Rules of Resistance

by I. M. Hunt-Logan

  Then comes the inevitable. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Corey Strutsky?”

  On the one hand, I don’t even know where to begin. To know Corey was to dislike him. But enough to want to kill him? He was just a hack. A political hack. Somebody you just try to avoid.

  On the other hand, it’s not like Corey had roots in Modesto. He was networked into people, like the Central Valley Patriots, but those were barely more than acquaintances. Besides me and Darryl, Corey didn’t know a lot of people in Modesto.

  I mention that Corey knew Mike Reed’s campaign manager, Dave Grady. But since we were running an independent expenditure campaign, we’d agreed to minimize contact with Reed and his campaign staff. Sitting in the audience of the constituent meeting and the debate were the closest we came to contact with Reed or his people. I consider mentioning the call about the rubber gloves incident and decide to let it come to light in Corey’s cell phone records.

  Jennings asks if Corey was ‘seeing anyone.’

  So I tell him about Cheryl, last name unknown, from Rosalita’s. I don’t know that the relationship lasted more than a week, although it did seem to end badly. It seemed like Cheryl was threatening Corey with something. Could Cheryl have tracked Corey down to the office? Maybe a rendezvous turned into a confrontation that went sideways? My voice peters out when Jennings’s expression makes it clear he thinks this is pretty thin.

  I’m thinking, Darryl and I both knew the deceased, disliked the deceased, and had keys to the office. Although I genuinely hated the guy, I have Charlene and some serious rug burn to prove I didn’t have opportunity. Based on his texts, Darryl seemed at loose ends last night, and he’d had some run-ins with Corey. But Darryl’s not the kind of person to kill someone over a run-in. Easy-going Darryl didn’t even rise to the bait when Corey called us pussies.

  I don’t know what Detective Jennings is thinking. I hope he’s thinking suicide.

  He says, “So, to recap. You fired Corey Strutsky four days ago. You and a Darryl Gniewek met him in at the RAPAC office Saturday morning to give him his final check. You had words about entitlement programs. After you left, someone vandalized the office using feces. We’ll have to wait for DNA tests to be sure, but for the time being, let’s assume it was Mr. Strutsky. Mr. Strutsky was killed by a gunshot wound to the temple in your office, seated in your chair. An office to which only you, Darryl Gniewek, and a building manager have a key. Finally, your alibi for the evening is your girlfriend.”

  Perhaps I need a lawyer.

  “Just for the sake of argument, Mr. Whitman, let’s assume for the moment that you didn’t kill Corey Strutsky. What do you think happened?”

  “The sake of argument?!” About half an hour late, I say, “I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”

  Detective Jennings chooses this moment to crack the ghost of a smile. He doesn’t look so matter-of-fact now.

  “Just kidding. Seems to me Mr. Strutsky had more motive to shoot you than the other way around.”

  He asks me to provide ‘elimination’ finger prints, so that they can rule out my prints, which are presumably all over the office. He tells me not to leave town, and with that, I’m free to go.

  55

  Person of Interest

  Monday midday, November 5th, one day until the midterms

  “Mr. Whitman!”

  Constance Chu’s voice cuts across the general buzz of activity in the lobby. She’s waiting for her briefcase to pass through a screener similar to the ones for carry-ons at the airport, and she eyeballs me as I approach.

  “Mr. Whitman, please tell me you weren’t just answering questions about Corey Strutsky’s death without a lawyer present.”

  Okay, obviously I should have called a lawyer. But I really don’t feel like admitting it to Constance Chu, who, when she’s not scowling, as she is now, is rather attractive.

  “I discovered the body, Ms. Chu. I called the police, I identified the body, and I answered a few questions.”

  “Must be nice to come from such a place of privilege and obliviousness. I guess this means you didn’t meet Imogen in the gifted students program?”

  Jesus Christ. Where does Imogen find these people? And how did she find out about Corey’s death so quickly?

  “Has Corey’s death already made the news?”

  “Not that I’m aware. Imogen has been brought in for questioning, and I’m here to represent her.”

  “Is she a suspect?”

  “Officially, she is a person of interest. Of course, suspects are usually persons of interest before they graduate to being suspects.”

  “Imogen never even formally met Corey Strutsky—why suspect her?”

  Chu’s squinting at me and biting her tongue, as if she’s trying not to say something un-PC.

  “Imogen and Corey Strutsky had two public altercations in the last few weeks. The first of those altercations is available to view on YouTube and ends with Imogen threatening Mr. Strutsky’s life. The second of those altercations resulted in Imogen and Corey Strutsky being taken into police custody.”

  “Well. Yeah. But the questioning is just pro forma, just routine, right?”

  “Have you been on a desert island the last few years, Mr. Whitman? Imogen is a person of color in contact with the American criminal justice system.”

  She hoists her heavy briefcase over a shoulder.

  “Call me if the police want to question you again. Seriously. I don’t want to have to answer to Imogen if Slippery Steve gives you too harsh an education in the vicissitudes of our legal system.”

  I watch her march away to protect my sister, leaning forward to balance the weight of her briefcase.

  I head out the double doors and my phone gives the manic vibrations that indicate a flurry of texts. Evidently my phone wasn’t updating inside the police headquarters.

  There are half a dozen texts from Imogen over the course of the last hour. Starting with her first contact with the police, the news of Corey’s death, and ending with a text to the effect that since she has not waived counsel, she will be interviewed at police headquarters with Connie Chu in attendance. I text her back to let her know I ran into Chu and will hang out at the coffee shop around the corner until they’re done with Detective Jennings.

  There’s also Darryl’s reply to my text asking how he’s doing: “Been better. Heading to Mike’s HQ to discuss Master Solution. Join us?”

  The Master Solution was Corey’s, not Mike Reed’s, so I don’t see what the point of discussing it with Reed is. But I need to tell Darryl about Corey’s death and text doesn’t seem to be the way to do that. If Darryl doesn’t start answering his phone soon, I guess I’ll be heading over to Reed’s headquarters.

  I settle in at one of Mocha Magic’s little tables with a large latte and consider how seriously to take Chu’s concern for Imogen.

  Imogen was already gone when I got to the apartment this morning, and I can’t testify to where she’s been since I last saw her Saturday evening. In particular, I don’t know what she did last night. Sleeping over at Charlene’s provided me with an alibi but stripped Imogen of hers.

  Imogen has a fiery temper, to be sure. But she believes guns kill people, and would repeal the Second Amendment, if it were up to her. Her fantasies about vengeance take the form of humiliating wrongdoers in public forums by clearly and rationally undercutting their patriarchal and oligarchical positions. Seriously.

  She did knee Corey in the nuts hard enough to give him a ‘severe contusion.’ On videotape. But it was self-defense—I mean, Corey drew first blood.

  Corey could be a letch-y pig. Charlene told me he cornered her near the Branding Iron’s bathrooms one evening at shift change. When her straight arm tactic wasn’t successful in dissuading him, the bartender going off shift, another woman, had to brandish the Louisville Slugger they keep behind the bar. After that, Corey was no longer welcome at the Branding Iron.

  Imogen doesn’t have a key and had no
reason to be at the RAPAC office last night. Unless she was looking for me. Something might have come up; she may have had other ideas about how to get the Master Solution covered. The Bee still hadn’t published when she texted about grabbing a drink. Our phone service hasn’t been great in Modesto. If her texts didn’t go through, would she have stopped by?

  Just for argument’s sake, what if she had gone there and run into Corey? What if he’d hit on Imogen? And wouldn’t take no for an answer. No way Imogen wouldn’t fight back. She would have stomped his nuts with her suede booties. She wouldn’t have shot him. She doesn’t have a gun. But Corey did. Would Imogen shoot Corey if the alternative were rape? Hell, yes.

  Shit.

  Imogen is also really, really good at getting crosswise with authority figures. She’s 100 percent committed to ‘speaking truth to power,’ preferably while dropping a lot of f-bombs. I don’t see that going over too well with Detective Jennings.

  I realize I am more comfortable knowing that Imogen is in Constance Chu’s hands, as opposed to Slippery Steve’s.

  Evidently, Detective Jennings has a lot more questions for Imogen than he had for me. I wait at Mocha Magic for over an hour and pound lattes. And I’m still wiped out. What with one thing or another, I didn’t get much sleep at Charlene’s last night, but I think it’s not that. It’s the emotional roller coaster of Corey’s death. I still can’t quite believe this is happening.

  Imogen finally texts that they’re done, and I hightail it back to the police department to find Imogen and Chu debriefing in front of the department.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Not great,” says Chu.

  “Not great?”

  “Jennings is clearly looking at Imogen as a possible suspect.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Why is it ridiculous? There are the videotapes, of course. And evidently, Strutsky was trolling Imogen’s Save the White Man website. Over the past couple weeks, he’s left multiple posts using gendered and racial expletives threatening violence and sexual assault. It’s not clear if, or how, he would know the site was Imogen’s. Imogen has no alibi for last night, the time of death. Finally, there’s physical evidence placing her at the crime scene.”

  “Wait, what?” I turn to Imogen. “But you were never in the RAPAC offices.”

  “That’s what I told Jennings,” she confirms.

  “Nevertheless, Imogen’s fingerprints were found at the scene,” says Chu. She consults her yellow pad. “Specifically on a computer in the reception area.”

  This doesn’t make any sense.

  “There is no computer in the reception area,” I say. “Did he mean in the bullpen? Either way, that’s got to be a mistake.”

  “Arguing police error or malfeasance is defense of last resort, Mr. Whitman. We need to keep this in perspective. Fingerprints don’t come with timestamps, so the prints don’t prove presence at the time of the crime, but at a minimum, they can be used to attack Imogen’s credibility.” Chu turns to Imogen. “We’ve done what we can do here. Do you want me to give you a lift home?”

  “Thanks, Connie,” says Imogen, giving Chu a hug. “I can get a ride with Iz—I don’t need to take you out of your way.”

  Chu heads out, and Imogen fishes in her pocket and comes up with her cell.

  “Text from Kathy Gniewek, looking for you, Iz. Tricia Reed, Mike’s wife, called. Darryl’s making a scene at Mike Reed’s headquarters.”

  “Christ. I’ve called him a million times, but he’s not picking up.”

  She thumbs her phone, then slips it back in her pocket.

  “I said we’d meet her there. After that I need a drink.”

  “You and me both.”

  56

  Communication Problems

  Monday afternoon, November 5th, one day until the midterms

  Reed headquarters is the last place I would choose to tell Darryl about Corey’s death or try to explain the Master Solution debacle. I have a desire to come clean about being undercover, but I know that’s self-serving and that I should wait until after the election, after his dad’s funeral.

  I try one last time to reach him by phone, but again it rolls directly to voicemail. I leave a message suggesting we meet at the Branding Iron, but there is no traffic and we are already pulling into the multi-story lot behind Reed’s headquarters. My over-caffeinated, under-rested mind is reeling with the various threads in play. Slamming the car into park, it suddenly hits me what must have happened.

  “There’s no computer in the reception area!”

  I feel a flood of relief and realize Chu really managed to freak me out.

  Imogen gives me a look and unfastens her seat belt. “You already said that.”

  “But I had my laptop with me when I headed into the office this morning, like I always do. I left it in the reception area. Your fingerprints must have got on it when it was at the apartment, like moving it off the couch, and the prints travelled on the laptop to the office.”

  She pauses with her hand on the door latch. “Oh. Yeah. I did the Dangerous World taglines on your computer. My prints must be all over it.”

  She gives a little exhalation and then a small smile. I guess she was worried too.

  “I’ll go clear things up with Jennings after we’re done here,” I say, opening the door.

  “And then we’re getting a drink,” she says. “We can hit the Branding Iron. You can introduce me to Charlene properly, as your sister this time.”

  With Imogen on my heels, I pass through the back door of the campaign office, which opens onto a little hallway by the bathrooms.

  “Why don’t you hang back, Mo, until we see what’s going on? No need to get in a dust up with any of the Tea Party type volunteers,” I say over my shoulder.

  The building is weirdly quiet. It’s the eve of the election. Where are the people and their walking, talking, coughing, shifting-in-furniture noises?

  The hallway opens into a large central space, filled with various work areas, but empty of people except for Reed and Kathy seated next to each other and across from Darryl in a circle of a dozen folding chairs planted in the middle of the room. Reed and Kathy face me and the hallway to the back entrance. Darryl’s chair faces the main entrance; he’s leaning back in his seat, his left ankle resting on his right knee. Reed is leaning forward with his hands on his knees, face white and pinched. Darryl twists a bit at the waist to clock my entrance.

  “Iz. Hey. Kathy said she called. Come on in. Take a seat,” he says, while Reed makes a small negative shake of his head, his eyes ricocheting back and forth between me and Darryl.

  If Kathy and Reed are at 12:00 and Darryl at 6:00, I slip into the folding chair in the 9:00 position. As I take my seat, I see that Darryl has his Heckler & Koch semiautomatic resting casually in the notch provided by his left ankle resting on his right knee. What’s he doing with that—oh, shit.

  Not fully seated, I start to rise again, but Darryl stops me. “Iz, please. Sit down, buddy. I could use a wing man.”

  I ease back into the seat. I can’t tell if the safety is off, but the semiauto is pointed at Reed, which goes some ways towards explaining his pinched, white face. Darryl is also sporting a shoulder holster. Looks like he has his 9mm Ruger tucked beneath his armpit. At least that one’s holstered.

  Is this really happening?

  “What are you doin’, Darryl?” Kathy asks, gesturing at the semiauto. She is unfazed—confrontational, even. Is this how the Gnieweks work out their marital differences?

  “Mike and I are just discussing the issues. I need to decide how to cast my vote.”

  Reed takes this as his invitation to speak. “I think the issue here is that Darryl is having second thoughts about his support for President Trump, and by extension, me.”

  Reed’s voice has a tendency to get preachy, self-righteous. So it’s a relief that for now, at least, his tone is level, conversational.

  “Is that it, Darryl?” he continues.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, and it’s difficult to recognize President Trump as just such a mystery. President Trump’s history with women is not what we teach in the Church. His history is a warning and a lesson to women entering the workforce. But that’s not the heart of the matter. The heart of the matter is the Evangelical agenda. President Trump has already advanced our agenda. He freed faith-based organizations from having to provide birth control, which is really abortion in disguise. He will defund Planned Parenthood and remake the judiciary. Just one more Supreme Court justice, and the murder of the unborn will be a thing of the past.

  “I understand your reservations, Darryl. Truly, I do. President Trump is a bit rough around the edges. But through Trump, we will wield all three levers of government and enact a truly Christian agenda.”

  “What about Real Americans?” asks Darryl.

  With his right hand resting casually on the semiauto, Darryl leans towards the desk on his left, nudging some cell phones off a pile of campaign literature.

  Three phones: Darryl hasn’t asked me for my phone, but it looks as if he relieved Reed and Kathy of theirs. Which might explain why Kathy didn’t tell Imogen that ‘things getting ugly’ had upgraded to ‘armed and dangerous.’ In the corner of the room is a pile of telephones, maybe five or six of them jumbled together with their cords, evidently ripped from their wall jacks.

  “Ah!” Darryl appears to have found the piece of literature he was looking for, a bumper sticker.

  He reads from it, “‘Mike Reed, Fighting for Real Americans!’ See that,” he says, turning the flyer to face first Kathy and Reed, then to face me. “‘Real Americans,’” he repeats.

  Darryl glances at me, actually at my leg, which is jackhammering soundlessly on the industrial carpet of the campaign office. When my leg stills, he continues.

  “Last year, when you were giving me the full court press to get on board the Trump train, you kept talking about how he was gonna make things great again for Real Americans—remember that, Mike? Over the last week, since Dad died, I’ve been thinking maybe we have a bit of a communication problem. Was Dad not a Real American?”