Killing Zone (10 page)

When the siren’s final groan died, Stubbs answered, telling the lieutenant about the Vitaco reception.

“No one saw him leave?”

“A Mr. Yeager. He walked him to the door. He said Green left alone.”

“What about the list of ex-cons?”

“We’ll get on that this afternoon.”

Wolfard straightened a blank yellow tablet so that its edge matched the desk blotter. “I’ve had calls from the
Post
and the
News
about this. I suppose you saw the headlines this morning.”

Both papers had bannered
CITY COUNCILMAN SLAIN
and filled over half the front pages with story and pictures. Wager had spotted himself in the background in one of the photographs of the scene, and the reporter—Gargan—had implied that the police were being uncooperative with the press. “Yes.”

“The television people are bugging me, too. One of the reports floating around is that the killing’s racially motivated. Did either of you people say anything to anybody about that threat to Mrs. Green?”

“No, sir,” said Stubbs.

“Well, somebody put the word out on it. I’ve been getting calls all damned morning. What have you turned up from that angle?”

Stubbs told him.

“The White Brotherhood?”

“Dengren said that.”

“Jesus—that’s all we need for a race riot.” Wolfard straightened his desk calendar. “Pressure, gentlemen. There’s a lot of pressure to get this one cleared up as soon as possible, and not just because he was a councilman. The race issue …” From down the hallway, a sudden pause in the noise of telephones half drew Wager’s attention for its oddness; then the ringing began again and filled in the background like distant crickets. “We don’t want to go back to the sixties and seventies, do we? ‘Burn, baby, burn’ and all that.”

Wager figured the lieutenant was working around to something instead of just wasting time. He hoped the lieutenant was working around to something.

“Pressure,” he said again. Then, “Do you need help on this?”

“Right now, Stubbs and I can handle it, Lieutenant. Anybody else, we’d just be tripping over each other.”

“You’re sure? Les is a good officer, and he’s learning fast. But he’s new.”

Wager was sure.

“Well, that’s a relief, anyway. We’re shorthanded as hell. Ashcroft’s on temporary assignment and Ross has his leave coming up.” He leaned back and gazed at them and Wager saw that the man was becoming painfully aware of the distance that his new administrative rank had carried him from the street cops. “The chief called again this morning. I didn’t have much to tell him.”

They waited.

“Well, drop everything else and take what overtime you need. If anything comes in, turn it over to Devereaux or Golding—their caseloads are the lightest right now. Let’s focus on the racist angle—that’s the most explosive possibility. Check with me later this afternoon and let me know what you have.”

1206 Hours

The homicide detectives’ desks were around the corner from the lieutenant’s office, just out of sight but close enough for voices to carry, and Wager had the feeling of Wolfard’s ear stretching out behind them.

“What’s next?” Stubbs, a fresh cup of coffee in his fist, settled with a sigh at his desk and noted the papers and memos beginning to pile up.

“Get the landlords of those apartments—find out the names of those sixteen families who were evicted.”

“The lieutenant said to work on the racist angle.”

“They’re black, aren’t they? That’s racial, isn’t it?” Wager pushed away from his desk. “I’ll be over in Assault, then upstairs in Intelligence.”

Nick Papadopoulos was eating a brown-bag lunch at his desk, one of two tucked into an almost-quiet corner behind a partition framing the shift sergeant’s office. He looked up when Wager came around the corner. “I got your note.” Stuffing the last bite of something that looked like a meat pie into his mouth, he licked the juice off his fingers. “What’s it all about?”

A lanky man with a bald patch running back from his forehead, his glasses made him look more like a teacher than a cop. Wager hadn’t worked with him but heard from other people in Assault that he was pretty good; he consistently had one of the highest clearance rates in the section. “What’s that you’re eating?”

“
Spanakopittas
—spinach and meat pie. The wife makes them. They’re good.” He began cutting hunks off a slab of white cheese and reached into a small plastic bowl of black olives. “Want some?
Feta
and
kalamatas
. A lot of energy and not much in calories or bulk.”

Wager shook his head and wondered if he ought to introduce Papadopoulos to Golding. Maybe they could develop a line of color-coded ethnic food. “What’s the rap on Franklin and Roberts?”

Papadopoulos rattled an olive pit into his wastebasket. “Arson, assault with intent. Those are the big ones.”

“What’d they do?”

“The complainant, one Matthias McKeever, states that said Franklin and Roberts first threatened to burn down his place of business and subsequently attempted same. And that when he reported their attempt to the police, said defendants did assault him about the head and shoulders with their fists and further attempt to terminate his life in a most painful manner.”

“They’re out on bond?”

“Said Franklin and Roberts haven’t been formally charged yet—I want to fill in some holes in the paperwork. They’re still in the pokey.” He spit out another olive pit. “What’s your interest?”

“I want to know how hard it’ll be to spring them.”

Papadopoulos’s jaw stopped moving and he leaned back to look up at Wager. “Goddamned hard. They’re a couple of cheap punks who were shaking this citizen down. They take this fall, they have a third felony inside ten years. Career criminals—and they’re off the streets for a long time.”

“It’s McKeever’s word against theirs?”

“Yeah. Plus the testimony of Mr. Bruises and Mr. Contusions. He didn’t get them falling down stairs.” He popped another hunk of cheese into his mouth and spoke around it. “Why do you want them out?”

“They work for somebody I owe a favor to. I told him I’d see what I could find out about it.”

“That’s a big favor.”

Wager shrugged. “I owe him that much. I don’t owe him my badge.”

Papadopoulos shook his head. “I want these two off the streets. And I don’t owe your friend a damn thing.”

The rest of it was that he didn’t owe Wager anything, either. “That’s what I’ll tell him, then.”

The Intelligence office was on an upper floor and removed from the steady bustle and jingle of Crimes Against Persons. Wager stifled his irritation at Papadopoulos’s abruptness by reminding himself that Franklin and Roberts got their own tails in that crack, and he couldn’t work miracles no matter what Fat Willy thought he was owed. And, by God, Wager really didn’t want to—it sounded like they were getting what they deserved. But he had stuck his neck out and asked; if Willy wasn’t satisfied with that, to hell with him.

Through the door’s glass panel, he could see the long row of filing cabinets and extra computer terminals that cramped the space, and he had to knock loudly on the security door to get someone’s attention. Finally, a head popped around the corner to look and a buzzer cleared the lock.

“Gabe—don’t tell me you want some intelligence?” Marty Martinez, another of the patrolmen like Adamo who had made the grade to detective two or three lists ago, unlocked the door and shook hands. He had been a first-rate patrolman, and Wager was glad to see the promotion.

“If I ever took some, you wouldn’t have any left. How’s Lynette and the kids?” He never could remember children’s names.

Martinez, leading him past some desks to his own, told him, and then asked Wager about his health and life. “I heard what happened to Jo,” he said. “She was good people. I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” But sorry never brought anyone back. “What do you know about the White Brotherhood?”

“Not much. If it wasn’t for business, you wouldn’t come by here, would you?”

“I’ve been meaning to—busy, that’s all. Do you have anything on them?”

“Let me see what we’ve got. How soon do you need it?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah—right.” He pointed to a stack of brown dossiers marked with bright sensitivity codes. Beside them, a half-eaten sandwich and a cup of steaming coffee said that he, like Wager, was working through his lunch hour. “I got a deadline on this, too.”

Wager wouldn’t have said it was a rush job if it wasn’t, and he thought Martinez should have known that. “It’s a V.I.P. homicide. Councilman Green.”

“You’re on that?” He heaved a deep breath and pushed back in his chair. “OK—the whole goddamned department’s running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off over that one. So why not me, too?” He carted the folders to a safe and locked them away, turning up the green side of the cardboard flag that straddled the dial. “Let’s punch it up—if they’ve got the mainframe on line, yet.”

Wager followed Martinez to a computer terminal and watched while he clattered a series of code letters into the machine. A few seconds later the reply lined across the screen and Martinez began typing again. On a bulletin board near the terminal, someone had tacked up a wanted notice for “Dudley Doberman, height 2’4”, weight 85 lbs., eyes brown, hair red and brown, alias Dog Face.” Two blurry photographs showed a Doberman pinscher dressed in a coat and tie, wearing a hat, and dangling a cigarette from the corner of its mouth. The rap sheet listed “K-9 rape, impersonating a human being, and flight to avoid the animal control officer.” Someone had scrawled under one of the photographs, “Hansen—he looks like your sister.” Squad room humor hadn’t changed since Wager was in the Marine Corps.

“OK,” said Martinez. “Now let’s run it.” He pressed another series of buttons and the printer began to chatter. The top of the sheet held a date stamp and a notice:
CONFIDENTIAL
. Beneath that were “Reliability Code B” and “Content of Report 2.” Wager recollected from some long-past training session that the heading meant the information could be shared with law enforcement officials on a need-to-know basis, that its source was known and reliable, and that the material itself was probably true. A few moments later, he and Wager read the printout:

The White Brotherhood is a loose federation of chapters advocating white supremacy. Apparently originating in California at San Quentin, it is a reaction to several gangs of blacks who had banded together to take control of the institution’s illicit activities and to intimidate the white prisoners. Affiliated with the Hell’s Angels, chapters began to appear in other prisons that held members of the motorcycle gang. The chapter in Colorado’s Canyon City Maximum Security Prison was founded around 1972 and, like other chapters, now includes a large number of white prisoners not known to belong to patch gangs. A recent disturbing trend is the expansion of chapters from prison into the civilian population. Released and paroled members maintain their prison contacts, and it is probable that the outside chapters serve as means of supplying drugs and other contraband for chapter members to sell inside. The Denver chapter dates from around 1980. Previously reliable informants state that the current number is around twenty-five active members with an undefined number of affiliate members, both men and women.

Wager began jotting names and addresses from the list of known or suspected members, and he recognized a couple of them—Benjamin (“Sonny”) Pickett, whom Wager had busted for pushing heroin almost ten years ago; and Jerome H. Davis, a.k.a. “Big Nose Smith.” Davis had been a suspected triggerman in a gang killing four years ago. Suspected, hell, he did it; but nothing could be brought into court to prove it because all the witnesses were gang members.

“I didn’t know Big Nose was back in town.”

Martinez, looking at the name, shrugged. “I haven’t been following them. That’s Norm Fullerton, but he’s off-duty now.”

“When’s he in?”

“Tomorrow—he’s got the weekend.”

Wager finished copying the list of members and put Fullerton’s name in a little circle above them. Martinez walked him to the security door and pressed the unlock buzzer.

“Let’s go for a beer sometimes, Gabe.”

“Sounds good.”

“I mean it, man. Be good to talk with you.”

Wager meant it, too. But by the time he reached the elevator, his mind was already lining up the afternoon. He found Stubbs back at his desk with a telephone stuck to his ear and waited for the man to hang up before he showed him the list of White Brotherhood members.

“Another twenty-five people? Holy shit, Wager!”

“We won’t have to talk to more than a couple, Stubbs; they’ll all have the same story.”

He sighed and wagged the telephone. “I called one landlord for the names of tenants. I’ve located six of the families; Elaine’s working on the other landlords.”

That was one of the civilian secretaries hired to relieve officers of as much routine work as possible. It was the kind of job she liked, and even now Wager could hear the nasal voice, smug in identifying itself with the power of the state, “This is Elaine Spiska with the Denver Police Department, Mr. Goodrich. You were the owner of some rental properties in the nineteen-hundred block of Tremont? Would you mind answering a couple questions about your tenants?”

“Wager!” Wolfard’s voice snaked around the corner to pull him into the lieutenant’s office. “I thought I heard you out there—I just got a call from Councilperson Voss. She wants to talk with you about the case.”

“It’s a current investigation. It’s confidential.”

“I realize that, Wager. But she’s also the president of the City Council. That’s not somebody you just say no to.”

He could have reminded Wolfard that a lieutenant was supposed to intercept crap like that so the detectives could do their jobs. But the pinch of worry between the man’s eyebrows told Wager that it wasn’t something Wolfard wanted argued.

“I told her you’d be over to her office in ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

“You, ah, have any idea why she asked for you?”