by Todd Borg
“I guess that means the Greek guy didn’t like them.”
“Regular men have never much liked other men who are big and strong and handsome and have narrow waists. You tolerate a superhero if he’s vanquishing evil. But you don’t want to hang out and drink beer with him.”
I nodded.
Diamond said, “So it would be good to be very careful around the Brödraskapet boys.”
“You learn anything specific about the gang?”
“I told you I’d seen a video that mentioned karambit knives. I called the guy who put on the presentation and asked him about the Brödraskapet. He said their basic foundation is a set of rules to weed out anyone who isn’t the worst of the worst. For example, to become an official Brödraskapet gang member, you have to have been incarcerated in a maximum security prison. You can’t have ever complied with a requirement to submit urine for a drug test. You can’t have ever informed on another prisoner. And you can’t have ever taken part in any rehabilitation program.”
“A code of toughness,” I said.
“Sí. Stupid toughness,” Diamond said.
“Do you know of any useful techniques to use if one were to get in a fight with a guy who uses a karambit knife?”
He thought about it. “Washoe County is the only nearby Sheriff’s Office with anything approaching big-city experience, what with Reno and Sparks. You could call them. Do you remember Sergeant Lori Lanzen in Incline Village?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She came to that crime scene in Incline Village where I was nearly killed.”
Diamond nodded. “I’ve heard in the past that Washoe County Sheriff’s Office sometimes utilizes a Bay Area weapons trainer who retired to Washoe Valley. If you called Sergeant Lanzen, she could probably give you his contact info. Maybe he could help.” Diamond looked at his watch. “Lots I gotta do. See you at your office at three.”
“Thanks.”
I went back to my Jeep, endured Spot’s cold, wet, nose on my neck, and called the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office.
The person who answered the phone made it sound like he was putting me through to Lanzen, but all I got was her voicemail. I left a thorough message.
I headed toward home and had just driven through the Cave Rock Tunnel when my phone rang.
“Owen McKenna.”
“Lori Lanzen returning your call. Your message said you wanted info on knife fighting?” She sounded incredulous.
“Yeah. Sorry. I realize it sounds kind of out there. I’m dealing with a branch of a Swedish prison gang called The Brotherhood. Or maybe just dirtballs who would like to be a branch of the gang. These particular guys emphasize their wickedness by carrying special blades called karambit knives. Douglas County Sergeant Diamond Martinez told me that Washoe County sometimes consults with a weapons trainer who lives in Washoe Valley. Does that sound familiar?”
“Yeah, I know of him. Kenneth Boomerian. Although he goes by Kenny Boom. Made his living in the Bay Area teaching cops the finer points of shooting. Maybe he knows knives, too, but I haven’t heard one way or another. Did Martinez tell you he’s retired?”
“Yeah. But maybe he’d be willing to do a little consulting?”
“You’ll find out when you call. Let me see if I have his contact info in my phone.” After a minute she read off a number. “Tell me, McKenna. Is this gang in Washoe County?”
“Not that I know of. Right now, they’re on the West Shore. Placer County. I don’t even know if they’re officially with the Swedish gang. But they seem to embrace some of the gang’s wicked characteristics. And they may have been involved in a murder or two up on a South Shore mountain, Job’s Sister.”
“El Dorado County,” Lanzen said, establishing jurisdiction just as Diamond had.
“Right. If they come to your neck of the woods, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
We hung up. I was almost home. So I drove up the mountain to my cabin, let Spot out to run, and called Kenny Boom on my landline, which had much better reception than my cell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Hello?” a man answered in an airy voice like what you’d get from throat damage.
Sergeant Lori Lanzen had said that weapons expert Kenny Boom had retired. Yet the man who answered sounded older than I expected. It didn’t matter. An old weapons expert probably knew more than a young one.
“Owen McKenna calling for Kenny Boom, please.”
“Speaking. Who’s Owen McKenna?”
“I’m a private cop up at Tahoe. Sergeant Martinez of Douglas County referred me to Sergeant Lanzen of Washoe County, saying Washoe County has worked with you. Lanzen gave me your name and number. She said you’re retired but that maybe I could ask if you might do a little consulting. I’m dealing with a Swedish Prison gang named The Brödraskapet. They carry karambit knives. I could use some expertise.”
There was a long pause. “I’ve dealt with private cops before. Haven’t been real impressed.”
“Sorry about that. I’ll try not to disappoint. What I’d like is to buy some of your expertise. I’ll pay your per diem for an hour of your time.”
Another long pause. “You got any qualifications?”
“I can’t be bought off. I work with cops, not against them. I’ve put away some bad guys.”
“You ever work in a uniform?”
“Twenty years SFPD. Last several as Homicide Inspector.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so. What’s your schedule?”
“I’m open. Sooner is better.”
“Can you come down to Washoe Valley today?”
“I can be there in an hour.”
“Make it an hour and a half.” He gave me the address.
Spot and I had time to eat some lunch, potato chips and hotdogs and ketchup. I cut Spot’s hotdogs into pieces and stirred them into the compressed sawdust dog food with a little added ketchup and broken potato chips. Judging by the rate he inhaled it and his enthusiasm for licking his bowl clean, he liked it even better than I did. As a guilty afterthought and a way to save face with Street should she ask about my lunch, I ate some spinach and cherry tomatoes and carrots before I had two donuts for dessert. Spot didn’t want the veggies, but he loved his donuts.
We got back in the Jeep. I went up and over Spooner Summit and down to Carson City. The new freeway routed us around the city, up the rise on the north side of the valley, then dropped down to Washoe Valley. We’d had good precipitation the previous winter, so the on-again, off-again Washoe Lake was full and seemed to be a massive truck stop for birds.
I turned off the freeway, drove along the mountainside to the west, and found Kenny Boom’s turnoff a few miles up.
Boom lived in a low-slung ranch house with nut-brown wood siding, a red metal roof, and a wide porch that wrapped around the west, south, and east sides. It looked very stylish and would have fit in Jackson, Wyoming or Sun Valley, Idaho or Aspen, Colorado.
Kenny Boom was sitting on a wooden rocking chair on his porch as we came down the country road. From the distance of his driveway turnoff, I could see he wore blue jeans and a beige shirt, and a wide black cowboy hat. I headed down the gravel drive, the stones crackling under the Jeep tires, and parked. Up closer, his hat was a Cattleman’s design, probably a Stetson. His black cowboy boots looked like Western riding boots, with the angled heel and tapered toes. The only thing missing was horses in the nearby pasture.
But the entire valley was filled with horses, possibly out-numbering the human population, so it could well be that he had horses somewhere.
I got out of the Jeep and walked up to the porch. The man got out of his rocker and met me at the porch steps.
Standing on his top step, in his high-heeled boots, he looked down on me as he shook my hand.
“Kenny Boom,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. Come sit awhile and tell me how I can help you.”
He parked in his rocker, and I sat on a large wicker chair with a comfortable pad. Witho
ut telling him names or any other specific information, I told him about the Swedish gang and the fact that they’d kidnapped my client’s kid.
“Our contact said that if this gets reported to the cops, the kid gets killed in retaliation,” I said. “I don’t know if the threat is sincere. But there have already been two deaths up on a mountain. In my plan to tackle this without bringing in a SWAT team, I will likely confront one or more of these gang members. I’ve learned they carry karambit knives. Perhaps it’s all show. Or perhaps this is their weapon of choice. From what I understand about karambit knives, they can kill and forensics cannot establish the weapon. The blades slice, but they leave no hints as to their origins. So I’m hoping for some kind of preparation before I go in. I could end up in a knife fight. Any tips you can give me would be much appreciated.”
Kenny Boom rocked back and forth. He reached a thick, stubby index finger up and scratched his earlobe.
“First, I should tell you that my expertise is firearms. I spent fifteen years as a cop in Oakland, then quit to teach firearms at two different cop schools, then segued into consulting. I’ve worked for five Bay Area county sheriff’s offices and several cities. So if the weapon fires a bullet, I’m your guy. I’m not quite so familiar with knives. However, I’ve seen what a karambit can do, and anyone who would use one has personality problems.”
“Tips?”
“Let’s back up. What’s your sidearm?”
“I don’t carry.”
Kenny Boom gave me a blank stare as if he couldn’t comprehend my answer.
“Long story,” I said.
“Right. Well, what I was going to say is, the best defense against a karambit knife is to have your piece out and cocked, with a round in the chamber and your finger inside the trigger guard. But now that’s off the table. So let me start by saying something you probably know if you think about it. The entire concept of a knife fight is bogus. People don’t fight with knives. It’s not like some dual where the procedure is laid out in advance or a boxing match where the rules are clear and enforced by the referee. The whole point of any knife not used for cooking or cleaning game is that it’s carried incognito and employed in a stealth fashion. A guy who wants to attack with a knife keeps it hidden until the time for the attack. Then he brings it out and slashes or stabs in an instant. The victim never sees it coming. No one ever pulls out a knife from a distance, brandishes it as a warning, and then slowly moves in. Maybe in some movies or Youtube videos, but that’s not usually the way it is in real life. In real life, if someone pulled out a knife and gave his adversary warning, the adversary would either run out the back door and disappear or pull out a gun and shoot him.”
I thought about what he said. “That makes sense. So humor me, please. Let’s say I get into a conflict with a man. Even if the man doesn’t show his weapon until the last moment, I suspect it exists all along. What might I do to prepare for this?”
Kenny Boom made a big inhalation and let it out in a long sigh as if it were very frustrating to deal with ignorant people like me, ex-cops who should know better.
“Let me review the hierarchy of weapons,” he said.
Maybe I frowned at him.
“I realize this is no-brainer stuff that you know,” he said. “But it helps to lay it out in a logical fashion. On the spectrum of weapons, let’s say the left end is the low-grade stuff. Fists and fingernails and teeth. On the right end is nuclear bombs. A dramatic illustration, but you get my point. Any weapon on the spectrum, wielded with basic competence, takes out the lesser weapon to its left side on the spectrum. When we move away from the far left on the spectrum, away from using our hands as weapons, the very first thing we come to is knives or knife-like instruments. Slashing with a karambit knife is more sophisticated than stabbing someone with a pencil, but the basic principle is the same. It’s a lowly, primitive weapon. Why does that matter? Because anyone with a good club takes out anyone with a knife. That’s why the knife has to be concealed until it’s used. If it’s not concealed, the potential victim picks up a baseball bat or even a large, heavy candlestick holder and kills the person with the knife. And so it goes up the hierarchy. A spear, or a bow and arrow, takes out the person with a club. A gun takes out the person with a bow and arrow. You get the idea. So if you are worried about a man with a karambit knife, don’t ever waste time wondering how to fight him. Just make sure you have a club. It doesn’t matter what kind of club. You know from your cop days the effectiveness of a baton or sap. Think about saps. Short leather clubs that are made around a flexible steel rod and weighted inside with lead. If you have a crazy coming after you, and you don’t carry a gun, which would you consider the more reliable and effective weapon to have on your person? A knife? A stun gun? Or a sap?”
“Definitely, a sap,” I said.
“So don’t worry about how to fight a knife-wielding crazy. If a guy surprises you and sticks you between the fifth and sixth rib and nails your heart, you’re dead whether you’re packing a nine or a rocket launcher. But if you’re lucky enough to see a knife coming, and you have a short sap in the cargo pocket of your jeans, you’ll be fine.”
I sat a moment absorbing what he’d said.
“So the whole concept of a karambit knife is basically more about intimidation than being an effective weapon,” I said.
“Definitely,” Kenny Boom said. “Yes, it kills. Yes, it’s scary. But it’s still a cutting, stabbing instrument that you conceal until the last moment. It’s still just a knife. More effective than punching or biting. But not much more effective than a Boy Scout knife. Imagine you have one of these karambit knives and you want to kill a man who has a sap. How do you think it would play out?”
“If the man with the sap saw me pull out the knife, and if he was even half my physical equal, he’d swing his sap and break the arm I was holding the knife with and then break my head.”
Kenny Boom leaned back in his rocker. He made a small smile.
“When I walked away from the SFPD,” I said, “I left all of my gear with them. As I’m no longer a current peace officer in the state of California, I believe it’s illegal for me to carry a flexible sap or an expandable baton.”
“Yeah, the rules are crazy. We all - you excepted - carry our guns. And our retired cop IDs mean we don’t have to get concealed carry permits for our guns. But most states and cities have laws making it illegal to carry a wide range of weapons, from brass knuckles to ninja stars. Illegal for ex-cops to carry them, too. Why? Because they are lethally dangerous and could be used to kill people.” Boom made a little chuckle, and his smile grew a bit wider. “For that matter, the wording of the laws often refers to any item specifically carried to be a weapon. So even a baseball bat could, in certain situations, be looked at in court as a dangerous weapon and thus illegal. But guns, the most dangerous of all, are not only legal, they’re celebrated and encouraged. Aren’t politicians great?”
Kenny Boom added. “Bottom line is, always remember the lowly club. Most ex-cops I know are creative and resourceful. I’m sure you are, as well.” He didn’t elaborate, but the intended message was clear.
I stood up. Shook his hand. “Thanks, Kenny. You’ve been very helpful. How much do I owe you?”
“We’ll just call this professional courtesy,” he said. “Good luck.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I drove south to Carson City, stopped at a Lowe’s and found the plumbing section. They had a selection of galvanized steel pipe. I looked around for an employee and found a man in his seventies who had the employee badge and apron.
“Can you please help me?” I said. “I’m looking for a section of steel plumbing pipe, threaded on both ends so I can screw pipe caps onto it. Maybe twelve inches long.”
“Now that’s an unusual plumbing project. Pipe caps on both ends. We usually think of pipe as something that carries water.” He gave me a little grin. “Usually a strange request like that suggests you broke something and you’re looking fo
r a temporary fix before your wife discovers what you did. But the cap on both ends means you’re not screwing the pipe into anything else, like, I don’t know, temporarily replacing the broken leg on a couch or something.”
“No wife,” I said. “Nothing broken, either. Just a quirky idea I had to fix an unusual problem. I won’t know if it works until I try it.”
“Alrighty, then. Check this out.” He took me over to some bins with pre-cut pipe sections. “These pre-cuts come threaded on both ends. Our shortest is three foot long and three-quarter inch on the inside dimension. So I’m thinking, we trim off a one-foot chunk, get out the die, and cut threads on the fresh end. Then we screw a galvanized malleable iron pipe cap on each end. I’d have to charge you for our shop fee, which is a time-based cost. So when we’re done, you’re gonna think this is the most expensive pipe you ever bought that didn’t come from a plumber. How does that sound?”
“Perfect. Is that something you can do today?”
The man looked up and down the aisle, gauging traffic. “Tell you what. I’ll let Sandy know I’ve got a custom pipe order. Right now, I’m pret’ near sure she’ll be okay with me going back in the shop. But if we get a rush and she calls me out, you’ll have to wait while I do the retail thing. Will that work for you?”
“Yes, please. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
The man pushed a button on his belt radio, bent his head and talked into a mic clipped to his lapel, got a response, then nodded and let go of the button.
The man pulled a pipe from the bin, pulled a tape measure off his belt and measured off 12 inches. He used the tape measure to make a tiny etched mark on the pipe and handed it to me. “You want twelve inches exactly including the end caps?”
I took the pipe, held it near the little mark. “The measurement isn’t precise. Let’s make it an inch longer and then the pipe caps will add another half inch or so when they’re screwed on.”
