Indian Killer

  “And now, the dreams of one individual, Edward Letterman, have been murdered. The dreams of a young boy, Mark Jones, have been slaughtered. The dreams of a young man, Justin Summers, have been destroyed.

  “And yes, the dreams of David Rogers have also been murdered. What were his dreams? He dreamed of being an English teacher. He dreamed of marrying. He dreamed of having children, of watching them grow into capable young adults. He dreamed of a nice house, two cars in the garage, and a dog named Fido. He had the same dreams as you and I, folks, the same dreams, and the Indian Killer has taken them away. And who is this Indian Killer?

  “He’s a coward, obviously. But he’s more than that, much more. I want to tell you a story, folks. It’s about Marcus and Narcissa Whitman, two of the first missionaries who ever brought God’s word to the Indians. You see, the Whitmans worked with some of the tribes over in the eastern part of the state. Tribes like the Yakama and the Spokane, the Palouse and the Cayuse. But it all seemed to be such a hopeless task. The Indians were Godless people. They were savages, folks. Let’s not deny it. Let’s not pretend to be politically correct. Oh, sure, a few enlightened Indians did convert to Christianity and lived full lives, but their fellow tribal members often butchered them. Most of the Indians refused to listen to the Whitmans. They refused to attend church. In fact, in a combined effort to save the Indians from themselves, the Whitmans and the U.S. Army sent Indian children away from their parents to attend missionary boarding school.

  “Now, I know this could sound like a cruel act, but we must remember that the Whitmans were good people with a good purpose. Yet, even though Indian children were given the benefit of a wonderful religious education, they refused to learn. This is a fact, folks. The Indian children would often turn their desks away from the Whitmans and face the back of the room. The Indian children refused to speak English. They refused to give up their superstitions. They continued to practice their primitive religions. What were the Whitmans to do?

  “Well, if you remember your history, you will recall that many Indians died of smallpox epidemics in the early days of this country. Smallpox was new to the Indians and they didn’t have any natural immunity. That’s a tragic fact, folks. But many revisionist historians would have you believe that we gave smallpox to the Indians on purpose. Many liberals would have you believe that we used smallpox as a weapon against the Indians. What trash! That’s like saying I’m guilty of assault if you catch a cold after shaking my hand. Am I right or am I right?

  “But, back to the point: the Whitmans knew about the Indians’ terrible ordeal with smallpox. They knew about the Indians’ mortal fear of smallpox. For Indian children, smallpox was like the bogeyman. Now, I don’t fully agree with the Whitmans’ next move, but they were desperate. All of their efforts to help the Indians had been foiled time and time again. What the Whitmans did was this: they built a box from scrap wood and painted it black. Now this box was about the size of a hat box. Not too big, not too small. The Whitmans set this box in front of a class full of Indian children and told them it was filled with smallpox. The Whitmans told the Indian children the box would be opened if they refused to pay attention to their lessons.

  “Yes, I know it was a hard thing for the Whitmans to do. They must have been tortured by their decision to use the box in that manner. But it provided much-needed discipline. The Indian children began to learn. They paid attention. If we only had such discipline today, we might not be graduating kids who cannot read, count to ten, or dissect a frog. Of course, the Indian children were not terribly bright, but the Whitmans persevered. Soon, the Indian children had learned enough valuable lessons to go back to their tepees and try to teach their parents, too. This is where the trouble started. The Indian parents were shocked by their children’s knowledge. The Indian children were growing beyond their parents, and their parents couldn’t stand it. They rose up against the Whitmans and slaughtered them. Marcus Whitman was tied to a tree and burned alive. Narcissa Whitman was raped by hundreds of Indian warriors before she died of fright.

  “It’s all true, folks, you can look it up. Now, what does this all mean? I know you want to know, and you know that I have the answers. You see, those Indians refused to be helped, even when evidence of their children’s progress was placed in front of them. Those Indians responded in the only way they knew how to respond: with violence. And now it’s happening again. Despite all that we have done to help the Indians, they have refused to recognize it. They have refused to recognize how well we have educated them, how well have we fed them, how well we have treated them. To this day, they have responded to our positive efforts in the only way they know: violence.

  “This Indian Killer is merely the distillation of their rage. He is pure evil, pure violence, pure rage. He has come to kill us because we have tried to help him. He has come to kill us because his children have moved beyond him. He has come to burn us at the stake. He has come to violate our women. When the Indians attacked the Whitmans, that missionary couple refused to fight back because they were pacifists. They died as honorably as they lived. But no matter how honorable they were, they died horrible deaths. We cannot allow this to continue. We must defend ourselves, our families, our homes. We must arm ourselves and repel further attacks on our great country. I regret to say that many white people stood back and did nothing when Marcus and Narcissa Whitman died. Ten years from now, when people ask you what you did when the Indian Killer was attacking, what will you say? A hundred years from now, when your grandchildren read about the Indian Killer, what will the history books say about you?”

  13

  Anger

  AARON FLOPPED ON THE living room couch and screamed loudly.

  “What the hell was that about?” asked Sean, trying to study at the desk in the living room. In the secondhand recliner, Barry sat and read the latest Tom Clancy novel.

  “Let’s go fuck somebody up,” said Aaron.

  His roommates ignored him. He got up from the couch and turned the radio up to a painful volume.

  “I’m trying to study,” said Sean, whose soft, serious face contrasted sharply with his muscular body.

  “It’s Truck time,” said Aaron as he tuned the radio to KWIZ. Sean pretended not to hear Aaron, but Barry threw his paperback across the room. Truck spoke. That was how David Rogers’s brother and roommates learned about the latest murder. Less than twenty minutes after they heard the news, Aaron and Barry were in downtown Seattle beating an old Indian named Lester, while Sean sat in the back seat of Aaron’s Toyota 4Runner and watched it happen. The old man wrapped his arms around his head and lay on the ground while Barry kicked him. The three white boys hadn’t even bothered to wear their ski masks this time. But Aaron’s face was so contorted with rage he looked like a different person.

  “Get up, you fucking squaw!” shouted Aaron. He had a bloody nose from a wild haymaker. Lester, who had won quite a few bar fights in his youth, had managed to land that first punch. After that, Aaron kicked Lester in the groin so hard that he lifted the old Indian out of his shoes. With all the fight kicked out of him, Lester had just fallen to the ground and covered up, hoping they would not send him to the hospital. Living on the streets, he had been beaten quite a few times. It was part of the territory. The cops would be along eventually to break it up. Sometimes a few bystanders jumped into the action and stopped it. With this Indian Killer thing happening, Lester was surprised that this was the first bunch of white guys to jump him. He was also surprised that he had somehow lost his shoes.

  “Get up! Get up!” shouted Aaron, totally out of control. Barry had stopped kicking the old man, but Aaron was now trying to pick him up to deliver more punishment.

  “He’s had enough,” said Barry. “We’ve got to go. The cops will be here soon.”

  Barry dragged Aaron away from the old man. They hustled into the 4Runner and raced away from the scene. They pulled into a parking lot near Pike Place Market a few blocks away.

  “Fuck, yeah,?
?? said Aaron. “That felt good.”

  “Your nose is bleeding,” Sean said to Aaron.

  “What?” Aaron wiped his face and saw blood on his hand. “Fucking squaw got lucky with the first punch, didn’t he?”

  Barry laughed nervously. Sean felt sick to his stomach.

  “Let’s go get us some more,” said Aaron.

  “Maybe that’s enough,” said Sean.

  “Are you talking to me, you pussy?” Aaron bellowed at Sean, who looked shocked. “Yeah, you pussy. I want to go kick some more Indian ass.”

  “Hey, Aaron,” said Barry. “Maybe that is enough? I mean, we’re going to get caught. We’re not even wearing our masks.”

  “I’m not going to do it anymore,” Sean announced. “We put those other Indians in the hospital. And this sure isn’t helping David anyway.”

  Barry also wanted to stop, but he was afraid of Aaron’s reaction.

  “Fuck that,” said Aaron. “The police aren’t going to do anything. Hell, the police are probably beating the shit out of Indians, too. And David would’ve wanted us to do this, man. It’s for him.”

  “Listen to yourself,” said Sean. “Do you believe what you’re saying?”

  Aaron leaned over and punched Sean in the forehead. Barry shrank back in fear.

  “Do you hear me?” asked Aaron. “Do you hear me, you pussy? I’m saying those fucking Indians killed David.”

  Sean was crying.

  “I always thought you were a pussy,” said Aaron. “Look at you. Big as a fucking house, but you’re just a pussy. All fucking righteous now, aren’t you? You weren’t so righteous when we started this, were you? Now, you decide. We’re going to go kick some more ass, aren’t we?”

  Aaron looked at Barry, who hesitated briefly before agreeing.

  “See,” Aaron said to Sean. “Barry’s with the program. Now, are you with us or are you against us?”

  “That old man didn’t do anything,” said Sean.

  “He’s Indian,” said Aaron. “That’s enough. Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Are you with us or against us?”

  Sean looked at Barry, who avoided eye contact, then back to Aaron, who made a fist.

  “Get the fuck out of my truck,” Aaron said. “You’re done. You hear me? You’re done.”

  Sean opened his door and stepped out. As the 4Runner pulled out of the parking lot, Sean touched his bruised forehead. He found a pay phone and called a cab, which took him to the Fourth Precinct.

  14

  A Conversation

  “MOM, IT’S ME, REGGIE.”

  “Oh, my God, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. How’s Bird?”

  “He’s in chemo. It’s not going well.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. He’s asked about you. He watches television. He worries about you with this Indian Killer running around. He’s really sorry for everything.”

  “Listen, I hate to ask, but do you got any money?”

  “Reggie, aren’t you scared? Has anybody tried to hurt you?”

  “Nobody can hurt me, Mom.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yeah, Bird would know about that, wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s changed, Reggie, he really has.”

  “Sure, sure. Hey, Mom, you know about the Battle of Steptoe Butte?”

  “What about it?”

  “Yeah, you remember how all those Spokane Indians had those Cavalry soldiers surrounded? Trapped up on Steptoe Butte? It was, what, 1858?”

  “There were other tribes besides the Spokane there.”

  “Yeah, well, we Indians had them white guys trapped. Had them surrounded and what did we do? Those white guys were completely and totally helpless. And we let them go.”

  “What are you trying to say, Reggie?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe Indians are better people than most. I just need to know if you got any money.”

  “I’m broke, Reggie. You could ask Bird. He’d like to talk to you.”

  “That’s okay, Mom. Listen, I got to go. See you.”

  “Wait, Reggie. Wait. Reggie? Reggie?”

  15

  Mother

  WILSON SAT IN HIS pickup outside John Smith’s apartment building in Ballard. There were too many shadows. A man could hide in a dozen different places on this block and not be seen until it was too late. Wilson was excited. He could feel John Smith’s presence.

  According to the foreman, John Smith lived on the top floor. Wilson looked up and saw only one lit window in a top-floor apartment. Wilson checked the mailboxes. John Smith in 403. Hiestand in 402, Salgado in 401. Wilson tested the front door of the apartment building. Unlocked. A nonsecure building. Wilson took a deep breath. Wilson had no idea what John Smith would do when confronted.

  Wilson slowly climbed the stairs, his bad knee aching with the effort. As a cop, he had been in many situations like this. A dark building, a potentially dangerous suspect somewhere up the stairs. It was never as dramatic as the movies or books. No cats springing into the frame as a false scare. No extras scrambling for cover. Only the cop, the dark stairs, and the suspect. Wilson had always enjoyed the hunt.

  Wilson reached the fourth floor. He passed by 401 and 402. At 403, he stood close and listened. He could hear vague noises from inside the apartment. Smith was home. Wilson debated his options. He could bust down the door with weapon drawn. He could stand away from the door and shout orders to Smith. Come out with your hands up! But what would he do after Smith came out? Wilson thought hard, then he shrugged his shoulders, and knocked politely on the door.

  “John!” cried the woman who threw open the door, an action that caused Wilson to jump back and reach inside his coat. He stopped himself when he noticed the white woman standing in the doorway.

  “Oh,” said Wilson, embarrassed at his obvious error. “I’m sorry. I was looking for John Smith.”

  “This is John’s apartment,” said Olivia Smith. “He’s my son.”

  Wilson was confused. This beautiful blond, blue-eyed white woman could not be the mother of an Indian man.

  “My name is Olivia Smith.” Wilson’s confusion was familiar to Olivia from so many faces. She was always forced to offer explanations. “And he’s adopted.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Wilson. “Is John home?” He noticed how her face was drawn and pale. She looked like she’d been crying.

  “No, no. Are you a friend of his?”

  “Uh, not really, no.”

  Olivia, suddenly nervous, took a small step back into the apartment. She had her hand on the door, ready to close it quickly.

  “What do you want with my son?” asked Olivia.

  “Well, ma’am, my name is Jack Wilson. I just wanted to ask him a few questions about a book I’m working on.”

  “Jack Wilson?” asked Olivia. She recognized the name because she still read every book about Indians she could find. “You write those murder mysteries, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  “Aristotle Little Hawk, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said Wilson, flushing with pride.

  “I like your books. You really get it right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Olivia invited Wilson into the apartment, feeling as if she somehow knew him simply because she’d read his books. She offered him a donut from a box sitting on the kitchen table. They were Seattle’s Best Donuts, but Wilson declined. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, while Olivia sat at the table.

  “What kind of book are you writing, Mr. Wilson?” asked Olivia, falling back on politeness.

  “It’s about the Indian Killer,” said Wilson.

  “You can’t think John has anything to do with that?” asked Olivia, alarmed now.

  “No, no. I was just doing some research when I heard about this Indian guy, your son, a high-rise construction worker. I thought it was interesting.”

  “It’s the last skyscraper they’re going to bu
ild in Seattle.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Can you imagine that? When we think of cities, don’t we think of tall buildings? Now we have all these computers and things. People can work from anywhere. They don’t need to be bunched up in the same big buildings anymore. They don’t even need to be in the same country to work together anymore. Things change, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  Olivia picked up a donut, nibbled at it, then studied it.

  “John loves these things,” said Olivia.

  Wilson looked around the room. It was spare and cluttered at the same time. Prints with Indian themes hung at strange angles on the walls. The bed was made haphazardly. Boxes of assorted junk were stacked neatly in every corner.

  “Where is John?” asked Wilson.

  “I don’t know,” said Olivia. “We’ve been looking for him for a long time.”

  Wilson looked at Olivia’s left hand. Married to a rich man, judging by the size of the diamond. She wore the standard casual outfit for middle-aged white women in Seattle: a white T-shirt, blue jeans, black blazer.

  “Do you have a family, Mr. Wilson?”

  “No.”

  “No wife?”

  “No, never.”

  Surprised, Olivia quickly studied Wilson’s features. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, middle-aged, a writer, probably intelligent. He should have been married a couple times by now. Then Olivia remembered that he had been a cop, and changed her mind. He must have lots of problems. She thought about asking him to leave, but decided that it did not matter. She couldn’t see how her troubles could get much worse.