Indian Killer
With that, Spud and Lyle climbed into their Chevy Nova, drove north through Canadian customs without incident, and into Vancouver. That same night, they lost the two thousand dollars in an illegal poker game, plus another thousand dollars in promises. When those promises couldn’t be kept, Spud and Lyle were driven to a secluded spot by a river and forced to kneel in the mud. With their hands tied behind their backs. Spud and Lyle pleaded for their lives but only the river listened, and it didn’t care.
Shot once in each eye, Spud and Lyle’s bodies were found by a hiker later that summer. David Rogers’s murder was never solved.
22
Testimony
“COULD YOU TELL US your name, for the record? And where you’re from?”
“Uh, my name is Sean Ward. I’m a student at the University of Washington. I’m from Selkirk, um, Selkirk, Washington. I need to, uh, talk about some things.”
“What do you need to tell us, Sean?”
“Well, this isn’t about just me. Yeah. It’s about my roommates, Aaron and Barry. Uh, that’s Aaron Rogers and Barry Church.”
“Yes?”
“Well, you see, we’re the guys in the masks. The ones who’ve been beating up Indians. We’re the baseball bats. Uh, yeah. We’re the masks.”
“Where are Aaron and Barry now?”
“They’re still out there, I guess. I left them earlier. I tried to get them to stop, but they wouldn’t.”
“Is that why you have that bump on your head?”
“Yeah, Aaron punched me.”
“Why are you telling us this?”
“I’m not sure, you know? I mean, I love those guys. Aaron and Barry. I mean, I think we started doing this for a good reason.”
“A good reason?”
“Well, uh, maybe it’s not a good reason. But people would understand, I think. You know that David Rogers? The guy who disappeared from the casino? He was our other roommate. I mean, David and Aaron were brothers. That’s what started us in, you know. It was for, uh, revenge.”
“How many people did you assault?”
“Well, there was the guy on the Burke-Gilman Trail. Then that couple on Queen Anne Hill. Then some homeless old guy earlier today. Uh, that makes it what, four people? Yeah, four.”
“Three of those people are still in the hospital. You almost killed them.”
“Yeah, I know. But, uh, I know you’re not going to believe me. You shouldn’t believe me. But I didn’t hurt anybody. I carried a bat and stuff but I never used it. It was mostly Aaron. Barry, too. But it was mostly Aaron. I made them quit, you know? I made Aaron stop hitting people. If I hadn’t been there, Aaron might have really killed somebody.”
“You’re in a lot of trouble, Sean.”
“I know.”
“Why’d you do this? What are you going to tell your parents? How are you going to explain this?”
“I don’t know. I mean, uh, it’s like this white-Indian thing has gotten out of control. And the thing with the blacks and Mexicans. Everybody blaming everybody. I mean, it’s like white people get blamed for everything these days. I mean, I know we did some bad stuff. I know it. I know what me and Aaron and Barry did was wrong. But it was anger. Frustration, you know? David disappeared, and we, uh, just lost control. I mean, somebody had to pay for it. Somebody was to blame for it. I don’t know what happened. I can’t explain it all. Just look around at the world. Look at this country. Things just aren’t like they used to be.”
“Son, things have never been like how you think they used to be.”
23
Dreaming
WILSON LEFT BIG HEART’S after his encounter with Reggie and drove home to his apartment on Capitol Hill. He wondered how he was going to fix things with Reggie and Big Heart’s. He had done so much for his fellow Indians. He had made the ultimate sacrifice. He wanted them to love him. He parked his pickup in front of the building, slowly trudged up the front walk, and checked his mail.
Isn’t that how it happened?
He loved his mail. There was none, of course, but he checked anyway. Then he walked upstairs, opened his door, and turned on the light. His apartment was as neat as always. The small table. Two forks, two spoons, two knives, two plates. The black-and-white photograph of his birth parents on the dresser. The foldout couch. It was cold in the apartment because Wilson always turned down the heat before he went out. Seattle was cold at night during the summer and winter. He was slightly chilled and wanted to climb beneath the covers and sleep for days. First things first, though. He brushed and flossed his teeth, undressed, and tossed his dirty clothes into the hamper.
Isn’t that how it happened?
Then he slipped into his favorite pajamas and settled into bed. He could hear his neighbors turning in for the night. Running water, flushing toilets, creaking bed springs. It was very quiet. One police siren, then another, and a third. Cars on the freeway ten blocks to the west. Muffled conversation between two men walking down the street in front of the building.
Isn’t that how it happened?
In his bed, awake and wondering about the Indian Killer, about finishing the novel. He thought about John Smith, who, in Wilson’s mind, remained as unfinished as the novel. In the dark, Wilson could still see the photograph of John at the construction site. John’s fellow workers eat together, share a joke and common laughter, slap one another on the back. John sits back all by himself, his eyes dark and impenetrable. Wilson thought that a person driving down a road and coming upon a tunnel as dark as those eyes would stop, turn the car around, and go miles out of his way to avoid it. As it was, Wilson had tried to follow those eyes. Sitting with John’s mother, he had felt it when something left her body. Something solid and substantial. Following John’s eyes into Big Heart’s, he saw Reggie’s eyes, just as dark, but lit with a more volatile fire. Quicker to burn, easier to extinguish. Reggie was probably in Big Heart’s telling stories and laughing right now, reliving his encounter with Wilson, turning a potentially fatal conflict into a series of comic escapades.
Isn’t that how it happened?
Wilson was thinking about John Smith, then fell so quickly to sleep that he effortlessly slipped into a dream about Smith. He dreamed about Smith pushing that knife into the white man in the University District. He saw Smith slit the throat of the businessman. Then Smith was smiling as he lifted the young boy from his bed. Then Wilson saw himself with that knife. Wilson saw himself pushing the knife into one white body, then another, and another, until there were multitudes.
Isn’t that how it happened?
Then the dream changed, and Wilson was pulling up in front of his apartment building again. A brown hand reached through the open window of the truck and smashed Wilson’s head against the steering wheel. Stunned and barely conscious, Wilson slumped in his seat and somebody, a dark figure, reached inside Wilson’s jacket and took his weapon. Then the dark figure opened the door and pushed him out of the way. With Wilson stuffed under the dashboard, the dark figure sat quietly at the steering wheel, waiting to see if the commotion had attracted any attention. A police siren in the distance, but nobody shouted out. No lights suddenly appeared in the apartment building. No cars passed by. The dark figure started the pickup and slowly drove down Capitol Hill.
24
Testimony
“DR. MATHER, I HEAR you know who the Indian Killer is.”
“Well, Officer, I don’t know who the Indian Killer is, but I have some information you may find useful in your investigation.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s about a former student of mine, a Spokane Indian named Reggie Polatkin.”
“Any relation to Marie Polatkin?”
“Why, yes. They’re cousins. How do you know her?”
“She’s the Sandwich Lady.”
“Excuse me?”
“She delivers sandwiches to the homeless.”
“Really. I can’t imagine her in such a role.”
“What do you mean?”
br />
“Well, she always seems so impulsive, so emotional. What’s the word I’m searching for? So individualistic. Not tribal at all. I mean, she actually threatened me with physical violence earlier today.”
“How did she threaten you?”
“She said she’d eat my heart.”
“Really? Marie Polatkin said that?”
“Yes, she did. Of course, I had to drop her from my class. I’m thinking of pursuing more serious charges against her.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. Tell me more about her cousin.”
“Reggie? Well, as I said, Reggie is a former student of mine. We had a misunderstanding and he, well, he assaulted me.”
“Sounds like you and the Polatkin family have a problem.”
“I hardly find this amusing, Officer. I must protest your behavior.”
“Protest noted.”
“Officer, Reggie and I used to travel together. And we talked. Reggie had a very violent father. Very violent. A white man. I always worried that Reggie was going to hurt somebody.”
“Why were you worried?”
“Because he said he dreamed about killing people.”
25
The Last Skyscraper in Seattle
SLOWLY, WILSON WOKE AND made several attempts to open his eyes. His head ached and he could taste blood. He tried to reach up and touch his face to see how badly he was hurt, but discovered that he was tied to a wall. He could not move his arms or legs. He tested the ropes, but they held tight. How had this happened? Wilson wondered if he was still dreaming.
But Wilson was tied to a wall. His head did ache and his mouth tasted of real blood. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. He did test the ropes that held him. He stood eagle-armed, his wrists tightly secured to two-by-fours, his legs tied at the ankles to another two-by-four. All of the two-by-fours were part of a wall frame. Wilson looked around. By twisting his head, Wilson could see that he was tied to a wall frame in an upper floor of an unfinished downtown building. He could see the other frames that would hold the walls for the bathrooms and two large corner offices. He noticed frames for rows of smaller offices between corner offices. The elevators and shafts were finished, looked strange and out of place. Various saw-horses scattered here and there. A forgotten black metal lunch box near a power saw. An open metal door just north of Wilson. An unlit exit sign above it. Wilson tested the ropes. He could see through the wooden skeleton of the floor to the buildings that surrounded him. In one building, a janitor pushed a vacuum back and forth, back and forth. A police siren many floors below him. Then another siren, and a third, a fourth, blending into one long scream. Wilson could sense that somebody was standing behind him. Wilson knew that his shoulder holster was empty and that somebody behind him was holding the pistol.
“John?” asked Wilson.
“Yes,” John answered. Wilson twisted his head violently from side to side in an effort to locate him.
“John? Where are you? Let me see you, okay? Let’s talk, okay?” asked Wilson. John heard the fear in Wilson’s voice, even as he tried to bury it beneath layers of professional calm.
“John?”
John inched closer to Wilson and touched his arm.
“Hey, John, you scared me there. Why don’t you come out here where I can see you? We can talk, right? Why don’t we talk?”
John remained silent.
“Hey, John, I met your mom tonight. She’s a beautiful woman.”
John saw his Indian mother on the delivery table. She reached for her Indian child.
“Olivia, right? She really loves you, man.”
John saw Olivia, wearing only a towel, walking across a hardwood floor. Her hair wet, her damp feet leaving slight prints on the wood.
“She wants you to come home. Don’t you want to go home?”
Wilson waited as long as he could stand for a response. His voice broke.
“And what about your dad, John? What’s his name?”
I don’t have a father, John thought, but he saw Daniel dribbling a basketball in the driveway. Like this, Daniel was shouting, like this.
“Come on, John, talk to me. It’s okay. We can talk about it. Everybody will understand. I’ll make them understand. I’m a writer, John. What do you say?”
Silence. Wilson thought hard, trying to save his life.
“Listen, John, any Indian would kill a white guy if he thought he could get away with it. Which Indian wouldn’t do it? I’m an Indian. I know. There are a million white men I’d kill if they’d let me. Talk to me, John. Indian to Indian. Real Indians. I’ll understand.”
John heard the fear in Wilson’s voice now.
“Hey, remember up by my apartment? Remember when you had that golf club? Man, I thought you were going to beat my ass. Who were you with? That Indian woman, the one who hates me, right? Maria, Marie, Mary? What’s her name?
“I knew an Indian woman named Mary. Beautiful Mary. Back when I was a rookie. She lived on the streets, man, and I looked out for her. Really, I did. I was the only Indian cop on the force. The only one. Can you believe that? There aren’t many now, but I was the only one then. And I’ll tell you. It was hard work. They always gave me the shit jobs. Called me Chief and Tonto and everything else. Man, it was awful. But I took care of the Indians, you know? All those Indians who lived downtown? Just like now, huh? Lots of them. And Beautiful Mary was my favorite. I mean, I never told anybody this before, but I loved her. I mean, really loved her. I kept thinking we were going to get married or something. I thought we’d have little Indian babies, you know? But then she was killed. Raped and killed. They stuffed her behind a Dumpster. I just wanted to die, you know?”
John stepped forward and pressed the pistol against the back of Wilson’s head. Terrified, Wilson tried to think, not wanting the ultimate indignity of being killed by his own weapon.
“Please,” Wilson said as he struggled against the ropes. He was afraid of the pistol. He was begging for his life from the man he knew was the Indian Killer.
“Don’t hurt me,” Wilson said to John. “I’m not a white man. I’m Indian. You don’t kill Indians.”
26
Testimony
“MR. WILLIAMS, I’M SURE you know why you’re here, don’t you?”
“Call me Ty. And yeah, I figure it’s because of what we did to that white guy.”
“And who is this ‘we’ you’re referring to?”
“You know, Reggie and Harley and me.”
“Reggie Polatkin, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“And Harley?”
“Harley Tate, man, he’s deaf. He’s a Colville Indian.”
“And where is Harley Tate now?”
“You mean you ain’t got him? And Reggie, too? I figured you had us all nabbed.”
“Nabbed for what, Ty?”
“For beating up that white guy on the football field. Well, I should say that Reggie really hurt him. Harley and I didn’t know that was going to happen. What was that white guy’s name. I read it in the papers, but I don’t remember.”
“Robert Harris.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Reggie took that guy’s eyes. But he’s doing okay, enit?”
“Mr. Harris is fine. But he says you tried to kill him.”
“Hey, I don’t know nothing about any murders. Yeah, I beat up on that white guy. But like I said, Reggie really hurt him. I didn’t want no part of that. You got to talk to Reggie about that.”
“You know where Reggie happens to be?”
“Nope.”
“Where were you this evening about ten o’clock, Ty?”
“I was at Big Heart’s, up on Aurora. I swear.”
“And where were Reggie and Harley at ten?”
“I don’t know, man. I mean, Reggie left after he almost got in a fight with Jack Wilson.”
“The mystery writer, Jack Wilson? The cop?”
“Yeah, he hangs around the bar a lot. He’s a Wannabe Indian.”
“Wannabe?”
“Yeah, you know, wants to be Indian.”
“I see, and what time did Reggie leave the bar?”
“I don’t know. About nine or so, I guess.”
“And you didn’t go with him?”
“No, I swear. There’s about a hundred Indians who’ll tell you I was in that bar until closing.”
“We’ll check on that. How about Harley?”
“Harley took off this afternoon and I ain’t seen him since. He and Reggie almost duked it out.”
“Does Reggie own a knife?”
“A knife?”
“How many times has Reggie used this knife on someone?”
“I don’t know anything about a knife. Hey, shit, this ain’t about that Indian Killer, is it?”
“You tell us what this knife is about.”
“Hey, man, you ain’t going to pin that Indian Killer stuff on me. I didn’t kill nobody. And Reggie didn’t kill nobody, either. I know Reggie. He’s smart. He went to college, you know?”
“We know. He beat up his professor. A great student.”
“I don’t know what that was about, man. Maybe Reggie was just trying to scare him. That professor put the whammy on him, you know? Got Reggie kicked out. Reggie was smart, man. I tell you. He didn’t kill nobody. You go ahead and run your tests. Get all the witnesses you want. But I didn’t kill nobody. Reggie didn’t kill nobody.”
“Do you own a knife?”
“Yeah, I got a Swiss Army knife, a butter knife, and a steak knife at home. Shit, yeah, I own knives. I have to eat, enit?”
“Did Reggie own a knife?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“And what about Harley Tate?”
“You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“And where is he?”
“Only Harley knows where Harley is.”
27
Decisions
“DON’T HURT ME,” WILSON said to John. “I’m not a white man. I’m Indian. You don’t kill Indians.”
John wondered if Wilson knew the difference between dreaming and reality. How one could easily become the other.