Bluetick Revenge Read online

  But now she was in the living room, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, continuing work on her list of one hundred things she wanted to do in her life. Prince was dreaming doggie dreams beneath the dining table. I was in my study with Buck and Wheat, drinking herb tea and reviewing my file on my cousin’s death.

  It would not be accurate to say Hal’s death had haunted me. We just hadn’t been that close after grade school. On the other hand, I had never completely let go of it either. The event was usually hidden in the back of my mind, but never quite gone. But something Karlynn had told the FBI during her interview Tuesday had slowly been pushing the incident back to the forefront of my consciousness.

  So for the past two hours, after finishing a pizza we had ordered, I had been sifting through an accordion file containing old police reports. As I reviewed each document, the details came flying back to me.

  My cousin had been working a Rockies game at Coors Field. He loved working baseball games because he got to see them for free. At 10:04 p.m., just as a game against the Dodgers was winding down, he left the ballpark to prepare for the mass of spectators that would soon flood the streets. He heard screaming and observed two white males beating a black man in front of a warehouse a few blocks to the north. He drew his weapon and ran toward them. His last radio report indicated one of the white men appeared to be beating the black man with the butt of a pistol while the other prodded him with a bat.

  By the time other officers arrived, it was all over. Hal lay dead in a pool of his own blood, as did one of the skinheads—the one with the bat. The Nigerian immigrant, though badly beaten, was alive and was transported to Denver General. He never regained consciousness and died a few hours later as a result of brain hemorrhaging.

  The cops didn’t have much to work with. The Nigerian man had come to the United States to study international relations at the University of Denver. As far as the cops knew, he had no connection to either of his attackers and had simply been the wrong color in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The dead skinhead—the one Hal had killed—had been a punk named Lewis “Lizard” McCoy. A wiry twenty-one-year-old with a history of petty theft and minor drug offenses. Lizard had been part of a loosely knit group of about a dozen young skinheads, but no group member had ever done anything more violent than paint swastikas on a local synagogue. Interviews with members and reports from the police department’s gang unit both confirmed that what held the members together was primarily their devotion to “White Power” music—hard-driving rock-and-roll that pounds home a message of bigotry and violence.

  Not much was known about the other skinhead—the one that got away. A man claiming to have seen the event from more than one block away described him as about six feet tall, 180 pounds. Shaved head, or nearly so.

  One possible clue to the unknown skinhead’s identity was the tape of the call made to a local radio station the day after the incident. The man had claimed responsibility for the killings and said Hal’s death should serve as a warning to white cops that protect niggers and faggots. The call could have come from a wacko who’d had nothing to do with the killings, but the police nevertheless hauled in dozens of skinheads and neighborhood winos and made them listen to the tape. They even hired a linguistics expert to analyze the voice, but she’d been able to contribute very little. All she could say was that the caller was a white male, age twenty-five to thirty, who had probably grown up in the Midwest.

  Based on their interviews with Lizard’s known associates, the physical description of the unknown skinhead, and the linguistics expert’s opinion as to the age of the man who had called the radio station, investigators were confident the killer had not been a member of Lizard’s circle of skinhead friends.

  My file included transcripts of interviews with the skinheads and winos brought in to listen to the tape. All but one had denied recognizing the voice on the tape. I was reading the last one when I came across a passage that caught my attention. I found it in a transcript of an interview with one of the skinheads. His name was Paul Krait and he had been only eighteen at the time of the incident. He was not part of Lizard’s group but admitted associating with other skinheads and enjoying the lifestyle. Then the cops played the tape for him.

  DETECTIVE: Do you recognize that voice, Paul?

  WITNESS: I don’t think so.

  DETECTIVE: What does that mean?

  WITNESS: It means I don’t recognize the voice.

  DETECTIVE: That’s not what you said. You said you didn’t think you recognized it. So part of you thinks maybe you do recognize it.

  WITNESS: No, man, you’re twisting my words.

  DETECTIVE: You’re eighteen now, Paul. With your record, that switchblade we found in your boot tonight could land you thirty days in county.

  WITNESS: Thirty days ain’t shit.

  DETECTIVE: How much do you weigh, Paul? About one-forty? When those big black guys in county see your little skinhead ass, they’re gonna fall all over each other to see who can get you first.

  WITNESS: It sounds kind of like this guy named Skull.

  DETECTIVE: Who’s Skull?

  WITNESS: I don’t know his real name.

  DETECTIVE: What do you know?

  WITNESS: He’s this crazy Aryan Resistance fucker.

  DETECTIVE: What does he look like?

  WITNESS: I don’t know. I’ve never even seen him.

  DETECTIVE: Then how do you know him?

  WITNESS: I heard him on a tape.

  DETECTIVE: What kind of tape?

  WITNESS: It was just some kind of White Power tape somebody gave me to listen to.

  DETECTIVE: When was that?

  WITNESS: Couple of months ago.

  DETECTIVE: Who gave you the tape?

  WITNESS: I don’t know. These things just kind of float around in the community, you know?

  DETECTIVE: Do you still have the tape?

  WITNESS: No.

  DETECTIVE: Where is it?

  WITNESS: I gave it to some guy I met at a concert. I don’t even know the guy’s name.

  DETECTIVE: You’re sure the guy on the tape was named Skull.

  WITNESS: That’s what he called himself.

  DETECTIVE: What did he say on the tape?

  WITNESS: You know, just the usual stuff about white people having to stand up for their rights.

  DETECTIVE: Why did you say he’s crazy?

  WITNESS: Because, man, he kept talking about some kind of Aryan Resistance training camp—some place up in Idaho where these military guys teach you how to shoot and survive in the woods and shit like that. He said his people could teach you how to be a soldier in the racial holy war so you could kill niggers, fags, and Jews.

  The remainder of the interview was unremarkable. I put the transcript down and sipped my tea, which had grown cold. I wished the detective had pressured Krait for more details concerning Skull and the tape, but I realized the reference to Skull was only one lead out of thousands.

  I heard the phone ring, but I was absorbed in what I was doing and decided to let it ring. I’m not wild about people calling late at night in any event. It rang only twice, so I figured either the caller had hung up or Karlynn had answered in spite of my warnings. I stayed focused on the task at hand.

  As I continued working my way through the file, I realized that those investigating Hal’s death had done their best to follow up on the lead Krait had provided. The feds had applied pressure to various White Power groups and made heroic efforts to track down the origin of the tape Krait had described. Local investigators had compiled a list of dozens of criminals and gang members known to have used “Skull” as a nickname or alias, but only a few fit the profile provided by the linguistics expert, and none of those had ties to the White Power movement.

  When I finished my review of the file, I sat back and recalled the days following Hal’s death. There had been some question as to why Hal shot Lizard—the one with the bat—rather than the one with the pistol. It was
impossible to know, but my guess was that the guy with the gun was older and more experienced. He probably took off when he saw Hal. Lizard, caught up in the moment, and perhaps trying to impress the older man, probably tried to get in a few more strikes with the bat, and Hal shot him to protect the black man.

  I turned off my desk lamp and walked out to the living room. It was past eleven. Karlynn was still on the couch, and Prince had joined her. “You’ve done more than half the things on your list,” she said.

  “Probably the easy ones,” I said.

  “Swimming a mile in the Arctic Ocean doesn’t sound easy,” she said.

  “I told you, my mom lives in Barrow and there’s nothing to do there. It’s not the pretty part of Alaska. It’s the flattest, whitest, most desolate place on earth. I was bored out of my mind, so I decided to see if I could swim a mile without freezing to death or getting eaten by a polar bear. How’s your list coming?”

  “I don’t even have fifty yet,” she said.

  “You’ve been out here nearly two hours.”

  “I know,” she said, “but I started reading that book of yours— the one about Zen and motorcycles.”

  “What do you think of it?” I asked.

  “The guy’s all fucked up,” she said. “He spends way too much time worrying about his bike. He’s always checking the oil and worrying about his damn chain. I mean, Jesus, get a life.”

  “Interesting to hear a biker’s perspective,” I said. “Who was on the phone?”

  “It was Matt,” she said. “After we meet with the feds tomorrow, some guys from the Witness Protection Program are going to tell me all about my new life.”

  “Big day for you,” I said.

  “You goin’ to bed?” she asked.

  “No, I’m kind of hyper tonight. I think I’ll see what’s on the tube.” After several hours revisiting Hal’s death, I was unable to sleep. I picked up the TV schedule from Sunday’s paper.

  “I’m not tired either,” she said.

  “Hey, look at this,” I said. “Bad Day at Black Rock is about to start.” I love that movie. Especially the part where a one-armed Spencer Tracy uses judo to beat the crap out of a much bigger Ernest Borgnine.

  “Never heard of it,” she said. I found the remote, clicked on the TV, and surfed until I found the classic movie channel. Then I kicked Prince off the couch, sat down beside Karlynn, and put my feet up on the coffee table.

  I must have fallen asleep about midway through the movie. When I awoke, I found a blanket on top of me and a handwritten note in my lap. The note read:

  Good movie. I wish I lived in some place

  like that where nobody would ever find me.

  P.S. Don’t worry, we didn’t do anything.

  12

  CLIFF LIVINGSTON AND ADRIENNE VALESKA were waiting for us when we arrived at Fed Central at 9:15 the next morning. “You were supposed to be here at nine,” Livingston said. He wore gray slacks, a powder blue shirt, and a maroon tie.

  I thought about reminding him that I live nearly an hour from Denver and that we’d had to contend with the morning rush hour. Instead I just said, “I hope the extra fifteen minutes doesn’t screw up your case against Bugg.” Valeska allowed a barely noticeable smile. She wore a navy skirt from a suit, a white blouse, and navy pumps with short heels.

  They offered coffee, which I accepted, and led us to the same interview room we’d been in on Tuesday. Once we were all seated at the rectangular table, Livingston began the questioning.

  “All right, Ms. Slade,” he said, “today we’d like to talk to you about Edward Rankin. Is that name familiar to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that name?”

  “He was in the gang,” she said.

  “The Sons of Satan?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you first meet him?” Livingston asked.

  “Three or four years ago.”

  “Where did you first meet him?”

  “It was at the Black Bear, in Rollinsville. Thad and I were having some beers with some of the guys, and Rankin started playing pool. He was pretty good, so Thad challenged him. They got to talkin’ and I guess each of them had been in the Marines and they sort of hit it off. After that, Rankin just started hanging out with us more and more.” Livingston handed her an 8½ ´ 11 black-and-white photo of a man who appeared to be in his early thirties.

  “Do you recognize the man in that photo?” Livingston asked.

  “Yeah, it’s Rankin.”

  “At some point Rankin became a member of the Sons of Satan, is that correct?”

  “Well, yeah, he just started riding with us and he seemed to like it, so Thad gave him this big talk on how the Sons of Satan was the toughest gang around and everyone in it was a member of the one percent club.”

  “The one percent club?”

  “Yeah, Thad said that to a be a member you had to be one of the one percent who had given up on society. You had to be somebody who didn’t want to play by society’s rules.”

  “Christ,” I said, “if that’s all it takes, I’m eligible for membership.” They ignored my attempt at humor.

  “When did Rankin become a member of the gang?” Livingston continued.

  “He was never really a full member,” she said. “He was a probationary member. One day Thad just made him a probationary member. I think it was that August. I remember because it was right after my birthday.”

  “What did he have to do to become a full member?”

  “You have to be a probationary member for at least a year,” she said. “And if Thad decides you’re going to be a full member, he’d put you through some kind of test when you were least expecting it. Like maybe he’d pick ten or twelve guys to stomp you to see if you can take it.” Valeska turned to look at Livingston. I got a glimpse of leg and liked what I saw.

  “How did Rankin do in the gang?” Livingston asked.

  “Fine, as far as I know.”

  “After Rankin had been with the gang a while, did Bugg say anything to indicate how he felt about Rankin?”

  “Not really,” she said.

  “Do you remember when Rankin was arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you remember about that?”

  “We were at home. It was at night. We were watching TV, and Thad got a call from Rankin.”

  “How do you know the call was from Rankin?”

  “Because we let the phone ring and the answering machine picked up and Rankin started talking, saying he was in some trouble.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Thad picked up the phone and talked to him for a few minutes.”

  “Do you remember what Thad said?”

  “Not all of it,” she said. “I remember he said ten thousand dollars was nothing, that he could get that or find a bondsman.”

  “Did you have any conversation with Bugg about the call from Rankin?”

  “Well, I asked what was going on, and he just said that Rankin had gotten busted on some kind of warrant and needed to post bond.”

  “What did Bugg do after the call from Rankin?”

  “He made some phone calls.”

  “Do you know who he called?”

  “No, but one of them had to be long distance, because he asked me to get the address book. I had this address book that we kept with everyone’s phone number and stuff.” The two agents looked at each other again.

  “What do you mean by’everyone’s’ phone number?” Livingston asked.

  “Well, we had this address book—the kind you buy at Office Depot—and we kept a list of everyone’s address and phone number.”

  “Everyone in the gang, or everyone in the chapter?”

  “Everyone. All the other honchos from the other chapters, plus all the other members, the girls that worked for me, and a bunch of other people the gang did business with.”

  “Did you take the address book when you left Bugg?” Livingston asked.r />
  “No,” she replied.

  Livingston looked irritated, as if he couldn’t believe Karlynn had neglected to take what might be a crucial piece of evidence. He rubbed his meaty hands through his hair. Adrienne Valeska gently placed her palm on Karlynn’s arm. “Where does he keep the address book?” she asked.

  “It’s usually in a drawer in the kitchen,” she replied. “Right next to the refrigerator.” You didn’t have to be a lawyer to know that when the feds drafted an application for a search warrant, Karlynn’s statements regarding the existence of the address book would play a prominent role.

  “Okay,” Livingston said with a sigh, “when Bugg made these phone calls, do you remember what he said?”

  “He kept telling the people he was talking to that ten thousand was not enough.”

  “Did you know what he meant?”

  “Well, it sounded like he was surprised that the bond was so low.”

  “Do you remember anything else that he said when he was on the phone with these other people?”

  “No, but when he was done, he told me that instead of posting bond for Rankin he would just pay a bondsman. He was afraid that if we showed up with ten grand to post bond, someone might wonder where we’d gotten the money.”

  “Okay,” Livingston said, “at some point did you become aware of Rankin’s death?”

  “Yeah, I think it was, like, two days later. Thad hired a bondsman the next day, and then the day after was the day Rankin was killed.”

  “Did Bugg say anything to you about Rankin’s death?”

  “Yeah, there was a big story about it in the paper. I saw the story and showed it to Thad. He just glanced at it and said, ’That’s life,’ or something like that.”

  “Did you ever ask him whether he’d played a role in Rankin’s death?”

  “You don’t understand our relationship,” she said. “I learned not to ask those questions.”

  The next topic concerned money. They spent an hour questioning her about Bugg’s finances and his distrust of banks. She told them he had caches of food, weapons, and money hidden all over the West, but only Thad knew where they were. Then they started asking her about the money she had taken from Bugg.