Madman Walking

by L. F. Robertson

  I was exhausted from the drive and all that had followed, but hungry, too, and the Mexican restaurant near the hotel seemed like just what I wanted. As we walked in, the server who came up to seat us said, “Welcome back,” and I realized we were becoming regulars there; it might be the only place I’d actually miss after our trips to Wheaton were over.

  After a beer and a dinner that started with guacamole and ended with a comforting flan, I felt hardly awake enough to carry my bags into my room. Within ten minutes of getting into bed, I was asleep, too tired, for once, to dream.

  38

  Judge Redd’s court, even after over a month away, seemed depressingly familiar. The still air smelling faintly of polished wood and old paper brought back a succession of memories of witnesses and arguments, of small victories and disappointments. One difference now was that Mike and I were clinging to a new and tentative hope that Forbush’s testimony and the gun might be evidence the judge could not discount or ignore.

  Mike had emailed Willard a copy of Dan’s report of his interview with Forbush, and in the minutes before the hearing started, he told Willard about finding the gun. “I’ve asked the detective and the criminalist to come to court today; I don’t know if they’re going to be here.”

  Willard said, “Obviously, we’re going to want to run tests to see if the gun matches the bullets from the victim’s body.”

  “Of course,” Mike said.

  Laszlo had another inspiration. “Before we do that, we should do touch DNA testing. You said you didn’t think the gun was disturbed from the time Mr. Forbush put it in the locker. We should see whose DNA is on it.”

  Mike and I shrugged. “Worth a try,” he said. “But we’ll want a say in who does the testing, and the method.”

  When Judge Redd took the bench, we explained the new developments to him. “All right,” he said. “But this hearing has gone on for a very long time, and I’d like to see some prospect of it finishing.”

  Mike began by calling Dwayne Forbush, who rolled up the aisle in his wheelchair.

  Mike asked Forbush where he was living in 1998 and 1999. “Over in Hanover,” Forbush replied.

  “Did you own some guns then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you buying and selling them?”

  “Buy, sell, repair—yes.”

  “Did you ever sell a gun to a man named Steve Scanlon?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “When was that?”

  Forbush thought for a moment. “Early 1999, I’d say, or maybe end of 1998.”

  Mike had a mug shot of Scanlon marked for identification and gave it to Forbush. “Is this the man you remember as Mr. Scanlon?”

  “It’s been a long time, but I believe yes.”

  “Did you ever sell a gun to a man named Howard Henley?”

  “No.”

  Mike had another photo, a mug shot of Howard, marked. He gave the photo to Forbush. “Do you recall ever selling a gun to this man?”

  He looked at it and handed it back. “No. I’ve never met the man.”

  “But you told me you’d seen that mug shot before, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Detective showed it to me after I was arrested, asked me then if I knew him.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything except that I wanted to talk to a lawyer.”

  “Do you remember the detective’s name?”

  Forbush shook his head. “Not anymore—sorry.”

  “Were you asked to testify in Howard Henley’s case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who asked you?”

  “My lawyer told me the district attorney had offered me a deal if I would testify that I sold a gun to Mr. Henley.”

  Laszlo’s mind must have been wandering, because he let Forbush finish his sentence before interrupting with an indignant hearsay objection and motion to strike. The judge granted both. Mike thanked him and went on.

  “But you never sold a gun to Mr. Henley, though?”

  “Objection, asked and answered,” Laszlo yelped.

  “Correct,” Forbush said, before the judge managed to rule.

  “Do you remember what kind of gun you sold to Steve Scanlon?” Mike asked.

  “It was a revolver, Smith & Wesson .38.”

  “Is there any particular reason you remember it?”

  “I remember we talked a little. I happened to have that Smith & Wesson, and he liked the idea of getting a decent gun, not some Saturday-night special.”

  “Is there any reason this transaction sticks in your mind?”

  He nodded and looked a bit rueful. “Yeah, ’cause I bought the gun back from him a few days later.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “He called me, said he needed money, wanted to sell the gun back to me, get a cheaper one. So we met, and I bought the gun back and sold him a .22.”

  “Did he tell you he’d used the gun to kill someone?”

  “No. I should have known better than to take it back from him—but no.”

  “Did you find out later that he was wanted for murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Saw something in the paper or on the TV news, if I recall.”

  “Did you do something about the .38 you’d sold him because of that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I put it away in a safe place.”

  “Where was that?”

  “A footlocker I had in the crawl space above my brother’s house.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well, I was worried that the guy might have used it. Thought I might be able to modify it in some way, change the barrel and firing pin, maybe, but in the meantime I just wanted to hide it.”

  “Did you ever move it out of that footlocker?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a reason?”

  “Yeah. I got arrested, went to prison.”

  “When was that?”

  “April of 1999.”

  “What was the arrest for?”

  “Receiving stolen property, gun trafficking.”

  “And were you convicted?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long were you in prison?”

  “Six years.”

  “And when you got out, what did you do?”

  “I paroled back to my hometown, Indio. Been there ever since.”

  “You’re in a wheelchair, I see. Were you injured at some point?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I was doing roofing work, lost my footing and fell. Injured my spinal cord, and I can’t walk anymore.”

  “How long is it since you’ve been to Wheaton?”

  “Before two days ago, ten, eleven years.”

  “So you haven’t been back since you got out of prison.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yesterday, you were at your sister-in-law’s house when the footlocker in the crawl space was opened, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Laszlo, who had been quiescent to this point, objected that unless Forbush had managed to get into the crawl space he didn’t have personal knowledge of what had happened there. The judge sustained his objection and struck Forbush’s answer.

  “Okay,” Mike said. “Let’s put it this way. Yesterday, a police detective and a criminalist came to your sister’s house, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the police criminalist showed you a couple of guns?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Did one of them look like the gun you sold and bought from Scanlon?”

  “One was a Smith & Wesson .38, so it could have been, yes.”

  Mike marked another photo and gave it to him. “Is this a photo of the gun the man showed you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had a few other guns in that locker, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

&nb
sp; “And you saw photos of the guns that were found in it yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “Objection,” Laszlo said. “Lack of personal knowledge.”

  “Okay,” Mike said. “Well, you saw some photos yesterday on an iPhone?”

  Forbush seemed almost amused. “Yes, I did.”

  During dinner the night before, I had sent the photos I’d taken to Mike; and after I’d gone to my room, he had gone out and made color copies at a 24-hour copy shop. Mike had a half-dozen marked for identification and showed them to Willard and Laszlo and showed one to Forbush.

  “Does the footlocker in that photo appear to be the one you kept in your brother’s crawl space?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And does this photo look like the guns that were there the last time you went into the locker?”

  “It’s been a long time, but as far as I can remember, yes.”

  “Are there any guns in the picture that you hadn’t put there?”

  “Again, it’s been a long time, but I don’t think so.”

  “Your brother was John Forbush, right?”

  “Yes. He’s passed away.”

  “The house we were at yesterday is the house where he was living in 1999, and where you left the footlocker, right?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “John’s wife, Karen, still lives in that house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was John a gun collector?”

  “Not really—he had a few, like a lot of people, but that’s about it.”

  “Is there any reason he might have gone into your footlocker up in the attic?”

  “No—he didn’t have a key to the padlock.”

  “And your sister-in-law?”

  “She didn’t even know it was up there until the other day.”

  Laszlo made a hearsay objection. When Mike offered to bring Karen Forbush in to testify, the judge overruled it.

  “So anything in that locker would have been something you placed there.”

  “I guess so.”

  Laszlo was waiting to pounce.

  “Mr. Forbush, you were a fence, weren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t say so.”

  “You were convicted of receiving stolen property, isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “You pled guilty to that charge, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t the guns in your footlocker stolen?”

  “The Smith & Wesson, no. I don’t specifically recall about the others.”

  “You knew the Smith & Wesson had been used in a murder, didn’t you?”

  Mike’s objection that Forbush would have no personal knowledge of that fact was sustained.

  “Well, you admitted you had good reason to think that was the case, didn’t you?”

  “Probably—after I saw the article in the paper.”

  “That’s why you hid the gun, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you involved with the Aryan Brotherhood?”

  “No, I never was.”

  “Did you associate with members of that gang?”

  “Not socially. I did business with a few along the way.”

  “And one of them was Mr. Scanlon, isn’t that true?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “You said you don’t remember the name of the detective who showed you the photo of Howard Henley?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Was it Detective Springer?”

  Forbush thought for a moment, then said, “I wouldn’t rule that out, but after all this time I couldn’t really tell you.”

  “Are you aware that two of the guns in your footlocker were reported as stolen?”

  “I was not.”

  “But you knew they were, didn’t you?”

  “Like I told you, this many years later I don’t know. I doubt it.”

  “But part of your business was buying and selling stolen guns, wasn’t it? Isn’t that what you pled guilty to?”

  “I pled guilty to receiving stolen property. But it was really a setup. Some pressure was put on me to buy the guns they arrested me for.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I was told by someone I thought was a friend that the guys trying to sell them were gang members, and they’d make things tough for him and me if I didn’t take the guns.”

  “You were aware early in 1999 that you had a gun that Steve Scanlon might have used in a murder, weren’t you?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “But you didn’t tell the police.”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t say anything about it after you were arrested.”

  “No.”

  On redirect, Mike asked Forbush about the setup that led to his arrest. Forbush said, “This guy Freddy Gomez came to me, scared. He’d said he’d gotten himself in deep with some Mexican gang folks, owed them money or something, and they were trying to use him to move some guns. I’d known Freddy for a while. I didn’t think much of him, but his brother worked with me, and Freddy sometimes brought me business. And he, as he told it, was in fear for his life. So I told him I’d check out the guns. Freddy brought them to me, and I agreed to buy some of them, and next thing I know I’m surrounded by cops.”

  “You didn’t take the gun you got from Scanlon to the police.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Was there a reason you didn’t?”

  “Couple of reasons,” Forbush said. “First, I try not to get too involved with the police in general. And second, the guy was Aryan Brotherhood.”

  Laszlo objected that Forbush hadn’t explained how he knew this.

  “Okay,” Mike said. “How did you know?”

  “Gomez told me. The guy himself told me. And after I was busted, I heard around the jail that he was.”

  “Why would knowing that make you reluctant to give up the gun?”

  “Well, I figured if the cops knew I’d sold him a gun, they’d use that information somehow, maybe want me to testify against him. I hadn’t been to prison before, but I’ve been in the world long enough to know that if you snitch on one of those guys, you’re a dead man.”

  After Forbush was excused, we broke for the midmorning recess. The detective who had taken statements from us and the criminalist who’d come to the scene were both in the hallway. When we resumed, Mike called the criminalist to testify about the state of the footlocker when they saw it and our statements about the circumstances of finding the guns.

  The detective didn’t have much to say. He listed who was in the living room when he arrived, and said he’d taken statements from those of us who said we had been in the crawl space when the guns were found, and had incorporated those statements into a report.

  The criminalist testified that he had taken photographs of the attic, the footlocker, and the guns inside it; the photos were marked for identification. He had then carefully collected all five guns from the footlocker and put each into a separate evidence bag. He had worn gloves the entire time and had picked up the revolvers by their trigger guards using a dowel.

  He had shown the two revolvers to Dwayne Forbush, whom he identified in the courtroom. “Mr. Forbush,” he said, “made a visual inspection of the two guns. I did not allow him to touch them.”

  He also testified that he had later run the serial numbers of all the guns and that two of them, but not the Smith & Wesson, had been reported stolen in the 1990s.

  “What do you want to do about testing the guns?” Judge Redd asked Willard and Mike, after the witnesses had left.

  “We want the testing to be done by independent experts, for sure,” Mike said. “Especially the DNA, since it isn’t clear there will be more than one chance to test it.”

  Willard said he’d be satisfied with having it done by the Taft County sheriff’s laboratory.

  The judge apparently knew something about the Taft County lab, because he agreed with us that independent e
xperts would be a good idea. “Try to find people you can agree on within the next week, and let me know.”

  Mike asked how the fees of the experts would be paid, and the judge said, “I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of.” Something was changing, I thought.

  39

  We had two witnesses for the afternoon, Walter “Corker” Bensinger and Scotty Maclendon, two former AB shot-callers whose names Mike and Dan had come across earlier in their investigation. Both had been brought from prisons outside California, one in Oregon, the other in Nevada. Mike and Dan had interviewed them months ago, and Mike had touched base with them at the jail before meeting me at Karen Forbush’s house. Over lunch he checked in again with Bensinger, while I introduced myself to Maclendon and went over once more what we’d be asking him.

  Maclendon was the image of the photos of old AB guys I’d seen on the Internet when I was first researching Howard’s case—another grizzled dude, with shaved head and a luxuriant gray mustache. The dark blue edges of tattoos showed above the collar of his orange jail jumpsuit, and the parts of his forearms I could see were a mass of blue designs.

  We were assigned a bathroom off the holding cell, the only private space available, the deputy claimed, for our interview. Maclendon, in ankle chains and with handcuffs fastened to a chain around his waist, was given the seat on the toilet, and the guard brought in a plastic chair for me. The deputy said the door had to be kept open, but he stood a few feet away, at what he apparently considered a discreet distance from us.

  It wasn’t an arrangement conducive to making either of us feel at ease, but as soon as the guard withdrew, Maclendon said, in a rough-edged baritone, with mock formality, “Nice to meet you. I hope you’ll excuse the accommodations.”

  Maclendon’s purpose as a witness was largely to explain the way the Aryan Brotherhood hierarchy operated when it ordered hits and communicated its orders to members and associates in the prisons. His role in the Lindahl episode was fairly minor; he said he had been part of the circle from which the order to greenlight Lindahl issued, but the actual decision had come from others. I showed him McGaw’s letter to Scanlon—“May he rest in peace,” he said; “McGaw was a good man”—and he said it almost undoubtedly contained a coded message more or less asking Scanlon why he hadn’t done the job yet, but he couldn’t articulate his reasons for thinking so. Not that useful, I thought; I could practically recite Laszlo’s objections word for word.