NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

  "I think I'd rather work at McDonalds."

  Quinn looked shocked.

  "Pick up that jacket. Pick up that gun."

  "No. Exploiting the homeless for political gain is evil. I quit."

  "Then quit. But pick that up."

  "Pick it up yourself."

  She turned around and walked in the direction of Scahentoarrhonon Station.

  "Go ahead," he shouted after her. "Go see if you can even get a job at McDonalds you fat pig."

  He turned to the other young police cadets.

  "Does anybody else have a problem with doing his job?"

  Nobody spoke up.

  "Good. Are we all ready to go bum wrangling?"

  They nodded their heads.

  "I can't hear you."

  "Yes sir," they shouted out in unison.

  "Now that's better," Quinn said, pacing back and forth. "For too long," he continued, "River Gardens has been used as a dumping ground for human refuse. First we let the illegals in. After the mayor decided to enforce the immigration laws six years ago, most of the illegals left. But we got something worse. Every drunk, every drug addict, every mentally ill vagrant in the whole county and beyond managed to nest himself somewhere between Scahentoarrhonon Station and Route 1081. This infestation ends tonight. The legitimate property owners of River Gardens have a right to develop their property without being harassed by the dregs of society. Do you agree?"

  "Sir yes sir," the police cadets shouted.

  "Come on girls. Why not say it like you mean it?

  "Sir yes sir."

  "Now let's see if all you little girls brought all your tools. Hold them up when I shout them out. Zip ties?"

  "Sir," the 19 cadets barked out, all taking the plastic handcuffs tied to their belts and holding them up. "Sir yes sir."

  "Batons."

  "Sir. Yes sir," the 19 cadets shouted after putting the plastic cuffs back on their belts, taking off their batons, and holding them in the air.

  "Pepper spray?"

  "Sir. Yes sir," the cadets shouted, after re-holstering their batons and holding up their cans of pepper spray.

  "Tasers?"

  "Sir yes sir," 18 cadets shouted.

  But one cadet, a chubby young man with light brown hair and trousers that seemed to be a bit too tight on his body, fumbled around.

  "Officer Dunn," Quinn said. "Have you forgotten your Taser?"

  "I'm sorry sir," the young man said. "I think I left it on the kitchen table."

  "Column one," Quinn said. "Move over to column one, back of the line."

  Dunn traded places with another police cadet in column one.

  "Gentlemen," Quinn said. "Use the baton sparingly. It leaves a mark. Use the Taser as much as you like, but try to employ it only after you've used up all your pepper spray. Remember, Tasers can be a lot of fun. But once their effect is done, it's done. Soak a bum in pepper spray, and he's not going to be able to wash it off. Bums don't have showers. You get a lot for your money. OK girls, we've got five columns. The man at the front of each column is team leader. This is not favoritism. You're all equally low on the totem pole, but I'm going to hand the man at the front of each column a map. It outlines the area of River Gardens the column is going to patrol. I will be taking Madame Poindexter O'Neal's place at the head of column one. Remember. Some of the bums have HIV. Some of them are drug users. Some of them bite. Some of them have knives. A few might even have guns. Avoid contamination if at all possible and don't hesitate to call for backup if you get into trouble, but remember the most important thing of all. Have fun out there. This is a job but there's no reason you can't enjoy yourselves."

  "Sir. Yes sir," the cadets shouted. "Sir yes sir."

  "You're with me," Quinn said to Dunn, pushing him in the direction of a white SUV. "Let's go."

  Dunn, who seemed nervous around Quinn, if not out and out afraid of him, tagged along warily, but Quinn, contrary to his performance in front of his "troops," seemed expansive and friendly. When they reached the white SUV, Dunn walked around to the passenger side, but Quinn stopped him. He took the keys out of his pocket.

  "You drive. I'll ride shotgun."

  "I'm very sorry for forgetting my Taser sir. It was careless of me. There's no excuse for it."

  "Don't worry about it son," Quinn said, putting his hand on the young man's shoulder. "You won't even have to get out of the car. All you have to do is drive."

  "But sir. You can't go out and wrangle bums. You're a senior detective."

  "Officer Dunn. In another 20 years, when you're further along in your career, you'll start to realize that if you make detective, deputy inspector, even chief, you still have to get down in the trenches once in a while and just act like a cop."

  Both men got inside and Dunn started up the car.

  "I will try to remember that," he said, pulling out into the street. "Thank you sir."

  The first three hours of the evening went by uneventfully. Dunn drove the SUV up and down each block. When they spotted anybody who appeared to be homeless, Quinn got out, checked his ID, and, if he couldn't prove he lived in the area, sent him on his way, telling him to walk immediately to the other side of Scahentoarrhonon Station. If they ran into the same person twice, Quinn would brandish his baton, and menacingly tap it on the side of his shoe while he told the man that if he was seen again without ID saying he either lived or worked in the area, he would be arrested. The most confrontational it got was a man who couldn't produce ID but stood up and loudly demanded his rights. That quickly brought a baton to the stomach. He crumpled to his knees, and, after Quinn helped him to his feet, he submissively lowered his head and walked towards Scahentoarrhonon Station.

  Towards midnight, Quinn appeared to be getting bored.

  “Head down Gibbon," he said, "dumpster fires."

  "Dumpster fires?" Dunn said.

  "Dumpster fires," Quinn repeated without explaining.

  Poison Springs in October would get very cold, especially at night. Squatters living in vacant buildings east of Scahentoarrhonon Station would often come outside and light fires in empty dumpsters. Occasionally the fire department would come by and order the fires extinguished, but the police usually just drove by and ignored them. When Quinn noticed a group of six men gathered around a dumpster, and instructed Dunn to stop, none of them made any move to run, or even walk away.

  "Wait in the car. I'll take care of this."

  "But sir. There are six of them."

  "Too bad you forgot your Taser. You could have joined in on the fun."

  "But I've got my pepper spray. You sure you'll be alright against six of them?"

  "Watch me," Quinn said, opening the door. "You'll learn something."

  The men continued to chat as they warmed themselves, barely even looking up to see the large, red headed man walking towards them. There were four African American men, three well into middle age and a larger, well-built man in his twenties. There were also two white men, one in his 30s, and another somewhat older. He had a long, narrow face, a scraggly looking beard, and, most distinctively, a disfigured arm.

  "Hello officer," one of the men said as Quinn approached. "Lovely evening isn't it?"

  But Quinn said nothing. He simply walked up to the large, 20-something man and punched him in the face, staggering him. He swept his feet out from under him and brought him down on the ground. He bent over, and put his knee on his chest, pushing down as the man struggled to catch his breath.

  "Lovely my ass. I'm in a bad fucking mood. All you fucking bums clear out now. Run. You've got 5 seconds. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1."

  The three older black men and the 30-something white man ran as soon as Quinn started counting. When he lifted his knee off his victim's chest, the younger man got up and ran after the others, but the older white man with the mangled arm stood his ground. He looked Quinn in the eyes.

  "You think I'm going to run? Fuck you red. This is a public street and I've got as much right to be here as you. I s
erved my country in Iraq."

  Quinn started to laugh.

  "If I had a dime for every bum who told me how he served his fucking country, I'd be a rich man. I don't give a fuck if you served your country or not. Take off."

  "Fuck off," the older man, who was indeed Andy Jackson, said.

  Quinn looked as if he were about to take out his Taser, but then a grin came to his face, and he seemed amused by the whole thing.

  "I will say this. You've got guts."

  “I've faced down better than you."

  "But you've only got one arm. What happened to your arm old man?"

  "One of your pig cops broke it and they threw me in jail without setting it."

  "Can you tell me who it was?"

  "Some big dumb blond Pollack. I don't know his name, but it was back when I used to hang out with Martin Ruiz, Jorge, and that little fraud John Avellanos."

  "You and Martin Ruiz? Felton's brother?"

  "That's not Martin. That little fake hung out with me and Martin for a while. But he's a fake and he stole Martin's ID after he committed suicide."

  Quinn, seeing a copy of the Winterborn Daily Post inside the trashcan that had not yet been consumed by the fire, reached in and pulled it out. He opened it up, and pointed to the photo of Avellanos on the fence that had been taken during Dan Sedgwick's arrest.

  "Martin Ruiz. Do you mean him?"

  "That's exactly who I don't mean," Jackson said, spitting on the ground. "Oh he looks just like Martin because they're cousins but that fake isn't Nicholas Felton's son. He's his nephew. That punk grew up with a silver fucking spoon in his mouth. He did nothing with it. Now he's claiming to be a vet? Claiming to be Martin? Fuck him. He's a fake. Arrest him."

  "How on earth could Nicholas Felton have a nephew?" He had a sister but she's been dead for 40 years."

  "That terrorist hippie bitch died a little after 9/11," Jackson said. "She was hiding out in Mexico under an assumed name. Her fucking rich boyfriend protected her. She didn't die when they said she died."

  "Wait here," Quinn said.

  "I'm not going nowhere red. I'm staying right here."

  Quinn walked back over to the SUV and rapped on the door.

  "Bring the car back," he said to Dunn. "I'm going to walk back. Believe it or not one of these bums has a lead on a crime, but you're making him nervous with the car."

  "Are you sure you're going to be OK sir? What if those other guys come back?"

  "Then I'll just kick their asses again," Quinn said, rapping on the door again. "Shove off."

  Dunn drove away as Quinn walked back over to Andy Jackson.

  "You want to go get a cup of coffee or something?" he said. "You can tell me all about the guy who broke your arm."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you pig. You said you didn't care if I served or not."

  "I apologize for that. I was just in a bad mood"

  "I don't trust you," Jackson said. "People like you always talk nice but then you trick you into getting vaccinations. One minute it's hey buddy let's go get a cup of coffee. The next thing it's the shot. I'm staying here and you're not making me leave. Try it. I dare you"

  "So tell me more about Martin Ruiz."

  "That guy's not Martin. Martin jumped into the West Hill Mine Fire or maybe that guy pushed him. Oh, I don't know anymore. But that guy's not Martin. He and Martin are cousins. He's a rich kid who went to Harvard. He sold drugs in Mexico while he was pretending to be a journalist. He's a communist. He hates the troops as much as you do. He's a fake. You should arrest him."

  "Why haven't you reported him?"

  "To you pigs? You guys don't give a fuck about vets like Martin. You're not going to arrest some rich kid. You guys work for guys like that."

  "I assure you the Poison Springs Metro Police Force does not work for identity thieves and drug dealers. How would I find out about his mother?"

  "You got me there. For all I know that story could have been made up too."

  "True."

  "But they did look alike. I couldn't tell them apart sometimes."

  "You saw them together?"

  "Yes I did."

  "Don't take this the wrong way. But are you sure you weren't just seeing double?"

  "The hell I was," Jackson said, walking over to a pile of personal items and starting to dig.

  He pulled out a wallet sized photograph, a copy of the photograph that Avellanos and Martin Ruiz had taken together in the old photo booth at WillyMart.

  "They made this as a joke. They got two copies but they didn't know it. I just picked up the second one. Martin liked the stupid fraud but I tried to warn him. He was a fake."

  Quinn took the photo.

  "Guy with the beard and the yellow hat has brown eyes and the other guy has green eyes, but there is a very strong resemblance. Oh they're not identical twins, but you can certainly tell they have the same DNA."

  "That's Martin, always wearing that yellow hat. What a great guy he was. That's why he killed himself. He couldn't take what he did in Iraq."

  "And this is John Avellanos. If he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, what was he doing with you?"

  "His father knew he wasn't any good kicked him out of the house."

  "His father?"

  "His father's a rich guy in Mexico. The stupid fraud's not even in the country legally."

  "John Avellanos, the son of Laura Felton, where did she die?"

  "Some little town in Mexico. She was shot by drug dealers."

  "What's the name of the town?"

  "Beats me red. You ask a lot of questions. But look up the name Laura El Guero. That was her alias."

  "And he went to Harvard under the name Avellanos?"

  "Nah," he didn't go to Harvard. He went to some other fancy college in Boston. While the rest of us were fighting in Iraq, he was smoking pot and getting laid."

  "Boston College?"

  "No," Jackson said, "but not Harvard?"

  "But somewhere in Boston?"

  "That's where I said."

  "You sure you don't want to go out for a cup of coffee?" Quinn said. "How about a hotel? I'll put you up for the night."

  "Nothing from you pig."

  Quinn took a 100-dollar bill out of his wallet and held it towards Jackson.

  "Take this then, compliments of the Poison Springs Metro Police."

  "I don't want nothing. You were trying to get me to rat out Martin but I told you nothing. I'm not taking your blood money."

  "Suit yourself," Quinn said, laughing.

  Quinn put the photo of Avellanos and Martin Ruiz in his pocket.

  "You give that back," Jackson said.

  "It's evidence," Quinn said.

  "You thief."

  Andy Jackson rushed forward and tried to grab back the photo. Quinn took his taster out of its holster.

  “Watch it old man, or you'll get a shot of this."

  "The shot?"

  "A shot of this," Quinn said, brandishing the Taser.

  Jackson flew into a rage. He rushed up to Quinn and punched him in the face.

  "Give me the shot?" he screamed. "Give me the shot?"

  Quinn, out of instinct, swung around. He knocked Jackson to the ground, and pinned him down with his knee, but Jackson continued to struggle. Quinn put his hand on his neck, and applied the Taser to the side of his body. Quinn expected Jackson to scream, and assumed he hadn't given him enough current. Jackson had indeed been shocked but chose to grit his teeth and not show any weakness. He managed to reach up and punch Quinn in the face, again, hard. Quinn, frustrated, continued to Tase Jackson while pressing down harder, choking him his free hand. Eventually the bigger man's strength prevailed. Jackson went limp, then dead. When Quinn realized he had killed Jackson, he flew into a rage.

  "You get Tased you stay down," he screamed. "You get Tased you stay down."

  Quinn stomped on Jackson, then again, then again. Then, still angry at him for not complying, he picked him up by his legs and put hi
m head down into the dumpster fire, which seemed to explode into crackling jets of flame the moment it was fed human flesh. The dumpster still had so much dry wood and paper that Jackson's cadaver, instead of extinguishing the flames, continued to burn. The smell of burning flesh only seemed to increase Quinn's anger. He kicked the dumpster.

  "You get Tased you stay down you fucking psycho," he screamed. "You get Tased you stay down. Burn you old psycho, burn."

  Quinn, realizing that he no longer had Jackson as a source of information about Avellanos and regaining his composure, knew he had to get it all down on paper quickly. He took a notebook and a pen out of his pocket. He sat down while Andy Jackson was still crackling in the flames, and quickly wrote down all the information he had learned about John Avellanos and Martin Ruiz. When he had finished, he took out his cell phone.

  "Hello Dan. Dan Grossinger," he said. "You want a scoop on a crime story? I'm back here in River Gardens and some bum looks like he got choked to death by his fellow bums. Oh my God," he added, pausing to laugh. "You've got to see this. One of them put him in a dumpster and lit him on fire. It's like a bum roast. Yeah. Yeah. Mundane, I know," he continued, "but I might have something a little more interesting. You're good at research. This is right up your alley. No. I'm not going to tell you over the phone. Cover the bum story first, and I might give you your real scoop."

  Quinn looked up at Scahentoarrhonon Station.

  "Gibbon Street, eight blocks behind the station. You know it? Good."

  He disconnected from Grossinger and dialed police headquarters.

  "It's me, Quinn. Send a car and I don't know, I guess a Hazmat team and a cleanup crew out here to Gibbon. A bus? No. Don't waste your time, just a body bag and a shovel."

  Chapter 31 - Vengeance is Mine

  All morning, right into the afternoon, Cathy Chegoffgan had been separating her essential possessions from what she wanted to throw away. Her camera equipment, negatives, and her computer had been stowed neatly in three large, cardboard boxes. She looked out of the window. The shadows of the harp were getting longer. John Avellanos was coming over at 6. She was happy. By Midnight, they'd be in the Midwest, well on the way to California. But she also felt sad. All of her photographic prints were still up on the wall. Taking them down meant saying goodbye to the Aeolian Harp Building.