| |
(Sitka. Present Day. Still Tuesday.)
Wyckoff was in the passenger seat. One of Paul’s many cousins was driving. Purdue looked out at the town from the back seat as they headed up to the hospital. It was a pretty town, he thought.
“So, do you believe her story? You think Duke killed a couple of men because one was a cop?” he asked.
Wyckoff hesitated. “Hard to dispute it, since I’m missing another cop right now,” he said finally.
Purdue snorted. “True. Native cops it looks like.”
The other man sighed. “We’ve got real problems in this state. I assume you’ve read the newspaper articles?”
Purdue had. Some remote villages had no local cops. Others paid so little, only men with criminal records applied — including sexual assault convictions. The Anchorage Daily News had won a Pulitzer for their reporting on the issue. Deservedly. After that, more money was supplied to the state patrol for more officers. More oversight. Purdue wasn’t sure it was going to make a difference.
“Add in Black Lives Matter calling attention to police brutality toward non-whites in the Lower 48?” Wyckoff said. “Did you know police shootings are higher among Native Americans than in the Black communities? True nationwide. Most certainly true here.”
The Kitka who was driving looked over at Wyckoff but didn’t say anything. He pulled into the parking lot and shut off the car.
Wyckoff turned and looked at Purdue over the seat. “So yes. I believe Sitka has had a history of beating up Alaska Natives, if for no other reason than it’s true everywhere.”
Purdue nodded. “And then you add in Duke Campbell.”
Wyckoff opened the car door. “And then you add in Duke Campbell.”
He hesitated. “I have had hopes that Paul Kitka could be the solution to Alaska’s problems someday.”
“Paul?” Purdue asked. “How so?”
“A highly regarded, well trained, thoughtful Alaskan Native state patrol officer? He could go all the way to the top. But so far, he seems content to be a lieutenant with a high solve rate and a comfortable lifestyle. I keep hoping to see signs of ambition, but so far that’s lacking. It would require commitment and passion on his part. And he doesn’t do commitment — publicly or privately, as he’s fond of telling the women who pursue him.” Wyckoff rolled his eyes. Paul’s dating life was gossip material among his officers. “But he could be the solution to at least part of the issues we face as a state.”
Purdue got out the car and started walking toward the hospital. “If a bunch of fucking racist cops don’t kill him.”
Wyckoff closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “Yeah. If a bunch of fucking racist cops don’t kill him,” he repeated.
Purdue waited in the hallway with the local officer who stood guard. Their driver had stayed with the car. No one was taking chances, it seemed.
The local officer hadn’t been happy about Captain Wyckoff going in to see the jailor, but he obviously knew protesting wasn’t going to help him in any way. Wyckoff barely paused for the cop’s permission before pushing open the door and entering the room.
He looked at the man in the hospital bed. He had obviously been beaten. The doctors said he had a concussion.
He was a big man who had gone to fat around the middle. Wyckoff studied him a moment. The man closed his eyes.
“So why don’t you tell me what happened?” Wyckoff said, after identifying himself.
The man didn’t say anything.
“You might as well tell me the story,” he said. “Sooner or later you will have to. Sooner would be good, so I can send you to Juneau in protective custody.”
The man opened his eyes and looked at him puzzled.
“Or, I can walk out the door, and tell Duke you’ve told me everything and see what happens.”
“I haven’t told you anything,” he protested.
Wyckoff waited for the man to work it through. He could see when he got it. He paled.
“Shit.”
Wyckoff smiled. It wasn’t friendly.
“So, what happened?”
And this time the jailor told him.
Mike Anderson had come through the jailhouse door with a swagger. “That’s taken care of,” he said.
The jailor had looked at him and shook his head. “You’re making it overly complicated, Mike. Should have just shot them and let them lie.”
Mike shrugged. “If they just disappear, it’s easier. Really, who’s going to challenge the story that a Kitka brother broke the other one out of jail?”
The jailor looked at him. “Yeah? And just how did he do that? With me standing here?”
Mike smiled slowly. “Well that’s a good question, isn’t it?”
Mike Anderson was 32, fit, and an experienced brawler. The jailor was 55 and hadn’t thrown a punch in 30 years. He’d gone down without even connecting. He’d blacked out to Anderson kicking him methodically with steeled toed shoes.
Wyckoff looked at him. “So, you were advocating killing a State Patrol officer?”
The jailor closed his eyes. “He’s not a State Patrol officer in this town, Captain,” he said wearily. “He’s a Kitka.”
Wyckoff looked at him. “You’ll be facing charges as a co-conspirator,” he said. “However, I’ll put in a word with the ADA. But you’re finished with police work. I suggest you think about what you’ll do next.”
Wyckoff walked out the door.
“Captain?” the jailor — ex-jailor — said. “Who was the girl?”
Wyckoff looked back. “You’re just asking that now? She was a pilot on her first solo flight, giving a friend a ride to Sitka. Her boss is Lanky Purdue.”
The man’s face paled. Lanky had a reputation among the old sourdoughs in the state. He’d been here a long time.
Wyckoff nodded. “I’d stay in here until the Juneau State Patrol officers come to take you into custody. If Duke doesn’t get you, Lanky might.”