18
F
our days after the discovery of Professor Wilson Bledsoe's body, an army of state trooper sedans and police cruisers raced down Route 120 and descended on the small town of Claremont, New Hampshire. Billy “Tex” Norkin, one of two founding leaders of the WLA, was their first stop. They found him in the back of his two-room trailer parked in an abandoned lot behind De Franco's Used Cars. It was almost noon, but he was still sleeping off a hard night of boozing. His body was too long for everything, especially the small mattress wedged into the corner. When they finally roused him to his feet, he had to duck to walk down the narrow corridor. His face was thin with a three-day stubble spiking underneath his chin and across the top of his lip. His long black hair had been tied back into a ponytail with a rubber band. A real hard-ass.
The troopers apprehended Tex quickly and without incident, but when they searched his trailer, they found a stash of weapons and ammunition that could outfit an entire battalion. “I got licenses,” Tex snarled as he watched them carry out the guns by the armful. “All my papers is in proper order.”
Anyone who knew the history of the Norkin clan knew that the privileged Norkin bloodline made Tex the unlikeliest of insurrectionists. He descended from a long line of prominent Norkins who at one time owned practically the entire village of Claremont. The Norkins made most of their money on livestock and dairy farming, at one point producing almost the entire supply of milk for the state of New Hampshire and most of southern Vermont. Norkin Farms and its vast commercial interests were as close to a monopoly as the state had ever seen.
One Friday some years back, the entire clan of aunts and uncles, cousins and in-laws had assembled inside the basement of the enormous farmhouse for their weekly all-night poker game. Old Grandpa Jedsell Norkin still officiated at the family gatherings. While the Norkins built most of their fortune peddling milk, they found their greatest pleasure emptying liquor bottles. Alcohol, cards, money, and loaded shotguns were, for the Norkins, a time-honored family tradition.
After a couple of hours of intense competition and steady drinking, an argument erupted when Priscilla Norkin, Jedsell's oldest daughter, accused her only brother, Weymouth, of cheating in a game of seven-card stud. The argument stretched beyond the game to inheritance and who rightfully deserved the bulk of the Norkin fortune. Anger and greed quickly drew the battle line between the offspring of Priscilla and Weymouth. By the time the last bullet had been fired, Lynn Norkin was the only bloodline left standing. Her son was born a few months later in a small hotel room in Texas, thus his name, William “Tex” Norkin.
Brusco joined the team that drove Tex up to Hanover. They had decided to separate Tex from his partner, Gordie “Buzz” Gatlin. So while Tex would be questioned at the Hanover Police Department, Buzz would be taken to Norwich. It was the old ploy of separating co-conspirators for interrogation.
As they took Tex in, another group of officers broke into the apartment of Sheila McCray, Buzz Gatlin's on-again, off-again girlfriend. Sheila and Buzz bunked in a small two-room apartment perched over the garage of Mr. Haskins's gas station. Buzz and Sheila were inside the tiny bathroom enjoying each other when the door suddenly flew open. “Goddammit! At least let me finish my business,” Buzz growled at the officers and the phalanx of drawn guns. “Just settle on back and I'll be right with you.”
The troopers wrapped Sheila in a sheet and gave Buzz enough time to throw on jeans and work boots. They were surprised at his calm when he placed his own hands behind his back, as if he had been expecting them. “Don't worry, honey,” Buzz said to a crying Sheila. “Let me have a conversation with these boys, and ole Buzz will be back to finish what he started.”
Sterling and Wiley watched from one of the cruisers as they packed Buzz into the car. He was a big man with a heavy beard, but he looked entirely peaceful.
“That's one mean bastard,” Wiley said to Sterling.
“Why do they call him Buzz?” Sterling asked.
“One night he caught some guy hitting on his girlfriend and nasty words spilled into a brawl. Buzz was in a drunken stupor, and the other fella let him have it. But about two weeks later, they found the poor guy underneath one of the bridges. His body had been cut up into small pieces with a chain saw and stuffed into a crate.”
“Why is Buzz still a free man?”
“Never could pin it on him. Everyone knew he did it, but after years of trying to connect him to the murder, they came up with nothing. They've called him Buzz ever since.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Must've been about ten years ago. It was right before I was promoted to lieutenant.”
“Do you think he killed Wilson?”
Wiley shrugged. “Tough call,” he said. “Ever since that murder, Buzz has been kinda quiet. He talks the liberation bullshit, but that's about it. The question that has to be answered is why after all these years of just preaching hate, he would decide to commit murder and get caught so easily. Buzz Gatlin might be a country boy, but he ain't nobody's fool.”
T
he Hanover Police Department had squeezed in a makeshift interrogation room on the other side of the pit. Tex Norkin slumped back in his chair, pulling nonchalant drags on a cigarette, his long legs handcuffed to the table. A nervous-eyed officer stood in the corner of the room, his hand impatiently resting on his revolver. On the other side of the one-way mirror, it seemed like the entire investigation team had crammed inside the tiny observation room. Even Chief Gaylor graced them with an appearance, his first since the investigation started. Sterling eyed him carefully as he stood off in the corner, avoiding contact with the others. Though little light seeped into the room, his polished dome still shone like a fresh wax job. Unlike the other officers, he was dressed in street clothes. Sterling studied his face and wondered if he always wore that expression of apathy or if he was simply uninterested in the proceedings because they were interrupting his daily round of golf.
Brusco entered the interrogation room and took a seat across from Tex. The two men sized up each other before Brusco began.
“Tex, we want to ask you a few questions.”
“What's your name?” Tex said. His voice had the scratchy hoarseness of a chain-smoker whose larynx had finally been destroyed.
“Agent Brusco.”
“You don't have a first name?”
“Lonnie. Special Agent Lonnie Brusco.”
“Good, now we're getting somewhere. Are you arresting me, Lonnie?”
“No,” Brusco said. “We've just brought you in for questioning.”
“Then why am I strapped down like some goddamn criminal who raped your mother?” Tex pulled so hard on his cigarette, the insides of his hollow cheeks almost touched.
Brusco nodded to the officer, who unfastened the cuffs on Tex's legs. The officer's right hand remained near his holster.
“I have to tell you that this is completely voluntary,” Brusco said.
“So that means I can get up and walk out of here anytime I want?”
“Technically.”
Tex flashed a smile of rotten teeth. “Let me hear what you have to say first, then I'll make a decision.”
“Have you been in Hanover the last couple of weeks?”
“Nope. Not much up here I'm interested in. Well, 'cept those little college sweeties. You ever had 'em real young, Lonnie? They taste a lot better right after mommy and daddy drop 'em off at school. You look about old enough to have a daughter just the perfect age.”
Brusco kept his gaze fixed on Tex. He had handled a lot tougher. This lowlife was nothing more than a rookie. “Have any of your friends been up here? Anybody from the WLA?”
“Does she wear those tight little sweaters? Your daughter, that is. You know, the ones you almost have to rip when you take 'em off.” Brusco wasn't biting. “Looking at you,” Tex said, “I bet she's got a good head on her shoulders. Did you know the smart ones are the best? They almost always got some inferiority complex about their looks 'cause every boy in the school is running the other way after Susie the cheerleader. All you gotta do is whisper a few nice things to 'em, and they just melt in your hands.”
“Have any of your boys from the WLA been up here lately?” Brusco persisted.
Tex sucked on the cigarette, looked at the officer standing in the corner, then blew across the table into Brusco's face. “You're gonna have to ask them, Lonnie,” he said. “I ain't my brother's keeper.”
“Okay, then what have you been doing lately?”
“What I'm always doing—enlightenin' the masses to the importance of white liberation. This is our land, ya know. We have to protect our rights against foreigners and niggers and them damn Jews. Every time you turn around, another one has taken something of ours.”
“How many members do you have?”
“Why? You wanna join?” Tex said, snickering. He tapped a long column of ashes on the table.
Sterling mentally recorded everything, including the way Tex held the cigarette with his thumb and index finger. He was a lanky, almost gaunt man, the kind whose pants were always too big and sleeves too short. But what most caught Sterling's attention were his fingernails—remarkably manicured, sparkling under a fresh coat of clear polish. Most women would be jealous. Most men would find it odd.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Professor Wilson Bledsoe?” Brusco asked.
Tex shook his head. “Don't ring a bell.”
“Jog your memory again,” Brusco said.
“I heard of a Wilson Bledsoe,” Tex said. “No nigger need to be walking around with the title Professor.”
“How do you know Professor Bledsoe?”
“I might not have some fancy degree and high-paying job, Lonnie. But even us mountain folk read the paper, ya know. Let me guess where you're from. Somewhere from the boring Midwest. That's right, the heartland of America, maybe Missouri or Kansas. But now you're all grown up, living near Boston. I can hear that cheap-sounding accent you adopted. All those ‘ahs' where you can't pronounce ‘r' anymore. And you don't live in the city, do ya? Still too fast for a prairie boy. Maybe a little ways out, somewhere like Revere or Waltham.”
Brusco never broke his stare. “Professor Bledsoe was murdered five days ago.”
“And whoever did it should be congratulated.” Tex smiled. “Them highfalutin niggers can be the worst, demanding equal rights and memberships in things they ain't even got no interest in. They just wanna join to ruin our purity. Slave mentality.”
Sterling stood quietly behind the mirror, watching Tex but also continuing to observe Gaylor. The security chief still hadn't said a word to any of the other men. He remained aloof, almost as if his mind were somewhere else. He looked uncomfortable with his arms folded tightly across his chest.
Brusco reached inside a large manila envelope and slid a photograph across the table. An autopsy picture of the branded eagle. “Does this look familiar?”
Tex smiled. “Ain't the symbol of liberty just a thing of beauty?”
“Found on the dead body of Professor Bledsoe.”
Tex looked at the picture again, as if taking a new interest. “Ain't our work then,” he said.
“It's your signature. Your eagle has the diamond eye.”
Tex pulled up his sleeve and showed Brusco his spindly right bicep. “Oh, it's definitely our eagle,” Tex said. “But I can tell you that none of my men killed that nigger. Unfortunately.”
“Then how did this get there?”
Tex shook his head. “You're the goddamn po-lice. Not me. You figure it out. As much as I'd like to lay claim to it, we ain't responsible for this. No way, no how.”
“Maybe one of your members did it and you don't know about it. You just said you weren't your brother's keeper.”
Tex moved in his chair. For the first time he seemed uncomfortable. He dragged twice on his cigarette before answering. “Let's not start twisting my words here. I know none of my men didn't do this 'cause I ain't commissioned it.”
“Commissioned?”
“That's right. Do you make moves without your superiors giving the goddamn okay? I know they're all sitting on the other side of that mirror watching you. Watching us. My men can't make a hit like this without me knowing.”
“What about Buzz Gatlin? Does he need your approval before making a hit?”
Tex thought hard. “Buzz and I are both generals,” he said. “Technically, one general ain't gotta consult the other, but out of respect, we always work as a team. Keeps our activities coordinated.”
“Are you sure Buzz is gonna protect you like you're protecting him?”
“Now the old divide-and-conquer routine, huh, Lonnie?” Tex choked a laugh. “Buzz and I go back a long way. We started this movement with just the two of us and built it up to what it is today. I know damn well that Buzz would never sell me out to a bunch of sorry-ass cowards hiding behind uniforms.”
Brusco pulled back the photograph and slipped it into the envelope. There was a tap on the door, and the officer leaned his head out to talk to someone. He returned and whispered into Brusco's ear.
“I think I'll be taking advantage of that voluntary clause and get the hell outta here,” Tex said. “It's obvious you boys ain't got nothing but a dead nigger.”
“I'm afraid that option to leave is no longer valid,” Brusco said. Now he was the one smiling. “Seems like the computer found some of your outstanding summonses. You stood up Madame Justice a couple of times and now she wants an explanation.”
“Bullshit!” Tex yelled, flicking the cigarette to the ground and jumping to his feet. His first display of physical aggression. The door flew open and a gang of police officers swarmed Tex; every one of them was needed to restrain his flailing limbs.
Brusco turned back before leaving. “And as for your partner, Buzz Gatlin. In my experience, the prospect of serving life in the joint can make a man think real hard about what it means to be loyal.”
19
B
uzz Gatlin sat solemnly at the small rectangular table, cracking his knuckles loud enough to be heard in the observation room on the other side of the one-way mirror. He was an enormous man, mostly fat, but his shoulders were broad and strong. His stump of a neck gingerly balanced his massive cranium. A woolly beard blanketed the lower half of his face, reducing his lips to nothing more than slits of dried flesh. His insulated plaid lumberjack shirt barely stretched across his chest and belly. What could be seen of his brass belt buckle looked like the shape of Texas. He was a big man no doubt, but he was surprisingly kempt. His rectangular wire-rimmed glasses softened his countenance, and Sterling could easily see him teaching a high-school chemistry class.
Unlike Tex, who had asked for a cigarette the minute he sat down, Buzz requested three things: that day's edition of the
New York Times
crossword puzzle, a pen (because, according to him, he rarely if ever made mistakes), and a large black coffee with four packets of sugar. His only complaint was that the cuffs linking his legs to the chair were digging into his skin, something that couldn't be fixed since they had already used the biggest pair in the station.
The locals had already convicted the two men of murder in their minds, but Sterling remained skeptical, even doubtful. Maybe it was because most of his cases had been complicated and the investigations long, but he had never been involved in a murder case with so few clues and suddenly the suspects got picked up so easily. The branded eagle was the only real evidence linking them to Wilson's murder, but even that was too convenient. They might as well have just walked themselves into the station and confessed.
The observation room wasn't as packed as it had been in Hanover. There were either fewer officers attending the spectacle or the room was a little larger—Sterling couldn't tell which. But what remained the same was Chief Gaylor standing back from the rest, his arms folded across his chest, a look of disinterest turning down the corners of his mouth. He had no official role in the investigation, but Sterling had already surmised that he was the eyes and ears of the college. Mortimer might have been keeping a comfortable distance from the central investigation, but Sterling was certain he was being apprised of the developments. Solving the murder quickly meant the school could leave the whole horrible mess behind and get on with the business of education.
Buzz sat quietly, sipping his coffee and working the crossword puzzle. He grunted occasionally when a question stumped him. Then he smiled when he finally figured out the answer.
“Don't be fooled,” Wiley whispered to Sterling. “Looks like the perfect gentleman, but that sonuvabitch would carve your heart out with a dull pocket knife and not think twice about it.”
“What does he do?”
“According to the Claremont boys, he works part-time fixing televisions and other electronics. Supposed to be damn good at it, too. The rest of the time he's organizing the WLA, holding meetings and stuff. Informationals, they call 'em. He's the real brains behind the operation. Tex is more a front man.”
“Any relatives?”
“Not sure. They think a cousin or two somewhere out West, but they don't keep in touch much. At least according to the phone records. He was an only child and his parents died in a boating accident when he was a teenager. He spent some time with an aunt, but he nearly ate her out of house and home. A neighbor took him in till he was old enough to go out on his own.”
“Have they found the neighbor?”
“Moved somewhere up in northern Vermont. They're trying to track her down as we speak.”
“Anything in the way of education? Not many people can do the
Times
puzzle with a pen.”
“Not much, believe it or not. He taught himself most of what he knows. They say he's been reading books since he was little. Memorized the entire Constitution in grade school. He'd stand in front of the supermarket and recite it for anyone willing to part with some change. The man's got a decent head on his shoulders.”
“Not your run-of-the-mill murderer.”
“No, but he's more than capable. Just as sure as I'm standing here, he killed that man down in Claremont and chopped him up. He's got a mean streak running through him that don't wanna end.”
Brusco entered the room, and Buzz looked up from his paper quizzically, then nodded in greeting.
“I'm Special Agent Lonnie Brusco,” Brusco said as he took his seat. He dispensed with the bit about this being a voluntary appearance. Gatlin's background check already showed that he had missed two court dates for a speeding ticket on I-91 earlier in the year. The outstanding warrants were enough to keep him in for a few days, or as long as they could bungle the paperwork.
“How can I help you, Mr. Brusco?” Buzz said. He creased the newspaper and straightened in his chair.
“We've had some serious trouble up here, and I was hoping you could answer a few questions for us.” Buzz said nothing. “Let's start by talking about your organization, the WLA. What exactly do you do?”
“Are you forgetting something, Mr. Brusco?”
Brusco shrugged his shoulders.
“Don't you want to ask me if I want legal representation before answering your questions?”
“You haven't been charged with anything. Yet. I'm just trying to get your help with some questions.”
Buzz thought for a moment, flipping the pen in his hands. “Our organization is one of the purest patriotic groups in the country. We are constitutionalists, the protectors of the rights granted to us by our Founding Fathers.”
“Would that include the right to commit murder?”
“Consult the Second Amendment, Mr. Brusco. ‘A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.'”
“But in your opinion, does that mean you have the right to commit murder?”
“Depends on whether the government is protecting our rights.”
“And which rights might those be?”
“The inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Buzz paused for a pull of his coffee. “It's right in the second paragraph of the Declaration of Independence. ‘That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed,—That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.' We have a right to be safe and happy.”
Brusco nodded his head slowly. Buzz Gatlin would be much tougher to crack than Tex Norkin. He was not a dumb man.
“Have you or any of your men had any activities up here?”
“This is a dead zone,” Buzz said.
“What does that mean?”
“There aren't enough potential comrades to support the movement up here. We tried a few years back, but most of these kids are brainwashed with far-out liberal ideas. College towns aren't a great breeding ground for our mandate.”
“So that means you haven't been here in the last couple of weeks?”
“I haven't been here since Nixon swung through back in seventy-one. Talk about the fall of a great man. The party hasn't been right ever since.”
“How many members do you have in the WLA?”
“Fourteen.”
“Care to share their names?”
“We're not a secret organization, Mr. Brusco. We're proud of what we stand for. Do you want to write them down or shall I?”
Brusco motioned to the officer, who produced a small pad and placed it on the table. Buzz calmly wrote down the names and slid the pad to Brusco. Sterling didn't have a clear view of the pad, but Buzz's writing seemed to be neat and tight.
“What kinds of activities is your army involved in?” Brusco asked.
“Mostly community service,” Buzz said. “We do a lot with the veterans. After putting their lives on the line for this great country, they got a raw deal in the end. We try to help them out as much as we can. Everything from getting health benefits to work around the house if things need fixing.”
“Noble,” Brusco sighed.
“That's the idea behind the group. We do a lot of good, but most people just don't understand it.”
“You know of a Professor Wilson Bledsoe?”
“Who doesn't? His name has been all over the radio and papers. Even our little
Claremont Bee
has run stories on him. Who would kill a man doing such good?”
“Cut the shit, Buzz. Your men killed Bledsoe and you couldn't give a damn.”
Buzz took more coffee. “Killing isn't something I believe in. It's usually best to work things out peacefully, like civil-minded people.”
Back in the observation room, Wiley rolled his eyes at Sterling.
Brusco opened the envelope and slid the photograph across the table. “Is this your idea of peaceful?”
Buzz surveyed the photo of Bledsoe's disfigured body. He swallowed hard, but his expression never changed. Then Brusco handed him a second photo. Buzz turned it several times until he got the correct orientation. He nodded slowly. “That's our eagle,” he said. “But we didn't put it there.”
“Who did?”
“No idea. Maybe someone trying to implicate us.”
“Possibly commissioned by Tex Norkin?”
“Not at all. I would've known beforehand.”
“Not according to Tex. He said that as a general he could commission a hit without your approval.” Buzz flipped the pen in his hands. He didn't appear as calm as he had just minutes ago. “He also said that you could do the same,” Brusco said.
“He told you all that, huh?”
“Just an hour ago.” The two men stared at each other. “Anything you'd like to say about that?” Brusco asked.
“Sure. Now I'd like to speak to my attorney.”
There was a collective sigh in the observation room. Wiley nudged Sterling. A few of the men slapped hands.
“They didn't do it,” Wiley whispered to Sterling. “I can't put my finger on it, but something's not right about this.”
Gaylor walked toward the observation room door and opened his mouth for the first time. “Don't make it harder than it has to be, Agent Bledsoe,” he said. “These two lowlifes murdered your brother.” Then Gaylor unfolded his twill blazer and slipped it on. Time now for that round of golf.