The Verdict on Each Man Dead

by David Whellams

  “I’m going to nap,” Henry announced.

  “Sure,” Peter said, “but I thought we’d review the municipal records relevant to Number 13 Hollis later today. Devereau paid his taxes on time annually, and there was no record of building permits applied for by the owner. Water, sewer, and electricity were paid online. There must be a signature or an ID card somewhere …”

  Henry’s look was indifferent. Tynan tried: “We should work out your pill schedule, Henry.” Tynan read the labels on two of the bottles. “Hydromorphone and diazepam.”

  Peter and Tynan shared the gloomy understanding that they would have to share monitoring of Henry’s narcotics consumption. The painkillers could easily become substitutes for the absinthe that had once sat on the granite bar. Peter had few expectations of the home care visits scheduled for three times weekly: he and Tynan would be Henry’s real nurses.

  It wasn’t surprising that, in fifty years of marriage to an emergency room nurse, and numerous wounds on his own aging carcass, Peter Cammon had learned a little about meds and their side effects. He checked the dosages of the drugs: the hydromorphone came in three-milligram pills; the diazepam had been prescribed in five-milligram doses, four times daily. Peter estimated that, as prescribed, there was little risk of Henry falling into addiction.

  But that night Peter learned how bad it could get. A keening sound awoke him at 2:30. He rolled over in bed and listened for a repetition. The guest bedroom had been designed with a long, horizontal window high in the wall, and Peter often propped it open. He was used to the voices of night predators, but this wailing was unusual. It came again through the high window, with a dying fall of misery.

  Peter got up and crossed the living room to Henry’s bedroom. As he passed the kitchen he glanced in. Halogens under the cupboards lit the row of pill bottles that Henry had relocated to the counter. He lay crumpled on the floor. Blood had seeped through his shoulder dressing; his right hand was bloody, as if he had struck his own wound in an act of self-mortification. The painkillers hadn’t staunched his grief.

  Peter crouched next to him but didn’t try to raise him to his feet. “What are we doing out here, Henry?” he said.

  Perhaps it was Henry’s wretchedness that turned Peter obdurate. He needed the young Mormon to return to the game — with luck, the endgame. Henry had suffered and he continued to wrestle with his grief. For Peter, his own pursuit of vengeance was complex: his decline into octogenarian status, the echoes from his father’s life, and his brother Nigel’s death were tied up in his decision to come west to the desert and, just as significant, stay for the conclusion of it all. Those were the givens underpinning his revenge plan. He understood that Henry had his own demons.

  “We aren’t close, Peter.”

  “We’ve come close, Henry. You and I looked Devereau in the eye. Nurse your wounds, my friend. Stop feeling guilty. Buy a dog.”

  Peter let his friend lie in his misery on the kitchen floor. There was no present answer to his self-pity. Peter raided Tynan’s stash of beer in the fridge but did not offer Henry one. He sat down on the cool floor and began a long story about his golden retriever, Jasper, back in England, spinning it out until Henry fell asleep. Peter wondered what Scheherazade tale he would tell the next night.

  CHAPTER 37

  Peter did what he could to flush Devereau out of the chaparral, but his efforts were ineffectual. Devereau stayed hidden.

  Grady suspended DeKlerk and promised dismissal, damn the union, but he failed to make the dismissal public. Everyone knew that Boog had been on a slide for a year or more, and although there was no proof that he had taken direct bribes from González, it came out that he had looked the other way quite a few times. He admitted that much to Grady when they met, both men knowing that the Internal Affairs team would dig up the truth anyway.

  Peter decided to cooperate fully with Furst and Ordway, and he spent three days in the Salt Lake offices of the State Bureau, going over the evidence gathered by himself and Henry; Henry even joined in for an afternoon.

  The lead on the manhunt was finally shifting out of the hands of Peter, Henry, and Phil.

  Initially pleased that state police were throwing resources into the search, Peter, within a week of the appointment of “F&O,” as Mohlman called them, began to feel his isolation from the hunt. “It’s called authority,” Phil rambled in one of their regular calls, during which Peter pressed him for inside information on the team and Grady’s latest machinations. “You don’t have any. My advice? Don’t go rogue on the Watson Team.”

  Peter, frustrated by Henry’s torpor and the realization that he had truly handed off the less-than-hot pursuit, needed down-to-earth, trustworthy advice. He called the only country sheriff he knew.

  It was as if Brockhurst had been waiting for his call. He picked up on half a ring and bellowed, “Peter, what are you still doing in Utah? Those fresh-faced state cops, what’s their name, ‘Four-Way’ …”

  “Furst and Ordway.”

  “Let them do their job. Come visit Topeka and justify your malingering in the Beehive State.”

  “Well, Bill, I was going to ask if you’ve stayed plugged in to the Hollis Street case, but obviously you are.”

  “Yup. I’ve always been interested in your killer. Devereau? Riotte? Shaw? Whatever name you give the Devil.”

  “I need your advice.”

  “I’m your reality check. And I have an idea!”

  Peter asked Tynan to change Henry’s dressings for the four days he’d be in Kansas. Henry’s police benefits covered visiting care, but the nursing agency in Salt Lake had resisted driving out that far each day and had cut visits to once a week. Tynan consented. As backup, he said, he could use outpatient services at Utah General. Peter expected that he had an entire church to help, if needed.

  The truck held up nicely on the day-and-a-half-long drive to Topeka. It was a sign of Peter’s settling in to the West that he considered extending his lease indefinitely with Randy at Randy’s Rides.

  Peter and Bill Brockhurst rendezvoused in the same eatery as before.

  “Nothing I haven’t tried on the menu,” Brockhurst stated, looking it over anyway. “Stay off the cheddar and broccoli soup, unless you’re spacklin’ a wall. How can I help, Peter?”

  “Has Grady kept you plugged into his task force?”

  “Nope. I know it’s happening, and Grady keeps the door open. It’s early days. What’s the hurry?”

  “Once he finishes ripping off the drug dealers in a half dozen states, Shaw’ll be back to his plan.”

  “What plan, his manifesto? Remember, Peter, he left it behind in the diner two decades ago. He’s shown no sign of testing out a terrorist strike. If so, you’d expect him to probe a military facility, a power dam, or take a potshot at a judge or a prosecutor. That’s what terrorists do these days. There’s a huge military base in Colorado Springs, just up the road from the narcotics factory he hit. But Peter, he hasn’t attacked anything other than drug operations.”

  “Your point?”

  “Do you have that Yoda toy?”

  Peter took the figurine with him everywhere. He put it on the table. Brockhurst smashed it with his pistol, causing the waitress to look over. Peter recoiled from the granular mess on the Formica table.

  “Change your thinking, Peter. You believe Devereau fashioned parts in a 3-D printer for use in Unabomber-like devices in Denver and Kansas and West Valley. He did use customized parts — we found polymer resin in Riotte’s trailer — but we’ve seen no domestic terror conspiracy. He’s small-time. He was just playing with the technology. I consulted some in-the-know forensics people. There’s all kinds of loose talk about criminals using 3-D printers to make bomb and gun parts, but it’s experimental.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Peter said.

  “No, you didn’t,” said Brockhurst. “Times change, Pet
er. That’s my point.”

  “You’re saying he’s stealing money and drugs in order to vanish, and no other reason?”

  “Yes!” Brockhurst slapped the table and waved for another round. He got up and paced, and sat down again. Three beers was becoming too much for Peter, and he was finding it hard to keep up.

  “We’re both yesterday’s men, I guess,” Brockhurst said.

  “So — you hinted you have an idea for dealing with the elusive Casper Shaw?” Peter asked.

  Brockhurst appeared tired. He took a long time to respond. “You know why I like to talk to you, Peter? Because I’ve never killed a bad guy, and you have.”

  “Never?”

  “Wounded three suspects while arresting them. That’s it.”

  “That hardly qualifies me to advise on this case.”

  “It does when evil is on the table, Peter. You’re not sentimental. You know what has to be done. That’s what I’m saying. So what if Devereau has given up his terrorist objectives? He’s still a son of a bitch. Home in on the evil that’s still out there. That hasn’t changed. Stop him because he’s a psychopath, not because he’s an ideology-driven terrorist. Stop him because you, not Henry, not the Watson Team, not me, are the one ready to kill him.”

  After a long pause, Peter said, “How do we trap him?”

  Brockhurst had been building to this point. It was the reason for his invitation. “Unless we find his real name, it’ll take a long time to nail him, maybe not before he goes into hiding. I’ve been reviewing the case files, including the incident with Alma May Reeve. Is it possible the Unabomber knows his real name? Can we ask him, do you figure?”

  Peter took a long moment. “I’d thought of it, but how long to get access to the Supermax?”

  “We need the permission of the Federal Bureau of Prisons for an interview, and for that the support of the Domestic Terrorism folks. Six months.”

  “Too slow. Devereau will be gone by then,” Peter said.

  “Right. Well, let’s speed things up. I see two ways. Kaczynski’s allowed visitors once a month. First option, get an invitation from Ted himself. Second approach, tell Domestic Terrorism all about the Unabomber’s and McVeigh’s old buddy.”

  “Let’s do both, starting with Ted,” Peter said.

  Brockhurst pulled out a note torn from a pad. “We give him this and see what he does.”

  The paper listed three names:

  Jim Riotte

  Ronald Devereau

  Casper Shaw

  “We need an ally in Homeland Security,” Brockhurst said. “Someone who’ll lever you into the Supermax fast by treating the visit as some form of official business.”

  Peter considered the obstacles to winning the support of federal law enforcement. He undoubtedly had a reputation now for his provocative interference in the Hollis Street and Denver affairs.

  “I’m writing my memoirs,” Peter said.

  Brockhurst grinned. “The Casebook of Peter Cammon. You just need to check a few details with Ted. Now, who do we know in Washington?”

  Peter left town with a hangover. He was much too old for this sort of thing. Since moving in with Henry he had cut back his drinking, and now he was paying for Brockhurst’s hospitality. Six pints and broccoli and cheese soup.

  For once, he drove the interstate without enthusiasm; the straight line westward promised only tedium. He had muddled things. González killed. Henry, the one he had come to help, wounded again. He had alienated law enforcement and dragged his daughter-in-law into a goose chase. It could take half a year to gain access to Kaczynski.

  He continued in silence, not even country music for company. He saw the sign again for Fort Riley but wasn’t tempted to divert from the I-70. Pulling into the Petro Truck Stop at Salina to fill the tank, he realized he had reached roughly the midpoint of the state, and then he remembered that the centre of the continental United States lay somewhere in Kansas. He couldn’t be too far away. A student working the cash told him authoritatively that the centre of the forty-eight contiguous states sat between Lebanon and Smith Center, Kansas, a half hour west and no more than ninety minutes north. Peter stocked up on sandwiches and bottled water for the pilgrimage northwest and set the GPS.

  He took his time. The territory inland from the interstate proved more barren than the main highway, if that was possible, almost as if most of the settlers had spun away centrifugally from the centre point of America on an Oz-driven tornado.

  Smith Center and Lebanon, neither more than a passing thought, both laid claim to the centre of America. What an American thing, Peter observed. In the race for municipal hegemony, Smith Center asserted an additional claim on a weathered plaque: “Birthplace of Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle.” Who knew?

  He eased himself out of the truck at a cairn that told him he was at the Crossroads of the Forty-Eight. He hardly bothered to read the bronze plate — odd, since he had driven all this distance — and he wandered away from the husband and wife who had pulled over in their Winnebago and were scrutinizing the plaque.

  Peter had sent an email to Joan and Maddy after the Denver shootout telling them that he was safe, but he had provided no details of the dangers he encountered that night. He knew that his reassurance must have rung hollow. Since then, he had failed to follow up with either Joan or Maddy. He wondered about phone reception out here, seeing no transmission towers on any horizon.

  But before he could press speed-dial, his mobile chimed.

  “Good news, Peter,” said a sober-sounding Brockhurst. “You can see Kaczynski.”

  “When? How?”

  “I cashed in a marker for you. A Texan friend of mine in the Bureau of Prisons did me a favour and looked into it, and it turns out Kaczynski has a constitutional right to visitors, and so does every inmate at the Supermax. But he has to agree to see you. And the reason for your visit has to be legit. My contact suggests a ‘legal investigation’ category — namely, you’re clearing up loose ends on an old case.”

  “Will Kaczynski want to see me?”

  “I don’t know, but I passed on the three Devereau aliases.”

  “How soon?”

  “He thinks as early as three weeks. Visiting day is Friday. I gotta go, Peter. Call the warden’s office.”

  Revived, Peter didn’t hesitate to call England. Joan picked up immediately. Her worried voice came clearly across the miles. “Peter? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m calling from the dead centre of the United States.”

  He could feel her anxiety change to coolness. Perhaps he had been gone too long. “The way you go on with your wanderings. Where on earth would that be?”

  “Kansas.”

  “Right you are. Well, you just missed the kids. They set off ten minutes ago.”

  “How’s Joe?”

  “Right as rain. Teething almost over. Except he lives for your dog. Cried when he left. Jasper herself is moping around now.”

  It was hard to avoid the reverberations. Jasper was his pet, but he wasn’t home to walk her, was he? And Joe had turned two. He was missing an important stage in his grandson’s life. Calling from the windswept prairie of Kansas now seemed self-indulgent, falsely romantic. He was far away from English hearth and home, trying to impress his wife with an artificial tourist attraction.

  “Have you pinpointed your man, Peter?”

  “No. We thought we had him trapped in Denver, but he got away.”

  “Your note was vague. Were you in danger in Colorado?”

  Peter noted the edge in her voice, but still he was tempted to gloss over the raid. He didn’t want to worry her. He looked down the sun-baked highway. Damn it, I’m seventy-three years old. It’s time to be forthright with my own wife.

  “Yes.”

  “Did men die?”

  “Yes, there was …”

&
nbsp; “How many?” she snapped.

  “Five.”

  Peter faltered, not quite ready to confess that he had killed two of Devereau’s gunmen himself. For her part, Joan hesitated to press for specifics. She deduced that he needed to tell her something important. On the crackling line, she felt that they had lost their wave length and she wondered how to get it back from an ocean away. From long experience, she knew when her husband needed support from her. Usually it took the form of reassurance — but once, a case down in Dorset, he had summoned her to view a crime scene and she had helped him with the evidence. But Peter had been in America well over a month now, and she was still peeved that he hadn’t brought her along. And all his talk of evil …

  And then she knew.

  “You want me to come over there?”

  He hardly hesitated. “I’d like that. The West is beautiful. We’ll take a vacation in the desert.”

  “Okay.”

  Her tone was neutral, a bit cold, but he didn’t pick up on it. “You can come over anytime,” he said in that voice husbands use when they don’t want to reveal any more details.

  “How about Friday? That gives me time to arrange things. Jasper will have to go up to Leeds with Maddy and Michael, and I need some clothes …”

  “That’s terrific, but there is one thing I have to do in three weeks or so. It’s complicated.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have to meet with the Unabomber.”

  “Of course you do.”

  It was all surreal. Joan had already been wondering if she would be shut out of his mission. That was unacceptable at this point in their lives together. His approach to the Unabomber signalled that he remained in the thick of the hunt for the killer of Henry Pastern’s wife, but where did that leave her?

  Am I to be part of the endgame or the waiting game?

  “You’ll love the desert,” he said.

  “You won’t be preoccupied?”

  “As soon as you get here, I’ll tell you everything I’m planning.”

  You’ll tell me now. “What do you want from Kaczynski?”