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(Thursday, May 8, 2014)
Mac had never been so grateful for a low-key day. He’d made his blotter calls, then worked on more phone interviews. His retired sergeant friend called him back. Norton had been washed out of boot-camp when he was implicated in a gang of young men who were beating up Latinos. “They would roam at night, find a guy, and beat the crap out of him,” Sarge said. “Norton was involved, no question, but he wasn’t charged by the local cops. So, the Marine Corps just discharged him on entry level separation and washed their hands of him.”
“And he left the state, reinvented himself as just a dumb jock college student?” Mac said slowly. “And gets a scholarship at a university up here?”
“Sounds like it,” Sarge said. “Would they do that?”
Mac didn’t know. “I’ll find out,” he promised. “Thanks, man.”
So, Mac called the athletic department at Western Washington University, and asked if Norton had played baseball, and had it been on scholarship?
“Pete Norton? Sure, I remember him. Walk on, I think. Let me check,” the assistant athletic director said.
Mac waited.
“Yup,” the ADA said cheerfully. “He was a walk-on. We lucked out there, because he could really play. Got a scholarship for his sophomore year and on, though.”
Mac thanked him and hung up. He thought about the discrepancy and wondered if it mattered. So, Norton had found a college, came up here and started over. He did get a scholarship eventually, so was the lie a big deal? He didn’t know. He added it to his list of questions he had for Norton. He’d corner him this weekend for a follow-up interview. Or call him Monday if he couldn’t.
He had coffee with Janet and updated her. Told her about Sensei and the number of followers.
“Forty thousand,” he said. “I just can’t get past that.”
“Drop in the bucket,” Janet said. “There’s a lot of militia growth. Southern Poverty Law Center says the white militia groups have more than doubled since President Obama was elected. They’re tracking over a thousand groups.”
Mac thought that over. “Most militias are small groups,” he said slowly. “A bunch of dumb fucks with guns. This feels different. From the ground level? Most of these guys see themselves as part of a small gun club — they’d be proud to be called a militia. Sensei is their guru, but not their commander. But from the command level? He’s got 40,000 men, loaded for bear, he could mobilize with an email. How many of them would actually respond to a call? No clue. But even if it’s 10 percent? A solid 4,000 is a hell of a lot of men to put on the streets — men who have guns, know how to use them, and have been indoctrinated that they are the patriots that will save this country from multiculturalism.”
“That certificate program,” Janet said.
“Yeah, and the wilderness survival weekends. These men have shot at another man,” Mac said. “I’m convinced of it.”
“So, have most veterans, though, right? Is that different?”
“Yes,” Mac said promptly, then had to think about it. “Yes, it is,” he repeated slowly. “Shooting at someone who has been clearly identified as an enemy of the United States, at the direction of your commanding officer is different. Very different. And if you’re a Marine in Afghanistan for instance, and you shoot at someone without that direction, you’re going to be court-martialed and serve jail time.
“This is more of a mob mentality,” Mac continued, thinking out loud. “The kind of mobs that lynched Black men in the South.”
“What about Norton’s role?” she asked. “Does his presence make it different in the minds of these men?”
“The reserves! Shit, Janet, I forgot to ask about the deputy reserves!” Mac said with frustration. How had he not thought of them?
“What’s important about them?” Janet asked. Mac suspected her questions were designed to help him think, not because she didn’t know.
“Reserves are volunteers, and mostly? They’re scary. They volunteer so they can ride around with real deputies, carry a gun and a badge, wear a uniform. They’re gung-ho wannabes. Most of them can’t qualify for it as a job,” Mac said as he thought about what the reserves would mean to a man like Norton. “Couldn’t pass some requirement for the police academy. They get a job driving delivery trucks or something and sign up for the reserves.”
“So why are you so concerned about reserves in Skagit?”
“Because, Sensei might not be the only one forming his own extrajudicial force,” Mac said grimly. “Norton may be, too.”
“Except with Norton?” Janet added thoughtfully. “It’s a legally sanctioned force, Mac.”
Mac called the friendly sheriff deputy back and asked her about the reserves. “Yeah, we’ve got a bunch,” she said. “Seventy or so. Norton spends a lot of time drilling them, working with them. I’ve had one or two patrol with me, but they make me uncomfortable. Over-eager, you know?”
Mac thanked her and put away his phone. “That’s three times the number I’d expect,” Mac said. He’d learned a lot about how law enforcement was structured in the last three years, he thought. Lots of stupid trivia sometimes paid off.
“They’re even called a posse,” Janet contributed.
“Yeah,” he said. “They are.” So why hadn’t Norton mobilized them to help with the search for the missing hiker? The dispatcher had mentioned that she’d tried, and he got really angry. But that’s what they were often used for — search and rescue, ride-alongs with deputies. And in a well-run department, they did a lot of good, he admitted. The problem were the departments that weren’t well run. Departments like Skagit Valley’s? What was Norton using them for?
After work, Mac hit the gym for an hour, and then ended up at Anchors for happy hour with Steve’s team. They talked sports mostly, he found, which was fine, and about beers which he just listened to, bemused, because when he had been a drinker, beer was pretty much a half-dozen brands, and a Heineken was thought to be avant-garde. And the hamburger was still good.
Mike waited until they were walking out to bring up his research. “So, preliminary results?” he said, sounding troubled. “There’s been a huge up-tick in mentions of guns in the civil records, and it’s growing almost exponentially. I’ve never seen anything like it, Mac. I need to re-run the data, to make sure I didn’t do something wrong in the search. And geographically? I did it per capita, but the hot spots are in Seattle suburbs stretching north to Bellingham. Not what I would have expected. Grant you, gun collectors in rural areas might not be considered note-worthy in these kinds of proceedings, but...,” he trailed off. Mike shook his head. “It worries me. I’d like to do a sampling from five years ago for comparison. You OK with that?”
“Sure,” Mac said, wondering why Mike even asked. Maybe initiative isn’t rewarded over in Special Projects.
“What do you want me to do with all this data?”
“Build an infographic to accompany my story?” Mac suggested. “Put in whatever you think is significant.”
Mike tipped his head to the side and looked at Mac quizzically. “Janet give you that kind of freedom?”
“Freedom?”
“Yeah, I’d have to present all this data to Steve, and we’d review it as a group. Steve would decide what should be the most prominent finding, and I’d build the information according to his directions. And then a graphic designer would be brought in to do the packaging.”
Mac shrugged. “We don’t usually have that kind of time line,” he pointed out. “I’d tell Janet I had some numbers, and I was going to graphic design to get them to do a graph or chart or map or whatever. And when I had it, I’d tell her what the dimensions were. Then she’d review it when she edited my story. Of course, usually those kinds of graphics are much simpler. A locator map, or the crime stats for last month. But you’re the expert on the numbers you’re finding. Why would I dictate what you should do with them?”
Mike looked conflicted for a moment, and then he sighed. “How much do you know about the newsroom politics happening right now?”
“Not enough,” Mac said. “What’s going on that’s got you bothered?”
“Rumor has it that there are going to be major cuts in this budget — July 1. The probability is that the Special Projects unit will be eliminated, and we’ll be merged into the general newsroom. I’m not as opposed to that as I was on Monday. Working with you on a beat story makes me see why Janet thinks that’s how it always should be: that special projects should come out of the beats and not be completely separate. But the big issue is who would run the combined newsroom — Janet or Steve?”
“Two very different styles of management,” Mac said. Shit, he thought.
“Yeah,” Mike agreed, and he headed away from Mac toward his own car. “Top down, or bottom up. You wouldn’t be allowed this kind of autonomy if Steve Whitaker is the news editor.”
Mac just nodded, and got into his car. He wouldn’t be in Steve Whitaker’s newsroom, he thought. Either by his choice or by Steve’s, he’d be gone in a month. Just how deep were those cuts? And who would know? Someone outside the editorial division would be best to ask. Advertising? Circulation?
He put that on the back burner, and thought about where he needed to go next — a painted lady Victorian in the U District — and the talk he dreaded to have with Kate Fairchild.
He sent her a text inviting her for a walk as he took the exit to the U district, and then he focused on his driving. Driving through the U District was worse than a military defensive driving test. Pedestrians ignored sidewalks, crosswalks and even traffic lights. Cars made left hand turns from the right lane, or U-turns on yellow lights. There was music blaring from a house party, and down the street, a group of young men were hanging out a window and yelling at the young women walking down the sidewalk. Mac couldn’t tell if the young women liked the attention or hated it. He doubted the men could either.
He parked in front of the old Victorian Kate and her mother ran as a boarding house for Christian college students, most of whom came from rural small towns and found Seattle overwhelming. Kate was now a teacher herself at 26 and working on her master’s in biology — which seemed odd for a woman who didn’t believe in evolution, Mac thought yet again.
She came out the door with a light jacket on and smiled at him. He smiled back, took her arm, and tucked her up against him.
“You’re ending things, aren’t you?” she said when they’d walked a block or so without comment.
“Yes,” he said, grateful to her for making it easy. “Yes, because I will never be able to give you the kind of home you want. I want a home, too. But I can’t give up who I am and my relatives and friends to fit into your world, Kate. I won’t ever believe what you believe. And it’s better that we go our separate ways now before we hurt each other.
“This way our paths will cross decades from now and I’ll say Professor Kate? Yes, I knew her back when. And you’ll say that reporter for the Examiner? Yes, I knew him when he was just starting out.”
She smiled at him, a bit shaky, but it was a smile. “Are you sure, Mac? You know I believe God loves you and has a plan for your life.”
“I know, Kate,” he said, and hesitated, then added, “But if God loves me and made me like I am, then why are you and your church so determined to change me into something I’m not?”
She said nothing. They’d made it around the block and were nearing her house. She stopped, “Thank you, Mac,” she said. “I’m grateful to you for so many things. You’ve broadened my perspective on things, you’ve made me question. That hasn’t been always easy, but I’ll never regret it. You taught me about physical love, more than you will ever know. And I’m grateful you did this, like this. You didn’t leave me wondering what did I do wrong? You didn’t blame me. And I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Mac smiled at her. He kissed her gently, and let it linger. “You’ve given me a lot too, Kate,” he said. “I’ve gotten a taste of what a home looks like. You remember the day we met?”
She nodded. There was tears in her eyes, but she was laughing. “I was making brownies,” she said.
Mac laughed. And she’d had handprints on her butt where she’d wiped floured hands. “And you said, want to scrape the bowl like when you were a kid?”
She nodded and looked puzzled.
“First time I’d ever scraped the bowl,” he said quietly. “Baking wasn’t something my mom did. First time, I’d ever had a lot of homey things that you take for granted. And you’ve made me realize how hungry I am for a home.”
She kissed him gently. “There’s always a seat at the table for you, Mac,” she said. “Just let us know, and we’ll squeeze in another plate.”
Mac knew they probably would, but he’d never ask.
He kissed her once more and walked to his car, and turned to make sure she was in the house safely. She waved and closed the door. And he looked over to the window, and saw her mother Naomi standing there. He lifted his hand in farewell, saw her nod and then she turned away.
Mac got in his car, and for a moment he just sat there, looking at the big old house, and the potential it had enticed him with.
He remembered something Janet had said early on: “The problem is Mac, you can’t unknow what you know. For good or bad, you know things that won’t fit in her world.”
“I love you, Kate Fairchild,” he said softly. And then he started the car and pulled away.