by Randy Alcorn
Manny and Clarence glared at each other.
“Anyway,” Ollie said, “I wanted to tell both of you what I did with our HK53 this morning. I took it to the range and flipped the full auto switch. I bought me one of those forty round after-market magazines McCamman mentioned.” He pointed to the long impressive hardware extending from the rifle. “Emptied it in under four seconds, just like we figured.”
“You take your work seriously,” Clarence said.
“I’m a hands-on guy.”
“So did you learn anything?” Manny asked impatiently.
“You always learn something. And anything you learn may pay off later. These boys have the full meal deal. This is major hardware. The good news is, this is no little piece somebody hides in their saggers or their pillowcase. If we get near the perps, secure a warrant for something else, drugs maybe, and they’ve still got it, it won’t be easy to hide. If we find an HK53 in the hands of a bad guy, we’ve got him.”
“And the bad news?” Clarence asked.
“Sort of the same thing. As far as we can tell, there’s never been so much as a round fired from an HK53 in any crime in Portland or anywhere in Oregon. McCamman was right. This just isn’t a typical banger’s gun, not a street gun at all. Hope it appears somewhere so we can get a lock on it. On the other hand, part of me doesn’t want it to show up.”
“Why not?” Clarence asked.
“This gun’s a score-settler. Packs a big-time power surge. Whoever used this baby once is going to be hard-pressed to keep from using it again. And any time it’s used…”
“Somebody’s liable to get killed,” Manny filled in.
“Yeah.” Ollie shook his head and started pacing, while Clarence reached out and picked up the HK53. He shouldered it and hit the forearm switch that turned on the flashlight. It lit up the wall. The front sight jumped out in the contrast created by the light beam. Clarence’s pulse picked up as he felt the power.
“Mrs. Burns didn’t see a flashlight,” Ollie said. “The perp didn’t want to draw attention to himself, I guess, so he didn’t hit the switch. Either that or his unit didn’t have a light.” Ollie paced again, restlessly. “The whole thing still bugs me.”
“What?” Manny asked.
“You want an AK, an Uzi, MAC 10, a Tech 9? Fine. Walk into any sleazy backwater tavern in Portland and start talkin’ like you want one. Pretty soon somebody will whisper they know a guy who can get you one for five hundred bucks. Or you can just get them in the nickel ads.”
“But fully automatics are illegal, right?” Clarence asked. He saw Manny smirk.
“Yeah, so’s tax evasion and prostitution,” Ollie said. “It’s easy enough to buy and sell semiautos. Then convert them to fully automatic with a sear. Gun stores carry them for people authorized by a federal permit. Just get one off another weapon, buy it on the street, or steal one from a gun store. Whatever. Some guys make their own. But no way, even with a roll of crack money, are they going to buy this HK53 for five or six times what other automatics cost. Even if they could find one, which they probably couldn’t.”
“So what does this mean for the investigation?” Clarence asked.
“Well if it really is a gang shooting, I figure it’s a stolen weapon. Maybe bought after it was stolen, but not bought new by a gangbanger. I put word out on a police bulletin. Maybe that’ll turn up something. The other thing is, I can’t rule out that somebody with legal access to one could have used an HK53.”
“Who?”
“I called Heckler and Koch. It’s a short list, tell you that. First, the Navy Seals.”
“You’re saying a Navy Seal shot my sister?”
“Of course not,” Ollie said. “Just sayin’ they use them. So do SWAT teams. And possibly other police with access to department weapons.”
Clarence raised his eyebrows. He was surprised Ollie would bring up the possibility. Police committing a crime. It wouldn’t be the first time, that’s for sure.
“But these guns are under lock and key,” Ollie said. “You should’ve seen what I had to go through to check this gun out for the day. It’s not like your nine millimeter you bring home at night and put in your dresser drawer. The access problem is big. Nah. Even a messed up cop couldn’t pull it off.”
Clarence sat quietly. Growing up in Mississippi in the fifties and sixties, he had a fertile imagination when it came to what messed up cops could pull off.
“So…the killer is either a gangbanger who stole it,” Clarence said, “or he’s a Navy Seal or a police officer who tried to make it look like a gang killing? What about Mookie’s description? Two young Hispanic guys.”
“He probably got it wrong,” Manny said. “Or he just made it up.”
“Protecting your own, is that it?” Clarence asked.
“It could be a Latino with a police or navy connection,” Ollie said, trying to ignore the tension.
“Well, you two keep goin’ on your theories,” Manny said. “I doubt we’ll ever get to the bottom of this one. Why don’t we put an ad in the paper and offer a thousand dollars for anybody who can top Mookie’s story? I’m outta here. I’ve got another interview on the Gailor case.”
Ollie nodded, and Manny left, ignoring Clarence.
“Obviously, I think they were bangers,” Ollie told Clarence. “But they got the gun somewhere—where? If you rule out Seals and police just because they’re unlikely, it can hang you later. Remind me to tell you sometime about the case I solved based on an orangutan’s prints. Anyway, I’m keeping an open mind.”
“An orangutan?”
“I also called around to see if an HK had been stolen from a distributor warehouse. Nothing. I’ve run a trace on Oregon gun permit holders to see if one was stolen. Nothing.” The phone rang.
While Ollie answered, Clarence looked at the pile on the detective’s desk. He surveyed the interview records and the crime scene reports on Dani’s case. Under them lay two manila envelopes. Ollie was engrossed in conversation, his back partially turned. Clarence retrieved and opened the top envelope. Three pictures of street signs, Jackson, Ninth, and Tenth; pictures of footprints, the shells scattered on the porch. He stiffened when he saw the next pictures, looking at them one eight-by-ten at a time. Dani. Felicia. Picture after picture, ten of them. He put them back, heart racing and stomach convulsing. He opened the other envelope. He looked at the autopsy photos, staring blankly. A dozen of them. Surreal images, like holocaust pictures that the mind keeps telling you must be mannequins because nothing so horrible could be real. And if it was real, you didn’t want to live in the same universe ever again.
Ollie turned, still on the phone. Seeing Clarence, he quickly reached across the desk and jerked the envelopes and pictures out of his hand. Clarence offered no resistance.
Ollie saw his eyes, vacant eyes, the emptiness slowly filling with flames.
Clarence sat in Dani’s workroom, where in the midst of the city’s gray maze she had created such beautiful things with her mind and hands. On a round polished wood table full of dents sat her three wicker baskets containing maybe forty different colors.
He sat in the special chair, the chair he’d carefully repaired after the shooting. A brocade chair, the best heirloom of a poor family. Daddy had bought it for Mama back in Mississippi when Clarence was only eight. Thirty-four years ago. There it was again—the sweet, faint elusive smell of his mother, like from the stitchery in his basement, which he now had in safe storage, not wanting to hang it up in the city where it could be trashed or stolen.
Just a month ago he’d sat right in this room, in Mama’s old chair, watching Dani paint. Dani said she often looked at that chair and imagined Mama watching her. The canvas was covered with a large cloth, just as it had been the last time he’d been in here the day she was killed, and she’d told him, “Don’t peek.” He still hadn’t touched it, hadn’t lifted up the cloth to see what she was working on. It was as if he felt that once he did, she would be gone forever.
He remembered her asking him about his color blindness. “You don’t have total color blindness, where all colors are just different shades of gray. You just can’t see some colors, or when you do see them, you get them mixed up. Right?”
He’d shrugged. “I guess.”
“Colors tell us about God,” she’d said.
“Tell us what?”
“That he values differentness and variety and beauty. That he’s an artist. And that by giving us eyes to see all these different colors, he wants us to experience all that life offers.”
“I don’t know, Sis. Sometimes I think we’d all be better off totally colorblind.”
“But then we’d only see shades of gray.”
“So maybe red and yellow and brown wouldn’t be so important. Solve our racial problems, wouldn’t it?”
“It would be so dull.”
“Better dull than dead, don’t you think?”
“If we saw God as the Artist who made us all, there wouldn’t be any killing.”
“Yeah. And mankind would live happily ever after. But that’s not the way it is, Sis.”
Her idealism and romanticism, just like his father’s, never failed to surprise him. Given the hardships she’d faced, he’d have expected more cynicism. Maybe he had enough for both of them.
He’d put it off long enough. He reached toward the canvas and slowly lifted the cloth to unveil her painting. It appeared perhaps 80 percent done, but he immediately recognized the subject. It was Dani. A self-portrait. And she’d left before the portrait was finished.
She’d already painted something on the bottom, in neatly constructed letters. He stared at them.
“To Antsy. Thanks for always being there for me, big brother.”
Sunday morning Clarence walked into Ebenezer, Dani’s church, and heard the soft background soul music, sad and joyful at the same time. Bright colors fought for his attention, reds and blues and yellows and greens. He saw lots of jewelry, most of it inexpensive. The white-gloved ushers, dressed in sharp tuxedos, held up their right hands, their left hands behind their backs with military precision. Clarence smiled. At black churches even ushering could be an art form. One usher crooked his elbow for Geneva’s hand and sat her down. Clarence could tell Geneva enjoyed Dani’s church already. He wasn’t so sure. He followed the usher and Geneva with his daddy, son, and daughter, as well as Celeste and a disgruntled Ty.
All around them sat elderly women wearing white hats. Clarence looked at the hands of the old woman sitting two over from him. He saw how rough and callused they were, perhaps from picking cotton and a lifetime of other menial tasks. They reminded him of his mother’s hands. He supposed her knees were callused too, both from scrubbing floors and praying for her children.
Spread throughout the four hundred capacity auditorium were dozens of kufitype African hats. Braids were everywhere, some of them laden with colorful barrettes. Here and there he saw Jamaican dreadlocks. The choir got up, wearing burgundy robes with yellow insets on flounced sleeves, their subtle stripes giving a distinct African look. They swayed and clapped, singing, “Thank you for the blood…” Their shoulders shook, as if their whole bodies, not just their mouths, were engaged in worship. The voices explored all the nooks and crannies of the vocal range. Clarence felt this same choir could sing this same song a hundred times and every time would be different.
An a cappella group started singing, “The blood that gives me strength from day to day, it will never lose its power.” They sang unrestrained, holding nothing back.
The words were drawn out to emphasize the message, never in a hurry to end. Every number left the impression the singers would rather keep singing than quit. The solos—one baritone, one soprano—were magnificent. Like waves coming from and receding back into a great ocean, the solos made you feel the ocean was the thing, not the wave. In the front row, six- to nine-year-old boys and girls danced joyfully. “As pretty as you please,” Daddy whispered to Clarence, nodding his approval. Clarence could tell Keisha wanted to go join them. Perhaps in another week or two she would.
Some hands rose high, though not all, which relieved Clarence since he wasn’t the hand-raising type. Heads swayed, many eyes closed. The song leader led out with “Mighty is our God. Mighty is our King. Mighty is our Lord, Ruler of everything.” This song went on and on—it seemed at least ten minutes.
Pastor Clancy rose from his seat on the platform. “Well, just this week Jefferson High School released its list of honored students based on last spring’s achievement tests. Of the fifty who scored highest, we have fourteen students from our church!”
Hand clapping and “Praise Gods” and whooping and congratulations filled the air. As the pastor read the names, he asked each student to stand. Each received lengthy applause.
A man came up front, introducing himself as Jeremy, one of the deacons. “Angela Marie, how’s your mama? Better? That’s good. Karina Elizabeth, how’s that back been doin’? Holdin’ up? We’ll keep prayin’ for you, sister. Now, anybody have anything to say to God’s people today?”
One brother stood up. “I want to praise God I got that job at the True Value hardware store. I start tomorrow.”
Applause erupted.
“Hallelujah. Isn’t that great news? Brother Henry, pray for Brother Jimmy here, will you?”
“God, we lift Jimmy up to you. This job’s a real answer to prayer. Help him do a fine job, to work as workin’ for you. Help him provide for his family. Help him to be a strong witness there. Thank you, Lord, thank you, God Almighty, thank you, Jesus.”
“Amen.”
“Hallelujah.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Thank you, Jesus.”
“Who’s next?”
A man stood and gave a five-minute testimony about his deliverance from drugs and how he’d come back to his wife and children and was being discipled in the Ebenezer men’s group. The applause rang out again, and Clarence found himself clapping harder than he would have expected.
“Are the Bensons out there?” Pastor Clancy asked. “Darnelle and Mary, you got that brand new baby with you, don’t you now? A little boy named what? Cairo Clancy?” Laughter. “No? Kevin. That’s almost as good. Let’s pray for Kevin.
“Lord, we lift up Kevin to you. Help Kevin become a godly young man from the earliest age, dear Jesus.” A chorus of amens and yes, Lords punctuated the request. “Help Sister Mary to be the mama she needs to be, dear Jesus.” Another chorus of amens. “Help Brother Darnelle to lead this family spiritually and provide for them, sweet Lord.” More hallelujahs and thank you, Lords.
The choir got up again, and by the time the first words erupted, feet everywhere pounded the floor to the beat. “He broke the chains of sin and set me free.” The rhythmic, swaying movement was contagious, and Clarence found his own feet tapping.
Clarence watched Pastor Clancy starting to fidget like a bull waiting for the gate to open. This boy was ready to do some preachin’. When the choir finished, he sprang to his feet and spoke loudly into the microphone, “Do you love Jesus today?”
“Yes.” Hundreds of voices united as one.
“I asked you a question. Do you love Jesus today?
“Yes!” The response was even louder.
“I’ll ask it again. Do you love Jesus today?”
“Yes!”
Cairo Clancy moved back and forth on the platform with pronounced arm motions and hand gestures, looking like a boxer working the big bag. His voice was slow and measured at first, gradually building in intensity. Low tones developed into a high-pitched squeak as he made important points.
“What’s wrong with you people? After all that awesome worship, some of you still look like you been baptized in pickle juice.”
Laughter.
“You know what bothers me?”
“What’s that, pastor?”
“This prosperity theology, this health and wealth gospel. Let me tell you a story, now. One day I asked the Lord, �
�What’s a million years to you?’ He says, ‘It’s only a second in time to me, son.’ So then I asked, ‘What’s a million dollars to you?’ He says, ‘It’s only a penny to me, son.’ So then I says, ‘Okay, Lord, how ’bout you just give me a million dollars?’ ‘Sure, son,’ the Lord answered me. ‘But you’ll have to wait just a second.’”
Laughter permeated the congregation, quick and spontaneous laughter, as of people wanting to laugh, just waiting for the opportunity.
Clarence remembered that growing up in black churches he’d gotten the impression God has some strict rules, but he also has a great sense of humor.
“Preach it, brother.”
“Now the point is, God’s gonna give us great gifts, treasures beyond our wildest dreams, but that doesn’t mean he gives them to us here and now. Faith is trusting God that he’ll come through later, in the world to come, there and then, not just here and now. If you think God promises great wealth and perfect health here and now, you need to go back to the Bible and let God pop you upside the head, you hear me?”
“Amen.”
“Ain’t it the truth, Lord?”
“Yessir, that’s right.”
“Now, what all this prosperity teaching shows me is that many people today care less about God than they do the benefit package. My daddy always said, ‘He that serves God for money will serve the devil for better wages.’”
“Yes. Amen. Hallelujah. Say it again.”
“This ‘name it and claim it’ business feels to me like we’re pulling on God’s leash till he comes our way. That’s not how it works. We got to come his way.”
“Yessuh.”
“Well, well.”
“That’s true.”
“You try to twist the arm of the Almighty, and you’ll bite off a lot more than you can chew. You can wrestle with God, but you’ll never pin him, that’s sure. You won’t even score a point.”
“Amen. Hallelujah. Praise Jesus.”
“You know what I think?”
“What’s that, pastor?”
“I say when we tell God he has to take away this illness or handicap or financial hardship, we may be tellin’ him to remove the very things he put into our lives to conform us to the image of Christ!”
