The Killdeer Connection

by Tom Swyers

  The deputy raised her hands to her computer keyboard as she faced David. She wore the same powder-blue latex gloves as the TSA agents.

  “I really don’t know why I’m here,” David said openly. He was in shock. He was supposed to be home with his family. Now he faced the prospect that he’d never be with them again.

  “I understand,” she said. “But so long as you realize that I didn’t put you here, we’ll get along just fine. Full name, please?”

  “David Thompson,” he said, rubbing the red ring marks the cuffs had left on his wrists.

  She didn’t type anything. Instead, her hands hovered over the keys as she looked him over for a few seconds—scanned his face, as if looking for landmarks. She asked where he lived. David gave her his Indigo Valley address. Then she began to talk as she typed his life into the computer.

  “Did you go to Indigo Valley High School?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She stopped typing and looked at him. “So did I.”

  “Really?” David relaxed a bit. He felt a little comfort in the connection with someone from his hometown.

  “I think I recognize you,” she said. “I think you were two years ahead of me, in my sister’s class.”

  “What was your sister’s name?” David asked, not that he was particularly interested. He was worried sick about Christy.

  “Martha. Martha Washington.”

  David felt his gut tense up again. Hearing that name brought on a wave of guilt. He hated himself for ending up in jail, and he hated himself for making fun of Martha Washington as a kid. He struggled to find words that would not incriminate him further; he had to say something. What would she think of him if he just sat there in silence?

  “You mean Martha Washington, chief probate clerk in Indigo Valley?” David finally said softly.

  “One and the same.”

  “I’ve known her for years,” he said, trying to force a smile.

  “I think she’s mentioned you, too,” she said with a poker face. “Date of birth, please?”

  She proceeded to ask for all sorts of personal information. He saw his life and his privacy dripping letter by letter into the maw of the criminal-justice system.

  The last time he had seen Martha Washington was when he’d tried to file the will that he had drafted for Harold Salar. Is this where he would pay the price for making fun of Martha Washington’s name? Maybe her sister would bunk him in with some tattooed lunatic, and let the inmate extract revenge on her behalf.

  “I have to ask this question,” she said, “though I think I know the answer. Do you have any gang affiliations we should know about?”

  David couldn’t believe his ears. “I’m a member of the American Bar Association,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know if that counts as a gang.”

  She flashed a smile. “No, I don’t think so. Anything else?”

  “I don’t know. They say I’m a member of the Killdeer Society, but that’s news to me. I never applied for membership.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As far as I know, it’s a bird-watching group, though it seems the FBI thinks it’s a terrorist organization.”

  She tilted her head as a puzzled look crossed her face.

  David said, “Let’s just say no to that question and move on.”

  “That works for me. Do you have any drug or alcohol problems we need to be aware of?”

  David realized he was an emotional wreck. He wasn’t a drinking man, but he couldn’t deny he needed something to steady his nerves. “Not as of today. But maybe you should ask me again tomorrow.”

  No response.

  “Obviously, you have heard that line before,” David said.

  “I think I’ve seen and heard it all, Mr. Thompson.”

  “What’s your name?” David asked. He knew she was trying to make this process as painless as possible.

  “Desiree.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Desiree. Thanks for being so patient with me.”

  “It’s nice meeting you, too, though I know you don’t want to be here.”

  David leaned toward her and put his hands on his knees. “I have to tell you, Desiree,” David said with his voice cracking. “I need to tell someone that I had nothing to do with those train bombings. I am not a terrorist.”

  Desiree leaned back in her chair and let out a big sigh. “Mr. Thompson, I understand, but when you walk the hallways here and pass the thousand or so prisoners that we house at any given time, know that virtually none of them believes they’re guilty of anything, either.”

  David looked down at the floor. He realized that he was just another whining inmate in her eyes. He didn’t take it personally. All the employees probably think this way. It’s probably just a coping mechanism.

  “Mr. Thompson, if you’ll follow me, we’re going to take your picture, get your fingerprints, then find you a uniform. You go first, and mind the blue line.”

  David stood up. “Gotcha.” He looked over his shoulder at the doorway, where the two deputies stared back at him. “I’m going to follow the blue line,” he said to them. He wanted to make it clear that he didn’t plan to give them any trouble.

  “That’s right,” Desiree said, following David into the hallway. “The blue line is your friend, all the way to the end. It’s the only way in here, and it’s the only way out.”

  David was following Desiree to the end of the hallway when the irony about what was going to happen next hit him. Jim Fletcher used to joke about his clients’ mug shots. He said the camera almost always made them look guilty. David desperately wanted to avoid that look, but he didn’t know how.

  It wasn’t about vanity. It was about control. He couldn’t control the arrest, the booking, the fingerprinting, or anything about the incarceration. But he did have a say in the outcome of the mug shot. He might have been grasping at straws, but at least he was still reaching. It wasn’t much, but he still had hope.

  He knew the mug shot would be all over the news within minutes. Within a few hours, mug-shot websites would post it. Jim used to say that innocent clients were haunted by their mug shots the rest of their lives. There was always some website posting them while offering to remove them for a fee of $400 or so. Jim called it blackmail. Some of his clients paid the money and saw their photos taken down on one site, only to pop up on another. Now any time an employer or potential client decided to Google David, they’d find his mug shot and move on to the next candidate.

  David was trying to think through a strategy. Was he supposed to smile? No, nobody is happy to be in jail. That would make him look like some crazy terrorist. Should he look away from the camera? No, it’d look like he was ashamed of something. Smirk? No, cockiness wouldn’t go over well with jurors. He ran his hand over his head as he walked, figuring he could at least make his hair look right. But it seemed like any emotion he’d show in the mug shot would be used against him. The best he could come up with was the stoic look.

  Desiree opened a curtain that cordoned off an area. There was a large, gray sheet of plywood screwed into the cinder blocks. He was told to stand with his back to it. Then Desiree turned on a light that nearly blinded David. He was still struggling with sensitivity from his head injury. He tried to shield his eyes.

  “I’ll tone that down,” Desiree said.

  “Thank you.”

  David wiped the sweat from his face and ran his hands through his hair a few more times. Looking straight into the camera, his lips became like the straight edge of a ruler. He relaxed his eyebrows to avoid the deer-in-the-headlights look. But not too relaxed. He didn’t want to look like he was high. The head wasn’t tilted. It was perfectly level. It was a look of confidence, or so he hoped.

  Desiree snapped the photo.

  “Turn your body to your left,” she said.

  David turned, trying not to change a thing about his face. Desiree snapped the profile view, then led him to another curtained area to surrender his fingerprin
ts. After the indignity of a strip search conducted by a male deputy, he had to trade his civilian clothes for a canary-yellow jumpsuit. The suit was made of heavy, stiff cotton and bore the label CCF Inmate in black letters on the back.

  Desiree deposited his personal belongings in a large manila envelope labeled with his name, which went with her after she said goodbye. A female deputy escorted him in his socks to the barred supply window. It looked like an old bank-teller window out of some Western movie. The man behind the window slapped a pair of perforated, orange slip-on canvas sneakers on the counter for David to put on his feet. Flaunting white rubber soles and toe covers, they looked like a low-cut, old-school Converse trainers but without the laces. Regular sneakers had been prohibited long ago after an inmate used the laces to hang himself. Finally, the man slipped David a brown thermal blanket and some worn, more-or-less white sheets under the bars. He tucked his worldly goods under his arm as he requested his traditional phone call.

  It was midafternoon by the time he was escorted to a phone, where he was allowed to make that one call. He dialed Jim Fletcher.

  “Hello?” Jim said.

  “It’s David. I’m so glad you picked up.”

  “Annie said you’d be calling. What the hell happened?”

  “It’s the Salar estate. Harold had some crazy stuff going on in his life, and they think I’m somehow involved.”

  “Annie said they think you’re a terrorist. Is that right?”

  “They booked me on charges that I lied to them about the Killdeer Society—”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know, except they tell me I’m a member. You recall Salar’s fascination with the bird?”

  “Yeah. He was King Killdeer.”

  “Right. The killdeers and the Killdeer Society seem to be connected to these bomb-train explosions. Jim, I’m worried sick about Christy. Did Annie tell you?”

  “Yeah, she said he was in Albany on an ambulance call.”

  “Is there any word on him?”

  “Not when I spoke with Annie a little while ago.”

  “Was anyone killed or injured in the blast?”

  “Yes—”

  “How many?”

  “They haven’t said. It’s too early.”

  “He’s my only boy, Jim. He’s all we’ve got. You’ve got to find out about him. Someone has to find out and let me know what’s going on.”

  “We’ll find him, David.”

  “Forget about me—”

  “I’m not forgetting about you. Hold tight. It looks like they cast a net over you. Annie said you were in North Dakota?”

  “Yeah, I had to find Harold’s killer. Pete was zeroing in on me as a suspect because of the life-insurance policy and the estate.”

  “How did the FBI get involved?”

  “Long story. It’s nuts. I’ve had nothing to do with these train explosions. Nothing. Do you hear me?”

  “Calm down, David. By the looks of things, they want to put you on ice with this charge that you lied to them.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “From what Annie tells me, you leave a path of destruction every place you visit. The feds probably figure if the explosions have anything to do with you, they’ll put a stop to it by locking you up. It buys them time. Maybe they’re thinking of getting the grand jury together in the next few days to levy additional charges. You’re one less moving piece to the puzzle if you’re behind bars. You won’t be able to go to North Dakota or anyplace else if you’re in jail here.”

  “Can you get me out?”

  “Not until we make an appearance before a magistrate and talk about bail. The feds might fight any bail because this is a terrorism case. So, getting you out isn’t going to be quick and easy.”

  “Jim, this place scares the crap out of me. They’ve got everything from potheads to murderers in here.”

  “I know. Be careful.”

  “Promise me you’ll stay on top of this.”

  “I promise. When I find out anything, I’ll come over and visit you.”

  “I appreciate it. Right now I don’t know how I’m going to pay you. I’m broke, Jim.”

  “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry. I don’t think you killed Salar, so that life insurance should pay off someday.”

  “Okay. The guard is signaling me that my time is up. I’ve got to go.”

  “Hang in there, David.”

  “I’ll try. Thanks.”

  With that, David hung up.

  “Pick up your blanket and sheets,” the guard said. “It’s time to go.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Protective-custody cellblock. You’ll have your own cell. Follow the blue line.”

  They arrived at the entrance to the protective-custody cellblock for males. The door buzzed open, and David was told to walk down the block and face his cell. On one side of the block ran a long corridor with barred windows; the other side was lined with the cells. Sunlight streamed through the windows, making shadows of the bars look like rail crossties over the blue line that ran along the brown-linoleum floor. All of the bars fronting the windows and cells bore the same powder blue as the latex gloves the guards wore.

  David stopped in front of cell number three. It was a dark hole. All the cells were dark. The sunlight from the corridor windows never reached that side. With a buzzing sound, the cell door slid open electronically. David was told to step inside and not to turn around until the bell had sounded. David could hear the door shut behind him. Then what sounded like a bicycle bell rang twice. The guard said he was free to turn around.

  Being free to turn around was about all he was free to do. The cell measured eight by seven feet. Most of the space was occupied by his cot. He could stand, he could sit, or he could lie down. Those were his choices, though he could do any of the three on the cot or on the floor. There also was a stainless-steel toilet and sink. The walls were chipped, grimy-beige cinder block. He had a small porthole window made of thick, cloudy, scratched Plexiglas that looked to the outside on the rear wall.

  Now, Inmate 393785 was his name and his whole identity. Two hours ago, he had been a free man on the way home to see his family. Now he was behind bars for what could be the rest of his life. David trembled as he set his blanket and sheets on the bed and turned to face the corridor. The sunlight that hit the linoleum tiles was just out of reach.

  THIRTY

  An inmate worker brought David his dinner. Doggone if it didn’t almost match the walls. Macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, some soggy potato chips, and a hunk of cornbread were all delivered on a black, divided-plastic serving tray. Everything on the tray was all the same hue, more or less. There was no meat, no fresh veggies, no red, no green. Everything was all the same temperature, too—lukewarm, even the coleslaw. It didn’t taste very good, but that really didn’t matter. David was starving and scarfed it all down in a hurry. He had been booked into the jail after lunch ended, and he didn’t know when he would see another meal.

  Once the tray had been cleared, a guard appeared at his cell, saying, “You got a visitor.”

  He opened the cell door, which allowed David to walk to the exit door at the end of the corridor. The silent guard followed close behind him. At the sound of the buzzer, the exit door opened, letting David into another room. Off to one side, the silver- and gold-colored metal cuffs hung under a bright light on a stand in the shape of a small tree. The metal shone like jewelry on display in Macy’s. The still-silent guard fitted David with a pair.

  He was escorted by two guards to yet another powder-blue door. One guard silently opened it, and the other told him to enter. Behind the blue door was a windowless, private room just a little larger than his cell. It held a desk and two stools bolted tight to the floor. Julius Moore occupied one of the stools.

  “Aw, it’s you,” David said. “I hoped it was my lawyer. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Please sit down. It’s about your son.”
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  David dropped to the stool. “What about him? Is he okay?”

  “He’s at Albany Medical Center—”

  “But he’s alive?”

  “Yes. He’s being treated for smoke inhalation.”

  “God, I told him to be careful—”

  “He’ll be okay. I hear he helped save a woman’s life.”

  David sighed and shook his head side to side. He was trying to process the gravity of what had happened. He put his cuffed hands on the table. He was proud of his son and pissed at him at the same time. “Any idea when he’ll be released?”

  “Tomorrow. Maybe the day after.”

  “Does my wife know?”

  “Yes, we told her. She asked me to tell you because public visiting hours are over for today.”

  David nodded.

  Moore sat with hands on the table, fingers interlaced. His striped tie was crooked, and his charcoal-gray suit jacket bore a full complement of creases. The cuffs of his dress shirt stuck out from underneath his jacket onto his wrists. David could see dirt or soot streaks on them. One button was missing.

  “Anything else?” David asked.

  Moore sat staring at his hands, slowly rubbing his lips together, not saying a word. There was no sound in the room but their breathing.

  David broke the silence. “Unless you have something else to say, I think we’re done. I’ve got nothing else to say to you. That’s for sure. Seems like talking to you got me into trouble. I should have known better than to talk to you without my lawyer present the other week.”

  “I wanted . . . I wanted to thank you.”

  David’s head jerked back a bit at that. He looked into Moore’s eyes. They were red and moist around the edges.

  “Thank me? For what?” David asked.

  “We got Corning Elementary evacuated almost immediately after the blast, thanks to your phone call. Shortly after, a bank of smoke engulfed the school. Some people passed out on the sidewalk next to the building. No kids were injured.”