Chapter 23
As a child, Robert Gupta identified with police investigators in cop shows and movies. He thought nothing could be more exciting.
Robert studied computer engineering and police procedures in college, then went to law school. He was assigned to the FBI office in Portland, Oregon. He was happy. His only small complaint was that he thought he would have advanced further in his career. His wife, also a lawyer, was making almost twice his salary.
A year ago, Special Agent Gupta wondered if he was getting a career break. He was assigned to work with a civilian, a man from a company called MoMo, or Money Moves Inc. They developed a computer program that helped trace money. They wanted to put a simple, paper-thin chip in every bill printed in the United States. The chip would allow banks to monitor money as it traveled through every bank in the U.S. Before they could enact such a grand scheme, Portland was authorized as a test market.
If any police department or governmental agency in the Portland area used money in an undercover operation, it was entered into the Cash Finder, the MoMo computer program. Although perfect evidence was yet to be produced, law enforcement officials liked tracing money. The Wall Street Journal had done an article on the potential of the technology.
If “dirty” money kept showing up in certain accounts, it caught the police’s attention. They were using it to identify members of a terrorist group in Portland, and found it useful.
One day an interesting item appeared, and Robert Gupta notified city of Portland special investigator William Diakite.
An undercover policeman named Brad Barr was trying to build a case against a suburban drug dealer named Thomas Skow. Skow was known to be a friend of the owner of Mary Jane’s, one of the marijuana stores robbed in Portland.
Mary Jane’s owner had recently been sentenced to two years in prison for the drugs found in his safe after the robbery. The undercover operation had begun before the robberies occurred.
Two crisp, clean 50-dollar bills, which had once been in the possession of Brad Barr and then Thomas Skow, and then Mary Jane’s, showed up at the Oregon State University book store. It was discovered when the school made a deposit at a bank. The book store had a digital recording of Steve Kilter, who purchased an accounting workbook with the two $50s.
Diakite said the information was interesting. They had spent a lot of time on the marijuana-store robberies yet they didn’t have any good leads. Diakite found Steve had moved to Corvallis. He called some banks and found out there was a safe deposit box at the First National Bank. It became a long day. At 6 p.m., a judge said he would sign a warrant to allow a police search of the safety deposit box.
Later that evening, a doctor issued orders at a Corvallis hospital. “I want vital signs taken every hour,” the doctor said. “It’s possible he could have internal injuries. He could bleed out during the night and go into shock. I want a nurse to walk him every two hours during the night. I don’t know how severe the concussion is, but I don’t want him in a deep sleep tonight. A doctor can discharge him in the morning if everything checks out.”
Steve could hear the doctor talking, and said thank you, but mostly he wanted to go to sleep. In the morning, in a routine, state-wide police briefing held over a computer link-up, Diakite heard about a fight in a neighborhood near the Oregon State University campus. When he heard the name Steve Kilter, Diakite sat up straight.
“That’s the same person I received a warrant on yesterday,” he told the Portland police chief.
Diakite called the hospital and asked them not to release Steve Kilter until he could get down to Corvallis. He got in his car, a clean, new Ford owned by the city, and drove to the hospital.
Steve was bruised and cut all over, but his only known serious injury was a concussion, and he didn’t need to be hospitalized for that. Steve sat in his clothes for an hour waiting for the discharge, thinking the doctor was too busy to sign a release. Diakite entered his room about 10 a.m.
He was a tall, slender black man, well dressed with shined shoes, dress pants and a pressed, long-sleeve shirt. He was slender but had broad shoulders. Diakite was from Nigeria and had lived in the U.S. since he was a child. He didn’t speak with an accent but he spoke very carefully and clearly.
First off, he asked Steve if he was OK. Steve figured he must have a thousand questions, so asking after his health was a nice touch.
“I’m sore. You can’t believe, but otherwise I think I’m OK,” Steve said. “I’m waiting for my release. I have a concussion, but I’ve had them before, only a couple. I played some football in high school. Who are you?”
“Detective William Diakite, lead investigator with the Portland police.” He showed Steve his badge. Steve noticed a touch of gray in his hair. Diakite didn’t wear glasses. “Why wouldn’t you talk to the Corvallis police?”
“A lot of funny things are happening,” Steve said. “People keep showing up accusing me of things and looking for a key to a safe deposit box. My thinking was fuzzy last night, so I clammed up knowing my thought process would be better later.”
“I have a warrant to search your safe deposit box. How about we get that part done first?” Diakite though it was odd to have a safe deposit box for $7,500, but then he thought it odd for a poor college student to have a safe deposit box at all. Also, it was possible the gun used in the robbery was in the safe deposit box.
“OK,” Steve said.
“You don’t seem upset?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“OK, you ready to go? The doctor has released you.”
Steve said yes, and they walked to Diakite’s car. Steve gave him directions to the student center, where the gym and his locker were. He retrieved the key and they drove to the bank. People were looking at them as they walked through the bank lobby. Diakite looking dapper, Steve was in jeans and a t-shirt. The clothes weren’t his. They were given to him at the hospital as his clothes were bloody and had been cut off his body. Steve thought everyone could tell he was a suspect and Diakite a cop. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was his bruised, cut-up face. Well, he’d have to admit, he did look bad. And the jeans were a little large for him. And the t-shirt too tight.
A woman from the bank, an officer this time and not the pretty young teller, produced a key, and Steve put his key in. The box opened and there, in the box, was a roll of silver dollars. Steve opened the wrapping and showed them to Diakite, 25 silver dollars. A little roll of silver dollars in a suitcase-sized, metal security box.
“My uncle used to give me silver dollars as a Christmas present. I didn’t want them stolen out of my apartment. Can I put them back?”
Diakite smiled. “Yes, of course. No wonder you weren’t nervous. If you robbed those stores, the money’s somewhere else. Can I give you a ride home?”
On the ride to his apartment, he told Diakite he worked a construction job and took an accounting class. He said his goal was to become a certified public accountant.
Steve told Diakite he had a receipt from a locksmith for a key to his mother’s house. “I know the neighborhood, that’s all,” he said. Also, he mentioned that he thought the police were looking for a big guy. Diakite shrugged. “We talked about a lot of stuff early in the investigation,” Diakite said.
Diakite told Steve he had always loved living in the United States. His mother told him stories about the old world, Nigeria, where he came from. They were idealized, and Diakite knew he was better off in the U.S. He was happy to live in Oregon and have a good job.
They both nodded as the other told his story. Diakite let him out. “I like you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try to figure this out. You do what you have to. I’ll talk to the county attorney and we’ll see if charges are filed, in which case we’ll meet in court.”
Chapter 24
A story appeared on Twitter, on the account of “Digger,” who described himself as a former police reporter with a newspaper, who is no longer employed because people don’t buy newspapers any more. Numerous news sources picked up the story.
The posting said there was a lot more to the marijuana-store robberies than was being printed in the newspapers and carried on national TV. A man named Harry Wellington had $500,000 stolen, which is a sum that indicated he had made an illegal sale of marijuana. It wasn’t some small-time robbery. The Twitter account told about John Cooper’s problems in Iowa.
Then it listed the suspects, starting with Steve Kilter, whose photo had appeared on cameras in five different locations in the circle that is 181st Avenue, Powell, 176th and Division. Steve’s picture was on the web site. Also on the list of suspects were some friends of Harry Wellington, who knew about the sale, and Bobby Albari, the small-time gangster from New Jersey.
The posting also said Steve Kilter had been in two fights, both by people trying to shake him down. He’d come out well in both of these fights, Digger claimed. That wasn’t true; Tim Bolin had finished him off quite easily. Steve wasn’t dead, but still.
Steve learned about the posting from Ella, who called him about noon, pacific time, from the East Coast. Steve answered the phone and Ella said hello.
Steve said, “My phone could be bugged. I know I’m being watched.”
“Oh my God,” Ella said. “How do you know?”
“A police detective brought me home from the hospital this morning. We stopped by the bank where he learned there was a silver-dollar collection in the safe deposit box. When the policeman drove off, the man who had come to collect the money the first time walked up on the porch. The tall, bald guy. I was watching out the window. He taped an envelope on the door, knocked and walked off.”
“What did it say?”
“It was on letterhead from a lawyer named Bill Robbins. It said, I can help you. Come see me.”
“Steve, I’m worried. Could you get killed?”
Steve tried to laugh it off, and assure Ella he was not in that kind of trouble. The fact Ella mentioned it made him think about it, though. After his 1 p.m. accounting class, he planned to drive to Portland and see what the lawyer had to say. “Digger” had a lot of information the police didn’t know, but some of it was inaccurate.
“You have a concussion,” Ella said, “and you’re going to your accounting class?”
“I’m not a genius, like you,” Steve said. “I have to go to my classes.”
“Also, you shouldn’t drive to Portland,” she said.
“I know,” Steve said. “For some reason, I’ve always tolerated blows to the head.”
Ella laughed. “Seriously, you worry me.”
He had a headache; it was dull, and behind his eyes. He was sore all over. The doctor gave him some opiate pain pills, Percocet, but he still hurt, especially in the ribs, jaw and teeth. His skin was discolored around the eyes, purple-blue, which would draw attention to him in class. He had little cuts all over his face.
After he talked to Ella he got dressed, took some ibuprofen, organized his pack, turned down the lights and sat on a chair and rested. He had 15 minutes before class. It was sunny outside, and in the dark he looked at the mess from the fight. The 9 millimeter was gone. He wouldn’t mind having it, but there was nothing he could do. His landlord had boarded up the window.
There were some broken chairs, desk draws open all over, the contents of the closet lying on the floor. He felt his right hand throbbing and saw cuts on his knuckles. There was a big scratch on his forearm. He tried to put the fight together, blow by blow, as he rested in the dark. It came to him in bits and pieces. He remembered when he was in high school, and after a game he would try to remember all the details of the game he had played.
After class, he drove the two hours to downtown Portland and found a parking space. Bill’s office was on the ninth floor of the 16-story Oregon building. Going into the lobby, Steve saw a newspaper with the headline, “Marijuana store robberies yield more than half million $.” He picked up the front section and carried it with him.
When he got out of the elevator on the ninth floor, there was a receptionist’s office. A young woman managed the phones and messages for all the small businesses on the floor. He asked for Bill Robbins and the woman pointed in the direction of 909. She smiled at him.
“What’s the other guy look like,” she said, an old joke but they laughed. Stale jokes seemed the order of business lately. He stopped in the hallway and read the newspaper story. It repeated the story on the internet.
The door to 909 was open and Steve waved and walked in. Bill Robbins stood and shook his hand. “Are you OK?”
“It hurts.”
“Yeah, it looks painful,” Bill said. “Can I get you anything? I was just getting ready to send out for coffee.”
Steve said he would take a coffee with cream. Bill had his with cream and sugar. Steve sipped his coffee and it tasted good. He hadn’t had any coffee this morning. He wondered if it would help with his headache.
Bill said he knew about the money taken from Harry Wellington. “I represent him, and hired the man who investigated the robberies. I must say, I bet on the wrong horse. I want to make amends and I think I can help you.”
“You know, it’s one thing to joke about the fight. I know I’m black and blue. Let me tell you something. That guy beat me within an inch of my life. He scared the crap out of me. I hurt like hell. If you had anything to do with this, I should hit you with a bat until I’m satisfied with your apology. Except I hurt too much to swing a bat.”
“I know,” Bill said. “We were serious about trying to recover the money and we got nowhere. The bald-headed ex-cop has to get dental work valued at $20,000 and he’s still walking with a limp. We did a ton of leg work and didn’t get any evidence. The crime was damn near perfect. That’s why I want to switch horses.”
They both drank coffee and waited in silence. Steve Kilter rotated his head on his shoulders; it was getting stiff. He had taken two Percocet, two ibuprofen and now he was working on his caffeine. He was still hopeful something would take hold.
“Do you know what a Q rating is?” Bill said.
“Some kind of marketing thing, like name recognition.”
“Right. You’re a three, similar to someone on a new television show. That article on the web, that alone, had nearly a million hits. You’re famous, and you didn’t leave one clue in a sensational robbery in which no one got hurt. There’s humor and titillation in the story. Women stripped, and they played ‘The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys.’ That makes you a Robin Hood type of character and I could sell your life story for a million dollars. Then I could sell the movie rights. I can defend you free in court. I know more about this case than anyone, except you, and there’s one big secret everyone’s dying to know. There’s $500,000 out there in a backpack and thanks to Digger, there are millions of people who want to know what happened to the money.”
“You’d be the last person I’d tell, that’s for sure.”
That stopped the conversation and they drank their coffee. Steve stood up. “Can I look out the window?”
Bill Robbins nodded yes.
Steve Kilter looked out the window. He was glad for the meeting. A lot of things made sense now. He looked out over Broadway toward the Willamette River. It was close to 5 p.m. and the streets of the city were busy. Steve thought downtown Portland was pretty with its decorative trees.
“I deserved the comment, that you can’t trust me. You know, I’m done looking for the money. Like I said, I’ve changed horses. I want to work for you. I’m a defense lawyer, so I can take your case for free. You didn’t leave any real evidence. There’s that Cash Finder thing, but I don’t think that will stand up as proof. It’s no different than finding some serial numbers on money they were looking for. So, I get you off, then negotiate a book deal. While the property’s hot. Maybe I’d get a 20 percent agent’s fee.
“You’re right to be mad at me, and again I’m sorry, but let’s look at it. You had a scheme to make a small amount of money. Accidently, you became rich, then famous. You’re a good kid, likeable, and that’s what sells the book. So, why carry a grudge when we could make some real money out of this?”
Steve, still standing at the window, looked round the office. “I’ve already made real money,” Steve said.
He had somehow managed to keep hold of it. That’s what he was thinking, though he knew he’d sounded sarcastic. He wasn’t feeling as confident as he sounded.
Bill Robbins was wearing jeans. On one wall was a print poster of van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.” On another was a map of the world. The desk was cluttered with computer parts. The screen was large. The computer itself didn’t have a cover on it. There were two boxes on the desk, probably in and out. Steve didn’t know a lot about the law, but he recognized the law books on the book shelf behind Bill. He didn’t know whether this person was organized or not. He was smart enough, obviously, and a born salesman.
Steve allowed himself to see the case in a certain way. He once had an image of himself as a high school student, then as someone in a movie living a colorful life. Now people were curious about him and what had happened to the money. All of a sudden, he could be on the cover of People magazine and it would sell. His story might actually be made into a movie.
Steve went and picked up his coffee, and sat down. “Just thinking,” he said.
“I know,” Bill said. “You’ve been through a lot. “I could loan you $10,000 for a 3 percent interest to show good faith. We do the trial thing, make sure we get you off. You can start on the book. I’ll find someone to ghost it for you if you want.”
Steve finished his coffee. It was at just the right temperature to drink. “That was a good cup of coffee, thank you. I’m glad you talked to me. It explains a lot. I’m going to have to think about it a little before I decide.”
“Of course,” Bill Robbins said. “Unless you want some money right now. It would just take a minute for me to prepare an agreement, and I have the money, in cash, in the safe.”
“No, I’ve got a job. Man, do you ever stop hustling?” Steve realized he was tired. “I guess my only other question is, are you Digger?”
“Yes,” Bill said. He didn’t know if this would make Steve mad or not.
“So, I’m right for the part but really you made me famous.”
“You have to admit, we’re a good team.”
“Actually, yes, that’s true.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Bill said. “Could we go easy on the guys you fought. The real problem I’d have is if you decided to press charges against the two of them.”
Steve Kilter rolled his shoulders. He had never been sore like this. “I’m not likely to cause any problems for the old guy,” Steve said. He didn’t know why he said it like that. Except he felt cranky, maybe a little angry. He wasn’t committing to anything.
Bill Robbins picked up on it. Jeez, I tried to be charming, he told himself, but Steve Kilter didn’t seem to like him.
Chapter 25
On the radio, on the way to Portland for a court hearing, Steve Kilter heard a song he hadn’t heard for a long time. It was, “Love is a Drug.” It wasn’t a bad song. Since Steve worked with Roxy Smith at the gas station, he had been trying to remember a song by Roxy Music. And here it was after all this time.
The court hearing was an arraignment, where the charges would be read. Steve would plead not guilty. The county attorney would then decide whether to press charges and follow up with a trial. Steve went with an attorney from John Delberta’s law firm. He liked the lawyer, who was young and seemed professional.
It seemed to Steve everyone was treating him with kid gloves. John Delberta said very little to him. His mother was also polite and quiet. His lawyer didn’t give him a hard time about possibly messing up his life. The police detective, Mr. Diakite, questioned him, but didn’t seem to have any evidence.
If he ended up with a felony, Steve would no longer need to worry about becoming a certified public accountant, but nobody brought it up.
Steve’s lawyer said anyone could have received the two $50s used in the Corvallis bookstore. The money was in circulation and could have ended up anywhere. No one disputed this. The lawyer told Steve a grand jury could still find against him, but so far a plea deal or a jury trial had not been mentioned except in passing. Steve planned to finished his accounting class, would sign up for another, and continue to work on the construction crew. It wasn’t over, but so far he wasn’t arrested and charged, either.
Steve was leaving the court room when he saw Roxy Smith. Roxy was walking with his lawyer, a young woman who did not look prosperous, and several police officers. They had Roxy in handcuffs and were escorting him to prison.
“Hey Roxy, what’s going on?”
“I had my sentencing hearing today,” Roxy said, stopping. “This is my public defender.” Steve nodded to the woman. She had on an old dress, though it was clean. She had hair without body or color. She had gray hair and a sad look on her face.
“I’m on my way to serve two years,” Roxy said.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “You’re a good guy.”
“Thanks. I took too many risks. I broke into a house and this guy put a gun on me, and the police came, and no one’s going to give me any more breaks. Well, you know, I did it to myself.”
“I’m still sorry to hear it. Good luck,” Steve said. Some of the policemen were looking at Steve.
“I’ll be a felon when I get out,” Roxy said. “Can you imagine how messed up that will be? Hey, I heard about your case. I guess everyone’s heard.”
“Let’s go,” one of the policemen said. Steve nodded at Roxy and joined his mother and the lawyer as they walked from the court house. They were on the street in downtown Portland. He told the lawyer goodbye and gave his mother a hug. At just that time, a couple of young men walked by. One was wearing jeans and beads. The other had long hair.
The man with long hair said, “Hey, you’re the marijuana-store robbery guy. Cool.”
Steve nodded. “Yeah.” His mother looked on.
The other man said, “You got away with the money. How’d you do it?” He laughed. “Just kidding. Good luck, man.”
The one with long hair said, “In that song, a businessman makes profits on your dreams.” Then he quoted the song:
“The percentage you’re playing is too high priced
And you’re living beyond all your means.”
“That stuff is so deep,” said the man with long hair. “It has meant so much to me.” Steve nodded at him. The two walked off.
Steve laughed. The Traffic song, “The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys,” generated a lot of conversation. No one could figure out what it meant, but everyone had an opinion.
Steve’s mom looked at him. She smiled, then laughed. “Cool,” she said. Steve smiled back at her.
“The words to songs are just snippets of poetry,” Steve said. “People hear part of a song and it sounds sexy and corrupt, and they give it a meaning. But that song never had anything to do with it.”
She smiled. “I know.” She turned and started toward her car. She had been treating him different lately. He was a grown up and would have to handle whatever came his way. She had other obligations.
Steve stepped into his pickup. He thought about calling Ella, thinking it would cheer him up, but decided against it. He felt low, seeing Roxy going to prison. He decided to stay in that low mood. It suited him even though it was possible he was in a good mood. Why not. It was a sunny day and it didn’t seem he was facing any more legal action.
Meanwhile, William Diakite was discussing Steve’s case with a deputy district attorney. They agreed they didn’t have any evidence to go to trial with. “Who cares about the marijuana-store robberies anymore?” Diakite said. They announced the next day charges against Steve Kilter had been dropped.
Bill Robbins called Steve after the announcement that no charges would be filed. Steve told Bill he wasn’t going to work with him. Bill told him good luck, that he had won. Bill Robbins thought of himself as a cool guy. He wondered how he had mishandled the case.
Steve Kilter felt he had won, but it was a qualified win. He had an agreement with Simon and Schuster Publishing for the rights to the book, and movie rights. He negotiated the deal but didn’t tell anyone. When he learned his case had been dropped, he notified the publisher, who sent him a check for $50,000, an advance he’d negotiated to live on while he worked on the book.
He got on the internet one night and into his search engine he typed “drug-house robberies.” There had been three in one year, three summers ago. In each case, the crime had not been solved. In each case, someone was killed during the course of the robbery. At the last one, four dogs were also shot dead. The police never figured if they were related though they occurred in kind of an order, spring, summer, fall.
Steve completed his second accounting class and quit his construction job. He had a few weeks before summer school would start and he put off enrolling. He got his pickup in good condition, bought new tires, and drove to Providence, R.I. He stayed in a hotel and planned to spent some time with Ella. She said her father had been acting weird about Steve, but that was OK.
Chapter 26
In Providence, in the upscale hotel room, the safe in Steve’s room was too small to hold all the cash from the robberies. Ella had been keeping the money in the closet of her dorm room. Ella was with him at the hotel and they both started laughing. “You are too good at this robbery business,” she said upon seeing some stacks of cash left outside the safe.
“Yes,” Steve said, “it’s true, I’m a badass.”
“Who do we hit next?” she said. “I get excited when I think about keeping the money for you. Let’s get in bed.” They began kissing and before long they were in bed. The first time they hurried, and the love making was passionate. The second time, they took their time and it was strong and steady. Both times, it was enjoyable.
Exhausted, they slept for a half an hour and when they woke up, together, the sun had gone down and it was dark outside. They were in sync.
Steve pulled Ella close. “After the robbery, something funny happened. A woman told the TV station a person at one of the stores was really knowledgeable. He was the son of a Chinese doctor. The implication was because he was Chinese, he knew herbal medications, and because his father was a doctor, he was smart. But we don’t know if either is true. The people in the pot cabal are actually kinda stupid.”
Ella laughed. “Yes, they deserve to be robbed,” Ella said.
Steve laughed. “The TV reporter implied I’d kept people from getting their medicine. There were six stores within about a 10-block radius. There was no shortage of medicine.”
Ella kissed him. “The son of a Chinese doctor, huh?” She laughed again.
“Let’s spend some money,” Steve said.
Really,” Ella said.
“Why not?” he said. “I need to spend some money to improve my mood.”
“That’s unhealthy,” Ella said.
“Screw that,” Steve said and laughed. He took a stack of cash. They seemed to be in a good-enough mood. Ella reminded him he had been playing the part of a poor college student, but Steve said that was over.
They went to an upscale seafood restaurant and ate lobster and steak. The food was fresh and cooked just right. They took home two desserts. The next day, Steve bought sweatshirts and t-shirts at the William and Mary bookstore. Later they went shopping in Providence. Ella bought three dresses, a couple of blouses, some slacks and other assorted clothes. Later, she bought a couple of pairs of shoes. Some dress shoes to wear with the dresses, and some thigh-high boots she fancied for $600.
They ordered room service at the hotel and made love again. Ella wore the thigh-high boots.
The next day Steve purchased four dress shirts and three pairs of jeans. They went jogging in a park and watched movies in the hotel room. Ella would have to go back to school the next day, a Monday. She was taking a summer class.
Steve said he was sad to announce it, but he should probably start back to Oregon. “I understand,” Ella said. “It’s been nice being able to spend so much time with you. We’ll continue at school for a while. I guess, with the completion of the book, you’ll be able to do what you want.”
“My plan hasn’t changed,” Steve said. “I’m going to earn an accounting degree, and then go to work. I don’t have to do the schooling in Corvallis. I guess I can consider a lot of different things now. Plus, I want to be with you. I don’t want to wait three more years until you graduate before we can be together.”
“We’ll work it out,” she said. “I can’t help but think this whole experience has changed you. What’s going on in your mind?”
Steve told her the entire story, how he came up with the idea. The crazy night of the robbery, including robbing poor Harry Wellington of his IRS money. The two men who visited and tried to strong-arm him. The beating he took from Tim Bolin. Then finding out about Bill Robbins and how Bill tried to cut a deal with him. Steve found it interesting to tell the stories. He had gone a long time being the only one who knew everything that was going on. Now it was out in the open; at least Ella knew everything. Everyone else would know soon enough.
“In the end,” Steve said, “I ran into Roxy from the gas station. I was in Corvallis, the first time, and was feeling homesick. I admit it and it was stupid to go home to Gresham, thinking that was the answer, but that’s what I did. I ended up working at the gas station with Roxy. He’s a criminal, you know, but I consider him a friend. He’s the only one who asked me what I was going through.
“Well, when I saw him today, he said he was just convicted of a felony. Now, I committed a robbery, flashing a gun, but he’s a felon when in fact I did something just as heinous.”
“I know. I’ve thought of that, too,” Ella said. “The trouble you could’ve been in. You’ve been through so much.”
“All the problems, I created for myself. Ten years from now, I don’t want you to look back and say I’m a felon.”
“You’re not a felon, though,” she said.
“I’m not a felon only because of luck,” Steve said. “Stupid luck.”
“The best kind,” she said, laughing again. Her laughter always lightened Steve’s mood, but in this case he was having a hard time expressing what he felt.
“I did a desperate thing, and I opened myself up to all kinds of problems. Instead, I got a lucky break and took a backpack with half a million dollars in it. Maybe the next time I present myself to the big world out there, to the universe, I’ll get struck by lightning.”
“It’s true, this life is a mystery,” Ella said. “You know, when you – Steve Kilter – do what’s in front of you, you do well. You did that with football, and with school. Why don’t you worry about school, and write the true story, and trust your instincts.”
“You’re sensible and I know the advice is good, and I don’t want to argue with you, but the ending is the hard part,” Steve said. “I thought it would be the easy part. See, I live a regular life but dip into the cash, making life easy, at least financially. For me and you. I fought and schemed to keep the money. But the story developed, and now money isn’t the main part. The story is the important part. How are people going to view me. I didn’t mean to be famous, or infamous. I didn’t mean to become a public person.”
“Like it or not, you’d better tell your version, and fairly quickly, or someone else will.,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I’m thinking.”
“They say women like men who are dangerous,” she said. “Well, I was never as excited as when I had that money in the closet of my dorm room.”
Steve didn’t answer. They kissed for a long time, several minutes. It was nice.
They spent the night together at the hotel, and in the morning he paid the room bill. He dropped her off at her dorm at 7 a.m. He told her talking about his situation with her had helped. She gave him a sad smile when he left.
On the drive west, he stopped in Denver and stayed in another luxury hotel. He bought t-shirts, sweatshirts and more jeans. He met a 25-year-old woman in the hotel bar, bought her dinner and turned down an invitation to her room for a nightcap. Ella was the person he could talk to. He wasn’t going to cheat on her.
Still in Denver, he bought a new computer. In Cheyenne, he bought a winter coat, cowboy boots and dress boots. In Hood River, Oregon, he purchased more t-shirts and sweatshirts.
When he arrived in Corvallis, he estimated he had spent $15,000 on his spree and felt like a pirate. He put the rest of the money from the robberies in a box and wrapped it up. He was back in his apartment in Corvallis. He walked to a Corvallis bar and drank a beer, still thinking. He was recognized at the bar and felt he had to leave after one beer.
He once thought of himself as a student and an athlete, then as a character in a movie, and briefly, an internet celebrity and now to his true identity: A guy who dodged a felony and fell in love with a beautiful woman. It felt pretty good. Ella was right. Write the story and let it go.
There were a few loose ends remaining as far as Steve Kilter was concerned. He still had an opportunity to make it look like he was a good guy.
He wrote a check to John Stolls, owner of Marijuana 181, for $5,000 and wrote a note saying he was sorry for the trouble John had been through. He was no more specific than that. He wrote a note and a check for $5,000 to Ron Hollis, owner of Cannabis Central.
He wrote a note and check for $10,000 to Rodney James, owner of Mary Jane’s, although the additional problems Rodney James had gone through, with the drugs in the safe, were not something he could do anything about.
Someday someone would do a follow-up story about the marijuana-store robberies, an update, and Steve didn’t want the store owners to remain angry.
Steve addressed the package with the remaining money to the American Cancer Society, paid the postage and sent it off. Inside he put a note: “I would like to donate this money. I know you will put it to good use.” He signed it Harry Wellington and smiled. Something about this action made him laugh. Plus, he had his own money now, from the publishing company.
The next day, he made an appointment to meet with police detective William Diakite. “It’s interesting to see you here,” the detective said. “I like you. I thought we’d be friends, maybe, but I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
The police officer and public servant was modestly well dressed. His office was neat and small and did not have a window or any accruements of power or high position. There was a wood desk, a nice-looking office chair, solid-wood chairs for visitors, books on a shelf and a few photographs. There was a painting of the Multnomah County courthouse decorated with healthy trees and people going about their business, policemen and lawyers and citizens.
“There were three drug house raids in Portland three years ago and I don’t think any of them were solved. If I give you a name, is there any way to prove a case against him?”
“We could get a warrant and if he kept any of the guns, we could check them against ballistics. Sometimes, believe it or not, guys have a hard time getting rid of guns, even though they’ve been used in a crime. You would have to testify at a grand jury for us to get a warrant. Possibly you would be asked to testify at a trial. Police and lawyers will grill you pretty hard.”
“I suspect the man who committed the murders was Tim Bolin. He admitted to me he had robbed drug houses, and I will testify to this.”
Diakite sat up straight in his chair. He had been smiling, friendly but now he looked serious. “Why are you telling me this?” Diakite said. “You likely got lucky and skated on the marijuana-store robberies. Now you’re drawing attention to yourself. You’ll eventually have to go on the record. The police are going to target you.”
“You know why,” Steve said. “It’s the right thing to do. That guy frightened me, he belongs behind bars. I’m certain, and it scares me to think it, I was face-to-face with a killer.”
Chapter 27
Steve Kilter had been trying to put the marijuana-store robberies behind him, and just write the story, but his sense of wanting to do the right thing also weighed on him. Just as Diakite had promised, opening up the drug house robberies started a chain reaction that was uncomfortable. Steve was amazed to meet so many police and lawyers. Suddenly more new cops and new lawyers were invading his life.
Zach Kearns struck him as a hard cop. He had been the investigator and team leader of the drug-house murder investigation. He was lean and tough looking, a look that was enhanced by his creeping baldness. It looked good on him. Steve thought this guy ought to be a tough guy in a movie. Then Detective Kearns turned his intellect on Steve.
“You say Tim Bolin called the marijuana-store robberies pretty ballsy,” he said. “So, he knew in fact you had committed them, and you admitted you were scared. So you committed those crimes even though no one has prosecuted you. Yet.”
Steve didn’t want to say yes or no. “The charges were dismissed.”
“You two are just chatting away about how tough and scary it is to pull off these crimes, like you were in a little club,” Zach Kearns said.
“Tim said he was scared like he’d never been before. I said essentially the same thing, but neither of us exactly admitted to a crime. It was a disjointed conversation.”
“I have a confession from you. Why shouldn’t we go back and prosecute the marijuana-store robberies?”
Steve was in a room at the downtown police station. He was sweating and didn’t want to answer these questions. But, he had written a statement saying that, to the best of his memory, he had recreated the entire conversation between himself and Tim Bolin. He had signed it for the district attorney. Not one of the assistants this time, but the elected, lead district attorney, Walker Strom. He was well known in Portland and had served in the office for 10 years.
“Tim Bolin said the words drug house. He said he was in a drug house. He said there was a man with a shotgun who was going to stop him.” Steve said. “I remembered a man in one of the drug house robberies had been killed with a shotgun in his hands. Tim may have felt somehow we were kindred spirits, but I didn’t think that.” Steve remembered there were two men killed with shotguns, but he didn’t mention it.
“I think you two are peas in a pod, and I hope we prosecute both cases,” Detective Kearns said.
“Yes sir,” Steve said. Jeez, this guy made him nervous. “I understand how you feel. But I was trying to get some spending money, and I think Tim Bolin likes killing people. That’s why I came forward.”
“You can tell me you are different, but you carried a gun, too. And I don’t think you’re a hero for coming forward, I think you have a guilty conscience. And I think you’re a punk, too.”
Steve nodded.
Later, in another discussion, this time at the court house with DA Walker Strom, Strom said they would get a search warrant from a judge based on Steve’s statement that Tim Bolin admitted to a drug-house break-in and mentioned the man with the shotgun.
Detective William Diakite served the warrant and yet another policeman told Steve that police had circled the house in the early morning hours, got him out of bed and gathered up all the guns in his house, 28 to be exact. In one case, the “dog house” where a man was killed and four dogs, the bullets matched Tim’s Walther P38. This was a fine German gun that shoots 9 mm bullets accurately for about 55 yards. It was found wrapped in an oily rag in a metal box in the basement.
It was the third robbery that was considered solved, not the one with the man in bed going for his shotgun, but another man who failed to raise his shotgun quick enough. Hell, Steve didn’t know which one Tim was thinking of.
Tim Bolin had done as Diakite said and kept a gun used in a crime. Ballistics tests proved the case and Steve’s cooperation was no longer needed.
Tim was charged with one count of murder and sentenced to 30 years without possibility of parole.
Steve saw Diakite’s press conference one night on the television news. Later Steve Kilter saw a newspaper article, which quoted Diakite as saying Steve Kilter was responsible for helping police lock up the murderer. Steve felt odd reading the story, but knew he’d have to get used to it. He was a public figure now. Everyone knew him now as the robber of the marijuana stores.
Chapter 28
There was a television news feature that follow up on Harry Wellington, who got around to writing the book about his father. His revelation was that his father had a mistress during the years he had grown up, putting space between Harry and his father and two brothers. The rest of Charles Wellington’s story was known, but Harry put it in story form with illustrations and photographs of all his bridges, many over dramatic gorges, and a complete telling of Charles’s dangerous interactions with the county commissioner who had tried to bribe him.
Harry also took credit for the donation to the American Cancer Society, a fact that made Steve smile. He learned Harry’s mother died of cancer, and Harry had taken care of her at the end, the last one loyal to her. He was proud he had done the caregiving.
Harry, it seems, had made several changes since his last brush with bad luck. At a Thanksgiving dinner with his two brothers and their families, he decided to make some changes. He lost weight and began walking, then jogging. He sold his mother’s large house, and the building and property that had housed Weed, and bought a small house and property. He threw himself into the book, and his new, healthy lifestyle, which included living within his financial means. As Harry revealed all this to a news reporter, on camera, he joked and smiled and Steve thought the report would endear people to Harry. It was a feel-good story.
Harry said about his book, “Only Oregonians could love a man who built bridges. We love our rain, our silver salmon, the cut-up gorges and the roaring rivers.”
Yet another night, Steve saw a story on TV about John Cooper. He was sentenced to a year in prison for interstate commerce of a controlled substance. John’s wife divorced him. She was going out with a young man who truly was ambitious. He was a 25-year-old contractor who built high-end homes. John Cooper learned about the blues. He was in prison while his wife was divorcing him, dating another man. John’s father drove to Oregon from Iowa every month to visit him. John told the TV reporter his father’s visits saved him. It was a sad story but he was a young man, had time to recover.
Steve had spent some days alone. He said he was writing but mostly he was thinking, and he was inactive. Thinking of John Cooper losing his wife made him consider he could’ve lost Ella. It made him depressed and he called her.
Ella Delberta said she was glad to hear from him. “You’ve been awfully moody lately,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I’m writing,” he said. “I spent a certain amount of time on the Tim Bolin case, but in the end all I did was provide a statement. Everybody seems to know I committed the marijuana-store robberies, but there has been zero talk about charging me. I think for the second time, I’m in the clear.
“It’s funny, though. I kept thinking about how hard I fought to keep the money. Then I gave it away because circumstances changed. First it was the money, then it was the story. Anyway, I guess the craziness, the stress, is almost over. It’s kind of hard living with that much tension. A month ago, I would have denied I was freaking out, but I was. I’m starting to feel better about things. You know what else? I miss the stress. It was exciting.”
Ella laughed. “That’s messed up,” she said. “Why don’t you move out here and keep me company?”
“Do you really want me to?”
“You have a lot of nerve asking that,” Ella said. “I’m an A student attending an Ivy League school but when I was a senior in high school, I was throwing myself at you. I kept thinking I was trying too hard and I was going to run you off. I had everything going for me and I kept worrying I was going to lose a silly boy.”
“I didn’t realize you were throwing yourself at me.”
“You may be a criminal mastermind, but you don’t know women,” she said. “Why don’t you get yourself out here and I’ll educate you.”
“Here’s the thing,” Steve said. “In some way, no matter how I write the story, I don’t look like a good guy.”
“Stop torturing yourself,” she said. “You went through this entire episode as though you were righteous and now that it’s over, you’re feeling guilty? Why don’t you tell the story objectively, and try not to mess up from this point forward. We talked about this.”
Steve held the phone a minute. “Everyone is going to know. I never planned for everyone to find out.”
“I know,” Ella said. “Everyone already knows. Another adjustment. Everyone will have an opinion. Get the story on paper and go back to accounting class. Have you quit your job?”
“Yes,” Steve said.
“Are you enrolled in any classes now?
“No,” Steve said.
“You have several thousand dollars from a publisher and no commitments beyond writing down a story, and you’re still in that apartment in Corvallis, not writing,” she said. “You can’t fool me. I know you’re not writing.”
“I went to a lot of trouble to end up in Corvallis,” Steve said, and he laughed now. It seemed silly to stay in Corvallis. He could hear Ella laughing on the other end of the line.
“Why can’t we do this together?” Ella said. “Do I have to invite you to move east, get an apartment in the student part of town. We’ll work it out.”
“You’re right,” Steve said. “I’m on my way. And I thought it was going to be hard, the ending, you know?”
“The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys”
By Steve Winwood and Jim Capaldi, 1971
If you see something that looks like a star
And it’s shooting up out of the ground
And your head is spinning from a loud guitar
And you just can’t escape from the sound
Don’t worry too much, it’ll happen to you
We were children once, playing with toys
And the thing that you’re hearing is only the sound of
The low spark of high-heeled boys
The percentage you’re paying is too high priced
While you’re living beyond all your means
And the man in the suit has just bought a new car
From the profits he’s made off your dreams
But today you just read the man was shot dead
By a gun that didn’t make any noise
But it wasn’t a bullet that laid him to rest was
The low spark of high-heeled boys
If you had just a minute to breathe and they granted you one final wish
Would you ask for something, like another chance?
Or something similar as this?
Don’t worry too much it’ll happen to you
As sure as your sorrows are joys
And the thing that disturbs you is only the sound of
The low spark of high-heeled boys
The percentage you’re paying is too high prices
While you’re living beyond all your means
And the man in the suit just bought a new car
From the profits he’s made on your dreams
But today you just read that the man was shot dead
By a gun that didn’t make any noise
But it wasn’t the bullet that laid him to rest was
The low spark of high-heeled boys
If I gave you everything that I owned and asked for nothing in return
Would you do the same for me as I would for you
Or take me for a ride and strip me of everything including my pride
But the spirit is something that no one destroys
And the sound that I’m hearing is only the sound of
The low spark of high-heeled boys