by Dave Balcom
I took inventory of my center, and found that I was pretty rested but in real need of a healthy sweat. I had the sweat running wide open in fifteen minutes, and Judy had settled down to the pace that always left me envious. She could keep that pace up endlessly and gravity seemed to have no impact on her, unlike me.
Forty minutes into my “walk,” I had to take a break. I felt gassed, worse than even when I was in early recuperation that spring. I sat with my back to a huge white fir, letting my pulse rate recover. I wondered, “Was it the anger and hate in me that was draining my energy?” Judy came and sat next to me, putting her muzzle on my shoulder as if commiserating with me for my lack of endurance.
“Just remember, young lady, Father Time remains undefeated for puppies as well as men. Your day will come.”
She cocked her head a bit, as she always did when I talked to her this way, as if she was trying to understand.
I scratched behind her ears and then lunged to my feet. “I’ve got to get involved, Judy. I can’t just sit here in the Blue Mountains wondering. I just can’t.”
Jan was up and about when I returned, and it was clear she was waiting for me in full CEO mode.
“We need to talk, Mr. Stanton.”
“So talk,” I said as I headed for the coffee pot. “You want another cup?”
“No, I’ve had enough, but we really need to talk, darling. We need to have a plan on how we’re going to get back to normal. You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal; you’re trying to cope with the loss of your friend, survivor’s guilt and just plain old-fashioned grief.
“On top of that you’re still trying to adjust to living as a married man again. Honey, you emotional plate is overflowing.”
I smiled at her. “And, something you probably don’t know is that I’m also dealing with an emotion I’ve never held onto before.”
“Really? Tell me.”
“My anger has congealed into a burning hatred for some guy called Lindsay. I have lived happily all my life without this emotion. It’s what led me to leave the service at the first opportunity.
“But I have it now, and it seems that the only thing that will rid me of this sensation is revenge.”
She sat down in front of me, between my knees, and clasped my free hand in both of hers.
I continued. “I have to do something, kid. I can’t just go on as if nothing happened. I have to do something.”
“What do you think you can do?”
“That’s just it. I have no idea. I just know it has to be something. I am haunted by the ‘she’ in the assassin’s comment, ‘... she told us you’d say that...’ And by Lindsay’s reference to ‘you don’t get to know the buyer until she shows herself.’ Who is this mystery woman who hates me so much she’ll pay a million dollars to kill me herself?
“And, who is Lindsay?”
Jan thought for a full minute before answering.
“Just as long as you let the authorities act on the information. I don’t want you in hand-to-hand combat beyond asking those famous Jim Stanton questions. If we can get involved at that level, I think it would be good for both of us.”
“We?”
“Of course; we’re in a partnership here. Where are we going to start?”
“I’m calling Detective Veragas in Bellingham. I want to know what Ryder has told them.”
Veragas wasn’t all that glad to hear from me, but he did tell me the pilot Steve Ryder was being held on charges of criminal conspiracy to commit kidnapping, and that he’d met with a lawyer from Seattle and had declined to say anything to anyone since his arrest.
“He’s on ice, but he’s not helping, either.”
“Les, what are the chances you can get me permission to interview Ryder?”
“Slim left town.”
“Ask, will you? I’ve got references that my interviews in the past have uncovered valuable information for the police.”
“I’ll ask, but don’t get your hopes up.”
Veragas had a note of wonder in his voice when he called back that evening. “When you coming up?”
“I can be there tomorrow afternoon. What happened to Slim?”
“Stevens ran the idea past the local prosecutor who suggested we ask the FBI, and Jensen said based on a conversation he’d had with a police officer in Michigan, you might be a good idea. So, when you get here, we’ll set it up.”
“Good enough. See you tomorrow.”
I made a reservation at the same motel, and called the Nelsons to see if they were available to take care of Judy.
28
Ryder looked a lot older as he was ushered into the interview room at the Whatcom County Jail. His face was drawn and gray. His eyes looked out at me with a dullness that I recognized, but couldn’t place.
“Thanks for agreeing to see me, Steve,” I started.
He didn’t respond at first, and I just sat there waiting. Finally, he locked his eyes on mine, “I wanted to tell you I appreciate that you didn’t continue to hurt me that night at the beach. You were real human, there.”
“I wasn’t interested in hurting anyone. I just wanted to be free. I hear you’re not talking with the police.”
“I’m not talking with anyone, including you.”
“I heard you had a visit from your attorney?”
Ryder’s lips turned into a kind of snarl, “Yeah, I got a visit and one piece of advice: ‘If you care for your family at all, you won’t say a word to the authorities, ever.’”
“If you’re eventually tried for murder?”
“I’ll go to the chair silently.”
“Why? What hold can anyone have on you that strong?”
“I have a sister, a mother and a fiancé. If I care for them at all, Crocker said, I’ll go to my grave in silence and alone.”
“Your lawyer is called ‘Crocker?”’
“Yeah, Wallace Crocker. I’d never heard of him until I called the emergency number they’d given me.”
That name sent a wave of shock through me: Wallace Crocker? I thought he was dead!
I just sat there with my mouth open until Ryder looked up and I saw concern in his eyes, “Mr. Stanton, are you okay? Should I call a guard?”
I shook myself, trying to find my balance. Wallace Crocker’s name had not been in my mind for six years, and here he pops up out of the blue involved with this?
I tried to recover, “What number was that?”
“Eight-one-four, three-six-six, three-seven-seven-eight. They made me memorize it and told me if I ran into any trouble I was to call that number.”
“What happened when you called?”
“A guy asked what was wrong. I told him I was in jail, that you’d come to and messed up the transfer and that Skinner was dead. The guy put me on hold, and then came back on and said for me to keep still and a lawyer would be there the next day. Then he hung up.”
“So who are these people you fly for?”
He shook his head. “Are you not listening? I’m not going to talk with you or anyone else about these people.”
“And as long as you don’t, they’re going to keep right on murdering and sacrificing people. Don’t you get it? They can’t have enough soldiers to kill all the people they’re threatening.”
He looked at me like I had two heads. “You think not? Well you’d better not ask Everett Lintz or Dizzy Fallon.”
“Who are they?”
“Two guys, ten years apart, who tried to ease their burden by giving information about The Outfit.”
“What outfit?”
“That’s the only name for it: The Outfit.”
“What happened to Lintz?”
“He was drawn and quartered, but not before he watched his entire family raped, mutilated and killed.”
“And Fallon?”
“They put his head on a spike, but not before they skinned his seventy-year-old mother alive right before his eyes.”
“That’s some savage stuff.”
“T
hat’s their calling card. The Outfit prides itself on being the best of friends or worst of enemies. They brag about it.”
“Can you name any of them?”
“You gotta be kidding”
“Not will you, but could you?”
“Sure. I’ve known some of them all my life. We all grew up in north Portland. The Outfit was going strong when I was a kid, I don’t know how long it has been around, but I doubt anybody’s been dumb enough to write a biography.”
“When will you see your lawyer again?”
“I won’t. He told me to ask for a public defender and plead guilty without saying anything.”
“That work for you?”
“It works for mine, and that’s all that matters at this point.”
We sat there silently for about 15 minutes, then he got up, went to the door and knocked. A jailer came and got him, and I left by the other door where I was escorted to the lobby. I retrieved my cell phone and my pocket knife and wallet.
I went out to the WSP station and found Veragas and Stevens waiting for me. I gave them a detailed report on my interview.
“That’s pretty amazing,” Stevens said. “So what does the name Wallace Crocker mean to you or us?”
“I don’t know. If it’s the same guy, he was the attorney for some small-time crooks in Michigan – really ruthless, crazy, over-reacting people. When things turned sideways for them, they decided to clean house – they tried to kill me in my home, they tried to kill Jan by burning her home down, and this Crocker guy disappeared about that time, and we just figured he had been part of the cleanup.”
Veragas had a distant look in his eye. “Looks like this Outfit makes family retribution a cornerstone of their whole operation. I wonder if they’re branching out to maritime piracy.”
“Piracy?” I asked.
“Maybe they’ve been inspired by the Somali pirates that have taken tankers and other vessels and held them for ransom over in Africa.”
“I don’t think Lindsay is some gang banger. I got the real impression that he was a free agent who was all about getting away forever.”
29
We drove back to Pendleton in silence. I was thinking about how I might get further in looking for the guy called Lindsay; Jan was buried in a New York Times crossword puzzle.
Diana Krall, Frank, and other jazz greats were keeping us entertained on the MP3 player jacked into my truck’s speakers.
We got to the Tri-Cities of Washington, and stopped for dinner at our favorite sushi restaurant. After we finished ours, we picked up a to-go order for Jack and Shirlee Nelson.
“There’s that pioneer thing again,” Jan chided me as we put their goods in a cooler in the back of the truck.
We drove down to their place that evening, delivered the fish and rice and retrieved Judy. When we got home there was a message on our machine from Agent Jensen. He said he would be in the neighborhood the next morning, and wanted to know if he could stop in. He left his cell number.
I called him. “Did you find out what was at the end of Ryder’s emergency phone number?” I asked.
“It was a burn phone. Dead end. I should be at your place before noon, and I need to be in Portland before five.”
“You have directions?”
“I do.”
The next morning, Judy and I took our walk, and then, after a shower and breakfast, I turned my attention to life maintenance – paying bills, balancing checkbooks, touching bases with friends and family via e-mail all routine stuff that didn’t interfere with my anxiety over Jensen’s visit.
Jensen pulled into the driveway just before 11. I settled him on our porch overlooking the Columbia Basin where he turned down water or anything to drink. Jan came downstairs, and I introduced her. It was all very social, I thought.
When Jan went back to her computer, Jensen came straight to the point, “I had a long talk with Miles Lawton.”
“How is he?”
“Still one of your bigger fans. Thinks the sun shines especially on you.”
“He’s a good cop, and a better man.”
“He also thinks we professionals out here would be fools not to put you to use on this Whitman case.”
“There’s a Whitman case?”
“Obviously you think the victims of kidnapping can pay their twenty-five million and then just drop the case when they’re home free?”
“I take it Luke and Mary Lou are less than interested in seeing you make an arrest.”
“Very uninterested. Luke is a very politically connected guy; plays golf and poker with several members of Oregon’s federal contingent, including a U.S. Senator.”
“You guys getting called off the case?”
“We’re not getting full support from the director’s office, but no, we’re not being hauled off.”
“I’m assuming there isn’t much either of the Whitmans can add to your investigation.”
He scowled at the view for a minute, and said, “You’re probably right, but they’ve already told us they won’t testify or identify any of the kidnappers.”
“They put the fear into them, that’s for sure.”
“Have they put the fear into you?”
“No sir, they have not.” “I want a piece of that Lindsay character in the world’s worst way.”
He smiled. “According to Lawton, you might be a handful at that.”
“I owe Miles a phone call if he’s going to persist in gossiping about me to strangers of the Federal persuasion.”
“I think you need to do something on this case. Are you willing?”
“Tell me what. I’m ready.”
“I’d like you to come to Portland with me, and sit down with some people who are working on this case.”
“Right now, today?”
“No, tomorrow would be better. I need to get over there and convince those guys that you can be of some help.”
“Can I offer you lunch before you leave?”
“Are you going to eat lunch if I say no?”
“I’m going to eat lunch in any event.”
“Then I’d be glad to share whatever you’re having.”
“Let’s go find out what’s available.”
The next day, I was again sharing lunch with Jensen, in a little diner down the street from the FBI’s offices in Portland. With us were the local FBI agent in charge, Herbert Ames, and Junior Sylva, a detective in the Portland Police Department’s gang squad.
They knew of “The Outfit,” but what they knew was considered urban legend more than fact.
“I’m thinking you might have an opportunity that we just don’t have,” Sylva said as they finished their lunches with coffee refills.
“We’ve got a guy in lockup that is facing serious felony charges. He won’t say a word to a cop or officer of the court for fear that his pals will think he squealed somehow. Whatever threat these guys perceive from their pals, it’s much greater than anything they might fear from us.
“But you might just be able to talk with this guy, on the condition of deep background you need for a magazine article you’re writing.”
I looked from face to face. “Worth a try, I guess. But why would he risk being identified some way with the background source in an article?”
“These guys may be savages, Jim, but they’re not stupid. This guy is a graduate of Portland State where he earned a bachelor’s degree with dual majors in psychology and philosophy. If he thinks you’re a real journalist who lives by the cannons of your craft, he might not be afraid to at least talk in generalities.”
It took several hours and a meeting with his court-appointed lawyer before I was sitting in front of a twenty-something Latino, named Arresto. There were no visible tattoos on him, and he was clean shaven. He had well-defined muscles in his arms, and I guessed he was active in the gym whenever he could be. His teeth were amazingly white, and his eyes were alert. His demeanor gave the impression that he was on the verge of taking his current status as some
thing of a joke. I thought that was unlikely as he was facing twenty-five years to life on a murder charge stemming from one of the many turf wars that ebb and flow across urban landscapes all the time.
He agreed to the interview on the grounds he would not be identified in any ensuing article, and that he would not discuss anything pertinent to the existence of or operations by The Outfit.
I introduced myself as Jim Stanton. I told him I was doing a piece for a national magazine on gang life in American cities. He nodded, and said, “Cool work if you can get it.”
I asked him to tell me about his childhood.
“I was born, I was abused, and I was saved by The Outfit, whatever that is,” he replied.
“How many of you are there in what’s not The Outfit?”
He smiled at the irony. “Clever cop. I know nothing about any Outfit. I do odd jobs for friends of mine, and they put business opportunities in my way in return, so I make a living. Okay?
“What do you know about the non-history of the non-Outfit?
“Started in San Francisco, maybe nineteen-eighty or so. Some rich guy had been playing around with the rackets, you know, like on the side. Then the economy takes a hiccup, you dig? He gets serious about making money the old-fashioned way.
“He ran that sting for about twenty years, then the Big C took him out of the game. Like the very next week, so it’s not told, another big guy takes over, and there’s nothing small time about the operation from then on.
“Everything from hot autos, hot works of art, drugs, girls, you name it. It was a very professional operation, but nobody ever sees this big guy.
“Pretty soon, some of the capos start cuttin’ corners, you know? They maybe skim a point or two off the top, you dig? What the hell? These guys are thieves, after all, right?”
I nodded and then said, “But that’s when everyone found out they were working in a different league, didn’t they?”
“For sure. The big guy came on like an angry ape, but he didn’t say nothin’, get it? Next thing they see Benny Barron hanging from a lamp post on Height Street with his balls in his mouth.
