Killing Zone (9 page)

“Was there anybody he spent a lot of time talking with?” asked Wager.

Yeager tugged at the fringe where an occasional glint of gray mottled the dark hair. “He talked to Barbara Jackson for a while. She works on the assembly line. And to Tony Purdy. And … well, maybe two dozen others. The councilman knew the names of a lot of the people in his district and went out of his way to shake hands with all of them. But except for those two, I don’t recall anyone he talked to more than a minute or two. He was good at that—a word to everybody and not too long with any one person. I hadn’t seen him in action before, but he was good at it—a real politician.”

“When did he leave?”

“A little after nine—quarter after, maybe.”

“Did he seem worried in any way? Or anxious?”

Yeager shook his head. “Seemed real happy to be here.”

“Who was the last one to see him go?”

“I suppose that would be me. I went to the door with him and thanked him for coming by.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No.”

“Did he leave alone?”

The man nodded.

“Did anyone follow him out?” asked Stubbs.

“No. But the party started breaking up about then, so it’s hard to say.” Yeager’s brown eyes blinked once or twice. “You’re not thinking that someone at the party followed him … No, my people wouldn’t do that.”

Wager turned from reading one of the plaques on the wall. “You have some ex-convicts on your payroll, don’t you? I see this award for the Second-Chance Association.”

“Well, yes, but they’re some of the best workers I’ve got. Those people are grateful for their second chance, Officer. I can’t imagine a one of them who’d do what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Yeager. I’m just asking questions.”

“Yes, but your implications … I just can’t believe any of my people would do something like what you’re implying.”

Wager spelled it out for him. “Councilman Green was on the Corrections Board. That’s the board that oversees the parole process and monitors halfway houses and other community corrections efforts. It just may be that one of your second chancers had a grudge against the councilman. It’s a possibility we have to check out.”

Yeager looked from Wager to Stubbs. Under the dark hair of his mustache, the pink tip of his tongue wiped across his lip. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’d like a list of the ex-cons you’ve hired. And the names of any who were fired or who quit lately.”

A long moment passed and, in the silence, Wager could hear the creak of the man’s dry throat as he swallowed. “All right.” He leaned to speak into the intercom and looked up when he finished. “But it’s like I’m betraying them. I tell them when they’re hired that I won’t bring it up if they don’t make me bring it up. So many families in this neighborhood have relatives who have gotten in trouble. All they want is a chance to straighten out. And now it’s like I’m betraying them.”

“The ones with nothing to hide have nothing to fear,” said Wager.

Stubbs softened it. “We’ll go over the list for any probables, Mr. Yeager, and only interview the ones who might have some cause. Maybe none of them will.”

The thin woman had the list waiting when they went out. At the top were half-a-dozen names of ex-employees and the dates of termination; below that was the roster of the still-employed ex-cons. Stubbs looked at it. “Twenty-seven more names,” he said.

The secretary told them how to get to the employee lounge, a brightly painted room dominated by vending machines and molded-plastic furniture. A few minutes later both Barbara Jackson and Tony Purdy wandered in, puzzled at being called off the line. Neither had much that helped; Jackson talked to Green about the problem of noisy and dangerous dogs in her neighborhood, and Purdy complained about the beer drinkers who congregated every weekend in the small park across from his house. “They don’t even live in the neighborhood. Kids, you know? Drive around and get somebody to buy beer for them, and then park their asses across the street and raise hell all night with their goddamn boom-boxes.”

Neither knew Green personally, neither had ever been to his district office, neither knew if he spent much time with any of the other guests or if he seemed worried or if he left the party with anyone. In fact, they couldn’t remember for sure when he did leave.

“For a famous man, he sure got invisible,” said Stubbs.

Wager grunted an answer and turned to the next possibility on the list, the Prudential buffet. If they were lucky, something might turn up there. If not, they would go back to the four o’clock meeting, the one marked Dengren/Collins. A telephone call to the Prudential Development Corporation went through a series of operators, receptionists, and secretaries, and finally ended at the voice of an assistant to a vice president: “Councilman Green didn’t make the reception, Detective Wager,” she said.

“He didn’t show at all?”

“No, sir. We have name tags for all the guests and he didn’t pick his up.”

“Could he have forgotten to?”

“I don’t think so. I’m the one in charge of receptions, and I usually have a table at the door. Everyone who comes in goes past me.”

“That’s what you did on the eleventh?”

“Yes, sir. It’s company policy to know who attends our functions.”

Wager held the line open while he thought. “Did anyone else miss the party?”

“Only Councilman Green, thank goodness. I mean it was a pretty important function—at least we thought so. If too many councilpeople stand you up, well, that means a lot more work at the hearings.”

“Did he call to say he wouldn’t be there?”

“Just a moment.” It was longer than that, but the voice finally came back. “No, we don’t have him on the RSVP list at all.”

“What time did the buffet end?”

“Eight. Six to eight.”

“Thanks.”

Stubbs looked over the notes in his own book. “Sonja Andersen said he left the furniture store at around seven-fifteen, latest. Yeager said he arrived maybe eight forty-five, maybe a little later.”

“That time of night,” said Wager, “it’s a twenty-minute drive at most. More likely, fifteen.”

“He could have stopped for gas, take a piss, whatever. But that still leaves almost an hour.”

That was true. And though there might be plenty of common-sense explanations for the gap in time, Wager still wrote in large print on the leaf of his notebook: “Prudential buffet? 7:15-8:45
P.M
.?”

FRIDAY, 13 JUNE, 1133 Hours

The headquarters of the Northeast Denver Action Committee was a small house set among other small houses in one of the crowded residential blocks pushed against the fringes of downtown. Douglas Dengren had hazel eyes and could have been either white or black, but he chose to wear a high Afro and a small, elongated wooden head that dangled from a leather thong around his neck.

“I read about it this morning. There’s a lot of anger among the people about it. Horace Green may not have been the finest councilman we’ve had, but he was one of us. We won’t forget what happened to him.”

“What did happen to him?” asked Wager.

“You’re the police. Don’t you know?”

“We’re the police. We’re trying to find out.”

Stubbs stepped forward. “We’re trying to trace his final activities, Mr. Dengren. We understand he had a meeting with you and Mr. Collins Wednesday afternoon around four-thirty.”

“That’s right.”

“Care to tell us what it was about?”

“It was about progress. And the lack of it. It was about this neighborhood and all the others in his district like it. It was about the city’s promises to its citizens and the breaking of those promises—promises that Horace Green made and promises that Horace Green broke!”

“You had a fight with him?”

“We had a discussion. For all the good it did.”

“A discussion about what, Mr. Dengren?”

“About the people! About why Horace Green was betraying his own people to those who would reverse the gains we have fought so hard for in the past. About why he would help the exploitation of the poor and downtrodden, and why he would step on people whose only crime is their poverty and the color of their skin. That’s something you whites”—his eyes shifted to Wager—“and you browns don’t understand.”

Wager listened to the cadences of the man’s voice and wondered if he had a collection of Jesse Jackson records at home. “If you’re talking about the mayor’s downtown development plan, I thought Green was against that.”

“He said so, didn’t he? He said so in public I don’t know how many times. But when it came time for the vote, you saw how he voted.”

Wager hadn’t seen. “How did he vote?”

“For the money—the
white
money!” Sixteen houses—homes to sixteen families who can’t afford anything better than what the slumlord rents for twice what they’re worth. But that was all those people had and now those houses are coming down, Mr. Policeman. They already got the wrecking crews over there. Not even twenty-four hours after the City Council voted, they got the wrecking crews over there, so white people can have a place to park their cars when they drive in from the lily-white suburbs. Sixteen black families out on the street for that!”

“This happened recently?”

“Monday night came the vote. Tuesday morning came the eviction. Wednesday morning came the wrecking crews. Oh, it was legal—Councilman Green saw to that. He saw to it that nobody would notice on first reading, four weeks ago, or on final reading, Monday night. A minor zoning change, that’s all—nothing to call attention to. A quick little motion from Councilman Green’s committee—two quick, little routine votes—and sixteen families were quickly shoved on the street. You didn’t read about it in your racist papers, did you? It wasn’t news like a black man holding up a white liquor store. No!”

“Where are these houses, Mr. Dengren?” Stubbs asked.

“Down on Tremont. Nineteen-hundred block of Tremont.”

Wager made a note of the address. It wouldn’t be the first time a politician said one thing and did another, and it was the kind of deal that mingled the odor of corruption with the perfume of profit. “What time did Green leave you?”

“About ten minutes after he got here. It was a short meeting—the good councilman didn’t have much to say. Wasn’t much he could say!”

“That would be about four-thirty? Four forty-five?”

“Just about.”

“Did you see Green again after your meeting with him?”

“Did I have the opportunity as well as the motive to murder the man? Is that what you’re asking me?”

“Did you see him any time later in the day or evening?”

“No. I don’t travel in the same circles as Councilman Green, thank the Lord.”

“What did Green say about the evictions?” asked Stubbs.

“He said he’d ‘see what he could find out.’ Find out! It come through his committee, he voted for it twice on the council, and then he starts saying he’ll ‘find out’ about it. Now, that’s a politician for you.”

“Did the evicted people blame Green?” asked Wager.

“That is a good question. I made sure they knew whose fault it was. I made sure they knew the name of the Judas who sold out his own people. There’s an election coming up.”

Sixteen new names.

“But if you’re thinking one of them did it, you’re wrong. They’re kind and decent people who just happen to be poor and black. God knows I wouldn’t blame them if they did kill the Judas, but they’re not that kind. They bow their heads under this latest injustice and cry out ‘How long, O Lord!’”

“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

Dengren hesitated. “Word is, it was somebody who wanted to kill niggers. But I suppose you haven’t heard that.”

“Where did you hear it?”

“Around. It’s what the street’s saying. But of course the racist police will deny that, won’t you?”

“If you have some facts to back that up, Mr. Dengren, we’d like to hear them,” said Stubbs. “Do you know anyone—any names at all—who ever threatened to kill the councilman or any other Negro?”

“You never heard of the White Brotherhood?”

“That’s a prison gang.”

“That’s where it started. It’s outside the walls now. They have a chapter right here in Denver—hardshell honkies ready and eager to do the work of a racist society. They see the advance of the people toward justice and equality, and they are jealous. They see the growing power and might of those they despise and they are fearful! And yes—they have made threats, Mr. Policeman. Their very existence is based on that threat. You find them. You find them and you will find the killers of Councilman Green who, despite all his faults, was still one of the people. A leader of our people. And a target for those who would keep our spirit in bondage. Find them, Mr. Policeman. If you got the guts!” He turned away.

“
Salaam alaikem
,” said Wager.

1151 Hours

Stubbs had just turned the car toward downtown and the Administration Building when the radio popped their call number. “Lieutenant Wolfard wants to know your ten-twenty.”

“We’re on our way back now.”

“Check with him as soon as you get in.”

“Right.”

Wolfard was waiting, his door open to the hallway’s long axis so he could see which detectives headed where. “Come in, Les. Wager. What’s turned up?”

From the top of the building, the low groan of the emergency siren began rising into its screaming wail—noon and the monthly test of warning equipment throughout the city, a reminder of weapons angled toward Denver from some concrete launch site far beyond the northern horizon. It wasn’t something you thought about often: the mechanical ease with which an anchored, concrete city and all in it could be vaporized. Like the shifting, thin crust of the earth itself, like the fragility of life on the high desert around Denver, like your own death, it wasn’t something you thought about. But every now and then something reminded you, and a fissure opened at your feet and you stared for a long moment into its blackness. The three of them held their silence through the aching shriek almost—it crossed Wager’s mind—like a moment of prayer, and he remembered the weekly drills as a schoolchild crouching more in solemn meditation than fear beneath the thin protection of his plywood desk with its wads of old gum and occasional streaks of dried snot. He wondered if children were still doing that or if, like everyone else, they simply waited for the scream to end, trusting that it was only another pointless interruption in a world whose continuance was guaranteed.