The killer knew that particular white man in the University District was all alone, and that was good. Men in a pack could protect each other. When threatened, they could scatter in many directions and confuse the killer. A solitary man was vulnerable. Easy to follow, that white man, so self-absorbed he failed to notice much of anything. Muttering to himself, looking down at the sidewalk, he walked block after block. He ate Thai food by himself and read a magazine. After he finished eating, the white man walked toward the Burke-Gilman Trail. The killer followed him closely, and once stood beside him as they waited for the walk signal. So close. At any time, the killer could have reached inside the jacket and pulled out the knife. The late evening streets were so quiet that the killer could have slid the knife into the white man’s kidney and then walked away. But the moon was terribly bright and illuminating. There was a chance the killer would be caught. Thrilled by the idea, the killer moved closer to the white man, until they were almost touching. The white man glanced at the killer. A superficial glance, nothing more important than a wind blowing a newspaper down the street. The killer reached inside the jacket and touched the knife.
The killer especially hated the white man’s clothes and followed him as he walked south for a few blocks, then turned west on the Burke-Gilman Trail. The killer could see and smell the white man. Aftershave, leather jacket, Thai food. It was late, a few bicyclists flashed by, but the trail was mostly deserted. The killer walked a few feet behind the white man for a few minutes, then reached out and tapped the white man on the shoulder.
“Whoa,” said the white man. “You scared the shit out of me.”
The killer was silent.
“Hey,” said the white man. “Do I know you, man?”
The killer took a step back, knowing that anger would change a face. The killer had seen other people do it. Other people could change the shape of their faces at will. Through a trick of shadow and moonlight, or through some undefined magic, the killer’s face did change.
“What’s going on?” asked the white man, now really frightened by what he saw in the killer’s face.
The killer saw the fear in the white man’s blue eyes. The man’s fear inspired the killer’s confidence. The killer slid a hand beneath the jacket and felt for the knife. It was there in its homemade sheath, blade sharp and beautiful. It would soak up all the moonlight. The white man was not stupid. When he saw the killer reach beneath the jacket, the white man began to desperately hope that somebody would walk along the trail soon. A dozen University cops were always breaking up unauthorized parties on campus, but very few ever patrolled the trail.
“What do you want?” asked the white man loudly, trying to inject anger into his voice. Be strong, he said to himself, don’t show any fear.
“Hey, let’s be cool about this. I don’t want any problems,” the white man said.
The killer moved quickly. With fingers wrapped around the handle, the killer snapped the knife out of its handmade sheath. The killer’s feet moved forward, and the sharp blade forced its way into the white man’s belly.
The killer had not necessarily meant for any of it to happen. The killer picked up the white man’s body, carried it on a shoulder, and walked along the trail in a daze. A group of UW students staggered past, on their way home from some party, and laughed loudly at the killer. The killer stopped, ready to drop the body, and run.
“Shit, you’re a strong one, huh?” one of the students slurred to the killer, and then tugged on the white man’s leg. “Jesus, you got wasted, huh? Shit, wake up, wake up. The party’s just starting.”
The white man groaned and shifted. The killer was surprised that the man was still alive. His blood ran down the killer’s back.
“Shit,” said the student. “Don’t you two be doing anything nasty now, huh?” Laughter. “You’re both going to be hating it in the morning. Hangover City, you’ll be hating it.”
The students laughed and staggered away. The killer watched them go, breathed deeply, and kept walking down the trail. The killer wanted to drop the body and leave it where it landed, but felt responsible for the white man. Honestly, the killer had not necessarily meant to hurt him and wanted to make sure the man was buried properly. There had to be a ceremony, a wake, silent prayers. That was how it was done. The killer had learned many ceremonies, but rarely practiced them.
The killer walked off the trail into a dark neighborhood. Silently singing an invisibility song learned from a dream, the killer carried the body to an empty house. A FOR SALE sign. Bare windows. A broken lock on the back door. The killer carried the body inside the house and gently set it on the living room floor. Kneeling beside the body, the killer cut the white man’s scalp away and stuffed the bloody souvenir into a pocket. So much blood. The killer was drenched with blood, soaking shirt, jacket, and pants. The blood was beautiful but not enough. One dead man was not enough. The killer was disappointed. Disappointment grew quickly into anger, then rage, and the killer brought the knife down into the white man’s chest again and again. Still not satiated, the killer knew there was more work to do. The dead man’s blue eyes were open and still, pupils dilated. With hands curved into talons, the killer tore the white man’s eyes from his face and swallowed them whole. The killer then pulled two white owl feathers out of another pocket, and set them on the white man’s chest. Blood soon soaked into the feathers, staining them a dark red.
6. Truck Schultz
“HELLO OUT THERE, FOLKS, this is Truck Schultz on KWIZ, the Voice of Reason, and boy, do I have a problem!”
Schultz sat in the radio station, smoking a cigar, drinking coffee. A tall, muscular white man with a receding hairline, blue eyes, and large ears, he was the host of the most popular talk-radio show in the city and was ready to go national, sure that he would be more popular than Rush Limbaugh. Truck had started with a late-night jazz show on KWIZ a few years earlier. Not long after conservative radio hit it big, KWIZ changed its format to talk and Truck became a star. His promotional billboards were everywhere: KEEP ON TRUCKIN’! Now Truck had a hundred thousand listeners and a drive-time slot. He never played jazz anymore. Leaning close to his microphone, Truck exhaled a cloud of thick, gray smoke and spoke loudly and clearly.
“Through my sources in the Seattle Police Department, I’ve just learned that the body of a white man was discovered in a house in Fremont early this morning. My sources say that the man was scalped and ritually mutilated. That’s right, folks. Scalped and ritually mutilated. My sources say certain evidence makes it clear that an American Indian might be responsible for this crime. My sources would not reveal what that evidence was, but they did make it clear that only an Indian, or a person intimately familiar with Indian culture, would know to leave such evidence behind. What do you think, folks? Give me a call.”
7. Introduction to Native American Literature
A FEW DAYS AFTER she met John Smith at the protest powwow, Marie Polatkin walked into the evening section of the Introduction to Native American Literature class for the first time. The professor had not yet arrived. The students were gossiping about the dead body that had been discovered in an empty house in Fremont.