Serve & Protect

by L. J. Breedlove

  She looked at him closely. “Oh! You’re the one from last fall!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, thank you doubly for helping us,” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t know what came over him.”

  Mac wanted to grill her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it while she was in shock. I have scruples? He thought, amused. Who knew?

  He pulled out a business card, and wrote his cell on the back of it. “I’d love to ask you questions,” he admitted. “But it wouldn’t be right, not until you’ve had a chance to get over this a bit. You’re in shock, and these guys can help with that.”

  She took the card and looked at. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get over this,” she said shakily. “But I’ll call you later. Least I can do.”

  He nodded, and went back to where Rodriguez was standing. “Get him?” he asked.

  “Yeah. T-zone shot,” Rodriguez said. “Poor bastard. That loony-tune online set him up for this. And we have no fucking clue as to why.”

  Chapter 7

  Mac was actually surprised when Vicki Williams called him that afternoon. He was about done for the day, and he offered to buy her coffee.

  “I just want to say thank you,” she said as they sat down with their drinks at a café half-way between his home and hers.

  “How is Clara?” he asked.

  “Hysterical,” she admitted. “I would be too, if I wasn’t so tired. She’s at my parents. She feels safe there. I’ll stay there tonight. I’m not sure when, if ever, I will want to go back to the house. To step over the bloodstains in the entryway.”

  Mac opened up his phone, jotted down a name and number, and handed it to her. “They do bloodstain removal,” he said. “Call them and have them take care of it before you even go back.”

  She looked at it curiously. “You have a bloodstain removal company in your phone? You need one often?”

  He laughed. “More often than you’d think,” he said. He found he liked the woman, which he hadn’t expected. The list of people he liked was pretty short. He had admired her at the house that morning. She knew what she had to do to protect her daughter, and she’d done it. He told her that.

  “Thanks,” she said. “There’s this moment in a crisis where you think ‘now, it must be done now.’ And I knew if I didn’t do something right then, he was going to kill one or both of us. What I don’t know is why. Why did he do that?”

  He told her what little he’d pieced together.

  “He was gone last weekend?” he asked. “Some wilderness survival thing?”

  She nodded. “He’s been different since he got involved with guns,” she said. “Going off to play war games in the mountains? That’s not the man I married.”

  “Tell me about the man you married then,” he invited. He didn’t ask to tape the conversation, sensing it would make her clam up. But she didn’t seem to object when he pulled out a notebook and took notes. She even smiled at the notebook — a long narrow notebook with the word Reporter on it. The Examiner bought them in bulk.

  She’d met Cabot at the bank about 12 years ago. She was a loan officer there. He was in another division so there’d been no conflict of interest. Fell in love, got married, bought a house. Had a daughter. Both sets of grandparents lived within driving distance, and most vacation time was spent with family, or working on the house. Some trips to Neah Bay on the peninsula to go fishing.

  “An American success story,” she said in a self-depreciating tone.

  “And it changed?”

  She nodded. “About three years ago now, I guess. He met some guys at a bar after work. I think he’d known them from online maybe? Anyway, they were into guns. Really into them. And they had this club. There’s a gun range in Arlington. They’d go up there, learn to shoot a certain kind of gun. Then they’d buy one and get a certificate that they knew how to use it.”

  “So pretty soon he’s got an arsenal.”

  She toyed with coffee. “Yeah,” she said. “I was alarmed, made him buy locked cases for the guns, and we turned a spare bedroom into a gun room for him. He keeps it locked. I was worried about Clare. Afraid she’d find one and shoot herself. He assured me that the whole point of the training was to be a responsible gun owner.”

  Mac nodded. “That’s what I’m hearing,” he agreed. “But it seems to get obsessive.”

  “Do you own a gun?” she asked.

  “Several,” he replied. “I was a Marine. It would feel weird not to have a weapon.”

  “Are you part of a club? Do you hang out with other gun owners? Talk about the need for an arsenal because bad times are coming?”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “I told him it sounded like he’d signed up for a cult. Like the Branch Davidians in Waco. He said the Branch Davidians were doing nothing wrong. That they were exactly why he and others like him needed to be prepared because the FBI could come for any of us and we’d be helpless.”

  “When was this?”

  “Maybe a year ago,” she replied. “For a while I tried avoiding the whole topic. But his gun collection — what did you call it, his arsenal? Well, it kept growing. I was locked out of the room, but I’d guess there was 80 weapons or more.”

  “Have the police asked permission to go inside?”

  She nodded. “I gave it to them. It was that man who talked to me about his son.”

  “Lieutenant Rodriguez,” Mac said. “So, your husband is preparing for the next FBI siege. Did he talk about someone who was the leader of this? Does the word ‘Sensei’ mean anything to you?”

  “He had a group of men he hung out with — the ones he went up to Skagit Valley with,” she said. “They are all gun enthusiasts like Cabot. He became more involved with them, and anything could set off a rant about SHTF, and what they’d do to protect themselves and their families. I got to the point where I didn’t want to hear any of it. And I was worried about Clare listening to him.”

  “Did he mention George Martin?”

  “Maybe? And you said Sensei. Yes, maybe, but he was just an online person Cabot admired. ‘He knows his shit,’ he’d say. He said Sensei was an ex-military, ex-cop who was committed to helping men like him prepare for what was coming.”

  Branch Davidians might have been over 20 years ago, but the thinking didn’t seem to die, Mac thought. “Andy Malloy? Craig Anderson?”

  “They’re the guys who run the range and are teaching Cabot — was teaching him — how to use guns,” she said. “I’m not sure if they were on the wilderness trip.”

  Mac frowned. “You seem to think that trip was significant? Do you think it had something to do with this morning?”

  “It’s been coming,” she said. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I had been thinking about leaving him. But I couldn’t make myself do it. His ranting was getting worse. When he came back from the wilderness trip, he said he was prepared now to do whatever was necessary to prevent the police state from happening. That he was ‘blooded’.”

  Mac sat back at that. “You’re sure that’s the word he used?”

  She nodded. “He was smug about it. But doesn’t that...,” she hesitated. “Doesn’t that usually mean you’ve actually killed someone?”

  Mac nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Or maybe it could just mean he killed and gutted his first deer.” He didn’t think so. And neither did Vicki.

  “But that’s not what you think happened,” she said.

  “No,” he agreed. “So, he was different? More aggressive? Swaggered a bit even?”

  “Yes!” she said. “The man I married was a gentle person, a gentle lover. But Cabot came home, and....” She trailed off and blushed, realizing she was talking to a near stranger.

  “And he got aggressive with you,” Mac said. “Forced you?”

  She bit her lip. “It wasn’t rape,” she said softly. “Not exactly. But I wasn’t given a choice about it either.”

  Mac decided a subject change might be in order. �
��So, did he offer to teach you to shoot? Or give you and your daughter gun safety lessons?”

  She shook her head and seemed relieved to leave the previous topic. “No, and I wanted them. I thought maybe if I learned to shoot, even just a hunting rifle, or a handgun for target shooting, it would give us something to do together again. But he wouldn’t even consider it. Said it was his job to protect us when the bad things came.”

  She swallowed. “But when the bad things came? It was him. And who protects us then?”

  “The police?” Mac said gently. “Lieutenant Rodriguez is a good man. You can trust him, talk to him.”

  She nodded.

  “You have my card,” he said. “If you want to talk? Or you think of something else? Call me.”

  She patted his arm. “Thank you. Thank you for this morning. Thank you for listening and taking me seriously. My parents didn’t. Dad always went hunting, and he thought Cabot was fine, maybe a bit extreme, but the guns weren’t a problem. No one would listen to me say that Cabot was becoming obsessed with guns, with this gun club. That it was beginning to feel like a cult. They blew me off. And now? Now Cabot’s dead, and I can’t feel anything but relief that the police got him before he killed me or Clare.”

  “Rodriguez will take you seriously,” he assured her. “And I do, too. I think you’re right. It’s cult behavior, and a lot of men like your husband are getting pulled in.”

  She didn’t have much else to say and left shortly after.

  He stood in the parking lot and watched her drive off. The question is pulled into what, exactly? And who’s pulling them? And why? Who was Sensei, and how did he benefit?

  Follow the money, he thought. And that reminded him: he had planned to go to the happy hour at Anchors and hang with the reporters from the special projects department. And wouldn’t that be fun?

  Turned out it actually was fun. They’d welcomed him in without much surprise at his appearance at Anchors. Apparently, it was acceptable for colleagues to invite themselves to things like this. Good to know, Mac thought. In contrast to the cheerful ambience of the Zocalo that Angie preferred, Anchors strived for a men’s club feel. Dark woods, old-fashioned lamps, secluded tables separated by shelves of books. Used hardback books — Mac wondered if someone had actually selected them or if you could buy them by the yard or something. The bar was an old-fashioned mahogany one with a large mirror behind the bartender. Liquor bottles gleamed on shelves flanking it. The bartender was wearing suspenders, Mac noted. He didn’t roll his eyes, but it was hard not to.

  Still it was a comfortable place. And the happy hour prices made the drinks reasonable. All a person could ask, Mac thought.

  There were six men at the table, and Mac recognized their faces, although names might be another story. They greeted him as he walked up and made room for him to pull up a chair. Although they all had liquor drinks in front of them, Mac ordered an O’Doul’s which showed up with a glass. Of course, it did, he thought as the waitress poured it into the specialty Pilsner glass for him.

  “We’re discussing whether women’s soccer will truly ever become a thing,” said Mike Brewster.

  “And?” Mac asked.

  There was laughter. “Most of us couldn’t even name the local professional team,” Mike said, so we’re guessing no.”

  “There are two,” Mac said. “The Sound and the Reign. The Reign is in a 14-game winning streak. They’re amazing.”

  “You watch women’s soccer?” someone else asked incredulously.

  Mac nodded. “I share a house with my aunt on Queen Anne,” he said. “She’s an art professor at the U. She and her friends are very into women’s soccer. I’ve not seen anything like them. Not even college football fans. Or the Seahawks. I don’t know how common their loyalty is, but it’s something else.”

  “But do men watch it?” Mike asked.

  “I do,” Mac said. “There are worse things to watch than women running around in tight shorts.”

  Everyone laughed. “So, what’s it like to work for Janet, speaking of women?” another reporter asked. He was lounging back in his club chair, one leg over the arm of it, drinking what looked to be scotch.

  Poser, Mac thought with a mental eye roll. “Best boss I’ve ever had,” he said. “What’s Whitaker like?”

  And that turned the topic to everyone’s favorite topic, their own boss. Mac listened.

  The men liked Steve Whitaker. Thought he was a serious journalist. That’s what they wanted to be. They talked about IRE and NICAR and investigative reporting. And that Whitaker was fighting to keep real journalism alive at the Examiner. They were dismissive of beat reporting, of features. Sports was needed as relief from the serious news of the day. And an editorial page.

  “Our editorial page sucks,” said one of the men, a guy named Christopher Johnson.

  Mac agreed.

  “Too much emphasis on diverse opinions. It lacks focus and seriousness.”

  “What pages do you like?” Mac asked. “Diverse opinions seem to be the norm.”

  One suggested the Wall Street Journal, but got hooted down. The New York Times, of course, but that wasn’t possible to replicate out here.

  “I like the LA Times editorial section,” Mac said.

  Silence again. “You read the LA Times?” Chris asked.

  Mac nodded. “Had a prof who liked it, and I started reading it to earn brownie points,” he said with a grin. Everyone laughed. “And lo and behold, the damn thing grew on me. And I still check them out whenever there’s a regional or national debate going on.”

  “Anyone going to order food?” someone asked. “Burgers here are good,” he told Mac.

  So, Mac joined them in eating burgers and fries. And they were pretty good, Mac thought.

  Happy hour ended at 6 p.m. and there was a different crowd beginning to fill the bar, older, wealthier. But still white men in suits. The few women joined them tended toward tight dresses and high heels, which made Mac curious. But the Examiner crew tossed money on the table and headed out.

  “Happy hour? It’s a great place,” Mike Brewster said as they left. “But it gets stuffy later. We going to see you around more?”

  “Probably,” Mac said. “It was pointed out to me that my life was getting too work-focused, and I needed to broaden my social life.”

  “So, you’re going hang with people you work with?” Mike said. “That’s probably not what they meant.”

  Mac laughed. “Beats hanging with cops,” he pointed out to everyone’s laughter.

  Interesting, he thought as he drove home. And he had had a good time, somewhat to his surprise.

  Once he got home, he logged into Facebook and started making inroads into the world of Cabot Williams and George Martin. He used the list of names Joe Dunbar had given him. He befriended a few who seemed particularly active.

  But it was MLK4whites that he zeroed in on. He traced his friends. He looked at who he reposted. At his comments. The Facebook groups he belonged to.

  At 10 p.m. he logged off and sat back. Did people realize how much personal information they were giving away online? Even the most paranoid accounts like MLK4whites — Mac fumed every time he saw that name — were open about who they associated with, what they read, and who they looked up to. He thought he’d recognize MLK4whites if he met him in real life.

  The Sensei was more enigmatic, however. Shorty had figured out who was involved here out of the millions who used the name, and Mac was curious as to how he’d done it. He posted very little. His friends list was blocked from public view. Mac approved. He put in a friend request, and answered the man’s questions: Do you own guns? Are you military or former military? Are you connected to the police? Mac said yes to them all.

  Still, Sensei was getting his message out somehow. He’d have to ask Shorty to help him figure out how.

  Chapter 8

  (Friday, May 2, 2014, 6 a.m. Seattle Examiner)

  Mac wrote a follo’ to the shooting the day befo
re. He made his calls. And when they were off deadline, he went across the street for coffee with Janet. Coffee for her and Mountain Dew for him. As always. Routines were comfortable, Mac thought. Until you became predictable. Predictable made it easy for your enemies to track you. Had he become predictable?

  Janet drank the first sip of her coffee and sighed. Mac shook his head. He’d seen women get off with less expression of pleasure.

  “Timothy called,” she said after the second sip. “He asked about you. Asked if you and Kate had broken up?”

  “Did he?” Mac said. “Did he think we had?”

  “No one seems to be sure,” Janet said, and laughed at the expression on Mac’s face. “Face it, gossip runs wild in church circles just as it does at the cop shop.”

  “And the newsroom,” Mac groused.

  A shadow passed over Janet’s face. “And the newsroom,” she agreed. “So... Kate?”

  “I haven’t heard from her,” he said.

  “She won’t call you,” Janet said gently. “It isn’t done.”

  “Not even to invite me to Sunday dinner?” he asked, with an arched brow. “That seems passive enough.”

  “You’re angry.”

  He thought about that. Yes, he was, he realized. “I wanted it to be real,” he said out loud. “And it wasn’t.” He shrugged. “So yeah, I guess I’m done. So, changing the subject? This gun thing is bugging me.”

  “Tell me what you’ve got.”

  He walked her through it. The stable, ordinary men going off their rockers because they were becoming immersed in this cult of gun ownership and the coming crisis where society breaks down, and only the strong will survive.

  “Have you read some of the studies done about the effect of Fox News?” she asked.

  “College,” he said. “I remember the study that said Fox viewers still believed there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and that Al Qaeda was funded by Iraq.”

  “Consumers of right-wing media like Fox and some of the online sites still get most of the current event quizzes wrong. They live in their own news bubble. It’s remarkably easy to happen,” Janet said. “It’s also remarkably easy to create for other people. Not unlike what my dad created for the people of Jehovah’s Valley.”