Killer Geezer

by T. Jackson King

  My doorbell rang. Then a knock sounded on my door. “Mr. Hansen? I saw you arrive,” called the woman, ending my hope of pretending not to be home. “I’m Rachel Knapp with KRQE-TV. May I please see and talk with you?”

  It was the reporter who had left six messages over four days for me. Messages I had ignored. Despite that, my image had made the paper yesterday, with a sketch of me in an earlier issue. No doubt there were police traffic camera images of me kneeling over on the sidewalk after the drive-by shooting. If I was lucky, detective Warren had not released those videos since they were part of an ‘ongoing investigation’ into the shooting, car crash and four dead muggers. Which left me with a question.

  “Is your videographer with you?”

  Her leather shoes shuffled on the landing outside my door. “No sir. He is down in our SUV. He can join me if you wish?”

  I got up, went to the door and opened it inward. “I do not wish any video of me to be shown on your TV station.”

  The early 30s age young woman of blond hair, medium build with an eager smile on her squarish face scanned me quickly. Surely she noted I was wearing the clothing associated with the Tuesday morning deaths of three muggers and the knockout of Juarez Alvarado. She held a small notepad in one hand and a recorder the size of a pack of cigarettes in her other hand. No doubt she was recording me already. She nodded quickly, then turned and gave a ‘stay back’ wave toward her car and buddy, who were parked on the far side of Calle Corvo. She faced me.

  “I will not broadcast any video of you that I might gain as a result of this visit.” Her head tilted to one side. “However, any public imagery of you, like from police traffic cameras, is a public record. I’m sure you know that, being a former reporter.”

  “I do.” I stood there with hands on my hips, allowing the evening breeze to bring her lemony perfume to my face and nose. It was pleasant. Equally pleasant was her personal aura, which was clear red competitive at the core, yellow with playful curiosity, and indigo with clear-minded determination.

  “May I come in?”

  I moved my expression from guarded to polite. “You may.” I turned and headed for my recliner, gesturing her to the green fabric couch. “Have a seat. May I get your some ice tea? A beer? Ice water?”

  “Ice tea would be nice, thank you.”

  As she sat and put down her shoulder purse I went to the kitchen, grabbed a real glass, filled it with ice tea, filled a second glass for myself, and brought both back into the living room. Handing her glass to her, I stepped back and sat in my cushioned leather recliner. Which I kept upright, since I expected a focused interrogation.

  Knapp sipped her tea, put it down on the coffee table next to her recorder, then put pen against her open notepad. “Well, Mr. Hansen, thank you for seeing me! I tried calling you several times but did not hear back.”

  I nodded slowly, my polite expression still showing. “I learned not to answer calls from numbers unknown to me. Too much a chance of scammer calls.”

  She nodded quickly, her shoulder length blond hair swirling like the leafy branches of a willow. “Quite understandable. Though I did leave several messages. Anyway, I decided to visit your place, which is part of the motor vehicle license public record.”

  “So it is.” I sipped the icy cold ice tea, then put it on the end table between the couch and my recliner. My total scan of her showed her smartphone was inside her purse, turned on as normal but not making any video record of our conversation. The recorder tablet was a sound only device. Moving my vision to energy flow detection, I did not see the energy glows of bugs, security video camera or any other electronic device beyond what she had shown me and what was normal to have in someone’s purse. I appreciated she did not carry a vape pen in her purse. I did not smoke and did not like being around active smokers. Nor did I enjoy being the target of people who played games, like Armand. At least detective Warren was obvious and direct in his questioning of me. Time to see what kind of reporter this Knapp was. “Why are you here?”

  Her blond eyes widened. “Well, sir, you live not far away from where four muggers died strange deaths on Delgado Street. And where a fifth young man described a senior man with full white beard, wearing a blue hoodie, blue jeans and blue sneakers as causing those deaths and him being knocked out,” she said, catching her breath. “Then on Thursday you were present at Café Loco during the lunch hour. When four robbers entered you confronted the one with a shotgun and told him to leave your friends, and Mabel the waitress, alone. After which he and two others burst into flames, while a fourth robber hit the ceiling and landed with a broken leg.” Her expression became intense as she leaned forward. “Then this past Saturday you were shot by four gangbangers in a drive-by attack that ended with all four of them dead, and you in the hospital. Tell me, Mr. Hansen, why are you so often present when violent men attack you and other folks?”

  I shrugged, then raised both hands in a ‘Who knows?’ gesture. “Bad luck? I really don’t know why gangbangers are hitting the northeast side of Santa Fe. Nor why some guys from another gang tried to kill me in the drive-by. I survived. They didn’t. This morning was my first peaceful day as I attended church with one of my café buddies.”

  Her dark blond eyebrows rose. “Did you cause the café robbers to burst into flames?”

  I gave her a shocked look. “Me? I assumed they were carrying some volatile liquid, like meth or toluene. I have no idea why they caught fire. Just glad no one was seriously hurt.”

  “What about the Tuesday four who died on Delgado, which is just up the road from here. And on the route you usually take to get to Café Loco in the early morning. Did you cause the deaths of those gangbangers?”

  Direct she was. And implicative of me by simply asking the questions. Which of course was good interrogation technique. “Miz Knapp, as I told the police, I was elsewhere on Canyon Road visiting the windows of some art galleries, while on my way to the café. I had nothing to do with those four dying, or the fifth guy getting hurt,” I lied, giving thanks she could not see my aura.

  She frowned. “But sir, the police sketch of the Tuesday morning encounter of the senior man who caused those deaths, according to a survivor named Juarez Alvarado, closely resembles you. And the clothing you now wear. Are you sure you were not there?”

  I sat back against my recliner’s soft cushions. Then I folded my hands atop my lap. “There are plenty of old guy geezers in this town who like to dress casual in hoodies and blue jeans, even though they might be rich enough to own a hillside estate. While I do not wear my hair in a man-bun or ponytail like some, I suspect there are hundreds of older guys who look like me.”

  She gave me a quick smile. “I am sure there are. But none of them live so close to these violent incidents. And none of them have been shot by gangbangers. Who clearly thought you were involved in the Tuesday deaths.”

  “Well, since I never spoke with any of the Tuesday muggers, I have no idea what gang they belonged to. And as I told the police yesterday afternoon during my hospital interview, the man who shot me yelled something about only Surenos 13 folks wearing blue.” I plucked at my hoodie. “For some reason, he did not like me wearing this color of hoodie.”

  Knapp was scribbling away rapidly on her notepad. “That is news and new data. Who conducted this interview of you?”

  “Detective Harold Wilson.”

  “Oh.” She looked up and fixed an assertive gaze on me. “The detective has denied us access to patrol car videos from their arrival at the site of your shooting yesterday morning. But you told him this comment about one attacker being upset at you wearing blue?”

  “That is correct.”

  She made more notes, then looked around my living room before focusing back on me. “Mr. Hansen, do you live alone?”

  “I do. Except for my lizard buddy Pancho. In the terrarium.”

  “Oh!” She seemed to notice my lizard for the first time. “He’s rather large for a lizard. What . . . kind of lizard i
s he?”

  “He is an Arizona Alligator Lizard. Their brown strips on gray-brown scales is normal for them. They can grow to more than a meter long, from nose to tail tip. He’s a boy. I’ve had him for seven years, ever since I caught him in the talus slopes of Dona Ana County.”

  She gave a quick nod, then reached into her purse and pulled out her smartphone. “May I take a still picture of him? And of you? For my report?”

  “Sure.”

  She lifted her smartphone, tapped on the photo function, took several shots of Pancho, then a few of me. Knapp put the phone back into her purse and looked at me thoughtfully. “You named him Pancho. Why?”

  I laughed softly. “Because Pancho Sanza was the squire who tended to Don Quixote. The squire is known for earthy wit and broad humor that he shares with the Don. As told in the novel Don Quixote by the author Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, which came out in A.D. 1605.”

  Knapp chuckled. “Does your lizard tell you humorous tales?”

  “Nope.” I looked toward him. “But he is always loyal, always friendly and enjoys running along the top back of the couch you now sit on, as if searching for his Don. Or maybe a stray grasshopper.”

  The woman jumped a bit and sat forward, before rationality told her the lizard was enclosed in a glass terrarium. A pink blush showed on her face. “Fascinating story, Mr. Hansen. Do you see yourself as an elderly Don Quixote?”

  Did I? I was not deluded into imagining a reality that did not exist. My psychic powers really did exist. I really could Heal people. I even defied Death and returned Pancho to life. While being a Soldier for Life might resemble Quixote’s adventures in a small measure, I was not him. What I did, I did out of either compassion or reasoned anger. And fury. Removing evil from the world was not wrong. And Healing good people so they could continue to live long lives full of generosity and love was very good. I now saw the purpose behind Ansgar’s persona. Pretending to be a rich eccentric guy was effective camouflage for a person who could kill, or heal, with the powers of their mind. While I would try to be a rich patron of the arts, I was not up for being eccentric. As if I had any idea how to be other than logical, thoughtful and determined. Well, maybe Sally could help me reach beyond my lifelong persona. My buddies last night had certainly brought out a party animal in me that I had never before known.

  “Mr. Hansen?”

  I jerked my attention back to reporter Rachel Knapp, who was looking at me with concern. “It’s nothing. And no, I do not see myself as an elderly Don Quixote. I’m just a retired geezer who objects to robbers, muggers and gangbangers robbing and hurting elderly people, or younger folks, because they are seen as easy marks. You are familiar with that term?”

  Knapp nodded quickly. “I am.” She made a scribble in her notepad. “What else are you, sir, besides not being an easy mark?”

  This interrogation was moving into strange territory. “Well, I’m a friend to folks like those I have breakfast with at Café Loco. I believe a man must always show respect to any woman. I think today’s sidewall haircuts on men and women are silly and funny.” She smiled at that. “I dislike political correctness as it often avoids critical thinking about tough issues. I vote despite my suspicion it is not helpful. And I believe in constant learning throughout life.” I smiled. “You never know when something wondrous will show up.”

  My last comment brought up her chin. She stopped making notes and peered at me. “Something wondrous like bad people bursting into flames? Or melting down into a goo of flesh and blood?”

  I shook my head. “No, something wondrous like seeing Mabel the waitress stand up to the chief robber as a way to deflect his threats to harm her customers. She was brave and courageous. Which is why I stood up and confronted the man. All men should be as brave as women like that.”

  Knapp looked surprised. Then she grabbed her recorder, dropped it in her purse, put her notepad in there also, then stood up. “Well, Mr. Hansen, thank you for visiting with me. My report should appear on tonight’s 10 p.m. broadcast and Monday morning’s early broadcast. And please, consider giving me a call when you run into other strange situations like those associated with you since last Tuesday.”

  I stood up and shook her held out hand. “Miz Knapp, I will keep your request in mind. If I have any choice in my future, there will be no such exotic events happening near me ever again!”

  She nodded and headed for my door. “Well, given the nature of Santa Fe and your public image of a geezer fighting back against gangbangers and robbers, I suspect you will continue to be in the news.”

  I suspected the same thing. But just as I would not admit to killing evil guys, even evil women when I ran into one, I had no intention of becoming famous for psychic powers. I wanted to live in my town, not be driven out from it. Which meant I needed to make more donations to art galleries, support police functions and make a large donation to the mayor’s re-election campaign. Playing the part of a rich arts, opera and music aficionado was something I could do. In addition to removing evil whenever I encountered it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My nose felt the assault of liquid Heaven as the rich odor of Columbian beans freshly ground, force fed super pure water by a modern coffee steamer, then poured into one’s tall mug by Mabel shortly after 6 a.m., it overcame my senses. At least my super nose sense. My other senses, normal and psychic, were always aware of my surroundings. Carlos, Angelina, Leroy, Christine and Petros sat at their tables against the back wall of Café Loco. Lorenzo worked busily in the kitchen making huevos rancheros, green chili burritos, steak with eggs, and pinon and blueberry pancakes for any of the two dozen guests now filling the café. It was early. Very early for anyone to be up. But the café’s appearance in The New Mexican, with me facing down the four robbers, had brought in new clientele. Those folks were now returning, sometimes bringing in friends. While most of the newbies were well-off PC types from the north side of town, there were also some truckers, construction workers and a few office types who worked at state offices that spotted different parts of downtown. Their auras were normal complex human auras, with only a few streaks of blackness as one person lied to another about how his date had turned out, or a senior matron expanded on her church work to the point the Vatican would have appointed her an archbishop. Outside the café, cars passed by on Canyon Road or Paseo de Peralta, a few folks walked along the green strip of the Santa Fe River Park and young kids attended Monday classes at the nearby St. Francis Cathedral School. I liked the touch of the minds of young kids. I also enjoyed the yellow-green glow of the sparse trees along the river park. It all grounded me.

  “Jack, here are your pancakes and bacon.”

  I looked up. Mabel smiled at me as one hand held a tray with my high carb breakfast, while the other hand held a coffee pot filled with black ambrosia of the gods. Which made me wonder how she would serve the food.

  “Hey, thanks!” I put down my coffee, sat up straight and reached out to the tray. “Shall I get my plate, butter and syrup?”

  “What? Wait on yourself? No way!” In a flash she braced the tray against her curvy hip, then used three fingers of her coffee pot hand to lift off plate, syrup and butter dish, all of which landed perfectly between my cloth napkin on one side and silverware on the other side.

  “Wow!” called Carlos from the table next to me. “Did I just see levitation? Or a third hand?”

  Mabel chuckled, refilled my coffee and headed off to refill the coffee cups of my other buddies. The sweet odor of fake maple syrup came to me, along with the richness of pinon pancakes embedded with blueberries. The salty aroma of four bacon slices rounded out my breakfast. I reached for a knife to slather some butter onto the nicely hot pancakes. But I cast an eye at our nuke engineer. For a grouch his comment had been unusually perky.

  “Carlos? You feeling good today?”

  His black handlebar mustache quivered as his lips curved into a half smile. “Shouldn’t I?” He held up his Android smartphone. “Just
finished buying 350 shares of Arco Exploration at just $11 a share. Sure hope things work out with this company.”

  I recalled that meant he would earn $46,200 on his investment of $3,850. A twelve-fold increase in share price had that effect. For a guy subsisting on LANL’s modest retirement plan, that was a lot of bucks to own.

  “Me too!” sang Angelina as she held up her smartphone. “Bought 420 shares just now. Guess I’m a betting gal!”

  Leroy looked up from his bowl of green chili stew, his blue eyes bright. His gaze at me still held that unique look of a man seeing a miracle. But he too tapped the smartphone on his table top. “Also me. Got myself 720 shares using most of my retirement savings. Guess I’ll find out if Lutherans get first dibs on financial blessings!”