“Thank you for your honesty.”
“There's more. You asked if she could be vindictive and I avoided the question. I saw her do it once -- and never forgot it. She was dating a brother from our associated fraternity. He canceled a date one Saturday and I talked her into going to a different frat party. The usual thing. Well, her boyfriend was there with another girl. I never saw such a look of pure hate. I expected Leah to confront him and was afraid of what she might do. But instead she stayed out of sight just watching. After a while she made me leave with her then had me promise to tell absolutely no one she had been there. The point of this is that the following week someone threw gasoline all over his expensive car and burned it. When he told her about it she broke up with him, kicking him while he was down. She never said a word about seeing him with another girl. You should have seen the look in her eye when she came back to her room after that. I knew then I'd never want to get on her wrong side.”
“Did she tell you she burned the car?”
“No. Leah was the most secretive person I've ever known. But she didn't have to. I knew.”
They stood in the shadows listening to the night sounds of the quieting city. “You're the one who called the police about her, aren't you?” Goodnight said at last.
She looked up at him in surprise. “Yes.” She paused for some time before resuming. “I can tell from the questions you asked that you don't think she's dead, do you?”
“I must admit that I have my suspicions.”
“She's alive all right,” Merriott said in a hard voice. “I realized as I was talking to you tonight that I've thought that since the trial. But Leah is very clever. You're going to have a hard time finding her.”
EIGHTEEN
Goodnight called the two remaining claims managers for the Swensen policies first thing the next morning. Westby was pressuring them into payment but had not as yet filed his threatened lawsuit. Still, Goodnight learned that one of the companies, United National, had issued its two million dollar check. Robert Platt of Consolidated American National Insurance Company was about to do the same before talking to Goodnight.
“What you're telling me is that you don't think Leah Swensen is dead, even though United National and, earlier, Combined Occidental have made payment?”
“That's correct.”
“But her husband has been convicted of murdering her?”
“Also correct.”
“If this sister sues, will our case hold up in court?”
“I don't know. That's one of the reasons why I need to find Leah Swensen. When I do you'll wish you hadn't let yourself be pressured into paying two million dollars.”
“I can't argue with that. But can you find her?”
“Maybe. Probably. I'd like to give it a try.”
“O.K. I'll try to stall the payment for now, but I can't put it off forever. Legal may want to get involved and in situations like these they usually call the shots. They'll want a report I can tell you that. And Westby's supposed to call me today and he isn't going to like this at all.”
“I can spend my time writing a report that supports my suspicions, or I can find Leah Swensen and prove I'm right.”
“Whichever. Just hurry.”
~
Ruth Morrison was working at her desk in the crowded homicide squad room when Goodnight entered, her head hunched over a report as she scribbled. Several detectives looked up at him with blank expressions. Others were talking on the telephone, heads nodding or shaking, faces making smiles or grimaces.
The morning's newspaper said the Frogman case had been broken, that the dead man's adult son was in custody. Kosack was nowhere to be seen. Morrison glanced up then looked back at the report on which she was working. “This is a really bad time, Ranger.”
“Congratulations on the arrest.”
Morrison looked back up and grinned. “Thanks. The idiot let his girlfriend watch him dismember his father's body then got drunk two days ago and beat her up. She seems pretty happy to be a state's witness.” She placed her pen down. “What do you need?”
“Just a couple of questions.”
Morrison swiveled in her chair. “O.K. Make it fast. Shoot.”
“Do you have a way for me to reach Lana Dahl -- Leah Swensen's sister?”
“No. I asked you if you had an address, remember?”
“Did you get her bookstore credit card records? I recall from the reports she charged a lot of books.”
“Yes, we did.”
“What did she read?”
Morrison looked as if she was going to ask him why he cared but instead said, “She read lots of non-fiction. About murders interestingly enough. Maybe she had a premonition.”
“Jack Swensen had a scratch on his forearm when you and Tom where interviewing him. Did you ever see it?”
“A scratch? No. Let me think. His jacket came off during the interview, but he never rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He had a scratch? Are you certain?”
“Pretty sure. Paula Dinelli recalled seeing it just before the trial started.”
“Nice of her to mention it.”
The telephone rang. Morrison poised her hand above the receiver as she said, “It's a zoo, Ranger. Is that it?”
“Sure thing.” As Goodnight left the room he looked back at Morrison again. She was, he considered, one handsome woman.
~
Shortly after midnight Goodnight locked the front door to his house, closed the gate to the front yard, paused on the sidewalk to light a Panatella then stepped off to meet Conchita thinking what a lovely fall night it was. Even the city was quieter, as if it had withdrawn into itself so as not to spoil the night. Just before he reached the corner a car slowly pulled from the curb. As it drove by Goodnight's only observation was that it was a late model, not all that common on his street.
From the darkened interior of the passing car a light winked at him, an angry insect buzzed at his ear at virtually the same instant, there was a sudden blast, the crash of glass, then two more winks and blasts as Goodnight dove over a chain link fence into the yard to his left. He rolled, pulling his gun out in a single motion, but the car raced down the street and was already around the corner, its tires squealing for an instant, followed by the roar of the engine as it accelerated away.
A Hispanic man Goodnight only knew by his first name, Javier, come running barefoot out of his house in pants and an undershirt. “Are you all right?” he asked as Goodnight rose, slipping the revolver into its place.
“I think so. Did you see it?”
“No. I was watching television when my window broke. Then I heard the shots. Those sons of bitches!” He walked across his grass to stare into his living room through the bullet hole. “Why shoot at me?” he asked. “I don't cause any trouble.”
Goodnight brushed the grass from his suit. “I think whoever it was wanted to kill me, Javier.”
“You?” The man looked genuinely perplexed. “They must be loco.”
Five police cars responded to Javier's call, parking haphazardly along the narrow street, three of them with their overhead lights blinking. It was a scene that always reminded Goodnight of a carnival. Neighbors from three blocks over were standing along the sidewalk and the yards were filled as well, people gawking, talking quietly. The responding sergeant had briefly interviewed both Javier and Goodnight then spent several minutes talking on a cellular telephone. After that he dispatched Spanish speaking officers to take statements along the street.
“We don't have much, Ranger,” the sergeant said. He was lean with longer than average sideburns. His hair had mostly disappeared on him. To Goodnight's knowledge they had never met before. “The neighbor on the corner says she'd never seen the car before though she noticed it parked the wrong way in front of her house. Another neighbor saw it make the turn and said there was one occupant in it, but no description. There will be detectives here in a few minutes to take your statement. I'll be with my officers if you need me before the
n.”
Goodnight leaned against the post on Javier's front porch and wondered how he was going to tell Conchita about this. He pulled a Lonesdale cigar from his pocket, observed that it now held a slight bend. Several minutes later he was smoking as he watched Morrison and Kosack walked up the sidewalk, paused to talk to the sergeant momentarily, then opened the gate and approached.
“Is that new standard dress for night work?” Goodnight asked with a warm smile.
Kosack was looking quite distinguished in a tuxedo with a crimson cummerbund and white carnation. Morrison was spectacular in a form fitting evening dress that glistened even in the darkness. It could have been silver but Goodnight really couldn't say for certain. She smelled as wonderful as she looked.
“My former husband and I were on the Phoenix Art Council for several years,” Morrison explained. “I still get an invitation to their annual ball. Tom looks good, doesn't he?”
“You both look very good.”
“So tell us what happened?” she asked.
“I thought you worked homicide.”
The pair exchanged glances then Kosack answered. “Someone got the idea this might be connected to the Swensen matter and ordered us here. Your nosing about has got around.”
“What do you think?” Morrison asked.
“I have no idea.” Goodnight told them what little he recalled. “The only impressions I could give are that it was a dark, four door, late modeled American car, but I wouldn't swear even to that. They all look alike these days. It was a handgun, nine millimeter or .38 I would guess. Three shots that I know of.”
“How close?” Morrison asked.
“I heard a bee buzz my left ear.” He touched it and drew off a dab of blood.
“Jesus,” Kosack muttered. “Are you O.K.?”
“Frankly my bones ache and I'm worried as hell about explaining this to my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Morrison lit up. “Well good for you. Come on, Tom, let's get to work.” She pulled a small note pad from her purse. “I'll take Ranger's formal statement. Why don't you check with the sergeant?” Kosack nodded and walked off.
A television camera crew had arrived, lighting the street with powerful beams. Most of the neighbors vanished into their houses leaving the show offs to mug for the camera. “O.K.,” Morrison said with a grim smile, looking back from the camera making its way towards them, “let's take it from the top.”
~
It was a three hour drive across brush dotted prairie on a two lane highway to the state prison at Florence. There was still an abundance of saguaro cactus though Goodnight understood they were slowly dying off for reasons no one understood. One of his childhood heroes, Tom Mix, had died on this narrow road, probably from driving too fast assisted by a bottle in a paper sack. There was a statue of him on his horse at the spot most of the time. For some reason high school kids got a kick out of stealing it every few years.
Goodnight kicked the Taurus up to 80 miles an hour and sat back to enjoy the feel of a solid car driven fast in open country. For much of his life he had rattled around in old pickups and he enjoyed the sensation of a car more than most. There was a freeway route he could have taken but it wasn't all that much faster and was a damn sight more boring.
One of his rangers had teased him when he saw him climbing out of the new Taurus saying a real cowboy like him ought to have a pickup. Goodnight had explained that as he no longer hauled livestock or hay he had no need of a pickup and only drugstore cowboys drove them for transportation in cities. He'd said the last because he knew the ranger was proud of his new Ford pickup with its pretty wrapping of chrome.
The previous night he hadn't finished with Morrison and Kosack before Conchita arrived. Someone had called her at Rosa's and Arturo had sent her along early. She had not cried or carried on as Goodnight feared. In retrospect he realized she wasn't that kind of a woman. She had asked her own questions of Javier and others in rapid fire, staccato Spanish. When at last they were free to go home her anger had distilled into a cold vengeance.
“If he had killed you, Ranger,” she said. “I would hunt him down and feed him his own cojones.” Goodnight didn't doubt her for an instant, but was careful not to point out the shooter could just as easily have been a woman.
He slowed as the walls of the prison loomed ahead, always reminding him of a Foreign Legion outpost in the desert. It had been constructed of rock by prisoner labor shortly after the turn of the century and in most regards made the old Alcatraz looked like a model correctional facility. The more recent additions had a tattered, impermanent look.
In 1972 the prison had seen its first full scale riot. The political hack warden had botched the handling of it from the beginning, concerning himself more with trying to cover up what was taking place than in moving decisively to quell the trouble. As a result three guards were murdered and a half dozen more taken hostage by the Aryan Brotherhood. After four days of very unflattering headlines the governor ordered the Rangers in to settle matters.
Goodnight was in charge of the operation and had never seen such mass confusion and incompetence in his career. There was no SWAT team on site or even a contingency plan for retaking control of the prison. The Aryan Brotherhood ringleaders had received concession after concession from the ineffective warden and were now threatening a round of guard executions if they weren't taken to an airplane and allowed to leave. There wasn't a lawman at the prison who didn't believe them.
The warden was hysterical. “Jesus Christ! What are we going to do, Ranger?” He was a squirrely, diminutive former county sheriff with a beak-like nose turned rose-colored from years of Red Eye.
Perhaps in another situation Goodnight would have suggested a parlay but it was obvious that matters had gone far beyond that. There was simply no time and the ringleaders had held the upper hand too long to give it up now. “It's past time for talk,” he said as he left the office.
From the trunk of his car he extracted a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun with the old style round magazine and had walked alone into the prison yard, ordering his men to storm the cellblock if shooting started. The rioting prisoners had barricaded the cellblock with a wall of furniture in front of the door where they were holed up and in ten minutes the first guard was due to tumble from the second floor with his throat slit.
Goodnight, in boots, pearl grey Stetson and black suit, stopped 20 feet in front of the barricade and said, “You all know who I am. In half a minute I'm coming in there for those boys you're holding. If even one of them is harmed I'm going to kill every man in the cellblock. Those of you who want no part of this have 10 seconds to get out of there, to cross the yard and lay down on your faces.” Then he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a cheroot, thumbed his Zippo open with its distinctive “clink” and lit up as he waited to see who was smart.
Only two years earlier Goodnight had gun downed the bulk of the Delgado family and was arguably the most feared lawman in the state. From inside the cellblock came shouting, some scuffling then five men bolted out, scurried around the barricade then threw their hands in the air.
“Don't shoot, Ranger! Don't shoot!!” they called out repeatedly as they scampered across the yard never once turning their back to the ranger before flopping in the dirt on their stomachs. Another dozen poured out when they saw he hadn't shot the first group. Based on what Goodnight had been told that still left more than 20 prisoners and the six guards.
“Anyone else want to live?” he called out as he jacked a round into the submachine gun, then clamped the cigar with his teeth.
“You're bluffing!” someone called out, probably more to give his side encouragement than anything else. He didn't sound much like he believed it himself.
Goodnight walked up to the barricade and sprang cat-like over it. The door to the cellblock had been bolted shut. He poured a stream of lead into the lock then kicked the heavy metal door open. Inside was chaos. Men were screaming, waving knifes created from spoons at him. T
he prisoners had the guards pushed in front of them like a shield.
“Get out, or we slit their throats!!” a large, shaven headed white prisoner screamed. He had tattooed a swastika on his forehead and there was another tattoo of a snake running down his right arm.
Goodnight drew his Smith and Wesson and shot the man in the face. To his right another prisoner was drawing his knife across a guard's throat and Goodnight shot him as well. “Down!” he shouted at the wide eyed guards whose legs immediately went limp though they were still largely erect, supported by the terrified men holding them.
Goodnight swung the submachine gun single handedly across the room, aiming high, spraying a stream of bullets into the prisoners, a tongue of flame extending 18 inches from the tip of the barrel. Men were screaming for their lives, blood and brains were flying everywhere, bodies were thrown back in a jumble. One prisoner managed to slit the throat of his captive before Goodnight gunned him down.
Behind him the other rangers stormed into the cellblock. More shots were fired. The count was 17 dead prisoners, 9 seriously wounded. One of the six guards died from the knife wound, two others who were shot by Goodnight survived.
It was a sensation and once again Goodnight found himself uncomfortably in the spotlight. There were plenty, however, who thought he had been reckless. When he pointed out the guards were all due to be killed it was suggested that further negotiations should have been attempted. There were, he later remarked to Flo, enough Monday night quarterbacks to field a football league.
One of the guards he shot sued the state and collected a million dollar settlement. Still, Goodnight had emerged in the public eye as a hero and any criticism of him evaporated in the bright light of a brief media frenzy. The governor wasn't so fortunate. He lost the next election largely for his warden's mishandling of the riot.
Goodnight had run events through in his mind time and again and could not see any alternative to what he had done. To his way of thinking five men who would otherwise have been dead were alive and the 17 he had killed all deserved it. People, he decided, were peculiar. When no one was prepared to do anything and let evil triumph they were grateful to the one man who stepped forward with a solution and the guts to carry it out. But when the answer proved less than perfect, the reasons for what had to be done were too quickly forgotten. Second guessing cowards in Goodnight's opinion.
Wrath in the Blood Page 18
