On the way home from Fayetteville, I glanced at every car that passed me and surveyed through my rearview mirror for anything conspicuous. Getting off on random exits and then back on the highway in case anyone was trailing me, driving in haste, and then slowed zigzagging across the lanes, then speeding up again before stopping to use an occasional restroom.
My pistol was in the apartment, I would’ve given anything at that moment to wrap my hand around, remove the safety and place it underneath my left thigh for immediate access. I would unload and reload on any sucker who tried to test me in this moment of furious rage. I was a member of the NRA, I would put it to use. I wanted to make some phone calls but…who would I call?
I couldn’t call Franklin to inform him about my whereabouts or what I had been investigating because I had gone to the commissioner’s house to interview the widow. He would’ve canned me then. Perhaps he’d fire me before I even got the chance to explain my end of the story―obese bastard, I couldn’t trust anyone! When I made it back alive to Houston, I took red lights and avoided stop signs. I was racing home to my sanctuary and my pistol…where I could wallow in turmoil, but at least I would feel protected from brimstone.
When I turned the knob on my door after I had slipped in the key, it fell on its stainless steel escutcheon plate in front of me with the sound of a death sonnet unraveling. What the hell, should I even go inside? Petrified and with reluctance, I entered the apartment with slow steps looking with sharpness at every angle, trying to remember blind spots, then I called the police.
Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, however, when thrust into moments of quick response, rationality wasn’t always your first instinct. I don’t recall having anything of much value with the exception of my laptop, my I-pod, and a docking stereo with charger and speakers, which were intact, but my clothes were thrown about throughout the apartment.
My already unkempt muddled apartment had been overturned, but nothing was missing, except my pistol. Damn it! What I cared about the most at that exact moment, my 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol had been burglarized from my apartment. I paced back and forth in the living room waiting for the police to arrive and contemplated calling Helena or Franklin, when I noticed a piece of paper under a magnet on the refrigerator door with black writing. Leave the commissioner alone.
Now, I’m no handwriting expert but the penmanship appeared identical to the note that was left on the autopsy report in Austin―a connection. I heard a knock on the door, “the police, damn,” I crumbled the note and slipped it into a back jean pocket. The police had arrived, but I wasn’t so sure I wanted them now. A short, thin, light-skinned, clean-shaven officer with Diaz on his badge asked me redundant questions about the pistol. It was common for officers to question people in a random redundant order because of their trained suspicion. Everyone was a suspect, being an inside job was never far-fetched.
The other officer was about my height with a military-style haircut with the name Scott engraved on his badge. He foraged the bedroom making sharp observations in regards to my clutter which jarred him up. It was clear I hadn’t established good rapport with law enforcement since working for the Times. Since the incident in Barton Hills I hadn’t had a chance to think with clarity, the day had been so anarchic, what I needed now was quiet, not these cops trying to rouse me up in my apartment. The police sifted through the apartment making assessments, they looked for clues, and they continued asking questions about the pistol and of other personal nature. I was jovial when they finally concluded their investigation. They took the necessary serial numbers and paperwork to file a report―I didn’t think I would see them again. Making a police report was futile.
After the police left, I asked a neighbor to watch the apartment while I got a replacement door lock from the hardware store. None of the neighbors saw anything suspicious. The thief had broken in without a trace or drawing attention to his motives. I considered driving to an inner-city neighborhood to replace my pistol with an illegal firearms dealer instead of waiting the sixty-day period to apply for temporary permission to carry a concealed weapon. But, I was concerned that I would actually use it and have to explain a web of uncertainties. I wasn’t ready for that.
I thought about going to Canada. If there was ever a time to evade and escape to Canada like so many Americans had done as draft-dodgers or conscientious war objectors, now would be a perfect moment. Well let’s not get carried away, not as drastic as to evade forever or renounce my citizenship, but to clear my perplexed state to continue the investigation. I wasn’t frightened by the animosity surrounding the investigation and it started feeling like I was on the right track.
I needed to find a lead in order to convince Franklin about giving me a budget to pursue such a story. I had just covered a few stories around the continental U.S., then Mexico, now I wanted to head over to Canada. Perhaps Franklin would agree since he wanted me to cover International. As far as North American continental concerns, I had it covered…and this was the way I would have to explain it to Franklin, but first I needed to handle domestic security issues.
The NAFTA Blueprint Page 22
