Serve & Protect

by L. J. Breedlove

  Well, Sensei and he could agree that the country had hard times ahead, Mac thought. The difference is... I think he is the problem.

  He responded to Sensei’s email, thanking him for his personal attention, and that he was glad he’d be getting more emails. He said he’d read the manual and thought there were some really good points. But the hard times ahead? That seemed nebulous. What did he foresee that might trigger the collapse? What should people be looking out for?

  And then he shut everything down, including unplugging the computer from the wall, and taking it off the router. He hadn’t been that paranoid about computer security in a while.

  Well, it wasn’t paranoia if they were really coming for you, he thought. He went to bed, but sleep was a long time coming.

  Chapter 15

  (Seattle, Tuesday, May 6, 2014)

  Taking Angie to a gun range turned out to be a lot of fun, Mac found. And she had a good eye. Her upper-body strength was a problem, as was typical for women, but still she was better than most of the women he’d taught to shoot over the years.

  Most important, she liked it. And when she finally hit the target (not the bullseye, but the target) she’d done this little victory dance that made him grin at her. And take her gun away before she shot one of them.

  He let her use the two weapons he was planning on taking, his Glock, and a long-range rifle, a Remington 700 .270. Her hands were too small for the Glock’s grip. She could use it, but her hands got tired really quickly. He considered what he had that might work better for her. He had a Ruger .380 auto that was lightweight and small because it was designed for concealed carry. As far as the Remington went, he wanted her to try it, but he wasn’t going to saddle her with carrying a long-range rifle.

  “I’ll let you borrow a pistol to carry in your camera bag,” he said. “But you’re not licensed for concealed carry, so I won’t hand it over until we’re on the trail. But you should have something.”

  She nodded. “I could learn to like this,” she said laughing. “And isn’t that a hoot for a pro-gun control liberal like me?”

  Mac shrugged and smiled at her. “I’m pro-gun regulations,” he reminded her. “And I’ve got a big enough arsenal to set up a gun shop.”

  She looked at him with a half-smile. “I remember you going nose-to-nose with Norton on that,” she said. “It got me one of my best shots of him. But I wasn’t sure you meant it. Seemed like either the arsenal or the pro-gun-laws stance had to be you just pushing his buttons.”

  He shrugged. “There’s nothing more dangerous than amateurs with guns,” he said. “In a confrontation? Somebody dies, usually the amateur. I actually liked Andy Malloy’s gun certification program. Wanted to do a feature on it, but Janet nixed it. Said him pulling a gun on me indicated that maybe he wasn’t the most stable person in the world.”

  She giggled. “And that hadn’t occurred to you?”

  “Lots of people have wanted to shoot me, babe,” Mac said. “Doesn’t make them unstable, just angry.”

  “I’m with Janet,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “But when this is over, I may toss the idea at some gun range owners I know and see if one of them is interested in doing something similar. One who hasn’t pulled a gun on me.”

  She laughed. “Can I buy you a drink — Mountain Dew — as thanks?”

  “Sure,” Mac said, as he put his weapons in the lockbox in the back of his 4-Runner. “Let’s go to that Mexican place you introduced me to. They had good nachos.”

  There were other staff there, a collection of people from across the newsroom departments, photography, and even a stray from advertising. Mac let Angie buy him his Mountain Dew and then he bought nachos to share. He had to admit he preferred this group with its diversity more than he did the Special Projects men’s club vibe. But then he’d always prefer to hang with a group with women in it, he thought amused. The diversity thing stuck with him as he gave Angie a ride home.

  “You’re thinking awfully hard,” she observed with a giggle. She’d had a fair amount of sangria, he noted.

  “You know in movies how you always know the bad guys because they all look alike? Usually Aryan white men — short hair, black overcoats? And the good guys are a collection of diverse people: men, women, people of color, a couple of odd balls?”

  She laughed some more. “Yes, and?”

  “That’s the difference between this newsroom crowd and the Special Projects happy hour,” he said.

  She looked at him for a moment, and then she patted him on the cheek. “Yes,” she said simply. “Women aren’t welcome there. I don’t know what they’d do if a black reporter joined them. We try to welcome everyone — hell, there was an advertising rep there tonight!”

  “Says something about the kind of journalism they practice,” Mac said. Or wanted to practice, he amended.

  “Probably does,” she agreed, as she slipped out of the 4-Runner. “Thanks Mac, I had fun.”

  He waited until she got into the apartment building, and then he went home to spend some quality time with his new Facebook friends. He rolled his eyes.

  Wednesday morning, there was a note taped to his computer from the other police reporter, Seth Conte: Rodriguez wants you to call him.

  Mac frowned. Rodriguez had his phone numbers. All of them. Why was he passing notes through another reporter?

  He made all of his blotter calls, typed up the stories, and filed them with Janet. Then he called Rodriguez.

  “Wanted to check in with you about those two domestic violence cases with the arsenals,” Mac said. “Any updates?”

  There was a pause. “You got time to come by? I’d rather answer that question in person. Dunbar might have something to contribute,” he said.

  “Give me 30 minutes,” Mac said, already heading out the door. He could walk it faster than he could repark.

  He liked walking in Seattle’s Pioneer Square. This had been where he and his friends hung out in his teen years during the evening and into the night. Thinking they were cool, tough. His grin was a bit twisted as he thought about those days. Maybe Toby was due a call. He seemed to be on his mind lately.

  The police station was less than a mile from Examiner’s offices, tucked up under I-5. He had left his backpack at the office, carrying a notebook and a pen. He’d forgotten once, and brought the backpack along, setting off the security alarms when he went through. The cops had not been amused to find a weapon at the bottom of the bag — in spite of his license to carry concealed — and he’d had to have Rodriguez come down and vouch for him. Rodriguez had grumpily done so and called him a dumb shit reporter. He couldn’t even argue.

  So, the backpack stayed tucked under his desk, and he passed through the security check with just a nod from the cop who was standing there.

  Dunbar was in Rodriguez’ office when he knocked on the door frame.

  “Come in and close the door,” Rodriguez said. Mac complied, and sat down in the only vacant chair. Obviously, meetings didn’t happen very often in Rodriguez’ office.

  “So, what’s up? And why didn’t you call me direct?” Mac asked. He hadn’t updated Rodriguez on his weekend either, he realized.

  Dunbar tossed him a thumb drive and he caught it.

  “Didn’t want a record of me reaching out to a reporter,” Rodriguez said. “Saw Conte, told him. So, here’s the deal. Joe, here, did a records search. You’ve got the result, in part because your use of the term arsenal made the search possible. We looked for cases in the last year where that term or gun cache or gun stash came up.”

  Mac looked at the thumb drive with a raised eyebrow. “And how many did you find?”

  “Fifteen,” Joe Dunbar said, quietly. None of his usual banter. No jokes.

  “Fifteen arsenals? What kinds of cases?”

  “Mostly domestic violence,” Dunbar said. “A few weird ones, like the burglary. But mostly, cops getting called in on a DV call and finding the guy had a room full of guns.
”

  Mac was silent for a moment. He couldn’t decide if he was appalled at the number or thought it was too few. “I’m surprised it’s so low to be honest,” Mac said. “Let me tell you about my weekend.”

  The two men absorbed what he told them.

  “I think it would be interesting to run a similar search in the divorce and child custody cases, Mac said slowly. “I bet we’d turn up a whole bunch more.”

  Dunbar nodded. “Don’t know that I can do that,” he admitted. “But you probably have someone at the newspaper who can.”

  Mac nodded. “Maybe,” he said, thinking of the Special Project guys. Would they run it for him? Or blow it off because it was about women? And wasn’t that an ugly thought to pop up about colleagues. Maybe Mike Brewster?

  “Norton sounds like a piece of work,” Rodriguez observed.

  Mac wished he’d brought one of Angie’s photos. “My photog said he had set up a persona, the John Wayne one, and then when you got past it, and saw the jock who just drifted into law enforcement you thought you’d discovered the real Pete Norton and you didn’t look any further. But when I pushed his buttons and he got angry? There’s a coldly intelligent man in there with a wide streak of cruelty.”

  “And yet he believes in that constitutional sheriff’s bullshit?” Dunbar protested.

  Mac shrugged. “He believes he’s the ultimate power in the county. That no one can question him, or gainsay him. The constitutional sheriff thing just props that up. Lends a bit of credibility. I’m not sure he believes in anything except Pete Norton.”

  “And you’re going out on one of their survivalist weekends,” Rodriguez said. “That’s not wise or smart — not that it has stopped you in the past.”

  Mac laughed. “Get this, Andy Malloy told Anderson he wouldn’t be going. Malloy is the sane one of this group.”

  “Malloy wasn’t insane, just racist. Extremely racist. And trigger happy,” Rodriguez said.

  Both of the younger men looked at him with identical expressions of disbelief.

  “He pulled a gun on me because I asked about the Sensei,” Mac pointed out.

  “Well, OK, maybe that does add up to being on the edge of insanity,” Rodriguez conceded. “But he likes his life now. He’s running a gun range, hangs with the local cops. Probably 90 percent of his membership are white, and 70 percent are men. He’s making decent money, I’d guess, and life is good. Why risk it to go play survivalist? He knows a clusterfuck coming when he sees it. And you should think about that.”

  Mac nodded in agreement with Rodriguez’ assessment. And wasn’t that rich? Malloy was his canary in the coal mine for trouble ahead. But he shrugged. “Can’t not go,” he said.

  “Why? Because of the story or because you’re too macho to back down from what was essentially a challenge from Norton?” Dunbar asked.

  Mac rolled his eyes. “What would you do?” he asked. “You’d be right there, marching to the guillotine with me.” If he had a kindred spirit at the SPD it was probably Dunbar, God help them all.

  Dunbar laughed. “Got me there,” he said.

  Rodriguez scowled at the both. “Well, if you two cowboys would get out of my office, I might get some work done,” he said with a growl.

  As they left, Rodriguez said, “Mac? Be careful. There isn’t anyone who can come to your rescue in Skagit Valley.”

  Mac hesitated, then he nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.

  While he was at the SPD he made the rounds. He stopped in to talk to the PIO, the public information officer. Stopped by the desks of a couple of others he knew. And then he was back out in the sunshine.

  He looked at his phone. A text from Shorty telling him to come by after work. And one from Janet that said, call me.

  He found a bench, sat down, and called Janet back. He didn’t like talking on the phone to begin with, especially since he spent two hours every morning making a dozen calls to law enforcement and first responders. And he most certainly didn’t want to have any kind of involved conversation while walking. He saw businessmen who did that, thinking it showed how important and in demand they were. To him they looked like assholes who danced to someone else’s tune, and wreaked havoc as they walked, causing people to have to dodge around them.

  One of the funniest things he’d seen lately was when one of them encountered a small yappy dog on a leash whose owner pulled one way, and the rat-dog pulled the other, forming as nice a trip wire as any Marine could have set. And the suit had face-planted. Couldn’t even catch himself because he had that damn phone to his ear. Mac had laughed himself silly. He hadn’t been the only one.

  He grinned at the memory and dialed his boss.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Got the information back on Norton’s backstory,” she said. “Can you talk?”

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “So, you were right. First, Norton has a record in California. He was arrested several times for verbal attacks on gays and minorities. No convictions, he’d just turned 18, I think, so there was probably a juvenile record. Found an arrest photo though. He was a damned Skinhead, Mac. The whole look, even. I suspect if you saw him stripped down, he’d have a few tats. But he looks like he was savvy enough to keep them from showing in clothes. No piercings either. So, a weekend hate warrior,” Janet said with disgust.

  “And then, what? He decides he wants to enlist, can’t because of the record, and re-invents himself as a college student?” Mac asked.

  “Bingo. Except, he did enlist, and didn’t make it through boot camp,” she said. “They washed him out. Still doing some digging there on why.”

  “Probably got spotted doing more of that crap, even just mouthing off,” Mac speculated. “Marine Corps doesn’t put up with that shit, especially if they catch it early. Not those who are overt about it anyway.”

  “Could be,” Janet agreed. “I’ll have my guy search the area around wherever he was stationed.”

  “San Diego,” Mac said absently, trying to think if he knew of anyone who would talk. “It’s the boot camp for the West Coast. So, when are we talking? He’s what 42?”

  “43, it looks like,” Janet said. “So, he would have been 18 in 1989.”

  Mac was thinking about it. He’d gone through San Diego in 2003.

  “You coming back in?” Janet asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve got more interview calls to make,” he said morosely. For a guy who didn’t like phone conversations he’d chosen the wrong damn field.

  But once back in the office, he headed down the hallway to the Special Projects team’s offices and found Mike Brewster. Of all the guys he’d met — including their boss — Mike had seemed to be the most approachable.

  Mac knocked on the door, and Mike waved him in. “Don’t see you down this way much,” Mike said.

  Mac shrugged. “Got a question, and it occurred to me you could probably figure it out,” he said. “I want to know how often a reference to gun stashes, gun collections, arsenals, comes up in divorce and child custody proceedings in the state. And whether its increased over the last, say, 18 months? And are there hot spots?”

  Mike’s gaze sharpened. “This for a story you’re working on?” he asked. “When do you want it by?”

  Mac nodded, then considered the second question. “I’m headed back to Skagit for part of this story over the weekend,” he said slowly. “While it would be nice to have before I go, I really won’t need it until I get back. So, Monday?”

  Mike jerked, and leaned back in his chair. “Jesus, Mac,” he said. “Usually a question like this would be a project for the month. Are all your stories on that tight a turn-around?”

  Mac frowned. “Most of my stories run the day they happen or the next,” he said puzzled. “I’ve been working on this one now for almost two weeks. But that’s pretty rare. Haven’t you ever done beat reporting?”

  “My first job in journalism. It was a small daily newspaper, and it was grueling. You know, where you
go to the city council meeting one evening, and write it up for the paper the next day?” he said. “That’s why I went back for my master’s in data management. Then Steve hired me here. I guess I assumed on a big paper like this, beat reporters got more time than on a small paper.”

  “Didn’t you learn that immediacy is one of the characteristics of what news is?” Mac asked. “And now with the web? It’s not just ‘write it up the next day’. Our city reporter often files a web brief on a council meeting before the meeting is even over.”

  The two men looked at each other for a moment, and Mac wondered if the gulf of experience was too vast to bridge. Mike tapped his fingers on his desk. “Let me work on it,” he said at last. “Tell me more about your story.”

  Mac summarized what was going on.

  “Hundreds of guns? What for?” Mike asked, obviously startled.

  “And that’s the question everyone wants to know the answer to,” Mac said grimly. “A cop I know ran this question on their own domestic violence calls over the last six months. Came up with 15. He found that troubling. Seemed low to me.”

  Mike jotted something down on his notepad. “I’ll rerun that query using the same parameters and terms I use for the civil docket,” he muttered. Then he looked up. “How much do you know about data searches?”

  Mac shrugged. “Got a friend who makes a lot of money doing data mining,” he said. “With him? When he goes off into jargon, I just nod my head as if I understand. Figured I’d do the same with you.”

  Mike laughed. “Why bring this to me instead of him then?”

  “He’s been helping me,” Mac said. “I’m learning social media this week.” Mike laughed again at his sour tone. “But Shorty’s not a reporter. And it seemed to me that a reporter might see things in this that a data analyst wouldn’t.”

  “Good enough,” Mike said. “I’ve never tried this tight a turn-around. Let me work on it. You coming to happy hour tomorrow?”

  Mac nodded. “Thought I would,” he said.