Authors: Warren C Easley
Cal
The murder-suicide at the Bridgetown Arsenal made the national news, and the bigger story was the break-up of a highly organized gun trafficking and money laundering scheme aimed at supplying military grade assault rifles to the drug cartels as well as criminal elements and gangs north of the border. ATF Special Agent Richie Truax announced that the entire chain of gun shops owned by The Jenkins family had been shut down and numerous arrests made. With the help of Kelly's and my video work, these included four arrests in Estacada, among them, my old friends, Mutt and Jeff.
Truax explained to the media that the murder victim, Farnell Timmons, had headed up a large network of “straw buyers,” who were responsible for supplying the AR-15 rifles, which were purchased locally and through the Internet. The weapons were then modified at the Bridgetown Arsenal using a novel, low cost “drop-in” trigger. The trigger assembly was designed by the suicide victim, Arthur Finley, a self-taught weapons expert. Finley was the mastermind behind the scheme, which was in the process of being replicated across the entire chain of gun shops owned by his mother-in-law, Rosalind Jenkins. Jack Pfister, an attorney for the Jenkins' family, stated that Mrs. Jenkins and her daughter, Finley's wife Melanie Finley, had no prior knowledge of the illicit operation and intended to fully cooperate with the ongoing ATF investigation.
In a separate but parallel effort, the Portland Police Bureau was mopping up its part in the case, as well. Based on Kelly's and my sworn statements to Harmon Scott and his partner, Aaron Ludlow, the case against Anthony Cardenas was being “re-examined.” Prosecuting attorneys are never quick to drop charges, because it makes them look bad and invites lawsuits. But they would have no choice in this case.
On the plus side, Scott and Ludlow were poised to close two casesâthe murders of Claudia Borrego and Rupert Youngblood. The Youngblood case had been up in the air until a DNA sample from skin found beneath his fingernails matched Timmons' DNA, which, incidentally, also matched DNA taken from the cowboy boot I'd wound up with that night in Claudia's apartment.
All indications were that Timmons killed Manny Bonilla, too, but with Timmons' death, there was a good chance that case might never be closed.
It was also assumed that Arthur Finley was the second man Kelly saw with Timmons at the granary the night Rupert was killed, the man she dubbed “The Voice.” That subject came up in a second interview, which involved both Kelly and me. As promised, I had already taken care of the concerns about her K209 tagging exploits. The Portland Police Bureau agreed not to press charges in exchange for her full cooperation, as I knew they would.
When Scott asked Kelly if she recognized Arthur's voice during the confrontation at the Arsenal, she glanced over at me. I had already asked her that question and knew the answer. I nodded for her to go ahead. “Um, I don't remember noticing anything at the time, but I was so freaked out that I might have missed it. When I think back, it's like everyone's voice sounded the same to me that night. I'm sorry.”
I said, “That's okay, Kelly. It's understandable. I was as freaked out as you were.” I looked at Scott, “I hope you guys will continue to hold Kelly's identity in the strictest confidence.”
“She's a minor,” Scott answered. “We do that as a matter of course. We got her out of there in a hurry. Nobody knows about her, not even ATF.”
“I know. You've done a great job. But you know as well as I do that word gets around. I don't want to see her name pop up somewhere.”
Ludlow said, “You think there's another perp out there?”
I smiled. “One thought did cross my mind.” I reminded them that Jack Pfister had met with Bonilla several times at Sheridan. “Maybe Pfister was doing more than mentoring there. Maybe he was setting up the cartel business with Javier Acedo by way of Bonilla.”
Ludlow nodded, and Scott shot me a knowing smile and said, “Yeah, we agree. He's worth looking at.”
Kelly was declared a ward of the state, but I convinced a judge to grant Tay Jefferson temporary custody of her until a suitable foster home could be found. Tay volunteered to do this, which suited Kelly just fine. She had become fond of Tay and seemed, if not enthusiastic, then at least resigned to re-entering foster care.
As for Veronica, I finally got a hold of her, but she hung up on me before I could get ten words out. I'm hoping she'll come to her senses and turn herself in. Kelly was inconsolable when she heard, and Tay and I have been trying to get her to see that it wasn't her fault, that Veronica had made her own choices.
When Nando returned from Cuba, I had him over for dinner. I'd called him in Cuba with the news, so he was aware of the broad outlines of what had gone down at the Arsenal that night. Nando was always hard to cook for because of his fondness for Caribbean style food and my decided lack of skill in that particular cuisine. Undaunted, I made a skillet full of blackened red snapper, a pot of black beans, and an avocado and tomato salad with a lime vinaigrette dressing from a recipe I found online.
We ate with gusto and drank cold Taberna, a Cuban beer my friend brought. I watched for signs of his mood, and he seemed fairly sanguine. Perhaps the visit with his mother in Cuba had helped him cope with Claudia's death. I hoped so.
We discussed the whole case in great detail. I went over what happened in the warehouse at the Arsenal at least twice, but he couldn't get enough of the details. At one point, he took a swig of beer, swallowed, and said, “So this man, Arthur, took a gun smaller than his hand and shot Claudia's killer right between the eyes. The killer dropped, wondering what had happened to him.” He smiled, and it was clear he was storing away a mental picture he could revisit and savor.
“That's right. He had a holster strapped to his ankle. The guy collected guns. I saw a derringer like that one on his office wall. He was an expert marksman, too. I know. I saw him shoot. But dropping Timmons at fifteen feet with that little thing took unbelievable skill.”
Nando raised his bottle. “I will put some flowers on Arthur Finley's grave. And the young spray can vandal,” he continued, “she witnessed this and then the man turning the gun on himself?”
I nodded. “Kelly. Her name's Kelly Spence. If it hadn't been for her, Farnell Timmons would probably still be out there. She risked her life trying to find Timmons.”
“I am not understanding it, Calvin. How could a child of sixteen be so courageous?”
“She was outraged at what she saw, Nando, and she knew Timmons had killed not only Claudia but a homeless man that she loved. Kelly stands out, but I can tell you there are lots of kids out there on the street trying to get by, kids with plenty of courage.”
He nodded solemnly. “Is she alright now?”
“She's pretty traumatized from all she's been through, but Tay Jefferson's working with her on a daily basis. Kelly's a very tough young lady.”
Nando drank some beer and sighed. “I suppose I should feel bad about Anthony Cardenas' false arrest, but I do not.”
I nodded. “He made his own bed, trying to buy an alibi.”
Nando's eyes narrowed down. “Yes, and he threatened my Claudia. Do not forget that.”
“Yeah, he had motive, but they never put him at the crime scene. It was a crap case. I think he would have beaten it.”
We talked and philosophized until the beer was gone, and by that time, I could hardly hold my eyes open. I walked him down to the first floor entry and extended my hand. “I'm glad you're back, Nando.”
He took my hand, pulled me to him, and gave me a bear hug that nearly crushed my chest. Nando was not the hugging type, and the move left me speechless. Then he fixed me with his big, dark eyes. “Calvin. Thank you once again. I will not forget this. Ever.” He smiled. “And as for the young tagger, Kelly Spence, I shall have to think of a suitable way to express my appreciation. Good night, my friend.”
I watched as he faded into the misting night, a big hulk of a man with an even bigger heart.
Kelly
From the outside, at least, Kelly's life was back to something resembling what it used to look like. She was back at New Directions. Her absence was no big deal, because the school's a drop-in center, meaning kids come and go, and the studies are all individualized and self-paced. She got her job back at Granite Works, too. Claxton had stopped by the gym to talk to Phil Hanson, and that was that. He never told her what he said to Hanson.
But things were far from back to normal for Kelly. The school seemed different somehow, almost alien. A bunch of street kids like her worrying about what some poet was trying to say, how to solve an algebra equation, or how the government worked. It all seemed so trivial now, not trivial as much as irrelevant. The real world, the adult world, wasn't waiting out there with open arms for kids that did their homework. It was a cruel place, a place where people died suddenly and violently at the hands of people who looked so, so
ordinary
.
And the guns! My God, was the world becoming an armed camp?
she asked herself time and again. Would every man, woman, and child need a gun for protection? It seemed so, but she hoped not. She never wanted to see another gun in her life.
Kelly yearned to find her old self, the K209 tagger who'd been out there putting the adult world on notice that things weren't right, the fighter who'd stood up for what she believed in. She wanted that back but despaired that it was gone forever, that her spirit had bled out like the people she'd seen die. Tay Jefferson warned her that she might have dark thoughts like this.
“You've been through a terrible shock, Kelly. Remember, the whole world isn't like this. There are good people out there and reasons to be optimistic.”
Optimistic? Are you kidding me?
After school that first day back, Kelly and Kiyana walked over to O'Bryant Square to talk. The sky was a dazzling blue as if to compensate for the previous week of rain and grayness, and a young woman with flowing red hair stood in the Square playing a mandolin and singing. The two friends were dancing around a touchy subject. At least Kiyana thought it was touchy. “So, we're good, then, about me ratting you out to Claxton?” Kiyana finally said.
Kelly smiled a little impishly. “Yeah, we're good. I just wanted you to squirm a little. I know you talked to him because you were worried about me.”
“Worried? I was petrified that those bastards would catch up with you, and so was Claxton. I had to trust somebody, baby girl.”
“Speaking of bastards, have you seen Digger?
“Nope. Nobody has. The dude disappeared.”
“Zook?”
Kiyana smiled. “I was wondering when you'd get around to him. I haven't seen him, but I heard he admitted himself at DePaul. Detox, in-patient treatment, the whole nine yards.”
Kelly smiled, and a small bubble of hope rose up in her. “Oh, that's wonderful, Ki. That's great news.”
***
Kelly walked over to Caffeine Central after Kiyana left for work. Cal was waiting for her, and they immediately left in Cal's car for the Portland Police Bureau building over on SW Salmon Street. Kelly knew the building well. She'd tagged it with a big, red, middle finger one night, one of her finer accomplishments. She felt a little tug of pride, and maybe a little bit of her fighting spirit returned as they approached the imposing building.
They signed in and were escorted up to the Homicide Division, where Scott and Ludlow were waiting. Scott told them to sit and handed Kelly a bottle of water. “Here,” He said with a slight smile, “I know you kids can't go more than a few minutes without one of these.” He sat down and grew more serious. “So here's what we're going to do, Kelly. We've spliced together audio excerpts from Jack Pfister's interview, and then had seven other people speak the same lines. We're going to play them back for you, one at a time. We want to know if any of the voices sound like the one you heard that night at the granary and then again in the parking lot of the Arsenal. Are we clear?”
Kelly nodded, and Claxton said, “It's like a lineup, but voices instead of people.”
“Right,” Ludlow chimed in. “We can't hang our hat on this, but if you can pick him out we'll sure as hell look at Pfister a lot harder.”
They led Kelly into an interview room where a tape recorder was set up with a pair of headphones. “All set, Kelly?” Scott asked. She nodded and swallowed as her stomach clinched up. She had to get this. She didn't want to let them down, and most of all she wanted to nail The Voice, the other man who'd beaten Rupert to death.
Scott placed the headphones over her ears and switched on the tape recorder. Kelly hunkered down, closed her eyes, and listened with all the concentration she could summon. It wasn't even close. None of the voices sounded the least bit familiar to her.
Who am I kidding?
she asked herself after she took the headphones off and admitted defeat.
Why did I think I could do this? How embarrassing!
Kelly must have apologized ten times to Scott and Ludlow, but they seemed to take it all in stride. “You gave it your best shot, Kelly,” Scott told her. “We appreciate you coming in.” She could tell he really meant it. Not a bad guy, that cop.
When they got out in the hall, Ludlow said with the first smile she ever saw on his face, “I gotta ask you one thing, Kelly. How in the hell did you get up on this building to paint that finger?”
Kelly looked at Cal, who had started to laugh, then back at Ludlow. “Trade secret,” she said, absolutely dead pan.
When they came out of the building, Cal said, “It's a beautiful day. Let's walk over to the fountain and decompress. It's one of my favorite spots.”
“Mine, too,” Kelly said, although at the moment she felt like she'd just let the entire world down.
They sat there for a while just watching the breeze lift spray off the streams that converged into a seething column at the center of the fountain. Claxton said nothing, as if he were waiting for her to speak. Finally she said, “Bummer. I was sure I could've picked him out, Cal.”
Cal shrugged. “Well, that's a lot to ask, you know. What did you hear at the granary, all of ten or fifteen words?”
Kelly thought back on that night, how those words seemed to sear themselves into her brain for reasons she couldn't really explain. “Yeah, but I heard the same voice again at the Arsenal, don't forget. I'm sure of that.”
Cal nodded. They both fell silent and watched a toddler venture to the perimeter of the fountain, then dash back to her mother over and over. Finally, Cal asked the question on both their minds. “So you think it's not Pfister, or is it that too much time has passed and your memory's blurred a little?”
Kelly's nose began to burn, her eyes filled, and she struggled to hold the tears back. “I don't know, Cal. I just don't know.” A sigh drained from her chest. “But I wish this thing would end.”
Cal put an arm around her and pulled her to him. She began to cry. “Hey, it's okay,” he said. “You're not in this alone anymore, Kelly. We'll find this guy, I promise.”
Promises were not on the list of things Kelly took stock in, but she knew this guy Claxton meant what he said. He was as stubborn as she was.