As much as Wilson liked the foreman’s story, he didn’t believe it. Every Indian in the city was probably suspected by his neighbors and co-workers. Wilson needed to talk to the desk sergeant, who was still trying to control the crowd. Finally, Wilson caught his friend’s eye, and the sergeant waved at him.
“You a cop?” asked the foreman, noticing the exchange.
“Yeah,” said Wilson, another half lie.
“Listen,” said the foreman, nearly pleading now. “I know I sound goofy. But I mean it. There was something really strange about John. I feel it in my gut. I think he’s the one. Here, look at him.”
The foreman handed Wilson a photograph taken at the construction site. Wilson studied it carefully. In the foreground, a group of workers were eating lunch together. One worker held a hammer above his head, like he was going to drive a nail into his own skull. Everybody laughing. In the background, a tall Indian man sat apart from the others. He stared into the camera with obvious anger. He had eyes like the eyes of all those old-time warrior Indians who were forced to sit still for Army photographers. Those defeated warriors always had smooth faces and flat expressions, but their eyes were dark and filled with a feral, kinetic hate. The foreman’s photograph was color, but the Indian looked like he might have been photographed in sepia tones.
Wilson studied the Indian’s face for a few moments longer and felt a faint sense of familiarity. Then it came to him. The Indian in the photograph was the same Indian who had attacked him outside his apartment. Wilson remembered the Indian’s eyes, how odd they looked when he had taken the golf club away from Eric the cabbie and then towered over Wilson. Out of habit, Wilson had reached into his jacket, ready to pull his weapon. The Indian had come with that Indian woman protester. She was quite the nuisance at his reading. What was her name? Marla? Maria?
“What did you say his name is?” Wilson asked the foreman.
“John. John Smith.”
Wilson stared at the photograph of John Smith, remembered how he’d thought the Indian was Aristotle Little Hawk come to life. Wilson had really thought he saw Aristotle for the first time when he saw John, but it had been so dark and confusing. Later, Wilson just assumed he had seen what he wanted to see, his hero, conjured by a frightening moment. Now he was unsure of what he had seen.
“Can I keep this?” asked Wilson. “For the investigation.”
The foreman was hesitant.
“Listen,” said Wilson. “Why don’t I just sign this into evidence, okay? Just leave me your phone number and somebody will contact you tomorrow. You don’t want to wait around here all night, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Well, then, let’s do it,” said Wilson. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a home address for John Smith, would you?”
“Sure I do.”
The foreman gave Wilson his phone number and John’s address and then left, feeling that he had performed his civic duty. As soon as the foreman drove away, Wilson dodged a reporter, pushed the precinct door open, and walked toward his pickup.
12. Truck
“CITIZENS,” TRUCK SAID. “THE Indian Killer has done it again.
“Folks, I’m tired.
“I’m tired of witnessing the downward spiral of this country. Its culture, its history, its hopes, its dreams. The first Europeans sailed to this country with the hopes of building a new civilization, a better civilization. We dreamed of a country where every man was equal, where we were all given the opportunity to live, love, and die as free men. We didn’t come here to suckle at the morally bankrupt teat of the government. Oh, sure, we made some mistakes along the way, but we learned from those mistakes and put them behind us. Together, we have created the greatest civilization that man has ever known. All along the way, there were many naysayers and cynics. There were traitors and subversives. There were beggars and sycophants. There were those who would have us cater to the lowest common denominator. There were communists and socialists. There were atheists and nonbelievers. My fellow Americans, five hundred years ago, we came to this untamed land as God-fearing individuals who wanted to live individual lives.
“And now, the dreams of one individual, Edward Letterman, have been murdered. The dreams of a young boy, Mark Jones, have been slaughtered. The dreams of a young man, Justin Summers, have been destroyed.
“And yes, the dreams of David Rogers have also been murdered. What were his dreams? He dreamed of being an English teacher. He dreamed of marrying. He dreamed of having children, of watching them grow into capable young adults. He dreamed of a nice house, two cars in the garage, and a dog named Fido. He had the same dreams as you and I, folks, the same dreams, and the Indian Killer has taken them away. And who is this Indian Killer?
“He’s a coward, obviously. But he’s more than that, much more. I want to tell you a story, folks. It’s about Marcus and Narcissa Whitman, two of the first missionaries who ever brought God’s word to the Indians. You see, the Whitmans worked with some of the tribes over in the eastern part of the state. Tribes like the Yakama and the Spokane, the Palouse and the Cayuse. But it all seemed to be such a hopeless task. The Indians were Godless people. They were savages, folks. Let’s not deny it. Let’s not pretend to be politically correct. Oh, sure, a few enlightened Indians did convert to Christianity and lived full lives, but their fellow tribal members often butchered them. Most of the Indians refused to listen to the Whitmans. They refused to attend church. In fact, in a combined effort to save the Indians from themselves, the Whitmans and the U.S. Army sent Indian children away from their parents to attend missionary boarding school.
“Now, I know this could sound like a cruel act, but we must remember that the Whitmans were good people with a good purpose. Yet, even though Indian children were given the benefit of a wonderful religious education, they refused to learn. This is a fact, folks. The Indian children would often turn their desks away from the Whitmans and face the back of the room. The Indian children refused to speak English. They refused to give up their superstitions. They continued to practice their primitive religions. What were the Whitmans to do?
“Well, if you remember your history, you will recall that many Indians died of smallpox epidemics in the early days of this country. Smallpox was new to the Indians and they didn’t have any natural immunity. That’s a tragic fact, folks. But many revisionist historians would have you believe that we gave smallpox to the Indians on purpose. Many liberals would have you believe that we used smallpox as a weapon against the Indians. What trash! That’s like saying I’m guilty of assault if you catch a cold after shaking my hand. Am I right or am I right?
“But, back to the point: the Whitmans knew about the Indians’ terrible ordeal with smallpox. They knew about the Indians’ mortal fear of smallpox. For Indian children, smallpox was like the bogeyman. Now, I don’t fully agree with the Whitmans’ next move, but they were desperate. All of their efforts to help the Indians had been foiled time and time again. What the Whitmans did was this: they built a box from scrap wood and painted it black. Now this box was about the size of a hat box. Not too big, not too small. The Whitmans set this box in front of a class full of Indian children and told them it was filled with smallpox. The Whitmans told the Indian children the box would be opened if they refused to pay attention to their lessons.
“Yes, I know it was a hard thing for the Whitmans to do. They must have been tortured by their decision to use the box in that manner. But it provided much-needed discipline. The Indian children began to learn. They paid attention. If we only had such discipline today, we might not be graduating kids who cannot read, count to ten, or dissect a frog. Of course, the Indian children were not terribly bright, but the Whitmans persevered. Soon, the Indian children had learned enough valuable lessons to go back to their tepees and try to teach their parents, too. This is where the trouble started. The Indian parents were shocked by their children’s knowledge. The Indian children were growing beyond their parents, and their parents couldn’t stand it. They rose up against the Whitmans and slaughtered them. Marcus Whitman was tied to a tree and burned alive. Narcissa Whitman was raped by hundreds of Indian warriors before she died of fright.