Odd things happen to cops who obsess on a case. They shed weight, or perhaps they put on weight. They turn edgy and stop worrying about offending others, especially “civilians” — that is, anyone with nothing to contribute, which is pretty much everyone. In this, they become as insular and defensive as the fugitives they are hotly pursuing.
Over the next two weeks, Phil Mohlman and Henry Pastern forged a solid team as they got back to the hard slogging on Hollis Street. Initially, the González meeting was judged by everyone in the policing fraternity as a washout, but the Mexican’s adamant denial that the gangs had taken out the Watsons impelled the detectives back to Forest Vale with renewed resolve. And so, as Henry was to recollect many times, perhaps González had achieved what he set out to do.
Chief Grady kept up the pressure with talk of “quantum leaps” and “clearing the ledger.” But Phil and Henry preferred to think of their case as a jigsaw puzzle. The pair arranged and rearranged constellations of forensic details, time sequences, and witness statements on the wall of Interrogation Room Number 5. They expressed confidence that Grady would have his killer soon.
“A Rubik’s cube with a magic solution just around the corner,” Phil promised, punchily churning up the metaphors.
Grady remained supportive of Homicide but demanded an update every third day. Henry and Phil bonded over their conviction that the key to the Watson killings lay inside the Hollis Street cordon, and they strove to complete a detailed dossier on every one of the residents. They became dreaded figures on the cul-de-sac as they forced the pace of their visits.
They worked to fashion a truce with their law enforcement critics, except Agent Rogers, who reported to Grady that Henry’s tête-à-tête with González was a screw-up, that Pastern had been gulled by the Mexican. But he wasn’t party to the conversation, was he? The chief, who was cautious by nature, kept the bigger picture in view and remained hopeful that González would funnel leads to Pastern or DeKlerk. He was inclined to believe Henry’s assessment that González was being honest when he professed no involvement in the local murders.
If the other federal agencies had ever sought control over the Watson case, they now abandoned their claims. The Wendover meeting was hardly a success, but no federal agent had ever managed to face the notorious drug dealer one-on-one, so there wasn’t much they could denounce. An outlandish episode turned into a nascent legend, and Henry gained considerable street cred. The glances he received when he visited the federal and state offices on Amelia Earhart Drive were now semi-respectful. Rogers rationalized the DEA’s pullback from the Hollis murders by dismissing the bloodbath as a localized incident.
As for DeKlerk, Henry and Phil dug a moat around Hollis and warned him not to cross it without permission. Staties and feds should not bother trying to enter the stone gates, either.
But the drug angle remained a raw issue. Rogers continued to assail DeKlerk for what he regarded as a humiliating fiasco in Wendover, and he persuaded his colleagues at the DEA in Salt Lake to minimize their collaboration with West Valley Police. Conduits dried up. Henry tried to compensate by spending long hours on various crime databases looking for parallel incidents. He was soon convinced that Boog DeKlerk’s re-involvement was essential.
“I trust him as far as I could throw a hogshead of Guinness,” Phil said.
“Sure,” Henry said, “but it will be faster to track down reports on drug incidents through Boog than on our own. I also need his advice on contacting González.”
“Stay away from González, I told you. Besides, I don’t know that he has Boog in his pocket, but you don’t want your voice appearing on a tap related to some Internal Affairs operation.”
“Do you believe Boog is regularly contacting González anyway?”
“I doubt Boog will risk dancing with the devil anymore. Grady and Rogers are suspicious.”
Henry still hoped to consult DeKlerk about the use of pipe bombs in the drug wars, but it was DeKlerk who ended up making the overture with a phone call one afternoon.
“Pastern, I called to confirm the tests on the two bags found at Number 5. High potency, if not highest quality, all of it. Superbud-standard. White widow, northern lights strains.”
The jargon was intended to impress Henry, which it did, prompting him to ask his “bomb” question. “Should I give González the list of components from the pipe bomb? He was interested in that.”
Henry paused while Boog assessed the dangers in dealing with González under the table. “I wouldn’t. The Mexican is no one’s ally in this case.”
Considering this unusual expression of caution by the South African, Henry called his partner. “What’s with Boog’s almost-friendly tone?”
“Yeah, Boog still hopes to rehabilitate his career, even though Grady has shifted him sideways from his job,” Phil stated. “Internal Affairs is starting an inquiry into Boog’s interactions with the Mexican. Boog needs friends.”
The flow of tips from the public dried up. Nobody had seen anything. Nobody knew much more of anything.
One afternoon as they climbed back into Phil’s sedan after another re-interview, Henry asked, “What now?” Phil drummed the dash with his hand and then shrugged.
They couldn’t sustain this two-man charge without results, and Henry began to search for fresh perspectives. Every day, he was tempted to contact Avelino González, but he knew that the furor would be too great. He considered phoning Peter Cammon again, but he was pretty sure Peter would tell him to stay patient.
He turned to Theresa. He let her read his final report to Chief Grady on the Wendover mano-a-mano. “I can’t figure out what González expected from me,” he said.
“Just a guess here, Henry,” she said, “but I don’t imagine he was a foaming-at-the mouth drug user when you met him alone, right? He wasn’t needy in any way?”
Henry, in part annoyed at himself for breaking all kinds of police rules by blithely handing her his report, as if demanding she edit the thing, transferred his pique onto her. “What’s your point?”
“What are you consulting me about?”
“You’re mad I didn’t show you the Wendover details before now.”
“No. You’re being tight-assed on the biggest question of all. Why did he talk to you? I’m a tax accountant. You’re like a tax avoider who flunked his audit. Fine, this report is what it is, but where’s the personal detail?” She halted before a coughing fit hit her and sipped from her ever-present water bottle. “For example, how many brothers does he have? Are they all dead? Has the Watson thing some personal connection to his family? Where’s your bottom line on González?”
“DeKlerk thinks his brothers, whether two or three, are in fact dead.”
“Tell me all your own reactions, Henry.”
Henry recounted every word of his conversation from the Quonset hut, trying to recall the quirky turns in his interchange with the Mexican. She unnerved him by jotting notes on a steno pad. After an hour, she got up and gave him a sloppy kiss and returned to her chair.
“My brave husband,” she said, though the compliment was spoiled by a wracking coughing fit. Henry read her list:
Severed head
Name changes
Sins
Cigars
Shakespeare
Evil
“What do these items have in common?” Theresa said.
Henry floundered in policeman mode. “They don’t help us in finding the murderer?”
“Think again. This criminal kingpin has shared his personal preoccupations with you. He reached out. Some indicate change in his life. Some focus on violence and evil. Others imply feelings of guilt. Personal change, confession, concern with violence. How about that?”
“You’re not an accountant, you’re Mrs. Freud.”
Theresa padded around the huge living room. “González is a man facing change, and he’s apprehensive. He vibrates with his own history, and, I believe, everywhere he goes he finds echoes of his own sins.”
“Which he won’t confess.”
“He’s not into confession but he finishes his conversation with you with talk of ‘evil.’ Mr. González wants to tell you something, but he doesn’t believe that his hypocrisy disbars him from passing judgement on the tragedy that unfolded on Hollis Street. Why this posture?”
“I’ve thought of calling him up. He left the door open to me.”
“Beware, husband.” Theresa had repositioned herself in her chair so as to take full breaths of the dry air on the patio. She disciplined her breathing, each inhalation measured, her movements slowed down. To Henry, she seemed more like the Delphic oracle than ever.
“Here’s how I imagine him,” she continued. “González is like an old vaquero probing the canyons in Old Mexico. An imperialista, unafraid to invade white-bread Utah and wander where he pleases. A drug entrepreneur, lord of the frontier. A Mexican patriot but an enemy of the establishment. Rogers was right, he’s a philosopher, too. A fanatic for Diego Rivera, you mention here, and Shakespeare. But listen to me: I can romanticize him, but don’t you dare, Henry. Something more is going on with Señor González, and he wants you to know it.”
Theresa sat back to regain her breath.