Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  “Yeah. Right.” Kosack looked at the remains of his cheeseburger with distaste then tossed it into his waste basket.

  Morrison laid the report aside, poised her fork over a dish and said, “Tell me.”

  “There's nothing to tell.”

  She took a bite of cottage cheese. Her father was a retired cop and two of her brothers were on the force. The third who the others jokingly called the family disgrace was a fire fighter. The family memory of police matters covered two generations of talk around the kitchen table. “Let me think then since you aren't talking. O.K. John Goodnight former captain of the Rangers, retired. What? Two years ago, three? Something like that. A legend in his time, virtually a household name. Survivor of an infamous gunfight and reputed to be quick with his fists. Just as many enemies as friends. What am I missing here?”

  “Nothing,” Kosack muttered like a small child. He was bending down, digging in his lower desk drawer.

  “Prison riot. I recall hearing something about breaking up a prison riot singlehandedly and Goodnight taking a lot of heat for it. That was in the 70's. I was only in nursery school, of course.”

  Kosack stared up at her then straightened in his chair. “You're getting warm.”

  “I've got it! Come on, Tom. You're not still angry with him over that?”

  “I don't like the man, all right? He's arrogant and more than a little crooked. I know what I'm talking about here. The Rangers have the reputation they've got because of John Goodnight and men like him.”

  “What reputation is that?”

  “You know. Political. Hand in the till.”

  “I never heard they were dishonest and believe me I would have heard all about it. Yeah, I know they've pulled a few shady deals for governors from time to time, but I doubt they're any more political than our department. That's not what's got your goat. It's the cops they busted. I take it that was Goodnight's operation?”

  “Call him Ranger, everybody does.” Kosack gritted his teeth then drew in a deep breath. “You never met Andy Cluff, did you? He was before your time. He was my first partner out of the academy. A great guy and a good cop.”

  “My father knew him, Tom, and I've heard the stories, both official and unofficial. I'd say it's a hung jury on what a great guy he was. I didn't know you ever worked with him.”

  “It's not something you make known.”

  “He was dirty, Tom. All of them were. Nobody even hinted they weren't.”

  “What do you know? You joined the department ten years after me. You don't know what it used to be like.”

  “I know. And if it isn't like that anymore then we should thank Mr. Goodnight for having the guts to investigate and bring cases against bad cops.”

  Kosack's face flushed. “You don't know what you're talking about. You don't! That asshole killed Andy, just as surely as if he'd put the gun to his head!”

  “Tom. Tom. Listen to me! Now listen. I understand that he was your friend, but Andy Cluff was dirty. He was caught red handed and he decided to kill himself rather than face trial. And that's the truth of it. My Dad didn't like it any more than you do. But if cops won't investigate cops, who will?”

  Kosack stared at Morrison for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was low and venomous. “Wait, Ruth. You just wait. With him sucking around our case you'll have plenty of chances to see for yourself the kind of man he really is.”

  SIX

  Half an hour after meeting with Morrison and Kosack, Goodnight stood on the sidewalk in front of the Swensen house and gazed at the glistening yellow evidence tape. The afternoon breeze hadn't kicked up yet and it was hot, so hot he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He walked around the front yard toward the side of the house. An attractive well-tended woman called out from the next driveway, “May I ask who you are?” She was wearing tennis whites and oversized sunglasses.

  “Yes, ma'am,” Goodnight said with an easy smile as he approached her. He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted the identification he carried that said he was a special investigator for NICDI. “John Goodnight,” he said as he tipped his hat. “I hope I haven't caused you any concern.”

  Ramona Durlacher examined the credential carefully then handed it back, introducing herself as she did. “No, it's just we've had a lot of... gawkers here. I'm concerned about vandalism so I've been keeping an eye out.”

  Goodnight could not recall ever seeing a woman in better physical condition. Her tennis legs were sinewy and hard. The pungent odor of sun block radiated from her skin which despite it was baked a dark amber.

  “Would you have a few minutes to help me out with some questions about your neighbors?”

  “I... I suppose. I haven't got long. I spoke to a detective and told her everything I know.”

  “Won't take but a minute.” Goodnight smiled warmly.

  “Do I know you?” Durlacher asked as they entered her house.

  “I don't believe so. I'm certain I'd remember.”

  “Wait a minute. Goodnight. Rangers. You're that Goodnight! My word!” She smiled broadly as if flattered to be in his presence. “Please have a seat. What can I do for you?”

  Two years before, when he had retired, the newspaper ran a three part series entitled, “The Last Ranger,” reviewing what it described as Goodnight's “colorful” career. The news account of his infamous gun fight, along with a grim picture of the bodies of the family he had gunned down had been rerun. There was even a close-up photograph of his .44 Special Smith and Wesson he had been foolish enough to let a newspaper photographer take. Flo had worked secretly to earn the $125 the gun had cost in 1957. She had given it to him that first Christmas he was a ranger. The night of the gunfight she had cried until dawn and made her husband swear again and again that he'd never be in another gunfight, as if he'd had any choice in the matter.

  “This is just routine. You should understand that I am no longer with the police and this is not part of the official investigation. I want to ask you about your neighbors and these fights they had.”

  “It's like I told the police before, we really didn't know the Swensens very well. I don't think my husband liked Jack Swensen very much and I really had no dealings with his wife. They moved in about... two and half years ago and were friendly enough, but we pretty much stick to ourselves here.”

  “How many fights between them did you hear?”

  She squinted her eyes in thought. “Two that I recall. My husband says there was another one.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “The first time was maybe two months or so before Leah was... killed. It was mostly just yelling.”

  “The second one?”

  “On Sunday night. The same thing. Loud yelling, only this time it was not as long and I heard some crashing sounds like furniture or something. I'm sorry. I know that's not much help. How much... insurance is there?”

  “A bit over two million dollars, face value. More than four million in a situation like this.”

  “He doesn't get it, does he? That would be... disgusting.”

  “That's why I'm here. The companies don't want to make payment if the husband killed her.”

  “Well, good.” She glanced at her watch. “I've got to go.”

  “Is there anything at all you can recall about Leah Swensen?”

  Durlacher shrugged delicately. “She liked cats. She had a show cat and belonged to a cat club or something. The one time we talked at all she stood petting him and telling me about this club she belonged to. I don't recall the name. I know that's not much help.”

  “You've been more than generous with your time.”

  She looked at her watch again. “I'm late.”

  “Sorry to have detained you. You've been most cooperative.” Goodnight stood, then handed her his card. “If you or your husband think of anything please give me a call.”

  “Of course.” She paused at the doorway. “You're the one who was in that gunfight a long time ago, aren't you?”

&nb
sp; “Yes, ma'am.”

  “I wasn't much more than a little girl when I read about it.” She looked at him dreamy eyed. “That was a very brave thing to do.”

  ~

  Goodnight eased his nine year old white Ford Taurus into his carport then climbed from the vehicle, stretching luxuriously. The car had the leg room he required but he still felt cramped any time he drove it. Inside the modest house where he had lived for 39 years he placed his hat on the rack, removed his suit jacket, draping it on a wooden hanger, then slipped off the black string tie which, he had been told, made him look like a Southern Baptist preacher. Finally he eased the well-worn tooled leather holster with revolver from his belt and placed it on a stand near the door where it would be handy.

  Opening the French doors to the patio he had built over 30 years before he knelt down and stroked the tabby cat laying there. He promptly rolled onto his back, exposing his round belly for a good rub. Morris rarely strayed far from his food dish these days unless it was to raid a neighboring cat's dish. The cat had adopted Goodnight shortly after the death of his wife seven years before. At first he had tried to run the stray off but Morris, as Goodnight finally named him for his resemblance to the famous feline of commercials, kept coming back. The seduction was devastatingly easy Goodnight had remarked to himself more than once. First the bowls of food and water, then the frequent pets. Next he had placed a flea collar around the cat. Morris had Goodnight well trained before the man even knew it.

  That first year Goodnight enjoyed watching Morris strut his stuff, thinking as he often watched the cat, that he was not unlike himself in his younger days. There was about the cat the air of arrogance and independence. Morris would disappear periodically for days at a time then return with horrible cuts on the top of his head and around his eyes, and bits chewed from his ears. It would not be long before the cat was blinded in one of these fights.

  With a sense of betrayal Goodnight bought a cat cage called a Pet Taxi. He was not so foolish as to attempt to force the alley tomcat into it. Rather, he placed the feeding bowl there with the door wide open. Morris craftily ignored the bait that first day, but finally hunger and plain laziness took over and he began feeding inside it. After three days Goodnight closed the door and carried the cat to the veterinarian for shots and to be neutered.

  “This hurts more than you know,” he told the animal as he carried him into the vet's room. He had not intended to stick around for removal since he anticipated a hellacious fight, but the veterinarian, a woman of about 30 with a gentle manner, asked if he would attempt removing the cat. Goodnight opened the door and to his amazement was able to lift Morris out like a fuzzy bowling ball. Once Morris was clear of the cage he planted himself on Goodnight's chest where he remained with his claws dug into his chest as the veterinarian injected the cat. When he was about to nod off she removed the tom and laid him on the table. “He'll be fine now,” she said, though Goodnight felt no less a traitor.

  After returning home with the cat the next day he thought Morris gave him the eye as he walked awkwardly from the cage onto the patio. For more than a month Goodnight could not escape a feeling of reproach when he fed the cat. That had been six years ago. Morris was now twice his former considerable weight and resembled a small orange beach ball with short legs as he waddled to his feeding dish. Try as he might Goodnight couldn't keep the cat out of the neighbors' dishes and nothing he attempted managed to bring the cat's weight under control. “I think,” he told Morris one August afternoon with resignation, “you are fated to die fat and sassy.” He stroked the cat between the ears. “There are worse ways to go.”

  Back in his small office to the rear of his house Goodnight sat at his desk, the oversized, portable heavy wooden officer's desk his father had brought home from World War I. He was still troubled by the meeting with Kosack though it had gone as well as could be expected. He had not been surprised by the detective's reaction to him, having experienced it many times before. He recalled from his investigation that Kosack had once been Andrew Cluff's partner. Cluff had been the leader of the corrupt cops, the most gregarious, the one who took the rookies under his wing, wined and dined them, and taught the ropes, legal and otherwise.

  For years Cluff and the other seven had been shaking down drug dealers, pimps and petty gamblers in the capital's red light district called the Deuce, since torn down and replaced with a convention center. No one seemed to care and it kept the vices under control. At least that's what they claimed as their rational, choosing to ignore the two hundred thousand dollars they palmed each year. But it had a corrosive effect on law enforcement as corruption always does and finally the mayor had called the governor for help since he didn't know who to call in his own police department.

  The head of the state police who was appointed by the governor, confirmed by the state senate and served a fixed five year term told the governor to piss off. He wanted no part of investigating fellow cops. But the director of the state's 26 rangers served at the governor's pleasure and was in no position to turn down the request when the governor told him what it was he wanted.

  Goodnight had received the assignment from a very nervous Charlie Ober 14 years ago. As ranger captain Goodnight was responsible for case assignments and overseeing daily operation of the Rangers. He had made it clear with each director of Rangers since his appointment that he would have nothing to do with using the Rangers for anything other than criminal investigations, nor would he be involved in politically motivated ones. The director would have to assign and supervise those directly.

  The director's office was in the old stone state government building and overlooked the glimmering copper dome of the capitol building. After Ober told him what the governor wanted Goodnight had nodded his head slowly. “All right,” he said, “if that's what you tell me to do, Charlie, but I have to say this is a bad deal all around.”

  “It's from the governor, Ranger. What else can I do?”

  Ober was neither the worst nor the best director of Rangers he worked for in the 38 years he was a ranger. Like all the directors he was a former law man but not a former ranger. He had worked on the governor's primary campaign and been responsible for him receiving the endorsement of the Fraternal Order of Police in the state. This appointment had been his payoff.

  He was a round, chronically red faced man who perspired even in the winter. It was not uncommon for him to change suit jackets in the middle of the day because sweat stains had grown under his arms. More than once Goodnight had considered that Ober would die of nervousness before age caught up with him.

  “The state police hate us,” Goodnight said, “and would see us disbanded in two seconds if they could. They nearly succeeded in 1979 after the ranger telephone tapping scandal. They want no other state police force that can tramp on their turf. The county sheriffs like us because they despise the heavy handed state police so badly and because the Rangers are just country boys like them, men they understand and can work with. But the city police departments are neither friend nor foe. We've never stepped on their toes and except for an occasional problem have given them no reason to dislike us. What you're telling me to do will change all that especially here in Phoenix.”

  “I don't understand,” Ober said, looking genuinely perplexed.

  “Most cops only tolerate internal affairs within their own department investigating allegations against them. The officers in the city's police department aren't going to take kindly to the Rangers investigating them. Especially not after that wiretapping deal.”

  Ober drew himself up in his chair. “I had nothing to do with that. It was before my time.”

  “I never said you did Charlie. For the record neither did I, I wasn't captain then, but the fact is the Rangers did it.” Four years before a desperate governor had ordered the director of Rangers to follow his political opponent during a hard fought campaign. Then he had ordered wire taps placed on the telephone of the man's mistress. The activities were eventually disclosed a
nd the ensuing scandal was nearly the Rangers' undoing. But the legislature had historically never quite trusted any director of the state police, most recently not after its suspected role in bringing about the impeachment of Governor Evan Mecham, and liked having this counter weight to him. A short term reform director was appointed who named Goodnight the captain of Rangers and praised him on television as the only “incorruptible” peace officer in the state. Goodnight's name could not appear thereafter in the press without “Mr. Incorruptible” married to him.

  It had been a careless statement since he meant to compare Goodnight only to the other Rangers. That would have been bad enough but instead he had said Goodnight was the only honest cop in the state. Goodnight had taken a lot of ribbing from his friends in law enforcement for it as well as bitter recriminations from his enemies.

  “If we nail dirty city cops,” Goodnight continued at his meeting with Ober, “there won't be a city police department in the state that will give us the time of day.”

  “Are you saying you won't do it?”

  “No, Charlie, I'm not saying that. I'm just asking if you are certain this is what you really think we ought to be doing.”

  “Those are my orders, Ranger. What I think's got nothing to do with it. The governor wants to do the mayor a favor.”

  “Good for him, but God help us both, Charlie.”

  After the meeting Goodnight considered to whom he could give the difficult job of investigating fellow peace officers. All 25 of the other Rangers were good and honest men in his experience. But they were cops, members of the law enforcement fraternity. The type of corruption the mayor suspected was difficult to uncover. Any hint of the investigation and the wrong doers would intimidate into silence any potential informers then just go to ground until it was over. Even an honest ranger would only have to make noises to the wrong people about what he had been assigned to bring the investigation to a halt.

  Goodnight drew up a list of four rangers, men with whom he would trust his life and the virtue of his daughter, if he had one. But after mulling the matter over he decided that this was a whole different matter. He drew a line through three names then called the fourth man in and informed him he was going to be acting captain for a few weeks.