisfied?”
“You got off soft,” Baxter said after a moment, but there was a new texture somewhere beneath his hardened voice, a softer edge undercutting the clipped words. Fighting a smile. “Me myself, I would have just shot the asshole in the head and been done with it.”
Bambi began to kick and yip in her sleep. Bedford nudged her with his toe until she bolted upright, scanning the walls for the apparitions of a dream.
“So if you’re not a cop,” Bedford said, “what are you doing here? You said something about the Kingfisher, but if you were here to chat about that asshole, it probably could have waited until morning.”
She cleared her throat. “Have you been watching the news?”
“No, no, no.” He shook his head slow and even like a hypnotist’s watch. “I don’t own a television. No phone. I don’t like the electronics humming constantly. They’ll give you cancer just by thinking about them. But I was visiting my daughter and grandchildren in Indianapolis for the past few days. I got back just this morning. My daughter had the television on while I was there, though. That girl’s always glued to whatever screen is nearest to her. She was watching the news and I could hear what was happening. I said, ‘Turn that noise off.’ Not that she listened to me, of course, but that’s what I told her.”
“So you didn’t actually see it? The video?”
“No. Heard it, but I wouldn’t watch it.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, letting the word ring. “Why would I want to watch that? I don’t care about that shit. I don’t want my grandchildren seeing that garbage neither. No one ought to watch that. Just because you can see something, doesn’t mean you ought to. That’s what no one seems to understand these days. Whole world open for you. But doesn’t mean you’re ready for it.”
“Does your family know about your connection to the Kingfisher? Do they know that you saw him?”
He seemed unsurprised that she knew this about him and simply shook his head.
“My daughter knows, but she hasn’t told my grandchildren. She won’t. That girl, she won’t even talk about it with me. So, no, they don’t know and won’t ever know. But one day, they’ll learn that I was a criminal. I know that day will come. All they got to do is put my name in their computers, their phones, and see that I got booked for intention to sell in ’86. They’ll see I spent years staring at a fucking wall. And then they’ll know who their grandfather was once upon a time. And I bet they won’t ever look at me the way they do right now. It’ll change forever, the way they look at me. But they don’t know it yet, and I’m grateful for it. I just want to enjoy every second that they don’t know who their grandfather really is or was or whatnot.”
Baxter stood up and retrieved a framed picture from the kitchen counter. He slid it across the card table as though submitting evidence. Tillman picked it up. Three shining faces, precisely arranged one next to the other. She immediately saw the family resemblance to their grandfather. The same slender faces, up-to-no-good grins.
“The boy in the middle, there”—Bedford reached forward and pointed a finger at a boy wearing a LeBron James jersey, side-eyeing the camera, his sly smile revealing several missing baby teeth. “Name’s Jordan. As in Michael Jordan. His dad named him. I was at the hospital when he was born. The first and last time I ever been thankful to God in heaven. It was his birthday a few days ago. That’s why I was in Indianapolis.”
Tillman smiled and handed the photograph back. Bedford set it in front of him.
Tillman lowered her voice and crossed her hands in front of her. “You need to know something. About that video that was released.”
“Go ahead.”
She paused, “The hostage who was killed was Walter Williams.”
Bedford smiled disbelievingly, like she was holding off on a punch line. “Now I know you’re fucking with me.”
“It’s true,” she said.
He stared back at her, the smile slowly dissolving. “Bullshit. Walter got out of the game way back when.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bedford.”
“Don’t call me mister,” he said sharply. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I could show you the video.”
“Fuck that.”
“The hostage killed was Walter Williams. And I hear there was another video released recently.” She cleared her throat, hoping to make space for the words she wasn’t sure she had. “I haven’t seen it yet. But I’m told the gunman is threatening to kill another hostage. Would you mind if I showed you the latest video?”
“What good will that do?” he spat.
“Just in case you recognize the hostage.”
“I don’t want to see that shit.” He pointed at her phone. “Get that out of here. I’m not playing with you. Put that away.”
Her training told her to speak calmly in order to relax the person she was speaking to. But she knew men like Baxter Bedford. Men who responded not to calm deference, but to steel resolve. “Mr. Bedford”—she raised her voice and leaned forward—“you are being selfish right now. If you recognize the person in this video, it could save his life. Why wouldn’t you want to do that?”
He folded his arms and craned his head. His tongue wandered the inside of his cheek. “You bust down my door, demand to take up my time, feed me all these bullshit lies, and still have the nerve left over to call me selfish?”
“Only because you are.”
He reached out his hand. “Give it here, then. Calling me selfish, Jesus Almighty.”
She pres
sed play on the video and handed it to him. She couldn’t see the latest video, but she could hear it. She heard the gunman’s digitized voice. But she wasn’t paying it much mind. Her focus fell entirely on Bedford’s face as he squinted at the screen in his hands. She saw his eyes widen, and then his lips part. His shoulders hunched as he brought himself closer to the image, while a tremor passed through his fingers, moving quickly to his arms, as though an electric current were working its way through his body. The phone slipped from his fingers and onto the table. He pushed it back to her forcefully and cracked his knuckles. His lips pressed together so tightly they nearly disappeared.
Tillman let a moment pass before asking him, “Did you recognize the hostage?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Mr. Bedford, who was the hostage in that video?”
He cleared his throat. “Penny,” Bedford said finally, his room-wandering voice reduced to a scratchy whisper. He stared forward at the picture of his family in front of him, biting his lips. His foot bounced against the linoleum. “But you know,” he laughed, chin trembling, “Penny’s going to be fine. He can take care of himself. He’ll figure something out. He’s a junkyard dog, Penny is. He’s fine.”
“We have to assume the possibility—”
“We don’t have to assume nothing,” he said, his voice rising. “Nothing. Penny can take care of himself. Junkyard dog, Penny is. He’ll be fine.”
“What we need to focus on right now is making sure that you are safe. The man in that video, he killed Walter and he has Penny. He must know the Kingfisher saved you three. He’s—”
“He’s crazy. That’s all he is. I’m not scared of him. I’ll kill that asshole if he gives me the chance. Besides, Penny’s fine. I know Penny. Penny’s fine.” And saying Penny’s name this last time seemed to release something inside of him. He sensed it coming and bit his bottom lip harder, his teeth digging into his skin. “You said he killed Walter?”
“I know this is difficult.”
“Fuck you know,” he said, tears forming like morning fog. “You don’t know. You don’t know. Why are you the one here right now? Why not the real police? Where the fuck are they?”
“Police Chief Stetson has not…” she began to say, a diplomatic caution to her words. But she decided to tell it straight. “He doesn’t seem convinced you’re in danger. But you obviously are in danger. If the gunman found Walter and Penny, then I’m sure you are aware of what that means for you.”
Bedford looked out the window into his backyard, the slate-gray night consuming the horizon, nothing in sight save for spindly telephone poles stretching down a long and empty road.
“You said you were in Indianapolis recently for your grandson’s birthday?” she asked. “How long were you there?”
“Three days,” he said absently.
“And you came back this morning?”
He nodded and she saw him realize what she, too, suspected. Had he not been in Indianapolis, who knows where he would be right now or if he would be at all? Had he not gone to visit his daughter and his grandchildren, had coincidence not aligned … The frailty of the everyday decision.
“You need to find somewhere safe to stay for a while,” she said. “You can’t stay here.”
“I can look after myself just fine. You witnessed that yourself.”
“Whoever is behind these videos is extremely dangerous. He’s probably looking for you. Please, Baxter, you need to go away for a while. Call your daughter. Go back to Indianapolis. Wait for this to pass.”
A latent tear fell from his clouded eyes and he brushed it away with a thumb. He reached over to pet Bambi, who licked his hand. “You’re sure it was Walter in that other video?”
“Yes.”
He scratched Bambi’s stomach. “Can I use your phone to call my daughter?”
“Of course.” She slid it across the table.
Bedford made the phone call in the other room. She heard his voice, a soft and giving whisper as he spoke to his daughter. Tillman heard him say, “I’m fine, baby, really. It’s the allergies. I’m getting old, you know that. I’m missing you all. I know, I just saw you. But I’m wondering if—well. Yeah? Good. Good. I’m excited to see them, too.”
Bedford reentered the kitchen after a few minutes and handed Tillman her phone. Wordlessly, he moved over to the sink. He straightened up and remained there, unmoving, his spidery frame blocking the light, silhouetted and shadowed.
“Are you leaving tonight?” she asked.
He nodded, refilled his glass. He spoke in a voice detached from the moment, as though speaking backward into the hollow wake of years. “You should know something about that night. That night with me, Walter, and Penny? We emptied our clips into the Kingfisher. Head, gut, chest, legs. I saw the bullets hit him. I swear it, I saw. And that motherfucker didn’t even move. And then those years later, the cops say they found his body, shot and stabbed to death? Bullshit they did.”
“You’re saying you think he’s still alive?”
Bedford took another lung-heaving drink and wiped his mouth with his hand. “What I’m saying is that if I were you, I’d be careful if you intend on looking for him. I’ve seen what he is capable of doing, that man. And believe me when I say you don’t want to be on the receiving end of his holy anger. Man like that couldn’t do what he did out of the goodness of his heart. It came from something deeper and darker. Something evil. I can tell you that for certain.”
“I don’t care about the Kingfisher. Dead or alive. My only concerns are the hostages.”
“You said the police aren’t looking for them?”
“If they are, they’re not looking too hard. Or else I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“You know why, don’t you?”
“They might think their time is better spent working on identifying the gunman before he can get to the rest of the hostages. But even then…” She stopped. “I really don’t know.”
Bedford laughed, setting his glass down in the sink. “Those cops really did a number on you, didn’t they? You’ve been brainwashed by the boys in blue.”
“What is it, then?”
“It’s simple. One word.” He held up a single finger. “History.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Penny and Walter are two men with criminal records. And I can tell you from personal experience, being someone with a criminal record in this country makes you something else, something lower than the dirt the police scrape from their shoes. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done since, who you think you’ve become, you’ll never escape it. And I promise you—I promise you—when that police chief, whatever his name is, saw that video, he knew those men. But they weren’t men to him. No, he wasn’t watching a man die. He wasn’t watching a man with a family, a man who lived a life, a man who paid for his crimes in one way or another. Man with blood pouring out his head. No, that police chief only saw that clown wearing that ridiculous Halloween mask, shooting a gun into nothing at all. Firing a gun into empty space. Because that’s all we are to him. Empty space. Yeah.” He shook his head, drifting through some unspoken thought. “And when it’s all said and done, whole world will know the name of the clown in the mask, but Walter—and God forbid, Penny—will be forgotten about like they already always were. And the world will just keep on”—he traced his finger in the air, a circle—“keep going. Like it usually does.” He lingered on the pause, and then walked to the door, swinging it open. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s time you got going. I’ve got a long drive tonight. I figure you do, too. Give my regards to Chicago. I miss it.”
She stood up, stepped over Bambi on her way to the door. “If you miss it, why’d you leave?”
“Suppose I prefer missing it more than living in it.”
* * *
The trip back to Chicago from South Bend trailed through highways she did not remember taking on the way in. Highways without names. The only light for miles around
was her headlights, which absorbed into old, buckled roads that wound sharply for no apparent reason. It required all of her attention just to keep moving forward, so every time her mind wandered back to Baxter Bedford’s kitchen, the jostling of the gravel shook her back into the present moment behind the steering wheel.
Smoking with the windows down.
She thought of a hundred questions she wished she had asked Baxter Bedford, and then she thought of a hundred more. Was there anyone he knew who might have been there that night who could be responsible for this? Was there anyone he knew who might be at risk? But she rolled down the window of the SUV and these questions and the many others sifted out into the open air of a prairie night.
Bedford was safe, and this was what mattered. It should have left her with something resembling peace, except for the fact that Penny was next. She had tried to find him, she told herself, but this did little to ease her mind. The only thing that would do that is if he were still alive tomorrow. If this nightmare ended tonight.
It would be a long drive. She was alone. She was far outside the city limits, and she could see the stars tearing through the swarthy night. She never saw them in the city. They hid behind a veil of light pollution. Seeing them now filled Tillman with a curious panic. A sense of exposure, of being seen, of being watched, of being known.
Out ahead of her, she saw wind turbines grow up out of the earth, spinning slowly, slowly. Atop each, a red light warned off low-flying planes. The lights pulsed together. Bloodred eyes hungering in the dusk.
The Reign of the Kingfisher Page 17