Indian Killer (25 page)

W
ILSON DRANK ONLY MILK
at The Last Precinct, a cop hangout in downtown Seattle. It was a small place, one room with ten tables, forty chairs, and a jukebox. Nobody ever sat at the bar. The men’s and women’s bathrooms were used interchangeably, since the patrons were rarely women. The cops tended to segregate themselves by beat, homicide detectives sharing one table, narcs another. The vice squad took up half the place, and a few patrol cops sat in a corner. But whatever their beats, the men were loud and drunk. The drinks were cheap and strong. Wilson felt no need to sit with a certain group, or to get drunk. Let the others drink themselves stupid. Wilson understood that need, but would not allow himself to lose control.

This evening, Wilson sat with Randy Peone, a patrol cop from downtown, who was seriously considering a change of careers; Bobby, a SWAT sharpshooter with ulcers; and Terrible Ted, an especially drunk and belligerent homicide detective.

“Look at us,” said Ted, waving his huge arms to show surprise at the group around the table. “We got a Mick, a Wop, a Kraut, and a fucking Indian.”

“Indian?” asked Bobby. “Who’s Indian?”

“Wilson’s a fucking Indian,” said Ted. “What? Apache or something, right, Wilson?”

Smiling, Wilson shook his head.

Bobby studied Wilson’s features in the dark of the bar.

“Jesus,” said Bobby. “You don’t look Injun. You look like an American to me.”

“He’s got some Indian blood in the woodpile, don’t you?” asked Ted. “Yeah, his grandmother liked her some dark meat.”

Wilson just smiled.

“You know about that scalping?” asked Ted. He leaned awkwardly over the table.

Wilson stopped smiling and said, “Yeah, you working on it?”

“Nah, George has got it,” said Ted. “Why? You hear anything?”

“Not much,” said Wilson.

“I thought you might have,” said Ted. “You being an Indian and all. I hear you fuckers tell each other everything.”

“Hey, Wilson,” said Peone, trying to change the subject. “You’re going to be appearing at some bookstore?”

“Yeah,” said Wilson. “At Elliott Bay Book Company tomorrow night. You should come.”

Peone laughed.

“No thanks,” said Peone. “I ain’t into that stuff. You working on a new book these days?”

Bobby and Peone waited for Wilson’s answer. Ted snorted dismissively. Wilson sipped at his milk before he spoke.

“Yeah, it’s about the Indian Killer.”

“No shit,” said Peone.

Terrible Ted was suddenly interested.

“Where you getting your information?” he asked, leaning forward. His beer nearly tipped over but Bobby reached out and saved it.

“Here and there. Just been talking to some Indians, you know? It’s all fiction.”

“What are you trying to find?” asked Ted.

“Shit,” said Peone. “What you getting so testy for, Ted? You think Wilson killed those people?”

Everybody laughed, except Terrible Ted.

“He’s messing with a current investigation,” said Ted. “He ain’t no cop anymore. He wasn’t much of a cop when he was a cop. He’s just a goddamn writer.”

Wilson and Ted glared across the table at each other. Peone ordered another round in an attempt to calm everybody down.

“Hey,” said Bobby. “Did you hear the joke about how the Indian boy got his name?”

“Listen,” Wilson said to Ted. “I’m not messing with your investigation. I’m just talking to Indians a little bit. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something,” said Ted. “An Indian is out there killing people and you’re talking to Indians. That means something.”

“How do you know an Indian did it?” asked Wilson. “Because of the scalping? Shit, anybody who ever watched Western movies knows about scalping.”

“It’s more than that,” said Ted. “We know it’s an Indian.”

“You sure?” asked Wilson. “How do you know it isn’t somebody pretending to be Indian?”

“We know, we know,” said Ted.

“Yeah,” said Bobby, continuing his joke. “So this Indian boy says to his mom, ‘Mom, how do Indians get their names?’ His mother says, ‘Indians are named after the first thing their mothers see after giving birth. Like with your brother, I looked outside the tepee after giving birth to him, and saw three antelope running. That’s why your brother is named Running Antelope.’”

The waitress, Chloe, arrived with drinks. She was tall and beautiful and hated cops.

“Hey, Chloe,” said Ted. “You ever fucked an Indian?”

Chloe looked at Ted with as much boredom as she could manage.

“No, really,” said Ted. “I want to know. I mean, are they animals or what? Were you ever scared they was going to kill you?”

Chloe silently took five dollars from the pile of money in front of Ted and walked away.

“She wants me,” said Ted, smiling. He stared hard at Wilson, who was getting very nervous. Peone shoved a new beer at Ted.

“Hey, Ted,” said Peone. “Drink up.”

“And then,” said Bobby, desperately trying to finish his joke. “His mother said, ‘When I gave birth to your sister, I saw an eagle flying near the sun, so I named her Burning Eagle. That’s how Indians name their children. Why do you ask such questions, Two Dogs Fucking?’”

Bobby laughed loudly at his own joke. Terrible Ted and Wilson continued to stare at each other. Peone felt his stomach burning. He figured he was going to have to break up a fight soon. But Wilson and Ted were both forty pounds overweight, so the match wouldn’t take long. It would be just two more fat cops slugging it out in The Last Precinct. They would bruise up their knuckles a bit and then be arm-in-arm an hour later. Best friends. Just like grade-school boys after a tussle at recess.

“You know,” said Ted. “I hate Indians.”

Peone forced a laugh and slapped Ted on the back. Ted ignored him.

“They smell,” continued Ted. “They’re fucking drunks and welfare cheats. They ain’t got no jobs. They’re lazy as shit.”

Wilson was suddenly angry and scared at the same time.

“You don’t know anything about Indians,” said Wilson.

“I know what some Indian did to that kid. Just about cut off the top of his head. And left two bloody owl feathers.”

“An owl?” asked Wilson.

“Yeah, an owl!” shouted Ted, standing and spilling beer everywhere. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know about Indians? You don’t believe me?”

Wilson leaned back in his chair, out of Ted’s reach. He slid his hand inside his jacket, kept it there.

“What?” screamed Ted, noticing Wilson’s move. “You going to pull your piece on me? Go for it, you fucker!”

Peone and Bobby both stood and held Ted back.

“Hey, hey,” said Peone. “Take it easy, Ted, take it easy.”

Wilson stood up and stared at Ted.

“You fucking Indian lover!” shouted Ted. The whole bar watched, eager for a fight, a violent release of stress.

“Hey,” Peone said to Wilson. “Why don’t you just go on home?”

Wilson nodded his head and headed for the door. Ted, wanting to chase Wilson down, fought against Peone and Bobby.

“Fucker!” shouted Ted as Wilson left the bar and walked into a foggy evening. It was cold. Wilson shoved his hands deep into his pockets and walked to his truck. His hands were shaking with anger as he unlocked the door and hopped inside.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself and leaned his head against the steering wheel. He never understood why people hated Indians as much as they did. Terrible Ted had probably never talked to any Indians he wasn’t arresting at the time. Wilson remembered Beautiful Mary, who had been almost forgotten because she was an Indian. He remembered how she had lain behind the Dumpster beneath the Viaduct. Blood everywhere. A broken bottle tossed in the Dumpster. Her eyes still open. Nobody in the police department cared when an Indian was killed, but everybody cared now that an Indian might be killing white men. Wilson wondered what would happen when the press found out more about the murders.

Wilson started his pickup and pulled away from the curb. He drove up Denny Way to Broadway on Capitol Hill. On Broadway, runaway kids huddled in doorways, smoking cigarette butts. Aspiring rock stars strummed air guitars in front of Mexican restaurants. A couple of homeless men sat in front of the all-night supermarket. Gay and lesbian couples strolled together, safer in this neighborhood than in any other in Seattle. An illegal firework lit up the sky, a traffic signal blinked yellow. A German shepherd with a red bandanna tied around its neck yawned. A drunk man tried to parallel park his Honda. How many people knew that an Indian might be killing white men?

Wilson thought about the Indian Killer, the owl and feathers. The owl was a messenger of death, of evil. Wilson had read about Native American perceptions of the owl. If you were visited by an owl, that meant you were going to die soon. Wilson had always been fascinated by owls. He often visited the owls in the Woodland Park Zoo, and they often came to visit him in his dreams.

In one recurring dream, Wilson is riding with his real parents in a big car. They are all quiet and content. Hank Williams on the radio. Wilson looks up at his father, who is driving and smoking a cigar. Wilson’s father looks back and smiles around the cigar. It is a beautiful moment. Wilson’s mother is humming along with the radio. She is small and pale, ethereal in the darkness of the car. Then the family looks ahead, headlights illuminating the dark road. Wilson’s father inhales and exhales smoke. Suddenly, an owl floats directly in front of the car. Wilson’s father has no time to hit the brakes. Wilson can only begin the first note of a scream when the owl crashes through the windshield. Wilson always wakes up at that moment in the dream.

Wilson drove slowly down Broadway. He still missed his father, who had never smoked a cigar in his life. He missed his mother. Wilson turned on the radio. Truck Schultz, the homegrown conservative talk-show host, was pontificating.

“Citizens, we need to do something about this illegitimacy rate,” said Truck. “This country is full of welfare babies giving birth to welfare babies. Citizens, we need to stop this cycle of poverty. And believe me, I’ve got the solution. You see, it’s all about education. The smart kids aren’t getting pregnant. How many honor students are getting pregnant? None. Well, citizens, I propose that we sterilize any girl whose I.Q. is below one hundred.

“Now, seriously, citizens. I think this program is going to work. Not only will we decrease the illegitimacy rate, but we’ll also stop the dumbing down of America. Dumb girls will not give birth to dumb babies. Evil girls will not give birth to evil babies. Indian women will not give birth to Indian Killers. What do you think, citizens? Why don’t you give me a call at 1-800-555-TRUK and tell me how much you agree with me.”

“T
HE INDIAN KILLER,” BEGAN
Dr. Mather, “is an inevitable creation of capitalism. A capitalistic society will necessarily create an underclass of powerless workers and an overclass of powerful elite. As the economic and social distance between the worker and elite increases, the possibility of an underclass revolution increases proportionally. The Indian Killer is, in fact, a revolutionary construct.”

Dr. Mather was wearing a huge bandage on his forehead. A few of the students wondered aloud if he’d been attacked by the Indian Killer, but Marie Polatkin knew that wasn’t true. None of them knew that Mather had knocked himself silly by running into a low overhang in the Anthropology Building basement.

“The kidnapping of Mark Jones is actually a bold, albeit cowardly, metaphor for the Indian condition. Indian people have had their culture, their children, metaphorically stolen by European-American colonization. And now, this Indian Killer has physically and metaphorically stolen a European-American child.”

Marie raised her hand. She had been tolerating Dr. Clarence Mather’s babble for far too long. There were only ten students in the Introduction to Native American Literature class that evening. The news of the Indian Killer had scared the rest of them away, Marie supposed. Just like white people, worried that some killer Indian was going to storm a university classroom.

“Now,” continued Dr. Mather, ignoring Marie’s raised hand. “If we compare the construct of the Indian Killer with Jack Wilson’s fictional alter ego, Aristotle Little Hawk, we can begin to more fully understand the revolutionary nature of Mr. Wilson’s mystery novels. The Indian Killer and Little Hawk are twentieth-century manifestations of the classic Indian warrior. One, the Indian Killer, is wild and untamed, à la Geronimo, while the other, Little Hawk, is apparently tamed and civilized, a hangs-around-the-fort Indian, if you will, but is, in fact, actually working within the system in his efforts to disrupt it.”

“That’s bull!” shouted Marie.

“I take it that you have something to add to our discussion, Ms. Polatkin.”

“Yeah, I’m wondering why you think you know so much about Indians.”

“I hardly think I have to prove myself to you, Ms. Polatkin.”

“Have you ever lived on a reservation?”

“I have spent time on many reservations.”

“Yeah, but have you ever
lived
on a reservation?”

“I lived on the Navajo Indian Reservation for three months.”

“Three months, huh? You must have learned so much. You must know so much about our revolutionary tendencies.”

“Ms. Polatkin, I’ll have you know that I was actively involved with the American Indian Movement during the late sixties and early seventies. I smuggled food to the Indians at Wounded Knee.”

“Yeah, and you had the money to buy the food that you smuggled in there, didn’t you?”

“Could I ask you what you’re trying to accomplish, Ms. Polatkin?”

“Well, I’m just sick and tired of people like you. You think you know more about being Indian than Indians do, don’t you? Just because you read all those books about Indians, most of them written by white people. By guys like Jack Wilson.”

“Jack Wilson is a Shilshomish Indian, Ms. Polatkin.”

“Sure he is. He’s quite the Indian warrior, isn’t he? Just like the Indian Killer, huh? A big buck of an Indian man, right? I mean, what makes you think the Indian Killer is Indian anyway?”