Killer Geezer

by T. Jackson King

  Flaring red lights showed ahead in four clumps. Cops! Two miles or so ahead.

  Clearly the local cops were tasked with responding to intruder alerts at the federal shredder plant. Soon to be followed by Colorado state police, the CBI and eventually the FBI, it being a federal building. I could not get out the way I’d come in. Thinking hard and recalling the satellite overhead image I’d seen, I drove ahead a few hundred yards, then turned left on a dirt farm road. It ran along a barbed wire fence meant to keep in cattle or horses or both. I didn’t care. I just remembered the farm road went east, then linked up with another quarter-section farm road that headed north. Eventually the farm roads connected to a two lane state highway that curved around toward Denver. Before Highway 470 got there it passed by the entry to DIA. Where I had a ritzy hotel bed waiting for me.

  Gritting my teeth I drove through the night with the headlights off, hoping I could find an isolated place to pull over so I could park the car off the farm road, unpack one bundle and put its cash into the suitcase, then stand in the cold night air holding the other bundle and teleport myself to the top of the boulder-studded mountain peak. It would not take much time to do those chores and put my suitcase in the trunk. A stray thought reminded me to take the plastic wrappings with me to the peak. It would not be great for the plastic wrapping to be found flying across the farmlands west of Denver. With a gulp and dry mouth, I drove and hoped and cussed the fact my plan to visit at night had tripped infrared sensors. While there was no image of me, the plant’s computer held the fact of a person being present in the delivery chamber. Would someone count the bundles and discover two were missing? Or were they all treated like trash bags once delivered? Maybe Saturday morning’s news would tell me.

  The next morning I paid the Uber driver cash for conveying me from the Smith’s grocery store on St. Michael’s back to my apartment on Calle Corvo. My arrival this morning at Santa Fe’s airport had been too late for me to join the breakfast crowd at Café Loco. So I’d paid the driver to take me to the grocery store, since Saturday was my usual day to get groceries for the next week. He’d waited a half hour in the giant parking lot, racking up time charges, then dropped me off in front of my place. Putting my grocery bag and suitcase on the sidewalk outside, I gave him a $50 bill, which covered the time charges plus a nice tip. He drove off.

  I picked up my stuff. Then I turned and walked up the driveway to the Webster’s two story Pueblo-style home. Passing by their separate brown stucco garage I turned left at its rear, found the outside stairwell and unlocked the gate that kept kids from running up and down the stairwell at all hours of the night. Walking upstairs I stopped on the top platform, inserted my key into the door lock, twisted the door knob and pushed the door inward. Into the coolness of my apartment.

  “Hey Pancho! Want a tasty grasshopper?”

  My brown-striped Arizona Alligator Lizard stared at me. The heat light atop his terrarium was off. I’d shut it off yesterday before I’d left for Denver. I turned right and put my grocery bag on the kitchen counter, then put my money-filled suitcase down next to the short bookcase atop which sat his glass habitat. Reaching down to a mason jar with holes punched in its lid, I unscrewed it, grabbed a living green grasshopper, rescrewed the jar and held the hopper by its long legs above Pancho. He reared up on his hind legs, toes splayed out, his long thick tail moving side to side. Eager he was. I dropped the hopper.

  “Snap!”

  The speed with which Pancho’s toothy jaws closing about the falling grasshopper never ceased to amaze me. For a supposedly cold-blooded animal, he moved fast. Reaching out I turned on his heat light. He settled down and continued munching the hopper, its body slowly disappearing down his throat and into his gut. The hopper’s rear abdomen glistened under the light. Flickering as the upper part disappeared into my lizard’s mouth. Pancho’s black eyes blinked fast as he watched me. Clearly he was happy to see me. And have a delayed dinner and breakfast.

  “Bing, bing,” went my door’s bell.

  I turned and looked at the window that filled the top half of the door. A fabric curtain shade prevented a clear view. But it appeared a large man was standing outside. Instinct sent my persona sense outward. It was indeed a man, versus a teen kid or a woman. And someone who felt . . . formal, emotionally. In the five days I’d had my psychic powers I’d learned the different feel of male and female personas, older folks versus younger folks, and the different personas and auras of all types of animals. Including the big black crows that visited our neighborhood. Crows were nosy animals. And very very smart. A third ring chased away my musing.

  Damn. This was Saturday. A normal day off for most folks. I’d planned to take a shower and shave my cheeks and my neck before changing into my usual jeans, sneakers and blue hoodie atop a t-shirt. The clothes I’d worn all day yesterday were crumpled and felt lived in. Not sweat-smelling. Still, I liked my morning shower. Before heading out for my 6 a.m. breakfast at Café Loco. I walked slowly toward the door, wondering who was out there. I pulled it open.

  “Mr. Hansen?”

  I blinked. Before me stood SFPD detective Harold Warren. In the flesh. He wore a brown sports jacket atop brown dress pants. Black shoes covered his feet. A steno notepad filled his left hand. His right hand was empty. And it was not reaching out to shake my hand. I fixed on his face. Clean-shaven, with blocky features to his face, dark brown eyes peered at me intently. As if he wondered something about me. His whole stance was official, but not hostile. That I could read from a scan of his persona. His aura also did not show any blackness. So there was no evil intent. Yet, I reminded myself as I recalled his Tuesday afternoon TV appearance as he described the search for the person involved in killing three gangbangers and knocking out a fourth. And his Thursday appearance in the parking lot outside the café, interviewing folks.

  “Yes?” I stood still, blocking his entry to my home. My refuge. The place which now held a half million dollars in paper notes of all types.

  He squinted, his black eyebrows as shiny as his full head of black hair. “I am detective Harold Warren, of the SFPD’s Criminal Intelligence and Analysis Unit. I’ve been interviewing folks who were present at the Café Loco at noon, Thursday when three robbers went up in flames. I’m told you were a customer there that day. May I come in?”

  I’d hoped to avoid any police contact. But leaving my stairwell gate unlocked had given this guy access to my doorbell. Crap. “Sure. Come on in.” I stepped back.

  Warren looked down the stairway. “Officers, it’s fine. I’ll see you when I’m done here.”

  I had sensed the two cops standing at the bottom of my stairs when I’d opened the door. Having backup was normal police procedure. Or so I’d heard from Petros and seen on TV crime shows. I turned away and walked into my living room. Sitting down on the old, second-hand recliner that had comfy red leather cushions, I gestured toward the couch that sat before the big window that looked out onto Calle Corvo. “Have a seat. Uh, do you want anything to drink? I’ve got water and ice tea.”

  Warren sat his bulk down on the end of the couch nearest me. On his left sat an end table with a used lamp on it. It was not turned on. But the room’s overhead light and the daylight from the window gave us plenty of illumination. The detective pulled a pen from the front pocket of his white shirt, crossed his legs and put his notepad on his lap. He stared at me with a neutral look, then offered a half smile. “Sure. Ice water will be fine.”

  I got up and went to the kitchen. Pulling out a glass I filled it with water, then ice from the fridge. Turning toward him, I spoke. “Sorry I don’t have more. Today is my day to do grocery shopping. I’ve yet to make anything stronger than ice tea.”

  Warren nodded, took the water glass, took a sip and then put it on the end table. “I know. Your friend at Café Loco told us you would be grocery shopping this morning when I stopped there, hoping to catch you at today’s breakfast.”

  “Which friend?” This interview did not have a
good feel to it. His aura was very bright. And intense. As was his mood.

  “Mabel O’Halloran. The waitress who was there—”

  “During lunch on Thursday. Yes, I recall Mabel. She’s a nice lady.”

  “She was helpful when I asked questions. More so than your five older buddies who occupy tables next to your regular table. None of them recalled your street address. A Carlos Aguilar said you lived a few blocks away. He professed ignorance when I asked him about your background.”

  Good ole Carlos. Grouchy, but loyal. And a brain he was. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned my street address to those folks. We’re just friends.”

  Warren’s expression turned intent. Detective intent. “Friends who have known you for ten years, it seems.”

  “Yes, that is true.” I noticed he had not pulled out a smartphone to make notes on, unlike most cops I’d see in Santa Fe. Clearly he preferred old-style writing down notes. “So how did you locate my address?”

  The man gave a low sigh. “Really, Mr. Hansen. Have you forgotten the New Mexico driver’s license you renewed a while back?”

  I had forgotten. I’d renewed it seven years ago, for an eight-year period, because it made it easier to enter federal buildings and get on plane flights out of the Albuquerque Sunport airport. Back then I’d been hoping to see my kids on the East Coast. And I’d used it as ID when I’d traveled yesterday to Denver to see Sally. My use had been so automatic I had forgotten it. As I’d forgotten I had renewed it.

  “Oh. Yes, I did renew the license, long ago. But I don’t own a car now.”

  “Yes, I know that. We checked.”

  Who was we? And why had he checked things like car ownership? I frowned. “Why this interest in me? And what do you wish to know, detective?”

  He made a note on his pad, then looked at me. The look was one that felt like a panther waiting to pounce on a goat. “At Thursday lunch, during the robbery, you stood up and confronted the robber with a shotgun. Correct?”

  “That is correct.” I frowned again. “He had slapped Mabel. She’s our friend, in addition to being a hard-working single mother who raised two kids all on her own. The slap upset me.”

  Warren’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Upset you? Enough for you to kill three men and knock out a fourth?”

  A gray black streak flashed over the man’s aura. He was lying, intentionally. Again, standard police procedure when interviewing a suspect. Not just a witness. Damn.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. Or injure anyone.” Briefly I hoped the detective could not see my aura, which surely showed a black streak from lying. “I just pointed at them and told them to leave Mabel alone. And leave alone my friends.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, that is what your friends Carlos, Angelina, Leroy, Christine, Petros and Mabel all told me when I interviewed them. They also confirmed that after you gave that order, three men burst into flames and a fourth hit the ceiling with his head. He broke his left leg in his fall. How did you do that?”

  I did my best to show puzzlement. “Do what? I just confronted them. Then to my surprise they burst into flames. And one hit the roof. I assumed they had some volatile chemicals on them and that the fourth guy was having an epileptic fit.”

  Warren shook his head slowly. “Our crime scene technician examined the black ash and burned bones left behind by the three who died. No evidence of acetone, liquid meth or gasoline. There was no evidence of flammable chemicals. And the fourth robber is perfectly healthy. Except for a broken leg. And a bump on his head. How do you explain that?”

  I shrugged. “I can’t. What you describe happened. I have no idea how it happened. Isn’t that what detectives do? Investigate and find answers when a crime has been committed?”

  “It is exactly what I and others do,” Warren said, his deep tenor voice sounding strong and determined. “What prompted you to confront a masked man who was aiming a shotgun your way?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. Just know he upset me by slapping Mabel. So I stood up and told him to stop. What happened afterward was a big surprise.”

  Warren raised his eyebrows, his expression skeptical. “Besides being present at the Thursday conflagration, you live close to where three gangbangers died Tuesday morning, early, on Delgado Street.” The detective paused, made a note on his pad, then pointed his ink pen at me. “One died from a knife wound. One died from incineration like the three on Thursday and one melted down into flesh and a few bones. A fourth flew back and hit a stucco wall, knocking him out. How did you do that?”

  I showed him anger. Real anger. This accusation game was pissing me off. “Detective! Really. I was over on Canyon Road when that happened.”

  He sat back, his hawk-like eyes focused on me. “The gangbanger Juarez describes the man who assaulted him as resembling you. Black hair with gray streaks. White full beard. Dressed in jeans and sneakers. Wearing a blue hoodie. Like that one sitting on the end of your bed.”

  I quickly looked back to my bedroom. The hoodie I’d worn on Tuesday was there, hanging off the end of the bedspread. In clear view from the couch. Turning back around I chose to go on the attack.

  “So what? You have just described the look of a few thousand retired guys who live in Santa Fe because they like its laid-back lifestyle. That hoodie I bought years ago at our local Wal-Mart. Surely there are hundreds of them in town. And casual blue jeans and sneakers are worn by half the adults in town. Why the accusations?”

  Harold Warren made a note on his pad, then met my gaze. His expression was neutral. But his persona felt predator tense. “Mr. Hansen, you are correct. That clothing style and beard are common among many men of your 70 years in Santa Fe. But none of them have been at or near the two locations where people burst into flames. You have.” He sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, his focus on me unrelenting. “The mayor wants answers to that public immolation at your café. The city council wants answers. My chief wants answers. And only you, among your friends and the other guests at the café Thursday, match the description given me by Juarez Alvarado. Who was knocked out on Delgado, after seeing his three buddies get knifed, burned up and melted. Tell me, sir, do you own a large knife?”

  I licked my lips. “I do. It’s a hunting knife. I used to be the outdoors reporter for the Reporter.”

  “We know that,” he said, nodding his head even as his eyes stayed predatory. “Do you wish to let me see it?”

  I thought of saying no. But I had washed the blood off, then washed it in bleach, before running stove flame over its entire length. I gave a shrug, stood up, went to my bedroom, got the buck knife and returned to the recliner. I sat and handed it out to him.

  “Here it is.”

  Warren took the knife. In my absence he had put on a clear plastic glove. That hand took the tip of the knife, tilted it up and held it before him as he ran his eyes over it. “Looks very clean.”

  I sat back. “I’m an outdoorsman. It is smart to keep your tools clean and ready for use.”

  He nodded slowly, his black eyebrows coming together as he stared at the knife. “So my uncle says. He’s a hunting guide in the Jemez Mountains. May I borrow this knife for a few days?”

  I thought fast. If there was even a speck of blood or DNA from Mauricio present on the knife, my suspect status would change quickly. To detain and interrogate. I shook my head. “Sorry. That’s my heirloom knife. Got it from my Dad,” I lied. “It stays here.”

  Warren did not seem surprised. He handed it back to me. “Here you go. Uh, why did you fly to Denver yesterday?”

  Anger hit me again. Along with worry. Fuck. This detective had done a lot of research on me. Clearly he suspected me of being involved in Tuesday’s zapping of the four gangbangers. And that suspicion made me a candidate for involvement in the café deaths of three robbers on Thursday.

  “I flew up there to see my ex-wife. Sally. Sally Hansen. I took her to dinner, then rested at the airport hotel and flew back this morning.”

&nbs
p; Warren gave me a friendly look. It was all out of proportion to his prior persona appearance. “Ah, hoping to get back together? You do have two grown kids to think about. Was that why you took her to that expensive French bistro, the Atelier?”

  Suspect I was for sure. This man had come to do more than a routine interview of me as one of two dozen witnesses to Thursday’s café robbery. While it was normal police procedure to check the social media accounts of everyone they interviewed, looking at travel records, let alone tracking my movements while I was in Denver, was not normal. I hoped Warren had only tracked my debit card use. I’d paid for the parking ticket with the card as the night gatekeeper had vanished. Mentally I gave thanks to the Goddess that I had psychically wiped the Subaru’s GPS memory chip of its record for where I had driven that day. The absence of a trip record could be blamed on a chip card error. Or exposure of the card to a strong magnetic field.

  “Mr. Hansen?”

  “I took my ex-wife to dinner at the Atelier de Radex because I met her in Paris, we both enjoy French food and I wanted her to see the new me. I wished to be friends again,” I said, speaking honestly.

  Warren’s friendly look stayed stuck to his face. “Ah, friends. Was that why you dressed up in new clothes? Your friends said you had on new shoes, a new shirt and a new sweater on Thursday. At lunch. Plus you paid for your lunch with a $100 bill. How do you get such large bills living only on Social Security?”

  I stood up. “Detective Warren, large bills are obtained at banks, at stores and elsewhere, as you surely know. Now, you may leave.”

  He stood up, put the steno pad in a jacket pocket and walked slowly toward my door. “Oh, is that the suitcase you took to Denver?” he said, pointing at where I’d placed it beside Pancho’s terrarium.

  “It is. It’s normal to take a suitcase on an overnight trip. For changes of clothing.”

  He nodded to me, then stopped before the door. Facing me he lifted one eyebrow. “So it is. However you are wearing the same clothes that you wore at the Thursday robbery. Did you bring back from Denver something besides clothing?”