They left the jail, got into Radhauser’s car and drove for a while in silence with the windows down. Yesterday’s rain had washed the dust from the air, and the spring green leaves on Medford’s oak and maple trees glistened in the sunlight.
Radhauser parked in front of a well-maintained, two-story, colonial house on Oakdale Avenue. Sounds of children’s laughter drifted from the fenced backyard and in through the car windows.
"I never thought I'd be this nervous to see my kids. What if the state won't release them to me? What if I've lost my job? What if I can't make the house payments or put food on the table?" Parsons’ words were muffled as if something heavy sat on his chest.
For a moment, Radhauser said nothing. He could feel the guilt and fear coming off Parsons. "Those are a lot of what-ifs. I can answer one of them for you. I called Costco and explained everything. They've agreed to reinstate your position. With Ahmed in the hospital, they're happy to have you back."
Parsons did a double-take. “Ahmed Azami? What happened to him?”
Radhauser told him about the shooting, Ahmed’s surgery to repair his spleen, and the early birth of his daughter.
Parsons stared out the open window. “I never liked him much, but Ahmed and Daria didn’t deserve that. Truth is, they didn’t deserve the things I said and did either. Is the baby okay?”
Radhauser was too stunned to speak. After a couple of seconds passed, he answered. "She's on the small side, but perfect and doing fine."
"I know you think I'm a terrible person." Parsons kept his gaze on the foster home's gate leading into the backyard. "And maybe I am. But the time I spent in jail changed me. I was in there with all kinds of different people. Blacks, Asians, Hispanics, tattooed white dudes, drug addicts, and alcoholics. At night, men prayed and cried about their sins. Some of them were coming off drugs and called out to their mamas. They begged God for forgiveness. And prayed their juries would be merciful. Me, I just laid there staring up at the stained tiles in the ceiling. I listened to grown men cry like little boys. And tried to figure it all out."
From nowhere, Radhauser remembered a line he’d read once about salvation. Something about having to be able to imagine it before we could achieve it. “And did you make any discoveries?”
Parsons waited a few seconds before responding as if sorting through words to find exactly the right combination. "I figured out we're all pretty much the same underneath the skin." He wiped at his eyes. "And I knew if I had to stay there much longer, I'd be just like them—praying and calling out for my mother."
“I believe learning something that important might be worth three weeks in the slammer.”
Parsons laughed. “Easy for you to say. You ever taste that slop they feed you?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“The truth is, I’m not sure I could have learned it any other way. I want to be a better man and father. I want my kids to have a normal childhood…I mean, as normal as possible with their mother gone.” Tough guy Sherman Parsons started to cry. He tucked his chin into his chest and his shoulders began to spasm.
There must be a point in everyone’s life when events got out of control and became a tsunami. Radhauser understood this as well as anyone could. He’d been washed away by grief and found himself months later, rootless, and standing on ground so unfamiliar, he’d had to move to a higher place.
Radhauser placed a hand on Parsons’ forearm. “It’s not too late for you to be that man. I suggest you get your shit in order. Services to Children and Families won’t let you take the kids home today. They’re going to want to do a home study—make sure it's a safe environment for them. You’ll need to find someone to take care of Jill and Junior when you’re at work. And stop drinking.”
“I been thinking about that a lot. Would it be awful if I asked my girlfriend to move in with me?” He paused and gave Radhauser a sheepish grin. “Yeah, I lied to you about having an affair—but you found that out for yourself, didn’t you? Cheryl’s a kind woman and I love her as much as I’ve ever loved anyone except my kids. She’s been with Junior and Jill a few times and I think she’d love them, too, if she had a chance. Cheryl had cancer and can’t have kids of her own. Hell, I’d even marry her if that’s what she wants.”
Radhauser thought about the photo of Sherman and the two kids Cheryl kept on her dresser and suspected he was right. "I think you need to prove to her that you've changed and can be faithful to her. Not to mention stop drinking so much. And if you do those things, I suspect you can build a life together. Now, what do you say we pay a visit to those kids of yours?"
He nodded, opened the passenger door, then stood for a moment, thumbing his shirttail into his jeans. “Thanks, Radhauser. I was pretty pissed off at you. But the truth is, you’ve been better to me than I deserved.”
They were halfway up the sidewalk when the front door burst open and Junior came racing out. The screen door slammed behind him. He didn’t stop running until he’d leaped into his father’s arms. “Daddy! You came back.”
A stocky, gray-haired woman of about fifty opened the door, holding Jill in her arms. She walked down the sidewalk and stopped a few feet from Parsons.
The baby was dressed in a pair of pink cotton slacks and glittery red sneakers. Her white shirt had a pink bunny appliqued on the front. She stared at her father for a few moments, her blue eyes wide, then tentatively reached out her arms for him to take her.
As he watched Parsons clutch his two children to his chest, the back of Radhauser’s eyes stung. Perhaps the man upstairs had pulled some strings and knew what Parsons needed to become a better person.
Maybe arresting the wrong man had been one of the best things Radhauser had ever done.
* * *
After dropping Parsons off at his house, Radhauser returned to the station. He printed Fayyad Hadad’s driver’s license photo, then headed across the street to the Greenleaf Restaurant. It was lunchtime and a steady stream of customers entered. Five people stood in line at the deli counter, waiting for their orders. On a sunny May day like this one, tourists and locals liked to take their sandwiches to nearby Lithia Park.
Radhauser seated himself in the booth Fayyad had described. He took off his Stetson and set it on the bench beside him. A few moments later the waitress appeared. She was a tall, slender brunette, young enough to be a part-time student at OSU. He introduced himself, showed his badge and took note of her name tag. “Is this your regular table, Irene?”
"Most of the time. But I fill in wherever they need me."
“Do you have just a moment to talk?”
She shot a glance at a man Radhauser assumed was the restaurant manager. He was busy filling take-out potato salad containers.
Irene returned her gaze to Radhauser. “I guess so.” She slid into the booth across the table from him.
He removed Fayyad’s photograph and set it in front of her. “Do you remember waiting on this man last night around six p.m.?”
She picked up the photo and studied it for a moment. “Sure. He comes in here a lot. Hard to miss the way he dresses. Especially now.”
“Was he alone?”
“He was at first, but this other man sat down across from him and they had a huge argument. It got so loud that the manager…” She shot another look at the man behind the deli counter. He was still occupied with customers. “He asked them to quiet down or find another place to eat.”
“What did the other man look like?”
“He was tall with red hair and a beard. Kind of like a skinny Paul Bunyan. He wore a green baseball cap. I noticed because most men take them off when they come in here.”
Radhauser opened his backpack, pulled out a folder and removed the photograph of Bradford Baker. “Is this the man you saw?”
“Yep. That’s him all right.”
“Did you hear what they were arguing about?”
“Just snippets. We were busy last night. People having an early dinner before the plays start. But it h
ad something to do with 9-11. The skinny guy was angry. And he accused the guy in the turban of being a terrorist or something.”
“Did they leave together?”
Irene smiled. “The green hat guy left in a huff. The turban guy threw some money on the table and followed him.”
“Do you happen to know what time it was?”
“Not exactly, but sometime around 6:30, I’d say.”
Radhauser thanked her for her help, ordered a chicken salad sandwich to go and left Irene a big tip. In his mind, he moved Fayyad Hadad from a person of interest to suspect. Why had he failed to mention this impromptu meeting with Baker just before he was murdered?
Did Radhauser have his man this time?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When a stop at both Fayyad’s apartment and the storefront he now used for his office and prayer house turned up empty, Radhauser headed for the Azamis’ apartment. He didn’t want to be late for their appointment with Police Chief Dennerson.
Radhauser, Daria and Kareem arrived at the Grants Pass police station at precisely three-thirty on Monday afternoon for their scheduled appointment. Just like in Ashland, protestors marched back and forth in front of the entrance. Two uniformed police officers were stationed to make sure they remained peaceful and orderly. Many held up signs with words like love and peace. “Justice for Ahmed,” they chanted. “Justice for Ahmed.”
Kareem looked up at Radhauser. “They want to help Baba jan.”
Radhauser nodded.
They entered through a big room occupied by only three police officers. All of them wore guns on their waists.
Daria stiffened beside him.
Kareem, still wearing the cowboy boots and hat Lizzie had given him, hid behind his mother’s robes.
One officer talked on the phone. Another, a woman, entered data into a computer. A third, Officer Sinclair, the same officer Radhauser had spoken with in the hospital ER, stood by the coffee machine. It looked like a quiet Monday afternoon in a small-town police station.
The female officer left her computer terminal and led them into the chief’s office.
When they entered, Dennerson stood.
Radhauser introduced himself.
Dennerson was an impressive figure in his uniform, with a line of colorful medals and awards for valor and service strung down the left side. Radhauser suspected he'd worn it on purpose to intimidate Daria. The chief was muscular, about sixty years old and stood six-two, just an inch shorter than Radhauser. His steel-gray hair looked as if every gleaming strand had been gelled into place. He shook Radhauser's hand, then offered his hand to Daria.
She ran her palms down the sides of her abaya, but said nothing.
Dennerson’s smile faded.
“Her religion forbids physical contact with a man who is not her husband, son or brother,” Radhauser explained.
Kareem stepped up to the chief and offered his hand.
Dennerson's smile returned as he shook Kareem's hand. Even the police chief couldn't resist this golden boy.
“May I ask what brings you here, Detective Radhauser?”
“Mrs. Azami asked me to accompany her. The Azamis are family friends. Her command of English isn’t perfect and she was uncomfortable coming here alone. She phoned me from the scene of the shooting. I was a witness to some of the actions by Officer Jenkins.”
Dennerson didn't look pleased but kept his opinions to himself.
The female officer pulled in another chair for Kareem and the three of them sat in front of Chief Dennerson’s massive walnut desk. On the matching credenza behind him were photographs of his family and pictures of Dennerson with the governor and other well-known government officials. An American flag and an Oregon state flag flanked the long credenza.
Somewhere, an air conditioner hummed, blasting too much cold air into the room.
A tape recorder was set up on Dennerson's desk. When he noticed Radhauser staring at it, Dennerson announced they were going to record the conversation. He situated himself in his chair and pushed the record button. "Okay then." He smiled, the lines around his mouth deepening. "I'd like to start with you, Kareem. Would you tell me what happened the night the policeman stopped your car?"
Kareem scooted forward in the chair. Following Radhauser’s lead, the boy took off his cowboy hat and set it in his lap. “Baba jan told me to get my jacket, that we would go to Dairy Queen and then walk in the park by the river. I like doing this walk very much.”
“So, you got in the car and headed to Grants Pass?”
“Yes. When I saw the Dairy Queen sign, I knew we were close. But the policeman was behind us and he flashed his lights. Baba jan said he must pull over, so he crossed the street and didn’t turn to go to Dairy Queen. I was very sad. But I could tell Mama and Baba jan were frightened. So, I didn’t say anything.”
“Then what happened?”
"Baba stopped our car and the policeman came to the window. He put his flashlight in my face and I couldn't see. He told Baba to give him papers. Mama got them from glove compartment. Baba asked the policeman to please say what Baba did wrong. Why did he make him stop?"
“And did the policeman answer his question?”
“No. He got very angry. The policeman looked at Mama. He pointed at her head and said, ‘take off that rag’. Baba jan, he was more upset. He tried to explain about her niqab and our religion. But the policeman didn’t listen. Mama took it off. The policeman told Baba jan to get out of car and put his hands on the roof where he could see them. I was very scared now. More scared than ever in my life. I went across the back seat so I could see my baba jan. I cried and I felt sick.”
Radhauser put his hand on Kareem’s knee to stop the shaking.
“And then what happened?” Dennerson asked.
“Mama rolled the window down. Baba said he was okay and reached for me. Then I heard the boom of the gun. And my Baba jan, he fell to the road and there was blood. I jumped out of the car and went to him. I begged him not to die. The policeman pointed his gun at me and told me to get back in the car.”
“And did you do what the nice policeman said?” Dennerson asked.
“No. I stayed on the road with my baba jan. Mama jumped from car and she screamed at the policeman. ‘Call an ambulance.’ She pushed on Baba jan’s stomach and there was blood on her hands. And she was crying. But the policeman said, ‘You people don’t get to make demands.’” Kareem’s eyes were wide and fixed as if he was watching something in the far distance.
Radhauser was impressed by the boy’s memory and the compelling way in which he’d rendered his account. He’d be willing to bet Chief Dennerson was sorry he’d taped Kareem’s version of what happened that night.
“At any point, did the nice policeman ask your father to do something and your father did not obey?”
Kareem thought for a moment. “He told Baba jan to keep his hands where he could see them, but…” The boy scrubbed at his eyes with the backs of his hands.
“Did your father obey?”
“No. He reached for me.”
Dennerson smiled. “That’s enough. Thank you, Kareem.”
Radhauser wanted to punch Dennerson hard enough to wipe that smug smile from his face. Instead, he reached over and put his hand on Kareem’s knee again to stop the trembling.
The boy had more to say. “When the ambulance came, the bad policeman said they cannot help Baba jan. He said the bomb squad must come before ambulance can take Baba jan to the hospital.”
“What the boy says is true,” Radhauser said.
Dennerson’s gaze shot over to Radhauser. “Did someone ask for your opinion?”
Radhauser didn't care. He intended to have his say. "When I arrived about a half-hour after the shooting, the ambulance was parked behind the patrol car. And the EMTs were standing in the road—a good four-hundred feet from the victim. I grabbed the stretcher, and with Mrs. Azami’s help, we loaded Ahmed onto it. The ambulance then took him to Three Rivers Hospital whe
re he underwent surgery to remove the bullet and his ruptured spleen.”
The police chief flashed a cold smile. “You disobeyed an order to stand down, Detective. You, of all people, should know better. If there had been a bomb in that trunk, you could have been killed.”
“I wasn’t worried about a bomb. And my disobedience may have saved an innocent man’s life. And prevented your officer from facing a murder charge.”
“Mr. Azami disobeyed a police order,” Dennerson said. “That makes him anything but innocent.”
It was clear this interview was merely a formality to Dennerson. He'd already made up his mind—was covering his ass and didn't give a damn about the truth or anything except protecting his officer. The realization came at Radhauser like a furious wasp, leaving its sting behind. "Under the circumstances Kareem just described, what father wouldn't reach out to his son?"
The chief’s look was filled with venom. “One with the good sense not to cross a police officer during these fearful times.” His eyebrows knitted together and the veins in his neck bulged. After taking a moment to compose himself, he turned to Daria. "Don't be nervous, Mrs. Azami. You've done nothing wrong." Dennerson's voice was sugar-coated now. "I merely want to better understand what happened Saturday night on Washington Street."
Daria straightened her back. “You are right, I do nothing wrong. Ahmed do nothing wrong. Badge 641 pull us over. We ask what we do. He does not say. Because he knows we do nothing.”
“Tell me in your own words exactly what happened.”
She did, confirming Kareem’s account.
“Did your husband obey Officer Jenkins’ commands?”
“Yes. He do what officer say.”
“Officer Jenkins reported that your husband became belligerent and irate.”
Red Hatchet Falls Page 23
