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Mac decided some things were done best in person and talking to gun shop owners was probably one of them. He made printouts of the photos from the morning and went to visit a gun shop where he bought some of his weapons.
Hank Owens was in his 60s, wiry, thin, energetic. He was mostly bald with a fringe of white hair that he kept trimmed close. The owner of Shoreline West Guns, north of Seattle, Hank had been a Green Beret back in the day. A lot of vets like Mac found him comfortable to deal with.
Mac showed him the photographs. Hank squinted at them and scowled. He turned to his desk and found a loupe; something Mac hadn’t used since his college photojournalism class. Hank looked at the photos again.
“Like a team photo, but with AR-15s?” Hank mused out loud. “Vets? They don’t look like vets.”
“The one I know isn’t,” Mac said. “How’s business been? The guy’s house I saw this morning probably had 100 guns stashed away in it.”
“It’s been good,” Hank agreed. “But not unusually so. And nothing that felt like a run on something or anything weird. But then really? Those pictures feel weird, and stockpilers can be very strange dudes. But they’re usually harmless. They just like guns.”
“A banker, an accountant and a desk jockey at the Port Authority,” Mac said, quoting Rodriguez.
“I am seeing more of that kind of clientele,” Hank said, still looking at the photos. “Which is good news for me; they have money.”
He took the loupe back to the photograph again. “Huh, thought I recognized him. That big dude in the back row? That’s the owner of Marysville Tactical Guns. He might know something. But that’s an even weirder place for a bunch of white desk dudes to be hanging out, I’d think.”
“Surprised they could even find it,” Mac agreed. He thanked Hank and bought some ammunition to encourage further good will. Besides, he always needed more ammo. He got out to the truck and added his purchase to the locked box under the spare tire. He was cautious about his weapons; he thought everyone should be. Having been set up by an old Marine friend who stole one of his weapons had only enhanced his paranoia. There were people out to get you; no sense making it easy for them.
He looked at his watch. Not even noon yet. Marysville was even further north of Seattle, but at this time of day it would probably only take him 30 minutes. Getting back home again was another matter. Rush hour in Seattle started at 3 p.m.
He shrugged. He wanted to know how a gun dealer in Marysville got to be in a “team photo” with a bunch of desk jockeys from Seattle. He liked that term of Rodriguez’s. Made him laugh.
The shop was closed for lunch when he got there. He frowned and walked the neighborhood. It was just what he’d expected. Run-down, a couple of car repair shops. A carwash. Two pawn shops that also sold guns. Marysville wasn’t quite as dangerous as it used to be, Mac had heard, but it was still poor. And he knew first hand that poor and crime went hand-in-hand. At least the kind of crime that made it into the police blotter.
Twenty minutes later the “big dude in the back row” came back to his shop and opened it up. Mac pushed up his sleeves so his Marine tats were visible on his forearms. He usually preferred to keep them covered. But here? He shrugged.
He went inside. The shop was better kept than the outside might have suggested. Mac looked around with interest. He wasn’t in the market for a new weapon right now, but you never knew.
“Help you?” the man asked.
“Mac Davis. I’m a reporter for the Seattle Examiner. Hope you might help me out.”
“Oh Lord, another liberal journalist who doesn’t know an AK-47 from an AR-15 and wants to know why I’m against gun registration,” he said.
Mac laughed. “Do I look like some bleeding-heart liberal?” he asked, genuinely amused. “I spent four years as a Marine in Afghanistan. And those were the years I carried legally.”
“Sorry,” the man said. “Craig Anderson, Army, Desert Storm. I don’t have much patience for the clueless ones.”
“I hear you,” Mac agreed. “And I have to put up with a lot more of them for longer periods of time than you do.” And that was no lie, he thought.
“OK, so how can I help you?” Anderson said. “You buying? Or what?”
This could get expensive if he bought ammo at every stop. “Looking for some information,” he said. “But I might stock up a bit on some ammo for a 9mm.”
“I can help you with the second, but information?” He shrugged. “Ask.”
Mac brought out the photograph and pointed at him in it. “So, got a strange call out this morning,” he began and told him about the murder. Craig Anderson winced at the death of the children.
“Not the gun’s fault,” he said.
“No,” Mac agreed. “He’d have grabbed the butcher knife if a gun wasn’t there. But what was weird is he must have had 100 weapons. In his garage, in his house. And he’s like some desk jockey downtown. Strange. And on his wall were several of these pictures. Like they’re some sports league team photos. A friend recognized you. So, I thought I’d come out and ask if this was some new craze among the middle-class, white-collar crowd?”
Craig Anderson snorted. “That about sums it up,” he agreed.
Anderson got a Pepsi out of the cooler behind the counter. Raised it in question.
“A Mountain Dew if you’ve got one.”
The big gun dealer pulled one out of the cooler and tossed it to Mac. He caught it. Popped the top, and took a long swallow.
“So? White-collar gun stockpilers?” Mac asked.
“Been, oh about eight months ago,” Craig Anderson said, settling against the counter comfortably. He was in no hurry. “Gotta call from a man I know who runs a range, teaches some classes, does gun safety. Good enough guy. He’d been approached by a bunch of men who wanted to learn to shoot. Well, sure he says, that’s what he does, teach people to shoot. But these guys didn’t want to learn to shoot one kind of gun, they wanted to learn to shoot them all.”
“Learn them all,” Mac said slowly. “What kind of bullshit is that?”
“Right?” He drank some of his Pepsi. “So, he says sure, let’s start with the basics. I think he started them with a .22 pistol for Christ’s sake. But they stayed with it. And they wanted to buy guns. So, he’s got to make a living, like we all do. These guys are willing to pay good money, and so he develops a checklist and certification and what have you.”
The two of them looked at each other and cracked up.
Craig Anderson took another swallow, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “And he calls me. Every Saturday for the last year, I go out to his range and show them my weapons. They have to get certified by my friend first, and we do it all by-the-book legal. And then they move up to the next level of weapon. That’s a picture of the group who have made it to the AR-15 level. They wanted a group photo.”
He laughed again, and shook his head. “Got me what they’re up to, but it’s been a nice piece of income for the store.”
“The guy this morning probably had 100 weapons,” Mac said slowly. “Everything from an AK-47 to a busted-up shotgun. That’s beyond what you’re talking about.”
“Sure is,” Craig agreed. “I wouldn’t sell an AK-47, and my friend isn’t teaching these wannabes to shoot one either. Might have a busted-up shotgun, though.”
Mac wasn’t sure he bought the bit about not selling an AK-47, bet he would — and could — if Mac plopped enough money on the counter. But he didn’t push him. “Everyone’s got a busted-up shotgun,” Mac said, sourly. “They just don’t usually have a hundred other guns to go with it.”
A bit more chat and Craig Anderson agreed to call his friend and see if he’d talk to Mac. While he made the call, Mac wandered the store looking at the inventory. Nothing spoke to him.
Craig handed over a piece of paper with a name, address, and phone number on it. “Said he’d be happy to talk to you,” he said. “Recognized your name.”
Mac looked at the name on the paper. “Yeah,” Mac said. “We know each other.”
He bought more ammo and wondered if he could write it off on his expense account. He wondered if he even had an expense account.
Mac freely admitted he’d been a punk kid. He’d run the streets of Seattle with his cousin Toby, the son of his Aunt Lindy and her Black ex-husband, and with Shorty, a Filipino-Mexican kid, who remained his best friend. They’d been doing car thefts and running them on consignment down to the Bay area. The night they got caught, Shorty hadn’t been with them. Toby had just turned 18, got tried as an adult, and did time. Mac had been almost 17, and a judge did him a favor — gave him probation if he’d sign up and ship out after graduation. Mac did four years as a Marine in Afghanistan, and it had occurred to him that time in JD lockup would have been a shorter sentence. And safer. Probably safer anyway.
But he came back clean and sober, went to college on VA benefits, and found he had a knack for telling a story. He got a job at the Examiner, moved into the top floor of his Aunt Lindy’s home on Queen Anne, and was doing good.
Not as good as Shorty, who was a data-miner making big bucks on the weekend and teaching math in Bellevue the rest of the time. He often joked he was the only teacher who could actually afford to live inside his district.
But still, Mac was doing good enough. It hurt that his cousin wasn’t. But that had more to do with drugs than a criminal record.
So, the cop who had busted him all those years ago — 11 years ago — had been a guy named Andy Malloy. Street cop. Spotted what he thought were two black teens in a Mercedes coupe heading south on I-5 from the U-district. Pulled them over on suspicion of Driving While Black. Toby had tried to make a run for it. And then took the fall when they were caught. Mac had always been bitter, because he was pretty sure that if they’d looked white they wouldn’t have been pulled over that night. He knew it was the thing that turned him around. But that bothered him too, because he wondered if he didn’t get the break because he was the white cousin and not the black one.
“So, Andy Malloy is running a gun range these days?” he said out loud, looking at the piece of paper. “Did he retire? He couldn’t be that old.”
He looked at his watch and then did a map search: 10-20 minutes, but further out. Damn it, he didn’t want to come all the way up here for a second trip.
But he wasn’t about to walk into a gun range owned by Andy Malloy without more information. He called Rodriguez.
“Yeah.”
“You remember a cop named Andy Malloy?”
“I remember him,” Rodriguez said sourly. “Why?”
“Because he’s the guy that’s running the gun range for desk-jockey gun nuts,” Mac said.
Rodriguez was fluent in Spanish. At least the swear words. Fancy that. Mac waited until he got it out of his system.
“He’s the cop that busted me and my cousin,” Mac said neutrally. It had been a righteous bust. The Mercedes had been stolen, after all. “Why did he leave the force?”
“That I know,” Rodriguez said. “Couple years later he got booted off for excessive force. Grand jury failed to indict.”
No surprise, Mac thought. Cops had limited immunity to prosecution. Which basically meant if you were a cop and wanted to shoot someone, wear your uniform.
“When was this?” Mac asked.
Rodriguez was silent. “About six years ago? So, you were in Afghanistan? College?”
“Yeah. Or in transition,” Mac agreed. “Not that I would have cared. I wanted to be a sportswriter.”
Rodriguez grunted.
“What happened? Must have been serious if they actually booted him and made it stick.” Mac had a lot of respect for the police union. It protected their own. Rotten apples and all.
“He killed a kid,” Rodriguez said bluntly. “The kid sassed him, and Malloy shot him. He should have gone down for it, but he didn’t. Malloy said he was coming at him; thought he was hopped up on something. Kid had had his growth spurt — 12 years old and probably stood 6-feet tall. We lost a great future basketball player that day.”
Cop humor was dark.
“Damn it, Rodriguez,” Mac said. “Any drugs in his system?”
“No.”
“I suppose I can take it for granted it was a Black kid,” Mac said sourly.
Rodriguez was silent.
“It must not have been the first accusation of excessive force,” Mac mused.
Still silence.
“Anything on public record I can use?” Mac asked, understanding what the silence meant. It meant all the crazy shit was buried in personnel files. Maybe he should stop being a bit bitter that Driving While Black sent his cousin to jail, and be glad it wasn’t Black and Dead.
“Maybe,” Rodriguez said slowly. “Why ask me? Ask Janet. I think you all ran stories about it.” He paused. “You’re not in the office. Tell me you’re not in Arlington, Mac.”
“Not yet,” Mac said. “But I’m 10 minutes away.”
He filled Rodriguez in about Craig Anderson.
“No priors,” Rodriguez said eventually.
No surprise. Hard to sell guns in Washington state with a criminal record. Well, sell them legally, at any rate.
“Mac,” Rodriguez began.
Mac waited for him to finish the sentence. He didn’t.
“I’ll be careful, mom,” Mac said, amused.
“I knew Malloy,” Rodriguez said. “He’s a bit older than I am, but he’s a cop’s cop, you know? Ex-military, two ex-wives, and an alcohol problem.”
Mac snorted.
“And he had a hard-on about you and your cousin. Thought the judge had been too lenient on your cousin, and he was outraged that you weren’t tried as an adult and serving time instead of and I quote, ‘besmirching the uniform of a Marine,’.”
Mac frowned, did the math. “You must have been a rookie, back then?”
“When you were busted? Still on street patrol, but not a rookie anymore,” Rodriguez agreed. “But he was still grousing about it years later, Mac. He held court at the Oak Rail, you know, the cop bar? He’d drink and start talking about the ones that got away. He blamed liberal courts, restrictive laws on what cops could and couldn’t do, and that damn PC culture that meant he couldn’t call a sp-c a sp-c and a n—-ger a...,” he trailed off. “You get the picture.”
“And I was the case in point? A fucked-up kid in a stolen car? Jesus, Rodriguez, that’s daily news,” Mac said, incredulous.
“Yeah, but let’s not talk about the fact that you and your cousin weren’t joy riding on a lark,” the cop said dryly. “We managed to reduce our car theft numbers considerably when he busted you two.”
Mac laughed. “No comment.”
“No, what bothered him was that he thought you were both Black until he got a look at you, and then he decided you were Hispanic. So, he thought he’d bagged a two-fer, as he called it, and then the courts, and again this is a quote, ‘pussied out’.”
“I can see how you two would have been tight,” Mac observed. He might be Latino, he might be Black. He didn’t know. Bugged him sometimes. Seemed like every time he turned around, someone was asking him to fill out a form and state his race. And he didn’t have an answer. How could he? His mother wasn’t sure. Old news. He set it aside.
“I went out and bought a round at the Oak Rail to celebrate when they made his dismissal stick,” Rodriguez agreed. “Don’t get me wrong. You were just two examples in a whole litany of grievances he had. If he’d had his way, he would have been allowed to ride around on a horse and shoot anyone he thought deserved it.”
“Sounds like he did,” Mac said. “Except for the horse part.”
Twelve years old. Jesus H. Christ. And fuck his attempts to clean up his language.
“All of this is to say you really shouldn’t be going to see Malloy alone,” Rodriguez said.
“How sweet that you care,” Mac said.
“Mac,” he began.
“Look, Lieutenant,” Mac said. “Have you seen the newsroom staff? Who the hell am I to take as back up? Janet would be the best the newsroom has to offer, and I’m not even kidding. If I had someone else along, they’d just be someone I had to worry about protecting if things go bad.”
“Take that sidekick of yours.”
“Shorty? Shorty is a math teacher in Bellevue. He likes being a math teacher. He doesn’t want to have to carry a gun again ever.” They’d had a serious conversation about exactly that after Janet’s rescue. And Mac was determined to respect his views. He didn’t have that many friends to begin with. “Besides are you seriously suggesting I take a Filipino-Mexican as backup to talk to a racist ass of an ex-cop?”
“I’d ask the Arlington cops to do a drive by just in case, but Madre de Dios they’re probably members of his gun range,” he muttered.
Mac was silent. Rodriguez was truly worked up about this. “Nick,” he said, using the man’s first name, something he rarely did. “I’ll call the office so they know where I am. I’m carrying. I’ll call you back when I’m done. If I don’t call you back in two hours, then send in the cavalry — preferably someone who would be on my side not his. OK?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rodriguez said. “Hell, if you can’t take care of yourself against Malloy? That would be embarrassing.”
“It would,” Mac agreed. “Now let me get off the phone so I can have this same conversation with Janet. By the time I’m done, I’m going to face rush hour traffic all the way home.”
“Be careful, Mac,” was all he said as he hung up.
His prediction that Janet would have similar worries proved true.
“Be careful, Mac,” she said finally, the worry still in her voice.
“Yes, mom,” he said. She laughed.
By the time he’d concluded that conversation, he was sitting in the parking lot of Malloy’s Gun Range, and a vaguely familiar man with a flat-top was standing in the entrance with his arms folded across his chest.
Mac moved his Glock from the bottom of his backpack to his jacket pocket, and got out. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder.
“Thought you might be having second thoughts about coming in,” the man said.
“Nah, called into the office and couldn’t get them off the phone,” Mac said. “Must be nice being your own boss.”
Mac stuck out his hand. “Mac Davis,” he said. “Reporter for the Seattle Examiner. Craig Anderson called you?”
Andy Malloy looked at Mac’s hand. For a moment Mac thought he was going to refuse to take it, but he did. And then tried to turn it into a competition of who would wince first. Mac didn’t play. He just released his hand.
“Yeah, he called me,” Malloy said. “You want a tour?”
“I’d appreciate it.” He fell in step with the ex-cop.
Malloy had the spiel down. And it was a sweet set-up for a range. If it were closer, he’d sign up himself. And he said so. Malloy gave a short nod.
“So, Craig said you’re asking questions about my certification program?”
“Yeah. Let me tell you about my morning.”
“Not the gun’s fault,” Malloy said predictably.
“Nope. He’d have gone for a butcher knife if he hadn’t the gun. They’d still be dead, and the only difference would be the amount of blood splatter,” Mac said. He believed that. Kind of. “So, he had these team photos on his wall but with AR-15s instead of a basketball, and I got curious. He’s some kind of desk jockey, after all. A friend recognized Craig, and I came down. He told me about your certification program.”
Mac shrugged. “It sounds like a good idea, so I figured I’d come see you. Do a feature about what you’re doing.”
“Why are you really here, Davis?”
“I’m looking to find out why a bunch of desk jockeys have weapon stockpiles. They pulled 100 guns out of that guy’s house this morning,” Mac said. “It’s the third stockpile by a guy like that in the last month. But that’s the long-range question. Short term? My boss will want me to have a story for tomorrow’s paper. And a feature on a guy who’s teaching people to use guns safely? She’ll like it. So, tell me about it. And you can also tell me why all these guys want hundreds of guns.”
Malloy snorted. “Not sure why. They say it’s for when SHTF. But where they got that notion? Beats me.”
“So how does your program work?”
Malloy walked him through it, and gradually warmed up to talking more about it. “Shit, it’s weird,” he admitted. “Team photos. I expect they’ll be selling each other T-shirts next. They already have one of mine. They think they’re tough because they stood in a photo with Craig Anderson. But I figure if they’re going to be obsessed with guns, they ought to get training on them. And if they bought those guns through Craig? He makes sure the paperwork is done on all the sales. Bunch of law-abiding fuckers stockpiling guns.”
Mac jotted it all down. He took some photos.
“You said SHTF?” Mac asked.
“Shit Hits the Fan,” Malloy said. “It’s a big thing online. They’ve got lists of the best weapons to have — and the list is usually 10 or so weapons long and includes AK-47s.”
“So not preppers, really, but kind of?” Mac said, making a note to check it out when he got back to the office.
“Yeah, I don’t think they plan to live off their stores of freeze-dried batshit,” Malloy agreed. “With the weapons they want to have, they’re looking at rampaging and living like some kind of overlord.”
Mac considered that and shook his head. “Somebody’ll take their weapon stash on day three,” he said. Hell, it might be him.
Malloy laughed. “You got that right.”
Mac started walking back toward the entrance. He looked around. It was a clean, well-managed range. He was impressed.
“So, these guys have a Sensei of some sort? They ever mention a name?” Mac asked. He looked back, Malloy had fallen a few steps behind and was now pointing a Sig Sauer P228 at him. Nice gun, too bad they don’t make them anymore, was his first thought.
“Jesus, Malloy,” Mac said. “What the fuck?”
“Get off my property,” he said. “Or I’ll shoot you for trespassing.”
Mac started backing toward the exit. “I’m leaving, already. You going to tell me why you’re pissy after we’ve been talking for nearly an hour?”
“You think I buy that you’re here to look at a gun range? You? Nah. You’re looking to pin those men’s stockpiles on me. What? Get some revenge points?”
“Nothing wrong with them stockpiling,” Mac observed. He shrugged his backpack over his left shoulder. “I’m looking for a story, not revenge, man.”
Malloy snorted. “Then why are you asking about Sensei? Huh?”
Mac put both hands in his pockets, as he backed out the exit, his eyes not leaving the man in front of him. “I meant it in general terms of a mentor, or guide,” he said quietly. “Some in the Marines used it, especially those in martial arts, it seemed to fit here. I didn’t mean a particular person.”
He paused. His hand was now on his weapon, and he felt better. And maybe that made him bolder, too bold, he thought later.
“Is there a Sensei?” he asked. “A person who’s guiding these men to you?” he said, then
ducked quickly to the side of the doorway. But it was still a close call. Too close. He hugged the wall just outside the exit and pulled his own weapon. He eyed his vehicle. He had no plans to shoot the old man.
But he had no plans to get shot today either.
He moved on a diagonal to his right to avoid stepping in front of the entrance or exit, and then, on another diagonal to his left to the 4-Runner. He got in, started the truck, his gun still loosely held at his side. It wasn’t until he was driving out of the parking lot that he safetied the gun and set it down. He looked back.
Malloy was standing in front of the entrance watching him leave.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck was that about?” he said out loud. His hands shook.
He found a roadside bar near the I-5 freeway and pulled into the parking lot. He went inside, ordered a Mountain Dew. These old working-man bars always had them, he’d found. He had never been brave enough to check the expired by date on the bottom of the can, but they had them. He drank it thirstily then ordered some fries.
While he was waiting, he pulled out his computer, typed up his notes from the encounter with Malloy. Sent them into Janet’s queue. When the bell above the door clinked, he looked up as two uniform cops came into the bar. The waiter brought out his fries, and asked the cops what they wanted today, encouraging them toward the patty melt blue-plate special.
One of them said something, gesturing toward Mac. Mac saved his file. Shut down the computer. Ate some fries.
“You just out at Andy Malloy’s Gun Range?” the older of the two cops asked him.
The cops were young, white and carrying enough weaponry to launch an assault on a Taliban stronghold. The slightly younger and taller of the two stood back, his thumbs hooked in his belt. Mac looked at the one who spoke to him.
“I’m Mac Davis, a reporter for the Seattle Examiner,” he said evenly. “I just wrapped up an interview with Andy — he invited me out there. Call Craig Anderson, he set it up. You know Craig? Over in Marysville?”
From the expression on his face, he did know Craig.
“Andy doesn’t like you,” the cop said.
Mac shrugged. “Andy doesn’t like most people,” he said.
“Maybe you should forget the fries and leave Arlington now,” the other cop said. “Be a shame for us to have to run you in on a citizen’s complaint.”
Mac stood up, started putting things in his bag. His phone rang. Janet.
“Hi boss,” he said, holding up one finger to the officers. They weren’t taking it well that he’d answered his phone. As if he gave a flying fuck.
“Yeah, I thought it was interesting. But get this. He put in a call to the Arlington police, and they came to roust me while I ate lunch.”
“What?” Janet said. “Are they there right now?”
“Un-huh.”
“Ask them for their names and badge numbers,” she ordered.
Mac looked up at the cops. “It’s my boss at the newspaper. She wants your names and badge numbers?”
“Fuck that,” said the shorter cop.
“Did you hear him?” Mac said. “Seems like an odd name.”
Janet snorted. “Don’t bait the man, Mac,” she said dryly. “Just read the badge on his chest.”
“Brown, L. #32,” he said. He squinted a bit. “Winters, C. #44.”
“What does she want with that?” Brown said, suspiciously.
Mac shrugged. “Janet, he wants to know why you want those?”
“Because I’m going to call the Arlington police chief and complain,” she said exasperated.
Mac looked back at the cops. He ate another fry. They’d been pretty good, but now they were cold. And cold fries sucked.
“She said she’s going to call your boss and complain,” he repeated. “And I’m going to get on my way, before she remembers she’s my boss and chews me out a new one for not heading directly back to the office.”
“We’re not done here,” Winters said.
“Yes, you are,” Mac said coldly, now that he was standing up and in a better position to defend himself.
“Mac, don’t swing first,” Janet warned him.
Mac laughed. “She says I can’t swing first,” he repeated to them. “Note she didn’t say anything about what happens if one of you punches me.”
The cook came out from back. “Gentlemen, if there’s going to be a problem? Could you take it outside?”
Mac used it as a diversion to slide past the officers. “Good fries, man. Sorry these guys screwed it up, and they got cold.” He tossed a $20 on the counter and with a nod, he exited the bar, the bell above the door ringing again.
“You still there?” Mac asked as he got back in his car. The cops were still inside. Maybe they’d eat lunch before coming out themselves. Or maybe they were waiting for back up.
“Yeah,” Janet said. “You OK?”
“I’m almost on the freeway, and headed out of Arlington. If I’m lucky, for good,” Mac assured her. He hung up, then called Rodriguez and told him what had happened.
“Sensei?” Rodriguez asked. “Doesn’t ring a bell, except you know as a cheesy gimmick thing in some movie.”
Mac laughed. “Yeah. Couldn’t believe he was serious. Still wasn’t sure until the cops showed up.”
“I’ll see about asking that guy from this morning,” Rodriguez said.
“You picked him up?”
“Yeah, he’s none too bright,” Rodriguez groused. “Who runs away from their arsenal? Without a weapon?”
Mac laughed, and focused on driving south through rush hour traffic. Damn it.