A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

“But that’s why we keep defeating him. You’ve got to figure he’ll wise up. He’s not stupid.”

  “Think so, huh?”

  “Now you’re underestimating him. That’s not like you. And it’s dangerous.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like Jennifer.”

  Lance set down his empty glass and raised his arm to the waitress for two more Scotches. “How is Jennifer, anyway?”

  “Jen’s okay, but worried. Thinks I made a mistake confronting Bremer. What do you think?”

  “I think it was probably worth it just to get a glimpse of the man’s inner self. Not a pretty picture. But we do have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  “And you think you’re safe from that anger?”

  “I’m not being followed. You, on the other hand, wounded his ego, and that’s something a man like Bremer can’t forgive. Your ‘morality speech,’ Bert and I are calling it.”

  “Personal vendetta, huh? I think I’ll start collecting evidence of harassment. Because one thing is certain, I’m not going to take this lying down.” He grinned playfully. “Watch this.” He opened his briefcase, took out a small camera, and standing in plain view, snapped a picture of the two surprised agents.

  Lance opened his mouth in astonishment, then struggled to stifle a hoot of laughter. “Nice balls, Joe,” he cried quietly. “Nice balls!”

  “I’m going to the john. When they follow me, take a picture.”

  Joe began to walk somewhat unsteadily up the stairs to the men’s room. Three Scotches unsteadily. He had just begun to piss into the urinal when Phillips and his partner walked in and stood on either side of him.

  “Write it down. 1:45. O’Brian takes a piss,” Phillips said, his eyes full on Joe’s penis.

  Wilson took out a pad and pencil from his pocket. “1:45. O’Brian pisses.”

  “You boys bored today? Looking for something exciting?” Joe asked, zipping up. “Hang around all you want, Phillips. You look like the kind of guy who’d find excitement in another man’s dick.”

  Phillip’s face paled, then turned a darker shade, his hand automatically loosening his tie.

  Joe turned around and began washing his hands at the sink.

  Phillips faced him, spreading his feet, hands on his hips. “You’re in big trouble, O’Brian. And asking for more.”

  “Yeah, what kind of trouble?”

  “We know what you’re up to.”

  Joe laughed, and shrugged. “Look, boys. You’re wasting your time. You can go back and report to Bremer. Tell him he’s failed. Again. Tell him I smell him clear through the kidnapping clients, the dealers, and the smugglers. Tell him I’m not biting.”

  Phillips betrayed himself with a quick, nervous glance at Wilson.

  So I was right. They were Bremer’s men.

  “You can tell him, too, that I’m collecting evidence of harassment. You follow me again, and I’ll file a complaint against the department, naming Bremer in particular. Understand?”

  Phillips looked away.

  “Good,” Joe said, throwing the paper towel in the wastebasket. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me.”

  Joe sat back down at the table and watched as the agents stormed through the bar and out the front door.

  “Jesus. What happened?” Lance asked, grinning as he leaned across the table.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” Joe smirked, settling back into the chair and picking up the glass waiting for him on the table.

  The town of Eureka sits on the edge of the ocean in northern California. Although not a small town, it had to be obvious to any observer—including Joe—that landing the job of supervisor of Northern California for the bureau had been a step up for Bremer. Joe drove the rented car slowly, following the map he’d picked up at the rental office, and looking for the town hall. Certainly, Bremer must have registered to vote, and if so, the voter registration records would have his former address.

  Joe found the record easily. Bremer, Dolph A. The date had been July 24, 1959. His address: 431 E. Pine Street, Eureka. Registered: Republican. He made a note of the address on a small pad, thanked the clerk, and left the building.

  When he arrived at the house where Bremer had once lived, he rang the doorbell. No answer. Joe walked next door. Again, no answer.

  Across the street, a gray-haired woman was working in her garden, staring at him suspiciously, and he knew that he might be dealing with the police sooner than he intended if he didn’t do something quickly about her anxious glances.

  “Good day, ma’am,” he called, smiling politely.

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Joe O’Brian. I’m a private investigator.”

  In his years of experience, Joe had found that investigators only turned people off if they had something to hide. But most often, people liked to talk; they appreciated being thought valuable because of their information.

  “Private investigator?” she asked, already interested.

  “Yes, ma’am. My card. I’m from the San Francisco area.”

  “I’ll bet this is more about the Bremers,” the woman surmised, reading his name.

  “That’s right,” Joe answered, hiding his surprise. “You must have a psychic sixth sense.”

  “It doesn’t really take much to know. What are you looking for?”

  “Would you mind simply starting from the beginning?”

  “Well, it was me who had to call the cops, you know,” she began, leaning on her rake. “You want some coffee or somethin’? I’m just about finished out here.”

  “Coffee would be very nice. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Joe, right?” she asked, putting two cups down on the kitchen table. “My name’s Marge. Marge Halloway.” She poured coffee, thinking. “Well, it’s just like I told the other officers. I heard the screams and yellin’ and knew he was at it again.”

  “At what again?”

  She leaned closer, lowered her voice. “Beating Edith. Oh, it wasn’t the first time. They lived there for six, almost seven years, maybe. When I first met her, about every three months, she’d have somethin’ happenin’. Sometimes, it was an ugly bruise on her arm. Once, she had to get her lip sewed up. Coupla other times, she had black eyes. After the first year, I knew those couldn’t all be accidents. I couldn’t quite figure it.”

  “Figure what?”

  “Why a woman would stay with a man like Dolph Bremer. In all my time here, I never once heard him say please or thank you to anyone. Certainly not to Edith.”

  Joe pulled her back to the scene at the Bremer’s that had required a call to the police. “What happened when the yelling and screaming started?”

  “I couldn’t stand it no longer. I knew that sometimes, Edith had trouble walking ’cause of the pain.”

  “Why was it different this time?”

  “I usually never heard the fights. Dolph Bremer’s a pretty private guy.”

  “At the time, did you know he was a law enforcement officer?” Joe asked.

  “Oh, yes. That was always so important to him. Sure, he had to be private.” She nodded understandingly.

  “What happened when the police came?”

  “There were some shots fired. That’s what did it. That’s what set everyone off.”

  “You mean … Officer Bremer fired at the police?” Joe asked, totally surprised and unable to hide it.

  “Not exactly right at them. Just out the window. He wanted to be left alone. The whole neighborhood was ordered indoors.”

  Joe couldn’t believe what he was hearing. An officer firing his gun at his own comrades? Something didn’t click. Then why did Bremer get the promotion? In fact, why hadn’t he been suspended? Maybe done some jail time?

  “Do you know why the argument became public that particular afternoon?”

  Marge sat back in her chair, pushed at some crumbs on the kitchen table, and thought a bit. “Well, it could’ve had something to do with the Indian boy. It was the same day.”

/>   “What Indian boy?”

  “The Hoopa. From the reservation. It’s still big trouble around here. Some say that’s why Dolph had to get out of town.”

  Joe sipped from his cup, striving for an interested, but detached, air. “What happened?”

  “Seems Dolph was on duty earlier that day and he’d stopped a coupla kids on the road hitchhiking. Dolph says he only questioned them, then sent them on their way. But later that same day, one of the kids was found dead in the redwoods north of town. Shot in the back. Looked like he was runnin’ from somethin’. The Tribal Council accused Dolph of murderin’ the boy. There was an inquiry. Dolph was cleared. A few weeks later, Dolph left town.”

  “It should have been fairly easy to prove whether or not Mr. Bremer used his gun. What about the ballistics test?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about no ballistics test, but the boy was shot on the same day Dolph had the fight with Edith. It’s too bad about the kid dyin’, but I don’t have much use for them Indians. Alcoholics, every one of them. Dolph said the kid was drunk when they picked him up.”

  “They?”

  “Dolph and his partner. Roger Medley.”

  “You know Mr. Medley?”

  “When Dolph started shooting out his windows, they set up over here. Mr. Medley was part of the team. I could tell he was real angry about Dolph. I guess it was because Dolph was his partner, and he was losin’ control. Mr. Medley was arguin’ with the chief and shoutin’ about the Indian boy. Somethin’ about the way Dolph handled the questioning. I don’t really remember. There was so much goin’ on. I just kept hopin’ Dolph wouldn’t shoot anything.” A white cat jumped into her lap and began to purr loudly as she stroked its head.

  “What finally happened?

  “Word came in about that time. About findin’ the dead boy. Officer Medley just kind of stood there, starin’, real quiet like. Then he turned around and told the chief he’d go on over and talk to Dolph. And he did. Everyone just watchin’ at the windows. And Mr. Medley, he walks right in. Everything’s real still. Pretty soon the phone rings, and it’s Mr. Medley. He calls the chief over to Dolph’s house. The chief walks over, too, stays awhile, and pretty soon, he’s back, laughin’ and pattin’ men on the back. ‘Just a little domestic squabble,’ he says. ‘You know how it is. You can all get back to the office. I hear there’s a body at the morgue. Now there’s trouble. Probably one Indian shootin’ another in a drunk,’ he says. And they just all filed out and got back in their cars. I tell you, Mr. O’Brian, it was pretty excitin’ around here.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I can imagine. Officer Medley left, too?”

  “No. Him and the chief stayed over at Dolph’s for a while. I guess talkin’ things out. Next day, Edith had a black eye and bruises over her arms. Lots of them. Looked like she’d tried to cover her face. A few weeks later, Dolph got a promotion. The department had a dinner for him before he left. Edith went, too. She wore a nice green dress. Her eye was almost healed. If you hadn’t known about it, you wouldn’t have been able to tell.”

  “Is Officer Medley still working for the department?”

  “I don’t know. Never heard much more about things after that day. More coffee, Mr. O’Brian?”

  “Thanks, ma’am. Just a little. It’s good coffee,” he smiled at her. “What about the Indian Council? What kinds of accusations are they making?”

  “Them? Oh, I don’t know. They’re always complainin’ about somethin’. All that land the government gave them, and they still got complaints.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Who’s head of the Council?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask up at the reservation.”

  Joe swallowed the last of his coffee. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Halloway. Thank you for your time.”

  “Well, I like being a help. If you see poor Edith, will you say hello for me?”

  “I sure will. Thanks again.”

  Joe stood up, shook her hand with real respect, and left. Thanks to Marge Halloway, he was going to stop Bremer in his tracks.

  “Chief O’Dell can see you now, Mr. O’Brian,” the secretary told him.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Joe answered standing.

  “Mr. O’Brian,” the chief called out, good-naturedly “Come in. It’s nice to meet a fellow Irishman.”

  “Well, that I am.” Joe took his firm handshake.

  “What can I do for you today, sir?”

  “Chief O’Dell, I’d like to ask you a few questions about a former agent in your force. Dolph Bremer.”

  “Bremer, yes, good man.” The chief’s eyes narrowed slightly, his smile faded.

  “I know you’re a busy man, sir, so I’ll come right to the point. I’m representing a client working with a Bay Area attorney who believes that Agent Bremer lied to secure an affidavit for a search warrant. Would you say that Agent Bremer is that kind of man?”

  “Bremer? Never. I’ll tell you what kind of man Bremer is. A ‘by the book’ man. Yes, sir. Not only was he a good partner and leader in the department, but he pursued crime to the letter of the law. Yes, sir, a pleasure to have on the force.”

  “Would you say that he was a zealous man in his work?”

  “Zealous? Of course. Meticulous. As a young officer, he was spit and polish. His guns so clean you could see yourself in them. Probably came from his time in the service.”

  “You said guns, sir. Did Agent Bremer carry more than one weapon?”

  “Oh, no. Not at one time. But guns were a hobby with him. He had one of the nicest collections I’ve ever seen. Sweet little pistols and a few nice rifles, too. Ever do any hunting?”

  “Only people,” Joe smiled. “Would you say that Agent Bremer had a problem with alcohol, Chief O’Dell?”

  “Alcohol … well,” the chief laughed and cleared his throat, then winked at Joe. “What man hasn’t, really?”

  “But would you say, sir, that Agent Bremer was sometimes abusive when drinking?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at. If you could just come to the point,” the chief said looking around his desk. “I’m terribly busy.”

  “Well, sir, I guess the point is where’s the letter of the law when an officer beats his wife in a drunken rage and then shoots the windows out of his house when his comrades come to answer a disturbance call.”

  Chief O’Dell’s eyes grew wider, and he sat up straighter in his noisy chair. “Just a little domestic problem. Happens to a lot of good people. We try and keep these things quiet. You know how women get sometimes. A man wants a little drink, and, nag, nag, nag. Bremer got fed up and lost his temper. Nobody’s perfect. We had a little incident but settled it quickly and peaceably.”

  “How long did it take Edith’s black eye to settle, Chief O’Dell?”

  “I told you. I try not to interfere between a man and his wife. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

  “Chief O’Dell, don’t you feel some sense of responsibility when a person who drinks heavily and has a history of violence also has a license to carry a gun and represents the law enforcement branch of local government?”

  “I’m telling you, O’Brian,” the chief stood up behind his desk, his voice slow and quiet, “that Dolph Bremer was a good officer. A God-fearing, respectable man, who worked hard for this department. I have a lot of respect for Dolph. I encouraged his promotion. Dolph knows who the real criminals are and how to track them. He puts his best shot into his cases, which is pretty damn good.”

  Joe stood.

  “Thank you, sir. You’ve been most helpful. By the way,” he couldn’t resist, “speaking of putting ‘his best shot into his cases’ … do you know who’s head of the Indian Council at the Hoopa Reservation?”

  The chief looked stunned. “Uh … Samuel,” he stammered. “Samuel Dark Elk.”

  “Thank you again. Good day.”

  At the secretary’s desk on the way out, he stopped to smile down at the older woman. “Could you tell me where to find Officer
Medley?”

  “Roger Medley? He’s no longer with the department. He moved. Almost two years ago.”

  “Would you have a forwarding address for him?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to divulge that information, sir.”

  “That’s alright,” Joe answered. “I didn’t think you would be.”

  Reaching for the door of the office, he opened it, stepped through, and closed it. But not before Joe heard Chief O’Dell over the desk intercom ask his secretary to ring Dolph Bremer’s office in San Francisco.

  Joe made another stop at the Bureau of Public Records and again began thumbing through old voter registration papers, this time to find Roger Medley’s name. The round clock on the wall said it was almost four o’clock. The Bureau would close in a few minutes. Once word got around town that he was snooping, things could get more difficult. Papers might suddenly get misplaced. The clerk’s raised eyebrows already showed her surprise at his quick return. Joe smiled politely and ignored her authoritative signals.

  There it was. Medley, Roger C. 8371 Barrows St., Eureka. Registered: Republican.

  “I’ll need that book now, sir. We’re closing up.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you,” Joe answered, pushing it back over the counter.

  At this time of day, his chances of finding one of Medley’s old neighbors at home would be good. Then he’d have just enough time to drive out to the reservation before dark. Joe grinned as he left the building, wondering what Bremer must be thinking right now, knowing that Joe was in Eureka looking up his asshole.

  The house next door to Roger Medley’s former residence had a gang of kids of assorted ages involved in various activities. Bikes. Skates. A Frisbee. Screaming. Laughter. Dogs.

  “Hello,” he said to the harried-looking woman at the door. “I’m Joe O’Brian. I’m a friend of Roger Medley, your old neighbor.” He grinned wide and disarmingly. “I’m back in town visiting and find he’s moved!”

  “To Eugene,” she nodded hurriedly, bouncing a baby.

  “Oregon? Would you have a mailing address?”

  Three kids pushed past the woman into the house, arguing over a skate key. “No, no you don’t! No skates in the house! You all know better. Now out!” She turned back to Joe. “I’m in the middle of making dinner, Mr….”