Indian Killer

  “My son doesn’t even know I’m here, Mr. Wilson. He’d be angry if he knew I had a key to his place. He’s got some real problems, with me, and his father. He’s got problems with everybody. I’m not sure he’d even talk to you.”

  “What kind of problems?” asked Wilson.

  Olivia hesitated for a moment, then continued, too tired to maintain secrets.

  “He’s got everything and nothing,” she said. “Every time we took him to a new doctor, there was something else wrong with him. But hey, he doesn’t drink or do drugs. He doesn’t even take the drugs that are supposed to help him.”

  Olivia started to cry, got angry at herself for breaking down, and then cried even harder. Wilson took a step toward her, raised his hand as some sort of clumsy offering, and stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” said Olivia, wiping her face with her hands. “I’m just so tired. I can’t sleep. I’m so scared. I keep thinking about this Indian Killer. Sometimes, I wonder. I think, maybe…”

  Olivia closed her eyes, swallowed hard, trying to maintain her composure. When she had visited the donut shop just before trying John’s apartment, Paul and Paul Too had told her about John’s wild behavior.

  “John was such a gentle boy,” said Olivia. “He wouldn’t even kill bugs. Really. Me, I’m terrified of spiders. Just phobic. I remember this one time, John couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, and I was cleaning the upstairs bathroom. I can remember it like it was yesterday, you know?”

  Wilson nodded his head, and glanced at his watch.

  “I even remember the song on the radio. The Beatles. That strawberry song, remember? I was singing with the radio, cleaning the bathtub, when this huge spider came out of the drain. I screamed like crazy. Daniel, my husband, was at work. It must have been summer because John was home. He heard my screaming and he came running, you know, to save Mommy. I was trying to smash that spider with my shoe when John came into the bathroom. He just screamed at me, ‘No, no!’ and then I smashed that spider flat.”

  Wilson walked a few steps closer to Olivia, who seemed lost in the memory.

  “Oh, God, he cried over that spider. Just bawled. Made me bury it in the backyard. We even had a funeral. Isn’t that funny?”

  Olivia looked up at Wilson and smiled. He smiled and nodded his head.

  “Mrs. Smith,” said Wilson. “He sounds like a good boy.”

  “He was,” said Olivia. “He was.”

  “You don’t have any idea where he is?”

  Olivia sat up in the chair, wiped her face again, sensing Wilson’s impatience.

  “No, Mr. Wilson, I have no idea.”

  Wilson took the foreman’s photograph out of his pocket and showed it to Olivia.

  “Is this your son?”

  Olivia stared at the photograph of her son, his face empty and dark.

  “That’s John,” she said.

  Wilson tucked the photograph back into his pocket and turned to leave.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” said Wilson as he opened the door.

  “Mr. Wilson,” said Olivia just before he closed the door behind him.

  “Yes.”

  “If you see John, tell him to come home.”

  Wilson left Olivia alone at the table. He raced down the stairs and jumped into his pickup. He figured he could find John or somebody who knew John at Big Heart’s. As he drove away, Olivia watched him from the apartment window. She knew that everything was going wrong, but she felt powerless to stop it. Her husband was probably asleep on the couch in his study. That’s how it must be. He had been too tired to walk up the stairs to bed, so he slipped off his shoes and pants, loosened his tie, and then curled up on the couch. He had probably called out to her, had not received a response, and had assumed she was asleep. That was how it must be. He was asleep on the couch, wearing a nice shirt and loosened tie. A decent man, he was probably dreaming about his son. Daniel twisting and turning in his sleep. All of it quickly becoming a nightmare. Olivia loved her husband. She watched Wilson’s pickup until it disappeared into the rest of the city. He drove north. Olivia looked south toward downtown Seattle and counted the number of streetlights. One, two, three, then ten, then more. She counted until there were none left to be counted, and then she began again.

  16

  Marie

  MARIE AND BOO SET out to deliver their sandwiches on that last night. They drove from the Belltown shelter south toward Pioneer Square. A white van. Three traffic signals. Red light, stop. Green light, go. A stop sign that was mostly ignored. Intermittent wipers sweeping against the windshield every few seconds.

  “You know,” Boo said. “You’re like the ice cream man in this truck. Remember how they used to play that music? Man, you could hear those trucks from miles away. We should hook some music up to this rig, don’t you think? We’d have homeless folks just chasing us down the street.”

  Marie laughed. She stopped when she saw King staggering across the street. His face bloody. Marie helped King into the truck and saw that his wounds were not that serious. She bandaged him up with the first-aid kit. King told her that two white guys in a pickup had jumped him.

  “Jeez,” King had said. “They would’ve killed me, I think. But some other white guys broke it up.”

  Marie looked at King. She saw that blood and recognized it, knew that Indian blood had often spilled on American soil. She knew there were people to blame for that bloodshed. She felt a beautiful kind of anger. On the Spokane Indian Reservation, an old Indian woman grew violently red roses in the same ground where five Indian women were slaughtered by United States Cavalry soldiers.

  17

  Catholicism

  SEATTLE POLICE OFFICER RANDY Peone turned from Denny onto Third in downtown Seattle and saw a barefoot old Indian man staggering down the street.

  “Officer, Officer,” the old man slurred. “I want to report a crime.”

  “What crime?” asked Peone.

  “I’ve been assaulted.”

  The old man’s face was a mess of cuts and bruises. His left eye would be swollen shut in the morning.

  “Who assaulted you?” asked Peone.

  “A bunch of white kids,” said the old man. “They stole my shoes.”

  The officer looked down at the old man’s bare feet. They were stained with years of dirt and fungus. Peone figured the old man was delusional. Who would want to steal the shoes that had covered those feet? But the old man was in a bad state, and there had been a number of racial attacks since the Indian Killer case became public, and especially since that white kid had been kidnapped. Though the child was safely home now, the Indian Killer was still at large.

  “What’s your name?” Peone asked the old man.

  “Lester,” he said.

  Peone climbed out of the cruiser, tucked the old man into the back seat, jumped back into the car, and radioed the dispatcher.

  “Dispatch,” said Peone. “This is unit twelve. I’ve got me a drunk who needs a band-aid and bath. I’m taking him to detox.”

  Peone was on his way when he passed John Smith kneeling on the sidewalk farther north on Third. John was singing loudly and had attracted a small crowd. He was also holding a pair of shoes that could barely be defined as shoes. Peone figured he had found the man who had beaten up the old guy and stolen his shoes. These two Indians were probably buddies and had fought over the last drink in the jug. He pulled up close to John and turned his flashing lights on. The red and blue distracted John from his singing. Peone looked at John. A big guy, thought the officer, who only briefly considered calling for backup.

  “Hey, there,” Peone said as he walked up to John, who was still entranced by the flashing lights.

  “He’s crazy,” said a guy from the crowd that had gathered. “He’s singing church songs.”

  The crowd laughed. Officer Peone looked at John and wondered which mental illness he had. The Seattle streets were filled with the mostly crazy, half-crazy, nearly crazy, and soon-to-be-cra
zy. Indian, white, Chicano, Asian, men, women, children. The social workers did not have anywhere near enough money, training, or time to help them. The city government hated the crazies because they were a threat to the public image of the urban core. Private citizens ignored them at all times of the year except for the few charitable days leading up to and following Christmas. In the end, the police had to do most of the work. Police did crisis counseling, transporting them howling to detox, the dangerous to jail, racing the sick to the hospitals, to a safer place. At the academy, Officer Peone figured he would be fighting bad guys. He did not imagine he would spend most of his time taking care of the refuse of the world. Peone found it easier when the refuse were all nuts or dumb-ass drunks, harder when they were just regular folks struggling to find their way off the streets.

  “Okay, okay,” Peone said to the crowd. “The show’s over. Let’s clear it out.”

  Since it was Seattle, the crowd obeyed the officer’s orders and dispersed. John had forgotten about the flashing lights and was singing again, in Latin. Peone had been an accomplished altar boy way back when and recognized the tune. He could almost smell the smoke from the thousands of altar candles he had lit.

  “Hey, chief,” said Peone. “You okay?”

  John stopped singing and noticed Peone for the first time. He saw the blue eyes and blue uniform, the pistol and badge. Blue sword, scabbard, white horse. The bugle playing.

  “He’s gone.”

  “No, he’s not gone. He’s in the back of my car.”

  John stood, walked over to the car, and looked inside. He saw the old Indian man. He threw the Indian’s shoes at the window. They bounced off the glass and landed on the sidewalk.

  “That’s not Father Duncan,” said John.

  “Who?” asked Peone.

  “Father Duncan. He’s gone.”

  Peone could see the terrible sadness in John’s eyes. The officer wondered where the Indian thought he was, and who he thought he might be. Probably a schizophrenic. He was big and strong enough to hurt a man, but Peone, through years of applied psychology lessons taken on the streets, knew that most schizophrenics rarely hurt anybody except themselves.

  “Hey, big guy,” said Peone. “You been taking your medicine?”

  “No,” said John. “They’re trying to poison me.”

  “Is that why you hurt your friend?” asked Peone, pointing toward the old man in the back of the car.

  “He’s not my friend. I don’t know him.”

  “Really?” asked the officer. “Well, then, what happened to his face?”

  “I don’t know,” said John.

  Officer Peone knew he would have to take John to the hospital. He was obviously sick and needed help. He began to wonder if John might be dangerous, might be the Indian Killer. Why hadn’t he called for backup?

  “Hey, chief,” said Peone. “Let’s you and me go for a ride.”

  John, suddenly frightened, took a step back.

  “You could be the devil,” John said to Peone.

  “I could be,” said Peone. “But I’m not. Come on, why don’t I take you and your friend to the hospital. Get you both fixed up, okay?”

  “I’m afraid,” John whispered, then he kneeled and began to pray. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will be done…”

  “On Earth as it is in Heaven,” continued Peone.

  Surprised, John stared at Peone.

  “Give us this day our daily bread…,” said Peone.

  “And forgive us our trespasses,” said John, “as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation…”

  “But deliver us from evil…”

  “For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever.”

  “Amen,” said John and Peone together.

  John closed his eyes and pressed his head against his clasped hands. He was praying. Peone reached for his handcuffs. John heard the jangle of the cuffs and keys, opened his eyes, and panicked. He leapt to his feet and ran into an alley. Peone ran a few feet after John before he came to his senses. He climbed back into his car, told the dispatcher what had happened, and then shook his head.

  “Indians,” whispered Peone.

  “Yeah, Indians,” said Lester, the old man in the back seat. He laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Peone.

  “Catholic cops are funny,” said Lester.

  “You were listening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? Catholic Indians are funny.”

  “There’s lots of Catholic Indians.”

  “There’s lots of Catholic cops.”

  The old man started laughing again. Peone had to laugh a little with him.

  “So, tell me the truth,” said Peone. “Why did your friend beat you up? I thought you Indians took care of each other.”

  “We do take care of each other,” said Lester. “But I don’t know that Indian and he didn’t beat me up. I told you. Some white guys did it. And stole my goddamn shoes.”

  Peone stepped out of the car, grabbed the shoes, and threw them into the back seat with the old man.

  “There’s your shoes,” said Peone when he was back in the car. He wondered how he would fill out the paperwork on this encounter. After his fellow officers heard about this, they would probably give him a nickname. Something like Altar Boy or Shoes. Peone smiled. He liked nicknames.

  18

  Last Call at Big Heart’s

  WILSON WALKED INTO BIG Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar. There was a small crowd of forty or fifty Indians. They all stared at Wilson as he sat at the bar, where Mick had a glass of milk waiting for him.

  “Slow night?” Wilson asked Mick.

  “With Indians,” said Mick, “it’s never slow.”

  Wilson sipped at his milk and looked around the bar. It felt changed. He studied the patrons as they studied him.

  “Hey, Casper,” said Reggie, the Spokane. Ty stood behind him. “How Indian are you tonight?”

  “Indian enough,” said Wilson. “Where’s Harley?”

  “He’s missing in action,” said Reggie. “Tell me again, how Indian are you?”

  “Indian enough.”

  “Sure you are. How much Indian blood you got anyways? Maybe a thimble’s worth?”

  “The blood don’t matter. It’s the heart that matters.”

  Ty and Reggie laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Wilson.

  “You know,” Reggie said. “I was reading a movie magazine last week and found out that Farrah Fawcett is one-eighth Choctaw Indian. Isn’t that funny?”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Wilson.

  “Yeah,” said Reggie. “That means she’s got more Indian blood than you do. If you get to be an Indian, then Farrah gets to be Indian, too.”

  “If she wants to be.”

  “You really think that’s how it works, don’t you?” Reggie asked Wilson. Reggie was heating up. “You think you can be Indian just by saying it, enit?”

  Wilson shrugged his shoulders.

  “June 25, 1876,” Reggie said.

  “The Battle of Little Bighorn,” said Wilson.

  “No white people survived that, did they?”

  “Nope, just a Cavalry horse named Comanche.”

  “Every horse is an Indian horse.”

  Wilson nodded.

  “We might let you be an Indian for an hour if you buy us a drink.”

  Wilson bought the two Indians their drinks.

  “Hey,” asked Wilson, with little subtlety. “You guys been following that Indian Killer case?”

  “What about it?” asked Reggie.

  “They found another body,” said Wilson.

  Reggie looked at Ty, then back to Wilson.

  “How do you know that?” Reggie asked Wilson.

  “Well, I don’t like to talk about it, but I’m an ex-cop.”

  “We know you’re an ex-cop,” said Reggie. “And yo
u’re a writer, too. Now, tell us something we don’t know. You think we’re so stupid. I was a goddamn history major. I’ve studied books you wouldn’t know how to read. Jeez, you come in here always asking questions about how we live, what we eat, about our childhoods. Taking notes in your head. We know it. What do you do when you leave here? Dig up graves?”

  Wilson was wide-eyed.

  “Don’t be so surprised, Casper. You white guys always think you’re fooling us poor, dumb Injuns.”

  “Well, uh, I, ah,” stuttered Wilson, trying to regain his composure. “I was down at the station. They found the body downtown. They think the Indian Killer did it.”

  “Every time they find a white guy, how come they think the Indian Killer did it?”

  Reggie stared hard at Wilson. Ty took a step back. Wilson could feel the tension in the room. He could see Reggie’s blue eyes darken with anger. As casually as possible, Wilson reached inside his coat, and kept his hand there. Wilson had known Reggie for a while, had sat with him, and had tolerated the insults. Wilson had thought it all in good fun, but now he wondered if he had been mistaken.

  “You know an Indian guy named John Smith?” asked Wilson with just the slightest tremor in his voice.

  Reggie shook his head. Ty made no response.

  “I know him,” said a woman.

  All three men turned to look at Fawn, who had been watching the confrontation, along with everybody else in Big Heart’s.

  “Don’t talk to him, Fawn,” said Reggie. “He’s full of shit.”

  Fawn ignored Reggie.

  “I danced with John the other night,” Fawn said to Wilson. “He was kind of weird. Good-looking. But off, you know?”

  Wilson took the photograph out of his pocket and showed it to Fawn. Reggie stepped closer to Wilson.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” said Fawn. “See what I mean? Good-looking. But goofy.”

  “You think he’s dangerous?” Wilson asked.

  “John? No way. Reggie’s the dangerous one. Reggie and his dipshit sidekicks beat up John. Enit, Reggie?”