Art left his partner in the conference and followed his escort to the office one floor down. He closed the door and picked up the indicated line. “Jefferson.”
“Art, Lou. Chester Hart’s AB friends tried to shut him up. And in a nasty way.”
Art knew he had no reason to feel pity for the man. He’d made his own bed, and he’d given them questionable information concerning Freddy Allen in the past in the hope of trading it for whatever he fancied at the moment. But being marked for elimination by the Brotherhood was not a pleasant course for one’s life to take. They were capable of some very heinous acts.
“How bad is he?” Art asked.
“They torched him in the prison yard. Quite a message. He’s in the jail ward at Sacramento General now. Just came out of a coma. Art, he wants to talk.”
Art’s eyes rolled. “He’s talked a lot before, Lou. That’s his game. Talk just enough to curry some favors from us, then apologize when the stuff turns out to be less than stellar information.”
“He says he’s willing to spill everything he knows in trade for movement to PC at a federal prison.”
Protective custody. Hart was not the one to waste a PC cell on. “Lou, he’s blowing smoke.”
“Art, he says it’s about John Barrish.”
Art hadn’t expected that. “Hart said Barrish?”
“I thought you’d be interested in that,” Hidalgo said.
“Lou, I’ve gotta tell you: you’re on the unpopular side of a theory here. D.C. is not inclined to believe that Barrish would link up with the NALF, or vice versa. They were the ones with the VZ, remember?”
“That still wouldn’t mean that Barrish doesn’t have any.”
“But the NALF are the ones who’ve used it,” Art said.
“Giving in, Art?”
“Like hell.”
“Good. Check out Hart. He may actually have something of substance for us this time. Hightail it back to D.C. when you’re done. But keep me informed.”
“Will do.”
TWENTY FIVE
The Gleiwitz Echo
The jail ward at Sacramento General Hospital is on the ninth floor and consists of fifty beds in three separate sections. Two thirds of the beds are usually filled, mostly with arrestees or convicts recovering from wounds suffered in the jailhouse. These injuries are treated in the general nursing section. More serious injuries are treated in the surgical recovery section. The most serious casualties are housed in the ICU, or intensive care unit, where medical staff and deputies of the Sacramento County Sheriffs Department tend to their well-being and security.
Chester Hart lay in bed number four, the only resident of the ICU at the moment. His hands and arms were swathed in antibiotic-impregnated gauze, as were his abdomen, chest, and portions of his face. An IV line in his upper leg fed fluids and medicine into his system to prevent dehydration and fight off infection. A sturdy steel shackle connected him to the ICU bed by his ankle.
Art Jefferson entered the jail ward after checking his weapon at the guard station, and the ICU after donning a surgical gown, mask, and gloves. He found his would-be informant awake and staring at the ceiling.
“Chester.”
Hart moved his head as far as it would go to the right, which wasn’t much. His eyes traveled the remainder of the distance until he could see his visitor. He smiled at the black face behind the blue mask. “Black like you, Agent Jefferson.”
“You picked a hard way to change colors,” Art commented, stepping closer so the man did not have to strain.
“Chosen for me,” Hart said. A wet, gurgling laugh followed.
“You got mixed up with some bad boys, Chester.”
“Ah, they’re just protecting their interests,” Hart said. He truly believed that. He understood it perfectly, in fact. It was a credo he now had to live by.
“I hear you want to talk about something,” Art said.
“In trade, Agent Jefferson.” His voice was raspy. From the fire, the doctor had said. It had been sucked in when Hart breathed in its midst. The real concern was to the lung tissue, though. If that was burned in excess the long-term prognosis would not be promising. “More hospitable surroundings.”
“What do you have, Chester?”
“Is it a deal?”
“Tell me what you have and we’ll consider it. I have to hear it first.”
Hart knew he was in no position to bargain. This pig was his lifeline. His only hope to live a long, horribly disfigured life was in barter, and it was apparent he would have to show his goods first.
“Saint Anthony’s,” Hart said, licking his blistered lips. “Freddy was in on it.”
“We figured that.”
Hart looked genuinely surprised. “How…”
“You’ve got to do better than that, Chester,” Art said with raised eyebrows. Pity or not, he wasn’t going to play games with this snitch for very long.
“He did it for Barrish,” Hart said.
Art stopped breathing for a moment. For Barrish? “How so?”
“He was trying to prove a point, man, you know,” Hart explained.
“Barrish? What point?”
“No, man, Freddy. Some big theory he had.”
“Killing four little black girls was a theory?” Art asked doubtfully.
Hart hesitated, then chuckled. “Man, making it look like the monkeys did it. To lay the blame on them.”
Art’s eyes narrowed as he tried to find some reason in the statement. He recalled that the initial reports from the scene of the murder had said that two black men in masks, wearing all black except for colored rags in their back pockets, had run out of the church and disappeared over a back wall. That description lasted only until two of the guns used, Uzis, were found ditched at a construction site nearby. Those were soon linked to John Barrish, blowing away any thought of black men doing the…
Black men, black people, doing things for Barrish. Interesting. Art saw a potential symmetry. But was it really there?
“Are you saying Freddy dressed up to look black?”
Hart coughed and laughed together. “Yeah, that was his idea. Darkened his skin and everything, he said. Kind of a test, you know. He thought… that you could do a really violent hit on someone and blame it on the monkeys. I don’t know who the other guy was.”
“Wait. Blame the murder of blacks on other blacks?” What good would that do?
“Man, think, Agent Jefferson. I said it was a test. That one was against the monkeys. The ones after that would be against white folks and be blamed on the monkeys.”
Art took the revelation in, pieces beginning to come together. A bigger picture was forming. “Barrish wanted to attack white people and make it look like the blacks did it?”
“It was Freddy’s idea first, but John…liked it. He always thought about things in a historical way, you know, and he said Hitler did something like it to start the war against Poland. Something like he faked an attack by the Poles to kinda make the invasion okay.” Hart paused, his chest rising greatly, then went on. “But after the Saint Anthony’s thing went sour he got cool on the idea. He said pretending wasn’t good enough; you’d have to get the monkeys — he calls them…uh, you…Africans — to do it. Trick them or something.” Another weak laugh. “Yeah. Good luck.”
Get the Africans to do it… Trick them…
“He said it would set the Aryans off if you could do it,” Hart added.
“Barrish wanted to do big things against white people by using blacks?”
“Against whites or the government,” Hart expanded. “He didn’t really talk about it anymore. He just kind of dropped it.”
Maybe because he thought you had a big mouth. Art’s head was almost spinning. Was this the explanation that would bring Barrish into the World Center attack? Barrish had thought of big attacks, and of using the monkeys. Of tricking them. Was this the link? It had to be, Art believed. What had seemed ludicrous to suggest now seemed within the realm of the possible.