Chapter 15
Joe Barnes walked south down 181st Avenue, turned west on Powell Boulevard. The sun was shining and he felt like a policeman again. He was trying to solve a case. When he was with the Chicago police department, there were hundreds of cases. It was overwhelming. It was easier to have just a few things to work on, but he liked the action of being busy. The way it used to be. Nonetheless, he was on a case and liked the feeling of working. He was walking the route of the marijuana-store robberies, open to any possibility.
He saw a woman push a stroller with a baby seemingly content; the baby was babbling. Two men waited on a bus. A young woman worked the drive at a gas station and across the street was a store selling wood stoves and accessories. Joe tried to notice everything.
He had always wanted to be an important person, a police chief or head of an important investigation. The person who figured out a crime and took an infamous bad guy off the street. A man who could see trouble and stopped it. He also wanted to have money, because money bought respect. If a person had money, he could live where he wanted, drive what he wanted. Women were impressed by men with money. He strongly desired to have a woman in his life.
The first part of his childhood dream had come true. He had advanced quickly from patrolman to detective in Chicago, one of the world’s toughest cities. He worked with teams of men and women who solved murder cases and took criminals off the street. He took pride in the fact he always carried his weight. When he saw work to do, a meaningful step into something that might solve a crime, he plunged in. He spoke up when it was called for, went on stakeouts when necessary, participated in raids against armed and dangerous men.
Chicago cops had a reputation for toughness, but they were also in line for payoffs, sometimes petty but other times generous. Joe heard about them, tips for providing some kind of security not quite on the record. Money to walk away from a drunk driving scene. But also higher paying graft, such as not testifying to important details in jury cases or tipping off drug raids.
Joe considered himself an honest cop. He was tall enough, at 6-foot, though he liked the idea of cops being big men, like football players. But he was skinny with a little bit of a pot belly he could never seem to get rid of. He knew no one ever guessed he might be a pro athlete. He had been bald since his 20s, and had always disliked it as he thought it made him look older. He mostly stayed in shape, although it was harder in middle age and he’d always had a problem sticking with a workout regimen. He was an honest cop, but if something dropped into his lap, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with taking some money. That was the attitude of the cops on the anti-drug task force in the 1990s in Chicago.
They knew of corruption on every level, including management, and so if a lowly detective had a chance to pick up some cash, it was considered acceptable in some circumstances. There was a lot of subtlety in the thinking about bribes and payoffs.
Joe remembered the day in 1999 when he was caught taking cash during a drug bust. It was a beautiful day, like the one today. The street busy and happy, like today. There was a raid on a drug house, and it had turned out to be an amazingly good tip. There were five men weighing up cocaine, and a cardboard box with bundles of $100s. The men with the cocaine had been quickly subdued, with one shot fired and no one hurt, and they were waiting for the street cops and the lead investigators to show up.
The lieutenant in charge of the raid, Dalton Hays, had the drug dealers taken to a bedroom; they were handcuffed. “It’s OK to take one bundle,” Dalton said, looking in the box of money and cocaine. “Quick now, one bundle, no one says anything.”
Five cops had conducted the raid. One was in the bedroom with the bad guys. Dalton was a veteran, and trusted. Joe Barnes and two other cops reached into the box and took a packet. Five hundred $100 bills, $50,000. It was thrilling, Joe remembered. Dalton took two. “I’ll give one to Mick.” Mick was the cop in the other room with the drug dealers.
Joe stepped outside to greet the patrolmen, pulling in with sirens on. They were in uniform and had shotguns. Then an officer’s car pulled up. The new, unmarked Fords were driven by the Chicago police brass and city executives. The drug dealers were led out and Dalton was praised by some of the men joining the scene at a press conference.
“We took a lot of coke off the street today, and coke is ruining our city,” the lieutenant, Dalton Hays, said. “We busted right in and only one guy fired a shot. Textbook raid, no one hurt. Beautiful.” His voice was full of energy; he wasn’t a cop that cussed. Joe always remembered that detail. A Christian, but it was OK to steal.
Later, one of the men arrested said there was $400,000 at the scene. The police brass had collected $150,000. The man who was arrested said, “The guys who did the raid didn’t see the camera. I guess none of you have seen the video yet.”
In those days, videotape outside of highly secure locations, like banks and U.S. consulates, was rare. But sure enough, there was a camera hidden in the corner of the room. Joe still remembered seeing the film. He had reached in and pulled out a packet of $100 bills. He used to get a sick feeling remembering the video. Now he was hardened to it.
Well, thought Joe, that was an unpleasant time but it is a beautiful day today. Joe stood on the sidewalk looking at Cannabis Central. It was a standard brick commercial building, probably built in the 1940s. He stepped inside, knowing he looked out of place. “Is Roger in?”
The insides of the building had a freshly painted look, and the woman behind the counter was well made up, dark lipstick with cascading black hair, wearing tight jeans and a revealing top.
Roger Stolls, the store manager, came out of the office door about this time. Joe had talked to him a few times since the robbery. “Can I show you some pictures,” he said.
“Sure,” Roger said. “Are you having any luck?”
“You don’t know until you do. It always hits you like an a-ha moment.”
The woman laughed. “It’s funny, but it’s the truth,” he said. Joe felt good hearing the good-looking woman laugh at his joke.
Joe laid pictures on the counter. There was one, taken from an outside digital camera, that showed the face of Steve Kilter pretty much full on. “It was taken about three weeks before the robbery. So far I haven’t identified him yet.” Joe laid down four more pictures, from different cameras. One was far away and his face is sideways to the camera. In another he is partly obscured by the body of a woman with a full head of hair. Neither of the two were great pictures. Another picture, almost a full body shot, Steve Kilter had a backpack over his shoulder and looked quite fit. The last picture shows him walking down the street. It was slightly fuzzy. The pictures were not taken on the night of the robbery. The only pictures from that night had turned out to be fuzzy and deceptive.
The thing about the pictures that interested Joe was that the five shots were taken in different places on what he had begun to call the loop. There were two shots from a gas station on 181st, one showing a man walking on 181st and another of him after he had turned onto Powell Boulevard. Another was taken on 176th, from the bank. The other two were taken from businesses on Division Street. In other words, Steve Kilter at various times had completed a circle round the neighborhood roughly on the course the marijuana-store bandit had walked.
“I’ve talked to several people up and down the street and nobody reports anything unusual in the neighborhood. I’ve looked at pictures from 12 businesses with outside cameras. Hundreds of hours of digital. This guy showed up.”
Roger nodded. “I don’t think I’ve seen him in here.”
“Well, he’s the only person I’ve found who somewhat fits the profile. He’s athletic, about 6-foot tall?”
“That description fits a lot of people, me included,” Roger said.
Roger and the dark, attractive woman stood looking at the photographs for a few minutes. “I don’t think that’s the man who robbed the store,” she said.
Joe looked startled. “You know him?”
“I know who he is,” she said. “He was a few years behind me in high school, at Gresham. He’s cute. Also I heard a nice guy, but a total straight arrow.”
Chapter 16
Joe Barnes was not technically savvy, but the lawyer Bill Robbins was, and he was always helpful. Bill spent hours scouring the web, looking for good deals on concert tickets and sporting events. He knew the stock market and market indicators. He was good at retrieving public documents, both police reports and the work of other government agencies.
“I’m amazed at your technical abilities,” Joe said. He was comfortable in Bill’s office, having spent many hours there recently. He spent time at a separate computer screen at a table in the corner of Bill’s office. He went through all the digital material, but Bill helped him when he had technical problems. He was collecting digital information from several brands of camera. Bill was at the window on this day, looking out on the city streets. Joe liked sharing this office space, but he knew Bill wanted his privacy back. Still, for the time being, Joe knew Bill was going to be pleased.
“I’m a geek, it’s true,” Bill said. Bill thought he was being ironic. He’d been on the high school basketball team and thought he was anything but a geek.
The sun in the window was hot and Joe hung his jacket on the back of his chair. He had a Gresham High School yearbook, three photographs he had taken off digital cameras and his ever-present file folder. He walked over to the window and handed Bill the photographs of Steve Kilter.
“I believe this is our man,” Joe said. “His name is Steve Kilter. He’s about 6-foot with an athletic build. He has short hair so he easily could’ve worn a wig and in the weeks before the robbery, he was in the neighborhood. His mother works as a bookkeeper at the Toyota dealership in Gresham. He was in college for a semester, dropped out due to financial hardship, moved back to Gresham. He’s since moved back to Corvallis and is enrolled in a class on accounting. He’s also working almost full time at a construction job. He does not have any previous run-ins with the law.”
“If you’re anything, it’s thorough,” Bill said. He walked to his desk and sat down. Joe took a seat across from him. Joe was in a good mood. Bill leaned back in his chair, ready to listen. He knew Joe’s energy level had increased in recent days; he was goofy funny when he was in a good mood.
“Who’ve you talked to?” Bill said.
“Quite by chance a pretty woman identified the picture. I’ve interviewed about 50 people up and down the street. I was back in Cannabis Central to see the manager. The girl at the counter saw the picture and identified the man in the picture as someone she had gone to school with. I got a yearbook from the Gresham High School library; the librarian knew him. He was a good student and fairly popular.
“I posed as a news reporter when I went to Gresham High School. Then, I called his mother, pretending to manage an apartment complex and needing a reference. I drove to Corvallis and saw him and his apartment. I did all this on a hunch, but it paid off.”
“That’s a big grin. I know there’s more,” Bill said.
“I posed as a police officer,” Joe said.
“You have to be kidding me. You’re looking for trouble.”
“I know,” Joe said, “but it paid off. Mr. Kilter has a safe deposit box at the First National Bank.”
Bill smiled and his lawyer sense kicked in. “I need to hear this.”
“I went into the bank, the big, traditional institute located in the middle of downtown. I drove into town, saw that bank, and said to myself, that’s the place I’d keep $500,000.
“I asked for the branch manager. I told him I was a cop working on a case in Portland, looking for a man we now believe to be living in Corvallis with his money in this bank.
“The bank manager’s bored, you know, stuck in an office job pushing paper, so I made up a whole story. I concluded with we just need one thing to kind of prove we’re on the right track. Some detail I can use to convince my boss.”
Bill sat up straight. Joe was smiling.
“So, when I said the name, the bank manager reached over and was pecking on his keyboard. I couldn’t see the screen, but I knew he was curious. I knew I had him. He said, ‘You know, I couldn’t give you that information without a warrant.’ But, I knew I was in.
“Then I said, well, if I just knew whether to move forward, that’s all I need. The guy sat there a moment, dying to tell me. Then he turned the screen so I could get a quick look.”
“Nice,” Bill said. “What did you see.”
“I saw a form, scanned in, applying for a safe deposit box. It said Steve Kilter, box 1711,” Joe said. “It confirmed his home address in Corvallis.”
Bill said, “Did the bank manager ask for an ID?”
“After, he said he should probably see some identification, so I pulled back my jacket, he could see my gun, and pulled out my fake ID. I flipped it open. He looked at it.”
Bill had seen Joe’s fake Portland police ID; it was a good one. He’d had it for years and never used it. It has a silver star, and his picture and information laminated on a card.
“I said the branch manager was a good citizen. I knew what I needed to do now. He had no idea how much hassle he was saving me.
“He said, ‘Mister, I’m a branch manager at a bank. I know all about bureaucracy.’ ”
“How long have you had that fake Portland police ID?” Bill said.
“For eight years. You know, it’s not something I did lightly.”
“You’re a good actor; I had no idea,” Bill said. “You took a big risk. That’s amazing. It’s as good as proof. If we get that Wellington kid his money back, we’re both taking bonuses.”
“Now, how did you know it was this guy in the picture?”
“My interviews were all hearsay and speculation. The digital pictures, which you helped me with, I didn’t know what to look for at first. Then, well, I thought he was a healthy young man. Not a street guy, a bum, and not an addict. I know they thought he was bigger at first, but there wasn’t any supporting evidence he was six-foot-four.
“Then, what clinched it for me, look at the way he’s wearing that backpack. He made the loop. And, what do we know about the guy who hit those marijuana shops? He had a backpack and he walked the loop.”
“That’s pretty thin. He’s clean, no record?” Bill said.
“No record, but a security box at a bank. What does a college kid, from a poor family, need with a safe deposit box at the bank?”
“That doesn’t make him guilty,” Bill said. “Do you don’t think he’s spending the money?”
“I was in Corvallis two days, watching him. No new clothes. He’s driving a 20-year-old Ford pickup. He’s carrying an old computer. He doesn’t have a new phone. He’s smart, not drawing attention to himself.”
“Or, he didn’t do it.”
“I know,” Joe said. I’m trying not to convict him too quick.”
“The question is, what do we do next,” Bill said. “I was thinking about sending Tim Bolin in. That guy scares people.”
Joe sat up straight. He’d never considered Bill might take the case away from him. “I was the one who found him. I think I should be the one who leans on him. I’m a cop, I know how to do it.” Joe knew he was pleading. He knew it but couldn’t help it.
“This Bolin kid, he’ll scare the crap out of him,” Bill said. “Give us the money or get your ass kicked. We need to move quick now, before he runs off or starts spending the money. I don’t know, the safe deposit box kind of convinces me. If he’s got cash, once he gets to spending it, it could disappear quick. He could pull it out of the bank, take off and we’d never see it again. We might only have one chance.”
“I’ve been thinking about this kid. I’ve spent days thinking about him. I feel I know him, and I can scare him. I just feel I can do it. I hate the idea of going this far and then turning it over to some young guy without my kind of experience.”
Bill had a feeling he should sent in Tim Bolin. If Steve Kilter didn’t immediately play ball, Tim would work him over, put the fear of god in him. But, Joe had done the leg work. Turning it over to Tim would be cutting Joe out of work he felt he had coming. And, he was right. If Joe’s intelligence was correct, he had done an amazing job. Maybe he’d have a sense of whether this Kilter kid had actually done it.
“OK,” Bill said. “So far you’re doing well. I know you think I’m a jerk, but I’m going to tell you something. Don’t mess it up now.”
“I know, Bill. I won’t.”
Chapter 17
Before he robbed the marijuana stores, Steve Kilter visited a locksmith in the 181st neighborhood and had a key made for his mother’s front door. He didn’t need a key, but he saw the locksmith store in the middle of the neighborhood, and if he ever needed an alibi to be in the neighborhood, having a receipt from the locksmith might help.
Steve was feeling pretty good. He hadn’t heard from the police. He had no reason to think he was being investigated until he came home from his morning class and there was a man sitting on his deck, on a rickety wire chair. He looked like a cop.
Steve considered running, but the man had seen him. He walked up the steps, took the backpack off his shoulder, and set it down. He leaned against the porch rail. The man didn’t get up. He wasn’t acting like a cop. Cops are usually polite.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can. I went through your house, but I didn’t find a key to the First National Bank safe deposit box. I didn’t find anything but a check book from a credit union. I searched the entire apartment; you don’t own much stuff, do you?”
“I don’t need much. I’m working a job and taking a class,” Steve said. “Are you with the police?”
“I’m a private investigator, working on the marijuana-store robberies. I don’t really want to hurt you.” He opened his jacket to show a 9-millimeter semiautomatic in a leather holster under his sports jacket. It was a Smith and Wesson, built in the Model 1911 style, and looked to weigh about four pounds.
“A big gun like that, you could hit me with it if you didn’t want to shoot me,” Steve said.
Joe Barnes laughed. “You’ve got a sense of humor. It’s an old joke, though.”
“I don’t want you to think I know a lot about guns. Just some basics,” Steve said. “I know a 1911, and I can certainly guess that monster weighs in at four pounds.”
“Now we know each other,” Joe said. “I’m looking for a key to the safe deposit box at the First National Bank. I think you’ve got my client’s money in there. You can have what you stole from the other stores, and I won’t turn you in to the police. All you have to do is give me the key. If you don’t, I’m going to start filling those muscular legs of yours full of bullet holes until you remember where the key is. You know, make you a cripple like you threatened at Mary Jane’s, a bum knee when you’re an old man giving you pain every time the weather’s about to change.”
“You just searched my house? As you know, then, I don’t have a key to a safe deposit box. I’ve never robbed a place in my life. I don’t know what gave you the idea it was me, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no key. I’m not your man.”
Joe stood up. He put his hand on the pistol grip, but didn’t pull it out. “Let’s go inside.”
Steve held his hands up, showing surrender. “Go ahead,” Joe said, indicating with his head Steve should go through the door first. “It’s unlocked. I picked it.”
Steve shook his head. He couldn’t quite believe it. He pulled the door handle, but didn’t twist the knob. The door made a banging noise, not loud but also not opening. It made a sound like the door was locked. Joe leaned over, wondering had he left the door unlocked, and Steve threw his elbow back, quick, and hit Joe in the jaw. Joe stumbled back and at the same time pulled out his gun. Steve grabbed for the gun and pushed Joe off the porch and onto the ground. In one motion.
The porch was three steps up and Steve made sure to land on top of Joe when he hit the sidewalk. Joe’s head went back and hit the sidewalk, hard, and he yelled. Joe was trying to control the gun but Steve had it too, with both hands, and when Joe couldn’t get complete control Steve knocked it away.
Joe jumped up but Steve was quicker, and kicked him hard in the balls. As he was bent over, Steve punched him in the jaw and knocked him down. Joe caught his breath. It took a minute, then he began to stand up.
Steve knocked him down again, this time with a fist to the ribs. He grabbed the chair and began hitting Joe in the face and arms with the wire chair. He delivered four or five blows before the wire chair broke apart. The damage was done. Joe was bleeding in the mouth, and felt his teeth and jaw, which were hurting. For sure his right arm was broken; he couldn’t control it. It swung free at the wrist.
Steve picked up the gun, took three steps up, locked the front door, and picked up his backpack. Looking at the gun, he pulled back the slide of the 9 millimeter and saw there wasn’t a bullet in the chamber. He ejected the magazine and saw it was full. He looked at the gun and figured out the safety. He decided to leave; he was already walking. He put the 9 millimeter in his backpack. He didn’t want to be around when the police showed up.
Chapter 18
Steve walked to the student center, where he had a locker so he could use the university weight room. A student ID allowed a person to work out in the weight room, and he had a locker there so he could shower after. He had the key to the bank security box in the locker. He added the gun. The lockers were subject to searches by school officials, so he knew he wouldn’t leave it there long.
His hand was cut, from the wire chair, and he cleaned it up in the sink. A student attendant gave him a 4X4 dressing and some tape.
Steve walked slowly across campus back to his apartment. Joe was gone. The wire chair was in the yard in pieces, some of them bloody. Steve picked them up and put them in the trash. He didn’t know who owned the chair. It was student apartments, but privately owned. It was a cheap chair and wouldn’t be missed.
There were traces of blood on the grass, but no other evidence there had been a fight. Steve was discouraged to see his apartment completely taken apart while he was in his morning accounting class. Someone was on to him, but so far he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to panic; he couldn’t call the police. But he knew someone would be back. It was a lot of money; enough that people would go to a lot of trouble.
Steve changed his clothes, locked the place up, and went to his construction job. He would try to keep up his normal routine. He didn’t know what else to do. When he wasn’t in class, studying or working, he was wondering if there was anything he could do to prevent another confrontation. Steve assumed he should change apartments, but so far it was just a thought.
Two days went by, and he didn’t hear from anyone. He relaxed a little, but he didn’t know what his plan was. He felt hyper-alert. He slept only three hours a night. Still, another day and nothing happened. Friday night came, and while he was relaxing after a day at the construction site, the telephone rang. It could be anyone, and he feared the worst. He noticed he was getting jumpy.
He was pleased to hear a familiar voice. It was Ella Delberta.
“Hi,” she said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Of course,” he said. “How are you? Jeez, I miss you so much.”
“Really?” she said. “I was afraid you might have a woman over there with you.”
“After dating you, well, my standards are pretty high.” He laughed. He meant it but in a joking way, keeping it light. “Anyway, there are other things going on. I won’t bother you with all that.”
“Believe it or not, I’m home for the weekend. I came home for my grandmother’s funeral. I thought I’d come down tomorrow if it’s OK with you. If you’re seeing someone, or busy, I don’t want to cause any problems.”
“I’m not dating anyone, if that’s what you mean. I have to work until 5, but then I’d love to see you. I’m sorry about your grandmother.”
“Thank you,” she said. She had his address, and he confirmed it. He felt great all the sudden. He was going to see Ella Delberta. She was about to hang up.
“Wait,” Steve said, “I’m going to ask you to get something from my brother, a collection of 25 silver dollars.”
Chapter 19
Steve didn’t know if his phone or his home was bugged, or if he was being watched. When Ella arrived, she looked at his apartment, but then he took her out for dinner. He had cleaned up the mess. After dinner, they talked at a park. It was nice out and he didn’t feel safe being with her at the apartment.
Sitting on a bench in the park, she said, “I’ve really missed you. I know it’s nearly impossible to have a long-distance relationship, but I just can’t shake the feeling we have something going. I’m so glad to have a chance to see to you in person.”
“I feel the same way,” Steve said. “I know I could date. I know we broke up, officially I guess, but I just want to succeed at school so when you graduate, and I graduate, we’ll be on somewhat equal terms. I mean, I know you’re going to Brown, but an accounting degree would be worth something.”
“Of course it will,” she said. “It’s crazy. I just can’t imagine doing it long distance for three, four years, but at the same time I can’t shake the feeling of how good it is between us. I like you. I love being with you physically. When we hang out, I’m always so comfortable with you. Anyway, I wanted you to know how I felt about it.”
“If you want me to wait for you, I will,” Steve said. “If you change your mind later, well, you change your mind, and I’ll move on. But if you tell me to wait, I will. I can do it. I’m focused on school now. I was homesick at one time, but now I’ve got a plan. I want to finish in record time, not that I’m succeeding at that this moment.” He laughed. He was taking one class and felt like a hypocrite, yet it was perhaps the best he could do at the moment.
“OK, let’s try it,” she said. “I’m not going to try and play hard to get. A long-distance relationship. This summer, it’s only three months away, I’ll plan to live and work in Corvallis. My dad won’t like it, but he likes you. I can make it if I know we’ll spend the summer together.”
“That would be fantastic. You know I can’t afford to move to Gresham just for the summer. I’m here, now.”
“Why don’t we go to your apartment for a while,” she said. “I’m not going to spend the night. I have a bunch of family at my parents’ house, but we should spend some time together.” Steve didn’t know if his house was being watched and he wanted to take her to a hotel, but he didn’t have enough money. It was a drag to be poor.
Steve knew he was at a crossroad. A woman he liked wanted him to stay in her life, and he was going to have to tell her why he was being chased out of his apartment. He had to explain there was a risk a private investigator could figure out who she was.
He laughed. She smiled. “What?” she said.
“I’m going to tell you a long, funny story,” he said. “It’s going to give you a lot to think about.”
“OK,” she said. “Shoot.”
Steve smiled. He had moved the 9 millimeter, with its shiny stainless-steel finish, from the locker at school to his apartment. Funny she should use that word, shoot.
“By the way,” she said. “I brought those silver dollars from your mom’s house.”
Chapter 20
Tim Bolin was a loner. His father died when Tim was a toddler. His mother struggled to survive without his income. She told him stories about how poor they were, but it never seemed that way to him. His mother gave him love, and he spent a lot of time at his grandparents’ home, and it was happy there, too. When he was 5 his mother remarried, and his stepfather made it clear he didn’t want children.
His mother did everything to accommodate her new husband, a well-paid service manager at a car dealership. He bought her a nice home, and they had security. When his stepfather arrived home from work, they had a few drinks and then she served dinner. Tim was not allowed to have friends over after 5 p.m. That was when his “father” came home. No loud playing after 5. No overnight guests. No weekend guests.
He hadn’t realized it at the time, but later in life Tim realized his mother was obsessed with pleasing her man. Whatever the man said, that was the law of the house. She did everything in a way that would please him. She never wanted to be poor and alone again.
Tim had never minded, but he grew up in a hurry. His mother was involved in his life, but his stepfather was not. He was a good student, so that was never a problem. Tim didn’t think it was wise to be dumb. He always planned to get ahead in life. Science, math, writing, one never knew what skills one was going to need in life, so he tried to take an interest in all subjects. He liked football because he was allowed to hit people, and he thought it was important to be tough.
As a boy, he went camping a lot in the Boy Scouts. At a young age he purchased a .22 caliber pistol from an older friend, and he would pack it and go for long hikes in the woods. He would find secluded areas and build a fire. He killed feral cats. He liked the idea of living independent.
Later, when he was older, Tim would sneak out of the house at night, out his bedroom window, and go for long walks. A neighbor had a dog that always barked menacingly at him. One night he took his gun, another gun he had by now, a .22 with a silencer, and killed the dog, a big German shepherd.
He was a good football player, fast and quick thinking, and when it was not football season he lifted weights and ran. Being weak or fat was not tolerable. It was not manly to be soft. He took a job with a locksmith and learned to make keys and break into safes. He had another job installing security alarms. Tim drove heavy equipment on a construction site. He read books about law enforcement. His stepfather thought he might be a policeman, but in fact Tim had other ideas. Tim Bolin was going to earn a lot of money at a young age, and he wasn’t going to earn it working by the hour.
When he was 19, and living in his own apartment, he bought outdoor clothing and began to hang out at a homeless camp along the Springwater Trail. He carried a gun with him, but he never had to show it. He hated homeless people. He thought people who didn’t work were lazy. People who took drugs were stupid. Tim knew how to live rough, and he figured out who was using drugs at the camps, and who was selling them.
He could make friends in a homeless camp by buying a pack of cigarettes and giving them out one at a time. He had to listen to people talk, some high and others stupid. Once he figured out who the dealers were, he began to follow them. This took patience. He followed the chain of drug-dealer rank up the ladder until he found some dealers who seemed to be doing a lot of business, who seemed to be handling a lot of money.
He went first to a house on Foster Road. He watched the house for several weeks, sometimes from a car, and found there was another house the dealers would go to, a house in Gresham. He watched that house for several weeks, again often in a car but sometimes by sneaking round the neighborhood at night and finding a place in the trees or brush to watch from.
He noticed at this house, the “white house,” there was a rhythm. Sometimes things would be very busy, and later things would slow down. He assumed this had to do with the flow of drugs, and the time Tim picked to rob the house was when he suspected there would be the most money in the house.
When he thought he had the pattern figured out, he waited for a period of activity. Just when Tim assumed things would slow down again, he robbed the house. This wasn’t a scientific theory, but it worked the times Tim tried it.
It was 4 in the morning when he robbed the white house. He put duct tape on a small pane of glass in the kitchen door at the back of the house. He gave the glass a hard tap with a hammer and it broke, but it wasn’t too loud. He wore a bandana over his face. He was wearing work gloves and reached in and unlocked the door. It was dark in the kitchen, and he didn’t hear any movement in the house. He walked past a man sleeping on the couch in the living room. He carried a Beretta rifle with an eight-bullet clip. It was a semiautomatic. He carried two pistols, one in a shoulder holster, a .38 caliber revolver, a famous police gun. In the other holster, on his belt, a Walther P38 semiautomatic, a weapon designed to replace the Luger during World War II.
He entered the hallway and saw two men asleep in the first bedroom. A few steps farther, in the second bedroom across the hall, there was a man in bed with his eyes open. The moment Tim looked in the door, and the man saw him, the man reached for a shotgun by the bed. Tim shot him in the chest with the Beretta and yelled for everyone to come out, hands up. Instant chaos. From the hallway, Tim could look into the room with the two men and also look down the hallway and see part of the couch.
“I see everyone,” Tim said. “Move slowly. One man is dead. I will shoot you all.”
Tim backed up, holding the rifle, and let the men walk out of the bedroom and into the living room. Now he had all three of them in front of him. He waited for sudden movement, for someone to pull a gun out of hiding or leap for a weapon.
“I want the money and the drugs,” he said. No one moved.
“If someone doesn’t take me to the money, I will shoot this man,” Tim said, aiming the rifle at the man who had previously been sleeping on the couch. He intended on pulling the trigger. He had to be no nonsense. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to shoot the first man. The men were all Hispanic, but he assumed they knew enough English to know what was going on.
“Now,” Tim said, and put the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed at the man. As the rifle went up one of the men said the money was in the kitchen. Tim pointed with his rifle and they all three moved to the kitchen. A man climbed up on a chair and took a down a shoulder bag. He showed the money in the shoulder bag. He went to the other side of the kitchen and pulled out a tray with two gallon-sized Ziploc freezer bags.
“Cocaine?” Tim said.
“Yes, and heroin,” he said, pointing to the small bag. There was much more cocaine than heroin. Tim put the baggies in the large shoulder bag and backed out of the house. He backed out of the yard and ran. He heard police sirens. Someone had heard the shot. He hid while two police cars went past, then got back to his car and drove away.
Tim had many guns as he had joined a group called the Old Timers Gun Club. They met every month in a man’s garage in east Portland. The first Saturday of each month someone in the club would gather his guns and spread them on a table. He would tell about his collection, and they would have coffee. The men had been meeting like this, some of them, for 20 years. They welcomed Tim when he attended his first meeting at age 18. He was a fit young man with short hair, clean jeans and a pure white t-shirt. Some of the men were in their 80s.
Over time, some of the men sold guns, off the record, to Tim as they liked him, felt they could trust him. He paid in cash, finding the men fair in the way they valued the guns. They were men who liked guns, but they were older and closer to death, and leaving cash behind would be easier for the family. Legally guns are not supposed to be transferred to other people in Oregon, although it’s frequently done Some members of the gun club knew some family members would be uncomfortable selling guns.
Tim would find some very useful weapons. One man sold him an almost new AK-15. He purchased the Beretta at the Old Timers Gun Club. He had a sniper’s rifle, and handguns and rifles from many different countries. It wasn’t a burden for Tim to attend the meetings. He liked the old guys, and he liked guns. The best part was, they were all clean. It was unlikely anyone had committed a crime with one of the guns.
Tim knew he couldn’t keep the Beretta, since he had used it, and he threw it into the Columbia River.
He went to another homeless camp in Portland, located in a green space near the Columbia River. Using his old trick of giving away cigarettes, he again fit into the camp. Time hated the trash around a homeless camp. It seemed to start outside the entrances to the tents and get thicker and more chaotic as one moved out in a half circle. Sometimes the trash was strewn out 20 or 30 yards.
The small-time dealers here led him to a house in Portland, on 39th Avenue, which he called the “brick house.” A white couple lived in the two-story house, which was likely built in the 1950s. There were numerous people around during the day. At night, he noticed it was only the two people who stayed, a couple perhaps, as they appeared to be about the same age. This was in the city. He knew the police would probably arrive quickly here. There were close neighbors and he didn’t want to shoot innocent people. Just drug dealers. Maybe homeless people. He often thought of this. It kept him pure if he only killed bad people. He watched the house for a couple of weeks.
It was August when he was ready to break in, and a hot August at that. He entered through an open bathroom window on the second floor. On an earlier visit, he found a wood ladder in the garage. The night of the robbery he removed the ladder, leaned it against the rain gutter, and walked 10 steps on the roof to the open window. He laughed it was so easy. He walked through the bathroom and into the bedroom. He noticed during one of his surveillances this was the last light on when things were being shut down at night. He stepped into the bedroom, flipped the light switch and put his AR-15 on the couple. He liked the AR-15. It was a good rifle.
“Give me your money and drugs, or I’ll kill you,” Tim said. He was not wearing a bandana this time. He did not expect to leave witnesses.
They sat with their hands up. The man was probably 50 with a hard body and short, wild looking hair, bald on the crown of his head. Tim guessed that he could fight, and there was a handgun on the table by the bed. It confirmed his philosophy that one should always be ready to shoot and kill. The woman looked rough with lots of wrinkles, like smokers get round their mouth and eyes. She was probably 50 as well. Hell, maybe they were both 70. Regardless, they were living rough. She had brushed, long hair.
“Where’s the money and drugs?” Tim said. He aimed the AR-15 at the woman.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Wrong answer,” Tim said, and he shot the man in the chest. It was loud. “I’ll shoot you too if you don’t find the money.”
The woman got up, picked up a key on the desk, and opened a locked drawer in a desk. Simple as could be. She pulled out a box with money in it. She opened it and showed him. There was also a small baggie with white powder, some marijuana and an assortment of pills. Tim shot her in the heart. They were ugly people. He dumped the drugs out and put the cash, a huge wad, in his jeans. He left the baggie of white powder, maybe a quarter of an ounce.
He backed out of the room, went down the stairs and out the front door. No alarms, but neighbors would likely report the two shots. He wondered what the couple were like, how their lives had gone off the rails. Later, he threw the AR-15 in the Willamette River.
He found a third drug house, starting at yet another homeless camp. He hated homeless people, and he felt there was no end to the number of them. He felt the police should arrest the zombies, put them in jail, and someone should clean up the trash. He began to feel he was doing a public service.
He nicknamed this new house “dog house.” Two men stayed there, and they had four dogs. It was in a rural area near the east Portland city limits. There were several run-down houses in about a one-block area. He was amazed at how run down the houses were. There was a stand of trees nearby in a large, overgrown field. He could park on the other side of the trees, in a decent neighborhood, walk through the woods and break into the house.
Despite that layout, Tim knew this one would be risky. If he had to kill four dogs, he was going to make a lot of noise. He was going to try to make it a fast visit, even more than he had the others. He came up with a plan. He carried his Walther P38 in its holster. It was semiautomatic and held eight bullets. He carried a Browning .30-06 on a strap. He liked this gun, but it held only five shots so he had to pay attention. As backup, he put a .45 caliber semiautomatic in his shoulder holster. If he used all five bullets in the Browning, he planned to finish with the .45.
Tim would wear a bandana over his face. He purchased a sledgehammer at a hardware store.
It was fall, a full moon and one could see outside. He walked to the house and knocked open a side door with one swing of the sledgehammer. One could do this at many homes, Tim had learned when he was working as a locksmith. Only a thin layer of wood is holding the lock in the door at most homes.
The dogs were there instantly, barking and growling, snapping at him. The two Dobermans were the most aggressive, but not by much. The German shepherds scared him as well.
He had planned to drop the big hammer and swing the Browning up, but the moment the door flung open, with a loud bang, he dropped the hammer and tried to pull the strap off his shoulder. In his hurry, it jerked tight. He had to think fast, and the Walther came out of the holster easily.
The dogs had found him and he quickly shot the first two, the Dobermans. He was trying to do it fast. They ran at him with teeth snapping and it was simple to shoot them both in the chest. He noted the snapping teeth came close, though. Certainly it scared him plenty. He was impressed with the P38. One bullet, one dog. No problem.
One German shepherd was still snapping at him, and barking, but the other was confused by the gunshots and didn’t know whether to attack or run. The German shepherd that was snapping at him was moving, jumping round. Not easy to kill like the Dobermans, which had stood in one place.
Tim waited. He stood still, took a breath. It took only a second, but the dog was close, facing him now and the moment he stopped moving, Tim shot him in the chest. The other German shepherd now ran down the hallway.
Two men in the house were yelling. “What the hell is going on?” But it wasn’t a question. Tim ran to the hallway and saw the men at the end of the hallway, holding guns, and the German shepherd, between Tim and the men.
The dog was barking, but held its head down. It was not as aggressive as the other dogs had been. Tim felt the dog was confused, afraid of the gun but wanting to bark and protect the men. When the dog paused, Tim shot him.
“Drop your guns or I’ll shoot you, too. Both of you.”
The men stood still, but didn’t drop their weapons. The mistake they made was they hesitated. It confirmed Tim’s theory that one had to go into a drug-house robbery already knowing he would kill people. He felt he was good at this kind of thing. He should write an instructional book.
All Tim could see in the dark hallway was what he thought was a shotgun. He thought the other man had a handgun, but both had their hands down at their sides.
“Give me your money and you can live,” Tim said. “I have the drop on you.”
Tim took a step forward and turned on a light. Now he could see the men and they stood up straight, still holding the guns. A dog cried back at the side door. Tim thought all the dogs were dead, but one was still alive. It was a pitiful cry but Tim hardened himself to it.
“Drop the guns, give me the money, you can live,” Tim said. “And do it fast.”
The man with the shotgun pulled it up and tried to aim it quickly, but Tim, having his gun up, was ready and fired immediately. The man was hit in the chest. Every shot Tim had taken had been intended as a heart shot. He was impressed with the Walther. Now he had made another good shot with it.
One man stood at the end of the hall, holding a semiautomatic handgun of some kind at his side. Seeing a dead man and knowing there were four dead dogs in the house convinced him. He dropped the gun and held up his hands. Tim walked to him.
“Where’s the money?”
The man walked into a back bedroom with Tim following him. By standing in the hall, they had been guarding the room.
The man opened the closet door and pulled out a suitcase. He opened it and showed Tim. It was stuffed full of loose bills of all denominations. Not organized but a lot of money in there.
“What’s the powder?” It was in a box next to the suitcase.
“Methamphetamine.” Tim left it.
Tim took the suitcase and began backing away, remembering the need to be quick. He picked up the two guns, the shotgun and maybe a Glock, as he walked backward, out the way he had come in. The dead man, who was white, looked to be in his 50s, no teeth in the front of his mouth. The man in the bedroom was in his late 20s. He had nice, light-brown hair. He had his teeth, decent skin, a nice-looking Hispanic man.
“You lived,” Tim said. “Good for you. I mean it. Don’t follow me out of the house.” He stepped over dogs on his way out. They were bleeding and now there was blood all over, but he didn’t step in any. He got out the door and across the street, then dropped the two guns he had picked up and ran. He had gloves on so he didn’t leave fingerprints. He didn’t know if he would be shot running or not, but the trees were only 15 yards away. Once in the trees, he organized. He checked the Walther. It was secure and the .45 was still under his left arm. The rifle still on its strap.
He carried the suitcase in one hand and the rifle in the other. At the edge of the woods, there was a backpack with a jacket in it and a long, narrow cardboard box he had left behind. In planning, he knew someone might see him. He put the suitcase in the backpack. He put on the light jacket, which covered the handguns. He put the .30-06 in the box and carried it. He took off his work gloves in the car. Police sirens were coming from the east, but he couldn’t see the lights. He had time to get to his car; he would go south, through a residential area. The police cars would most likely come from the north, on east-west Sandy Boulevard, a main thoroughfare.
Tim Bolin did not consider himself a murderer. He was a soldier. It was dangerous work robbing drug dealers, and he felt he had earned the money. He determined he had cocaine and heroin, and tried them both. He could see the appeal of cocaine. It provided a nice boost. He sold the drugs to a person he knew who took drugs, and sold them occasionally. Tim was supposed to receive $1,000 a week until he reached $10,000. The man was to meet him every Monday at the Storyteller, but after three weeks he disappeared. Tim didn’t go looking for him. He closed that chapter.
He liked the Walther P38 and put it in an oily rag, in a metal box, in the basement. He would destroy it later. He didn’t know why he hesitated, except he liked the gun.
He deposited $657 of the cash each week in the bank. He hoped that amount would look to someone like a cash payment from a job. He had more than $450,000 in cash from the three robberies.
It was about this time he began to get work from Bill Robbins. Sometimes he did collections for him. He also repossessed cars legally.
Tim bought a small, rundown house and fixed it up. He invested some money in a stock market fund. When he got the job with Bill Robbins, he changed his plan. If he was going to be a heavy, it was important to win fights decisively. It could not ever be close.
He began to work out with a vengeance at a boxing gym. He stayed in shape. He was careful with his money. Now Tim was being called in to clean up the marijuana-store robbery business. It had been three years since the summer he had ripped off the drug dealers. He met Joe Barnes and Bill Robbins at the Storyteller one night. Joe’s arm was in a sling and he had cuts, bruises and bandages all over. He looked bad.
“What’s the other guy look like,” Tim said, trying to lighten the mood. Joe looked like he’d lost his wife, the dog was dead and the pickup broken down. “A country and western song,” Tim said. He didn’t smile, but Bill Robbins laughed. He got the joke.
Tim liked Bill Robbins. Bill gave him a job every month or so. He paid top dollar and didn’t complain. He had the same attitude as Tim. A guy’s beat up, he probably deserves it. A bum sleeps outside, he’s probably a lazy bastard. A guy takes drugs, he deserves to die of an overdose. Tim had talked to Bill about setting up some of the drug dealers he represented in court. If Bill found a house with money in it, Tim’d split the money with him.
When he proposed the idea, Bill smiled, but so far hadn’t given him any names. Maybe Bill hadn’t found the right house. Maybe he wasn’t that ruthless.
“We think we’ve got the guy who robbed all those marijuana stores,” Bill said to Tim. He stopped talking when the waitress took their order for three beers. “Joe tried to get him to talk, but the kid’s a good athlete and as you can see, well…”
“I admit he was too quick for me,” Joe said.
“It happens to the best of them,” Tim said, although he wondered what Bill was doing sending this middle-aged, out-of-shape ex-cop to do a job.
“Joe did a hell of an investigation,” Bill said. “This guy has $500,000 in a safe deposit box at a bank in Corvallis. You can cut a deal with him, let him have some of the money, but most of it has to come back.”
“Where are the police in all this?” Tim said.
“So far, they’re not wise to it,” Joe said. The waitress, with blonde hair and a tattoo of Mickey Mouse on her shoulder, came back with beers. She had slept with Tim once, and had hoped he would ask her out. She smiled at him nonetheless.
Joe told Tim about the apartment, looking for the key, the details of what he thought Tim should know. Finally, as they were finishing the beers, Joe got to the fight.
“He tackled me on the porch,” Joe said, “and pushed me down three steps and onto a sidewalk, making sure to land on top of me. It was the damnedest thing. I’m telling you, he’s an athlete. Super quick. Anyway, I hit hard, bounced my head on the sidewalk and then he had me. He beat the hell out of me, too. Took my gun. A big Smith and Wesson 9, stainless steel body with a black handle.”
Joe hadn’t talked about the fight with anyone; this was the first time and he was surprised at his critique. “At the start, Steve banged the front door like it was locked. I thought it was open and leaned over to look. He caught me with an elbow to the jaw, turned around and pushed me off the porch. I’m telling you, he took one step and we flew off the porch. We flew through the air. He landed on top of me with his arms together on my chest. Bang, like a football play. The wind was knocked out of me and my head hit the sidewalk. I got a concussion.
“I got up, quick, but he was already up and he kicked me,” Joe said, not mentioning he got kicked in the balls. “His fist came out of nowhere. So fast. When he hit me, in the ribs, it took all my air.”
Tim looked at Bill and rolled his eyes, but resisted the urge to say anything sarcastic. “In a fight,” Bill said, “someone gets a jump on you, it’s hard to recover. It’s no shame to lose a fight, Joe. I still respect your skills as an investigator.”
“I know you’re trying to make me feel better, Bill,” Joe said. “I thank you for it. But, you know Tim, you’ve got to be careful. I mean it, this kid is really quick. Maybe the two of us should do it together, just put a couple of guns on him and tie him up. Yeah, for sure that’s it. We should be partners, Tim.”
Bill Robbins ordered a second round of beers. Tim said no to the idea of them being partners. Joe talked about the case. As they got up to leave, Bill handed Tim an envelope. “8K,” he said. “Will that do it?”
“It will,” Tim said, sliding the envelope into his jacket pocket. He got up and the three of them walked out the door.
“Be careful,” Joe said as Tim walked away.
“Sure thing,” Tim said.
Joe walked with Bill to his car. “I feel bad, Bill,” Joe said. “I think you should send us back together. It’s a mistake to send him on his own.”
Bill hesitated and took a deep breath. “I like you Joe,” Bill said, “but why don’t you drop it. I’ve seen Tim fight. That high school football player is about to get his ass kicked. I feel bad he’s going to have to take a beating. He actually seems like a nice kid, but we need to get the money back. I’m going to take another cut of it, and then we’ll give the Wellington kid his share for doing nothing. Then we’ll have a drink and move on.”
Joe thought Bill didn’t understand how tough this Steve Kilter kid was, but it was clear they were through talking.
Chapter 21
Joelle Washington put the $500 in her purse. She tried to tell Tim he didn’t have to pay her, but it didn’t do any good. Tim was the only man she’d have sex with without a condom. She wanted him as a boyfriend and he knew it.
She’d cook for him sometimes and try to clean up if he’d let her. Tim made it clear he wanted her for sex. That didn’t keep her from trying. He was the first white man she had tried to date; maybe white guys were quiet, but she knew this wasn’t true.
Joelle, a black woman, met him one afternoon at her brother’s apartment. Her brother was a decent boxer. He didn’t fight competitively any more, he just wanted to stay in shape. Both Keith, her brother, and herself were good basketball players. She was fit, considered tough, and she also had a body that was popular with the men at the topless club where she worked.
Keith told her Tim was a tough guy, and she believed it. Keith wouldn’t have told her if he was some white pretender. He had a confidence she recognized. She liked the way Tim wasn’t cocky. He was real. She thought he looked like one of those stone Roman soldiers one sometimes sees, with the smooth, thick muscles and the bulging veins. She thought that’s what he looked like.
Keith told Tim his sister was a dancer, and one night he visited the club where she worked. He paid her for a couple of dances and asked her if she did private dances away from the club. That was the start of a good deal for Joelle. If he went down on her, Joelle had an orgasm. She liked his lean, hard body. He paid more than he had to, and seemed to know when the rent was due. He always talked to her about her high school basketball career, but it was months before she learned of his hard workouts, or the fact he had played four years of varsity football in high school. It was rare for a freshman in high school to play varsity football.
She knew what he liked and she always offered to do it, but he was quiet this night. She knew something was on his mind. That was his way. He was gentle. He gave her a massage, and then oral sex, and then he kept it in her and kept going until he was done. Very nice. He could be rough with her. She allowed it, and enjoyed it. But if something was on his mind, he was gentle. He wouldn’t talk about it, so there was no need to bring it up. She was curious, though. Something was going on.
She dressed, and poured a glass of cold water from the refrigerator. Tim’s 1,400-square-foot house was clean and well organized. There were clean sheets on the bed, a stack of clean towels in a cabinet in the bathroom, some outdoor gear and a big parka in the closet next to the front door.
“I could run to the store, buy some food and fix something nice. Chicken breasts and mashed potatoes and green beans. I could pick up a couple of steaks; I’ve got money.”
“I don’t need you for that,” he said.
When Joelle’s friends asked her if she had a boyfriend, she said yes. “A nice man.” Her friend asked, “Does he mind that you’re a dancer?” She said no.
Joelle’d asked him about it once. She said, “Does it bother you that I dance naked in front of other men?” He said no.
She said, “Are you sure? Maybe you’re trying to be polite and not make an issue of it.”
“No, it’s OK if that’s what you want to do.”
She said, “Well, no one wants to be a dancer. I do it because I make good money.” He didn’t respond. Like tonight, she’d fix him dinner if he wanted. She wanted to.
“You’re kind of quiet,” she said. “I thought maybe you’d like some company. I’d fix you a good meal and we’d have a nice time together. I see there’s a bottle of Scotch on the counter. Maybe you’d offer me a drink.”
He smiled. He was always polite. There was an ashtray on the kitchen table, but it was clean and he kept his keys in it, a watch, a leather band he sometimes wore on his wrist, and a wad of bills. But no cigarette butts.
She’d asked Keith what Tim did for money. Keith refused to tell her. She begged him. “He collects money for people sometimes,” Keith said. That was all.
She didn’t know what that meant. She knew some guys who thought they were tough and dealt drugs. But, to her, Tim Bolin seemed an authentic tough guy. She knew he didn’t take drugs. She had never seen any evidence he took drugs. She asked him.
“I have,” Tim said, “but no, I don’t take drugs.”
“Does it bother you that I smoke pot?”
“No.”
“But would you spend more time with me if I quit smoking pot?”
“Do what you like,” he had said. “I know some people like it.”
She finished the glass of cold water. It tasted good. She gave him a kiss and walked toward the door. “I like seeing you,” she said. “Call any time.” She was at the door. He had walked with her. He half-smiled at her as she walked out the door.
She was swinging her keys and said, “Some boyfriend. I see him once a month when he knows I’m broke.” He heard it. She knew he heard it. She wondered what she’d do when she didn’t have a cute ass.
Chapter 22
Steve Kilter came home from his construction job to find his apartment trashed, again. Sitting in the dark, in a chair, was Tim Bolin, holding a 1939 Luger, another favorite gun of his. It was a beautiful gun, reliable, and with the stopping power to do the job. He had bought it at his gun club. The man he purchased it from said it came from Germany after the war. It was picked up in Paris when the Allies were disarming the Germans. Tim thought that was pretty cool.
“What’s this?” Steve said. He looked round the house, at the mess.
“I’m here for the key to the safe deposit box,” Tim said. Steve looked at his desk. The contents of the drawers had all been dumped on the floor. Steve had put the 9 millimeter in one of them. Steve noticed now it was on Tim’s backpack.
“I’m going to take this back to Joe Barnes,” Tim said, when he noticed Steve looking. He nodded his head toward the 1911.
Steve nodded back.
“A gun that big, if you don’t want to shoot someone, you just hit them with the heavy son of a bitch.”
“It’s an old joke, but kind of in the public domain,” Steve said.
“Yes,” Tim Bolin said. “Tell me how we’re going to solve this problem we have?”
“Explain it to me from your perspective,” Steve Kilter said. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“I’ve got permission to negotiate with you. I’ll give you $50,000. We get the rest. We won’t turn you in to the police. You’ve done nicely for yourself, but you still got caught. It doesn’t matter if you get caught by the police or by some free agents. You got caught and you aren’t going to get the full amount. We win with brute force.”
“I’m listening,” Steve said.
“A smart man negotiates when he sees the situation is hopeless. You can be greedy, and fight for it, and lose, or you can throw your cards in the burn pile. It’s not bad, $50,000 for an evening’s work. Most people would say you did well.”
“You won’t shoot me,” Steve said, and paused. “Your gang, or whatever you call your friends, are desperate for the key. You can’t kill me.”
“No, but I’ll hurt you. Disfigure you in a way that’ll never make the money worth it. I like the idea of a fight with you, though. I’ve been wondering what would happen if we fought. If you got the jump on me, like you got the jump on old Joe Barnes.”
“Put down the gun, we’ll fight,” Steve said, although he didn’t mean it. The man had a look that frightened Steve. His forearms were large, full of veins. His knuckles looked boney and hard.
“The people’s court, a boxing ring.”
“That’s not a complete sentence,” Steve said.
“The people’s court a boxing ring, which is really a square,” Tim said.
“I think I see where you’re going. It’d be a good television show,” Steve said. “Two regular guys fighting, planning to settle some score. In this case, it’d be kind of interesting because the money isn’t really mine, but also it’s not yours. The rightful owner got it through illegal means, selling some big bales of marijuana. But let’s change the course of this discussion a little. I didn’t take the money, and you can’t prove I did. The money is not in the safe deposit box. You should go back to Stumptown and work for a gang that can shoot straight, get its information correct.”
“We’re not trying this case. I get the key, you won’t get hurt. It’ll be a trade you’ll be glad you made.”
“You ever get that key, you’re going to be disappointed,” Steve said.
“I’ll take the chance. Why’re you trying so hard to keep me from looking?”
There wasn’t any reason to argue this, Steve was thinking, but he was trying to buy time, think of something heavy to swing at him.
“I like the idea of the television show,” Tim said. “You are what, five-eleven and 180 pounds? You were a blocking fullback for the Gresham Gophers. I’m five-nine and 165, played linebacker four years before you showed up at Gresham.
“I was sitting in the chair, waiting for you. I’d searched your apartment. That’s when I realized I know who you are. I used to look at your father’s face in the trophy case.”
“Rodger Kilter, yeah, that’s my father.
“He was taller than you. Played four sports. He was quite the athlete. Was it hard to live up to that? Anyway, that’s a good buildup to the television show. Both of us athletes, but you’ve got the pedigree. I’ve been going to a boxing gym for three years. That’d be in my favor. I didn’t work out yesterday, so I’d be fresh. You just worked a shift on a construction crew.”
“We poured concrete today,” Steve said. “It was hard work. Plus, I ran five miles before work, so my muscles are tired. I haven’t had anything to eat since noon.”
“You would have reach on me,” Tim said. “You’d be the crowd favorite. A nice boy, working his way through school.”
“What’s your story? Are you involved in a life of crime?”
“All the talk doesn’t matter,” Tim said. “I’m tougher than you. I’m meaner than you. You’ll have to trust me; it’s a thing I know. I’d be a 10-1 favorite.”
Steve laughed. “I know it,” he said. “I don’t want to fight you.” He had a pocket full of change. He could throw it at Tim’s face and grab the gun. He put his hands in his pockets.
“Are you thinking about getting the key for me?” Tim said.
“If I said I was thinking about it, it’d be admitting I had a key.”
“Robbing those stores was pretty ballsy,” Tim said. “I did something like that, but I’ve never admitted it to anyone, either. I went in a drug house and there was a man with a shotgun who was going to try and stop me. That’s all I’m saying. All I’m saying is that when you do something like that, even if it’s all planned out, even if it’s a good plan, before you do it there’s a moment when you’re scared. Scared in a way no one can describe.”
“It’s interesting you say that,” Steve said. “I was scared even when I was doing it. You are so jacked up on adrenaline, you feel like you’re watching it. When I got home, I was wet with sweat. Funny, I’ve never told anyone about it before.”
Steve stood for a minute. Steve estimated Tim was about six feet away. Tim could easily shoot him if he lunged for him. The entire time Tim had kept his gun on him. It felt funny, the way Tim had just confessed a crime, but Steve had confessed in a way as well. Steve had also noticed the conversation was somewhat disjointed because of the denials and admissions.
“The thing I did, I never told anyone about it,” Tim said. “I made some money, too. Now you’re trying to do the same kind of thing and I’m holding you up. I’m not going soft. I still want the key. You’ll make $50,000 and never go to jail. You did good. Now cash out and we’ll leave you alone.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Steve said. “No need to repeat ourselves.” They stood in silence.
“Get the key. I always win,” Tim said. “You won’t get the jump on me.”
“I know. With that guy, Joe Barnes was it, I got lucky. How’s he doing?”
“Broken arm, cracked ribs, concussion, loose teeth still, jaw still hurts and he’s been eating soft food.”
“I don’t feel sorry for him,” Steve said. “Son of a bitch, wrecked my place, threatened me with a gun. Like you.”
He stood there for a minute more. It was easy to talk tough about the soft ex-cop. Talking trash with Tim seemed dangerous. Tim, still sitting in the chair, held his gun on Steve.
“The key’s in the kitchen,” Steve said.
“Show the way.”
Under the oven there was a bottom drawer with some large pots and a large plate his mother had given him with other kitchen items. “You’ll have to take the stuff out of the drawer,” Steve said.
“Go ahead,” Tim said, pointing the way to the kitchen with the Luger. Steve walked to the kitchen, got down on one knee, opened the drawer, took out two large pots, stood and placed them on the counter. Tim was standing behind him. Steve reached down again, pulled out a heavy ceramic plate and threw it at Tim’s head with one quick, fluid motion. Steve threw it as hard as he could. Tim ducked. It glanced off the top of his head but was a solid hit. It hit the floor and broke.
Steve was next to him now, body to body, and had both hands on the gun. Tim gut-punched him with his left hand and it was a good one, knocking the wind out of Steve, but he still had both hands on the gun and Tim only held on with one hand.
Steve put his finger on the trigger and aimed the gun at the top of the kitchen window and pulled. The explosion was loud and the window shattered. “You son of a bitch,” Tim said as Steve sent him flying with a two-handed shove.
Steve had not planned throwing the plate, but when he had part of the gun he thought if he could shoot the gun through the top of a window it would make some noise, no one would be hurt and maybe the police would come. The police arriving might be the only thing to save him from losing an eye or something worse.
Tim’s gun lay on the floor, behind Steve. Tim squared off with Steve and threw three body punches and the fourth to his jaw. Left, right, left and right to the jaw. Every punch hurt. Tim repeated the series and even knowing what Tim was doing, Steve wasn’t quick enough, or skilled enough, to stop it.
Tim threw punches at his head but Steve was able to deflect some of them. Steve grabbed Tim and pushed forward and landed on him, and got off one punch to the face before Tim got to his feet. Tim was quicker than Steve and hit harder. Steve knew there was no questioning it. As he was attempting to stand he took another series of hits to the body. Steve had a feeling he wasn’t going to last much longer. They were hard hits. He wondered if he was going to die here in this student apartment surrounded by his possessions scattered on the floor. Maybe there was some serious internal damage going on already in his body.
They squared up. Steve tried to move a little to show, maybe just to himself, he was still in the game. He took a few swings but one was easily dodged and the other deflected by Tim’s left arm. Tim punished him for his aggressiveness with four more body shots. The pain was amazing. The quickness was frightening.
Steve squared up, saw the gun in the corner of the kitchen behind Tim and ran for it. He took a shot, a fist to the head, on the way. Tim pounced on him; Steve was only a foot from the gun, a bad break. Tim hit him hard in the ribs. Steve stood, standing between Tim and the gun on the floor. The last hit to the ribs really hurt. At least he was blocking Tim from getting the Luger, for whatever that was worth.
Tim stood up straight, took a couple of breaths, rolled his shoulders. He moved a little, a boxer’s dance, and feigned a few punches but connected on others. He was going to wear Steve out and he was doing a good job of it. This was Steve’s only thought. He didn’t think he could take the pain any longer.
Tim turned on the heat. The three body shots, the head. The three body shots, the head. Steve saw red and blue lights out the window. The lights were a blur and he knew he had a concussion. He fell, but on the way down he looked out the window and saw a police car in front of the house.
Tim let out a stream of cuss words, picked up the Luger, the 9 and his cloth backpack. Steve, having already melted to the floor, could not get up to chase him. Steve heard the back door slam shut. Steve had had concussions playing football. Lying on the floor, he said to himself, “You feel kind of goofy, that’s what it feels like.” He thought it was a funny thing to say.