Killing Zone

by Rex Burns

  “You think Big Nose was telling the truth?”

  “I wouldn’t bet the house and farm on it,” said Wager. “But I think he was.” He steered the car down the long, sloping stretch of I-70 that led toward Denver, with its lights that spread as far as the horizon and clotted here and there into white glow. In the far distance, it was hard to tell where the ground lights ended and the stars began, not only because they looked about the same, but also because the glare from the freeway lights smothered the sky to make a tunnel floored by the strip of concrete with its dark patches of oil stain and the jostling traffic outside the windows. It was as if the city were built to force the eyes to the ground, to close off the heavens and shorten the reach of one’s yearning to objects advertised for sale in neon or in the white glare of billboards. It was a feeling of loss—of rediscovering the burden of his city—that Wager had not had since he and Jo would come back from one of their trips to the mountains. The brief escape from the city’s presence that had been hinted by the small town with its quiet twilight and the soothing sound of rushing water had stirred up those memories again, and with them the matching memories of returning. Only, at the time with Jo, he had not felt the smothering grip of the city as sharply as he felt it now. With her, the knowledge of what was waiting had been softened by a comfortable feeling of sharing it with someone. Now, there was no comfort, just the awareness of what was ahead.

  “Yeah, I thought so, too.” Stubbs peered out the window at passing houses and shopping centers. “Wolfard won’t be happy about it.”

  Wager cared less what made Wolfard happy.

  2243 Hours

  A cordon of police vehicles blocked access to the command center, and in the shadows, Wager made out a picket line of dark uniforms at strategic points, covering other avenues of approach. In the pulsing flicker of red-white-blue emergency lights, figures clustered in little groups listening to radios and waiting for the call that would set off whatever response they specialized in. Further down the street, a pair of ambulances sat in silence, an occasional cigarette glowing behind one of the dark windshields; across from them, a crew busily set up antenna and ran wire from a blank-walled communications van. Wager and Stubbs dangled their identification badges from their lapel pockets and nodded to those faces they knew as they made their way through groups of waiting police. Here and there, a low rumble of nervous laughter or a mutter of conversation, but most of the men were silent, watching, listening to the pop of radio transmissions. It was the same feeling of muted expectancy, of well-rehearsed alertness that preceded raids on dope factories or hideouts. But the magnitude of support forces and the distances to be scouted and defended reminded Wager of sorties in Korea, patrols that moved out from the line of departure when it was fully dark, to probe into no-man’s-land for the enemy patrols that groped toward them. It was a fragment of memory that made the familiar streets and brick buildings, the clusters of trees, and the front yards of hushed and curtained homes seem suddenly alien; it was an echo of feeling that pressed on the mind with the same gray weight as the routine wail of defense sirens, and as with that reminder, he felt a pang of new distance between him and the small houses huddled against the cold flicker of emergency lights. The empty litter of children’s toys on a worn front lawn—a rusty wagon tilted on its side, a tricycle, the fragile pattern of Popsicle sticks and scraps of wood built into a world for tiny cars and trucks to dig between—and the silent, waiting homes brought the sting of mutability.

  “By God, we’re ready for ’em.” Stubbs gave a quick count to the units spread over the empty lot and surrounding streets. “I think every SWAT team in the metro area’s here.”

  Wager thought so, too. He followed the black line of comwire toward the command post, estimating, like Stubbs, the firepower poised to react.

  “Detective Wager—wait a moment, please.”

  The woman’s voice sounded odd among the pinched crackle of radios and the low mutter of male sounds. He saw the figure in high heels pick its way toward him across the uneven and weedy ground.

  “Councilwoman Voss.”

  “Yes. They told me you were coming down. This is terrible—it’s truly terrible.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “These people don’t want violence, Detective Wager. The great majority of them are peaceful, law-abiding citizens. Church people. They don’t want to see their neighborhood go up in flames.”

  “No, ma’am.” It was a speech that should not have been aimed at him but at the chief. Or at those in the neighborhood who didn’t fit Voss’s description and who saw violence as a strike against the white society that had killed Green.

  Or at the group of rioters whose sudden appearance in the radio reports caused a flurry of traffic and an expectant stir among the groups listening in the half-dark.

  “Have you found out anything at all about the murder?”

  “There might be some truth in that rumor you told me about. But I don’t know how it fits with his death.”

  “You’ve talked to someone about it? Who?”

  “Kaunitz and Ellis. They didn’t admit anything, but they got quiet pretty fast.”

  “Would they—?”

  “There’s no evidence of a thing. And I won’t be able to work on it until Monday.”

  It took her a few seconds. “You mean because their offices are closed over the weekend?”

  “Theirs and everybody else’s. Can you think of any reason Kaunitz and Ellis might want Green dead?”

  She shook her head, her dark hair looking wind-tossed. “No—and that sounds so … cold and terrible.” She considered it again. “If Horace was taking bribes, they wouldn’t want him dead at all. He’d be too valuable to them. Unless”—the thought brought a frown—“he’d threatened to tell someone.” She looked at Wager. “Suborning an elected official is a federal crime. Conviction could cancel any city and federal contracts they were developing.”

  Wager liked the way Councilperson Voss thought, because that was the way he figured it, too. The problem, of course, was lack of evidence to show either bribery or Green’s intention to talk to someone about it. “Do you know his aide—Julia Wilfong?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “She’s heard the rumors, too.”

  “You asked her about them?”

  He nodded. “She told me about a zoning change that stunk, one for K and E Construction. But she doesn’t believe Green was mixed up in it.”

  Voss asked, “She came to you with it?”

  “No. I told her I was chasing down the rumor. She didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I see.”

  “Who did you hear it from, Mrs. Voss?”

  She hesitated. “I promised I wouldn’t reveal that.”

  Wager wagged a hand at the surrounding weapons and vehicles. “It could be important. If we can find the killer in time, this might be stopped.”

  She tugged nervously at a tendril of ill-governed hair that curled down behind her ear. “I’ll have to ask if I can tell you.”

  Her tone told Wager that was about as good as he was going to do. “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Did you talk with any of the White Brotherhood? Are they involved in any way?”

  “They say no. And we don’t have anything that says yes.”

  “The people I talk to think they are—people in the neighborhood here. That’s what’s causing so much of the hostility. They think the police are unwilling to do anything to them.”

  Wager tried to keep the Spanish lilt from his voice. “The police are unwilling to do anything to them because the law says the police can’t do anything to them, Councilwoman Voss. Scumbags have their rights, too.”

  “I understand that, Officer Wager. I just wondered—I hoped—I could have something to tell these people. Something that would show them we are trying to find Green’s killer.”

  “If I had cooperation from everybody, I might have something to tell you.”

  The shado
w of her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Touché—I understand. I’ll ask the person who told me—that’s all I can say. You’ve kept your promise not to say anything about the rumor; I want to keep my promise, too.”

  Wager glanced at Stubbs, who stood just out of earshot, staring their way anxiously. “Yes, ma’am.”

  2251 Hours

  Lieutenant Elkins was at the command center—a police cruiser with all four doors flung open and a technician running another telephone wire to it from the communications van. In a larger city—New York, Los Angeles—the riot drill would call for a local business or home to be commandeered and it would be marked with radio antenna, a portable switchboard, and even a police department flag so officers unfamiliar with the precinct could spot it. But in Denver, property owners didn’t accept the police taking over their buildings, and there was no money to pay for police damage to the property, anyway. So here, the command post was simply a vehicle that could be moved as the situation demanded.

  But even if it lacked the dignity of a flag, it was marked by the glitter of uniforms standing around in tight clusters and talking quietly, by the splatter of radio transmissions from all four districts, by technicians still puttering with the telephone hookups, by newspaper and television crews who kept wandering away from the space that had been provided for press vehicles.

  “Wager—anything new on Green’s killing?” Gargan’s voice came from a blurry face hovering over a black turtleneck sweater. A television announcer, following Gargan’s question, began yanking her cameraman’s wire to lead him toward Wager.

  “Ask the Public Information Officer, Gargan.”

  “Wager, God damn it—”

  Elkins, wearing his uniform, pulled away from a group of men in civilian clothes, and Wager recognized the chief’s profile as he leaned forward to listen to something said by a very tall silhouette—probably the basketball player Fat Willy had mentioned.

  “Over here, Wager.” Elkins gestured. “I hear Mrs. Green’s coming down, too.”

  “You hear more than I do. What the hell’s she think she can do?”

  “She thinks she can help calm things down. Maybe she’s right. The chief said it’s worth a try, anyway.” He added, “A group of ministers are already telephoning people in the district.”

  “Crap, Lieutenant,” said Stubbs. “They’re not rioting over Green—he’s just an excuse for a couple gangs to pump themselves up and do a little looting. That’s not the kind of people who’ll listen to her.”

  Elkins stared down at them for a long moment, the gleaming bill of his cap hiding his eyes. “That’s a part of it, it sure is. But if you think the people aren’t upset over Green’s death, you’ve got another think coming. They are upset—damned upset—and that’s the people we don’t want joining those gangs in the street.” He lifted his cap and swabbed at the sweat band with a handkerchief before settling it back evenly over his eyes. “The chief figures—and I happen to agree with him—that if we can keep the gangs from getting citizen support, we can minimize the damage.”

  “The fewer the better, that’s true,” said Wager. “Is Wolfard around? He wanted us to report to him.”

  “Yeah—he’s over—”

  Elkins’s words were cut off by the sudden thud of an explosion that slapped against Wager’s shirt like a gust of wind from the darkness. Eyes around them lifted as if they could see something in the night, and the silence was like a pent breath. Beside him, Stubbs whispered, “Jesus, that was a big one.” Then the radios began to pop with taut voices, and a murmur from one of the shadows said, “Fucking bomb!”

  “What was it? What’s the report?” A voice that sounded like Gargan’s came from somewhere, and a mutter of inquiry and guesses stirred the restless shadows. A dozen blocks away, the wail of a fire siren began at a neighborhood station.

  “It’s a car’s gas tank. A car’s gas tank went off.” The answer started from the command center and went from shadow to shadow, and the shapes settled back into clusters that shifted from foot to foot, and began talking again in muted voices.

  “Lieutenant Wolfard? Detective Wager’s here. Him and Detective Stubbs.”

  A figure detached itself from the small crowd around the chief. “This way, Wager.” He gestured toward an empty space on the other side of the police car. “Did you see them? Were they up there?”

  “They were.”

  “Well?”

  “They say they don’t know who did it.”

  “You didn’t expect them to tell you the truth, did you?”

  “I didn’t expect them to tell me anything, Lieutenant. But what they did say and the way they said it makes me believe they didn’t do it. If you want to believe something else, that’s up to you.”

  “Lester? What about you? Did you hear what they said?”

  “Yessir.” He added, “I go along with Gabe.”

  Wolfard looked at Stubbs for a long minute, studying his face in the half-light. “You’re sure?” Wager waited to hear if Stubbs said the right thing.

  After a moment, Stubbs’s head nodded.

  “Very well.” He turned back to Wager. “Did you tell them to keep their butts out of here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I think they will. For this weekend, anyway. But they’re not going to let it slide. They can’t.”

  “That’s all we need is a goddamned gang war.” Wolfard paused to listen to a radio transmission call for an ambulance. Behind them, one of the dark vehicles started its motor and flipped on its emergency lights as it pulled away. “But as long as it’s not this weekend…”

  Wager turned to go.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m still working a homicide.”

  “You got a new lead?”

  “No, Lieutenant. What I’ve got is a few strings I want to pull.”

  “And what I’ve got right now, Wager, is a riot. And an assignment for you.”

  He waited.

  “You’re to drive Mrs. Green around the neighborhood while she makes her appeal.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. The chief wants her in an unmarked police car—he’s afraid of that sniper rumor. But he’s not letting her go in uncovered.”

  “But why the hell—”

  “Because she doesn’t want any uniformed cops with her. She’ll take the plainclothes, but no uniforms.”

  “There’s a hell of a lot of plainclothes around here—look at them: standing with their thumbs up their asses!”

  “But she knows you, Wager. She even seems to like you.” In the dim light, Wager could see the glint of Wolfard’s grinning teeth. “She asked for you personally—‘those two officers I talked with yesterday,’ she said. The chief said yes.”

  “God damn.”

  “I guess you made an impression on her. Anyway, the man wants to talk with you before you take them for a spin.”

  The chief saw Wolfard lead them over and stepped away from the cluster of listening ears. “Wager—Stubbs. Anything new on the murderer?”

  “No, sir. Not yet. There won’t be, either, if I’m going to be driving people around here.”

  The chief’s eyes got the sleepy look that showed he was trying to hide his thoughts from someone. “I understand how you feel, Wager. But this is an emergency situation and it takes precedence. A lot of people have set a lot of things aside for a few hours, understand?”

  “I understand, Chief. What I don’t understand is why somebody else can’t drive her. I’m not the only plainclothesman here.”

  “She asked for you and Stubbs.” He added, “And I wanted some people I could trust to look after her—some people who would do a good job.”

  “Well …”

  “Besides, I’m ordering you to. Any questions about that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Fine.” The chief’s pause held them a moment longer. “Lieutenant Wolfard told me about that rumor on Green, Wager—the one th
at has him taking bribes.”

  He glanced past the chief to see Councilwoman Voss talking with someone near the reporters’ vehicles. “That’s only a rumor, Chief. And I’d like to keep it quiet until I find out a little more on it.”

  “That’s exactly what I told the lieutenant. For two reasons: We don’t want these people to think we’re trying to smear Green, and I damned well don’t want the FBI sticking its nose into my jurisdiction. Certainly not while all this crap is going on.” The chief let that sink in. “You dig into it as part of your investigation of the homicide. If something about a bribe turns up—anything concrete—you get word to me in writing through channels. Otherwise, I didn’t hear that rumor, Wager; and I told Wolfard he didn’t, either. And if anybody asks us, that’s what we’re going to say. You understand what that means?”

  It meant the chief sure as hell didn’t want to share the same limb Wager perched on. “That’s all right by me.” Wager glanced at the man beside him. “What about you, Stubbs?”

  “Ah—yessir, Chief. I understand.”

  “Fine. Now Mrs. Green will be here in just a few minutes. Drive her around the neighborhood but steer clear of any hot spots. I’ll have a car about a block behind you in case you need help. If something does happen, get out fast—I don’t care what she wants to do, your first responsibility is to look after her welfare. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have an unmarked car, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. The bullhorn works?”

  Wager never had to use it. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Fine. She should be here in a few minutes.”

  2308 Hours

  The car’s bullhorn, mounted under the hood, worked; Wager gave a quick test—one through five—that bounced his metallic voice off the neighboring houses and brought a momentary hush to the command center as faces turned toward him. In that brief silence following the echo, he heard the end of a radio transmission: “… at St. Charles’s Park. God bless you.”