The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  Another deputy came into the day room. “Hey, is anyone here driving a green Chrysler Aspen with completely illegal full-tinted windows, parked in my parking space in the garage?” he yelled across the room.

  “That’s our vehicle,” Rabang called back. “What about it?”

  “Well, I just gave you a $250 ticket!” snapped back the deputy. “Tinting is against the law, and taking my parking space damned well ought to be!”

  “We are FBI agents!” hissed Rabang in a rage.

  “So you don’t have to obey the law like everyone else?” demanded the deputy. “Oh, sorry, silly me! What a question!” At one end of the day room was a raised platform enclosed with three cubicle walls, which contained the combined law enforcement and emergency services 911 and dispatch radios, maps, and unit location board. No one noticed a slim blond girl in long sleeves and trousers, sitting at a computer with a radio headset on. The girl quietly leaned over, took a look, and then surreptitiously pulled out a cell phone and started texting a message.

  Ted Lear came out of his office and extended his hand. He was a surprisingly young man of medium height and auburn hair, with a slim and strong physique. “Hi,” he said, forcing a polite smile and extending his hand. “Ted Lear, Clatsop County sheriff.”

  “Miller and Pangborn, FBI,” replied Rabang in a clipped staccato voice like a drill sergeant, flashing her ID again. She ignored the sheriff’s outstretched hand and Pangborn reached over and shook it before the snub became obvious. “Brian Pangborn,” he said with genuine warmth. “Glad to meet you, Sheriff.”

  “There seem to be an awful lot of people hanging around in here fourteen hours after a major homicide,” said Rabang, looking around the day room disapprovingly. “I understand that your department doesn’t give priority to hatecrimes, sheriff. This is the second double murder you’ve had in three months, both incidents clearly motivated by hatred against sexual orientation in the first case and racial hatred in the second. Why aren’t all your people out there pounding the pavement, or better yet pounding your local racist inbreds and getting some answers as to who killed Jake and Irene Goldman?”

  “We’re kind of old-fashioned here, Special Agent, ah, Miller,” said Ted mildly. “We like to ask the questions first, before we start beating on people. By the way, you said the homicide here last night was racially motivated?”

  “Of course it was!” screeched Rabang. “Our information is that the fascist terrorists called in to your local newspaper and claimed credit!”

  “Someone called the editor of the Astorian, yes,” said Lear in the same mild tone. “No, I was curious because you used the term racially motivated. I didn’t think Jews were a race.”

  Miller suddenly pulled up, realizing she had inadvertently made a potentially dangerous error in politically correct nomenclature that did not need to get back to her superiors. “Well, you know what I meant,” she explained lamely. “Persons of the Jewish faith are one of the officially recognized politically protected special victim categories. All offenses against Jews are hatecrimes under the law.”

  “So they are,” agreed Lear. “Would you step into my office, please?”

  Once inside Lear’s office with the door closed, Rabang launched herself at him again like a striking snake. “Alright, cut the bullshit, Sheriff! You know damned well that you’ve had four hatecrime homicides on your turf plus the disappearance of a large number of privately held firearms, and the NVA claimed credit for the killings last night! Time for you to wake up and smell the coffee. You’ve got a racist death squad operating right here in your little tourist paradise, and we are here to make sure it gets crushed out of existence, and fast! The Portland office doesn’t want any of this disgraceful foot-dragging that occurred in the murders of Elizabeth King and Martha Proudfoot. If you don’t get some results within forty-eight hours, the U.S. Attorney in Portland is assuming jurisdiction over these cases under the Patriot Act as domestic terrorism, the Bureau will be taking over completely, and I will tell you right up front that these murders and that gun raid aren’t the only things that we will be investigating!”

  Lear ignored the threat. He sat down behind his desk and replied calmly and rationally, like someone trying to explain something to a stubborn child. “As I have repeatedly briefed the U.S. Attorney, the Oregon Attorney General, and various people from your own office, there was no foot-dragging in the Liddy King and Martha Proudfoot murders,” he told them patiently. “The case is still active and I have detectives assigned to the ongoing investigation. The reason we haven’t arrested and charged anyone is simple. We have no idea who did it. It wasn’t the husband, because he was in jail here on a potential domestic violence preventive detention warrant and also pending an indictment for hatespeech. Whoever it was left us not a jot, not a smidgeon of forensic evidence. It’s true someone wrote the letters NVA on the wall, but that could have been a red herring to throw us off.”

  “You know perfectly well that ever since 9/11, evidence isn’t necessary!” argued Miller. “The Patriot Act gives local as well as federal law enforcement broad proactive powers to protect lives and property and the security of the United States against both foreign and domestic terrorism! If you’ve got two brain cells to rub together as a law enforcement officer, you know or else you damned well should know every individual in your county who so much as harbors a racist thought!”

  “I have to admit, I’ve never arrested anyone for their thoughts before,” confessed Lear.

  “Well, with two murdered Jews on your doorstep, don’t you think it’s fucking well time you started?” shouted Rabang in anger. “You’ve got to know who these people are! It’s your business to know!”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t know,” said Lear wearily. “Where do I start? Anyone who has ever complained about losing his job to an illegal alien or an affirmative action employee? Anyone who has ever had his son rejected by every college he applied to and then dragged away into the Army and killed in Bumfuckistan? Anyone who has ever been imprisoned for contempt of court because he is unable to pay his credit card company after they sued him? Anyone who ever had an elderly relative in a nursing home injected with poison and legally murdered under the Senior Citizens’ Quality of Life Act? Anyone who has ever had a child raped or murdered or mutilated or their brains fried like an egg on drugs in our Brave New World here? Anyone who has ever walked through a public park with their children and seen two Third Worlders copulating like dogs under a tree? Where do I start? No, I mean it, really. Since we’re just pulling names out of a hat, who would you like me to arrest first for unapproved thoughts?”

  Pangborn and Lear both understood that this was terribly dangerous talk and if he kept it up, there was every chance he would leave his own office in handcuffs on a federal charge of hatespeech, but Lear couldn’t seem to help himself. Pangborn caught Lear’s eye and shook his head. Before Rabang Miller could explode he intervened. “Actually, Sheriff, we were rather curious about one individual whom we think is the kind who might be inclined to get involved in racist activity or domestic terrorism,” said Pangborn, pulling out his notebook. “A man named Jesse Lockhart. Aged 29, military veteran, marginally employed white male, military veteran with a history of psychological problems and several arrests for hatecrime that he seems to keep slithering out of somehow. A man who can’t appear to control his tongue or his fists around minorities. He fits the profile. Have you looked at Lockhart for these killings?”

  “Yes, we have,” said Lear, glad for the chance to get back to business and away from dangerous pathways of free expression. “You forgot to mention that Cat-Eyes Lockhart won both the Silver Star and the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was one of the best snipers in Iraq.”

  “Well?” demanded Rabang. “Have you ordered him to be picked up?”

  “Yes, I intend to speak to him as soon as I can find him,” said Lear. “Two deputies went by his trailer early this morning. He wasn’t in, and his truck was gone.”

&
nbsp; “Well, there you are!” exclaimed Rabang triumphantly.

  “Cat-Eyes?” asked Pangborn curiously.

  “In Iraq they said he could see in the dark like a cat, without his night vision gear or his infrared scope,” said Lear. “His not being home is not evidence that he did anything, and frankly it’s not unusual for Jess. He may well be just out on a drunk. I don’t figure him for either of the homicides, though. The MO is wrong. First off, Lockhart’s problems don’t seem to be with lesbians or Jews. He always has his run-ins with Mexicans or, uh, people of Polynesian heritage,” he said, glancing at Rabang. “Secondly, Cat is a rifleman, a lifelong hunter, a long-range marksman, the best I have ever seen. These murders were committed at close range, King and Proudfoot with a shotgun, and the Goldman couple with handguns, by two masked assailants who were briefly seen by some of the restaurant customers. Finally, Lockhart has a clear alibi for King and Proudfoot. He was an in-patient at a VA alcohol rehab center in Longview in July, and the night manager swears he was there all night. When we find him I’ll ask him where he was last night, most likely on the floor of some tavern, but if he can’t account for his whereabouts, yeah, we’ll take a closer look. It’s called proper police procedure, Agent Miller. You don’t make the evidence fit your suspect, you make the suspect fit your evidence. Even post-9/11. At least, that’s the way we do it here.”

  Pangborn felt it was time to head off another confrontation between Rabang and the sheriff; she looked about ready to explode in politically correct indignation. “Now, about this phone call to your local newspaper claiming credit for the killing of the Goldman couple last night, sheriff?” he asked, notebook poised.

  “It wasn’t to the newspaper itself, it was to Steve Phelps, the editor of the Daily Astorian, at his home, about 9 o’clock last night. A man called and identified himself as one Captain O’Neill of the Northwest Volunteer Army. I understand that’s a standard name these people use for this kind of thing?”

  “Yeah, they stole that one from the Provisional IRA, and it’s been in the papers and on TV,” said Rabang. “Anybody could have used the name.”

  “True,” agreed Lear graciously. “He asked Steve to write the message down exactly. Here it is.” Lear picked up a torn sheet from a notepad from his desk and read, “At 8 p.m. on February 14th, an active service unit from D Company, First Portland Brigade, Northwest Volunteer Army, carried out an enforcement action under General Order Number Four issued by the Army Council on November 24th of last year, ordering all non-whites including Jews to leave the territory of the Northwest American Republic forthwith. The NVA accordingly has shot dead Jacob and Irene Goldman for non-compliance with that General Order. All Jews and non-whites who are apprehended by the NVA will be similarly dealt with.” He put the paper down. “That’s it. I gather that’s pretty much their style?” he asked.

  “That’s their racist fascist anti-Semitic jargon, yes,” snarled Rabang. “And do you still deny you have one of these racist murder gangs operating in your county, sheriff?”

  “I never denied that we did,” protested Lear. “Maybe we do, God help us. But you will notice they said Portland Brigade. I think there’s a very good chance the shooters came down here from outside, from your bailiwick up in the city.”

  Rabang was getting more and more steamed. “You need to get out of your denial phase really fast, sheriff, because I am starting to wonder about you.”

  “We passed the crime scene on the way in here, and we saw the units there. Did the CSI team from the Oregon State Police get here yet?” interrupted Pangborn. He was used to trying to keep a leash on Rabang, but it was getting harder and more distasteful all the time.

  “Yes, they’re out there now and I just came back from there when you arrived,” said Lear. “I was out there all night, if that improves your opinion of my professional zeal any, Agent Miller, but there was damn-all to find. The rain washed away any traces of anything and they must have used revolvers, because there were no cartridge casings found.”

  “Or else if they were real pros, they policed up their brass,” said Pangborn.

  “Maybe,” conceded Lear. “The medical examiner’s preliminary opinion was medium-heavy handgun rounds, either .357 or capped .38s, Devastators or something like that. Both of them shot once in the chest and twice in the head. Judging from the blood splatter patterns, they got hit in the head when they were down, to finish them off. That sounds pretty professional and pretty damned cold to me. Like the kind of thing we’re seeing in Portland or Seattle or Spokane.”

  “We’ll take a look ourselves,” snarled Rabang, getting up.

  “Knock yourselves out,” said Lear cheerfully, glad to be getting rid of them. “Agent Miller, if you guys can find anything out there I missed, I’ll buy you both dinner when Rigoletto’s re-opens.”

  Rabang ignored his tentative peace offering. “Bullshit,” she said. “I told you. You get the cuffs on these racist motherfuckers within forty-eight hours or the U.S. Attorney is assuming jurisdiction and you can look forward to a career as a security guard at Mighty Mart.” She stalked out, followed by Pangborn, who turned at the office door and looked at Lear helplessly with a shrug. Lear gave him a friendly wave, the unspoken acknowledgement of helpless chagrin between white males in all strata of society that had been growing more and common over the years. When the door was closed, Lear picked up the intercom.

  “Dispatch,” said a female voice.

  “Hi, Chrissie,” said Lear in a weary voice. “Chrissie, could you radio Leo Galli out at Rigoletto’s, and tell him to tell the officers on the scene and those state forensics people that they are about to have the edifying experience of a visit from two charming folks from the FBI? They’re on they’re way now.”

  “Sure, Sheriff!” chirped Christina Ekstrom brightly. “I’ll let the guys know right away!”

  * * *

  After they received Christina’s first signal, Hatfield and Cat-Eyes Lockhart had driven directly to the Columbia Prospect condominiums while the others headed out to move into their respective positions. It was a weekday morning and the condo parking lot was fairly empty. Hatfield carefully back-in parked the Yukon at the far east side of the building. “When we make our run for it we’ll go down the outside stairwell,” he told Lockhart. “Those trees and the edge of the building should hopefully prevent us from being seen.” They got out of the SUV. Both men were wearing jeans, light canvas windbreakers of indeterminate color but with deep pockets, and rolled ski masks on their head like pea caps, with light sports shoes for running on their feet. They were within less than 400 yards of the pier platform and all the police activity, but the apartment building blocked the view. Hatfield scanned the area. No one seemed to be around.

  “Gloves now, before we even go in, to make sure we don’t leave any prints anywhere,” ordered Hatfield, and they pulled on their latex surgical cloves. “Make sure we remember to melt these down. It’s possible to lift a print from the inside of a fingertip.” They opened the back of the SUV and took out two cardboard boxes from the Longview Mighty Mart, a large squarish one labeled “card table” that contained Cat-Eyes’ rifle and scope and magazines, and the other a large but suspiciously light one which proclaimed itself to contain a 13-inch portable television set but that actually had Zack’s M-3 submachine gun, magazines, and hostage-taking gear stashed inside. “No masks inside the building in case we run into anyone in the lobby or in the hallway. If that happens, heft your box to block your face from view. Let’s go. We need to get up there and scope that roof out. We should have done that before, but there were always too many people about, and I didn’t want anyone to notice me prowling around on the roof. I don’t like taking chances like that. I think I need to work on my planning a bit better next time.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant, you know what they say,” responded Lockhart cheerfully. “No plan survives the first day of combat.”

  “I don’t want the plan to survive, I want us to survive,” said Ha
tfield.

  They entered the lobby, boxes carefully held at shoulder height to block their faces from the security camera in the corner. Hatfield glanced over and saw that the small office was dark. There was no one there and no one in the lobby. They pressed for the elevator and got in, and rode up to the third floor, holding the boxes up again as the doors opened. They stepped out. No one was in the carpeted hallway, although they could hear the sound of a television from within one of the apartments somewhere on the corridor. “Left,” said Hatfield. They went to the far end of the hall and opened the door into the stairwell. One flight of stairs took them up to the roof. Cat put down his box and tried the door. It opened. “Didn’t even have to pick the lock!” he said triumphantly. Zack propped open the door with his own box as they stepped outside. It was a cold gray morning, and the wind whipping off the river rattled the branches of the trees along the river walk.

  “Down,” ordered Zack. “They might be able to see us out here, especially if they’ve got binoculars.” The two of them low-crawled across the roof to a low brick parapet topped with an ornate iron railing, approximately twenty inches high, and Cat-Eyes looked around him.

  “Uh, I don’t know about this, sir,” he said dubiously, shaking his head. Zack saw what he meant. From where they lay, they could see the 39th Street pier and the platform at the end of it whereon stood the yuppie restaurant and a series of smaller shops. There were at least eight police cars there or parked along the pier, blue and red lights flashing, and a large official-looking van that had to be a crime scene unit. Cops were standing in clumps, smoking and drinking coffee, or sitting in their cars, obviously waiting for something. But the view was blocked by several tall elm and maple trees along the river walk. It was winter, and the branches were bare, but they were shivering and waving in the wind. “I can try to fire through those branches, but they’d play hell with my visibility through the scope, and if the bullet hits one it will deflect. But there doesn’t seem to be any place better up here.” Lockhart pointed. To the Volunteers’ left the roof sloped at a high angle and ran right down to the brick buttress, all along the building. It would be impossible for Lockhart to crouch behind the cover of the small brick retaining ledge anywhere but here in the east corner; in order to clear the trees and get a clear shot he would have to balance at angle on the sloping roof, and he and his rifle would be clearly visible to anyone on the pier who happened to glance up. “The only thing I can think of would be to climb up and over the roof and lie full length on the other side of it, and use the roof itself for cover,” Lockhart went on. “But I’d still have to stick my head up pretty far to see what was going on and take a shot.”