Chapter 4
(Tuesday, 6 a.m., Examiner newsroom)
Mac debated about whether do to a feature on Andy Malloy’s gun range. He wasn’t sure how much was bullshit, how much was a front for something else, and how much was for real. He kind of liked the notion of a certification program for those who wanted to learn about guns. It amused him it was run by die-hard anti-gun-regulation freaks, but there you go. He took a look at Malloy’s website, and sure enough the program was advertised.
Janet looked at him like he was crazy. “This guy chases you off with a gun, and you want to send newbie gun owners to him?” she asked.
Mac stopped to consider that aspect. “It is a good idea,” he defended himself.
“Mac, the world is full of good ideas, it’s who’s in charge of the execution of those ideas that matters. Go into any bar and listen to the guys at the bar. Enough solutions to the world’s problems to make it a paradise. Good solutions. But the world is still going to hell, because getting things done is the challenge. And having a gun-waving maniac teaching newbie gun owners how to use their weapons isn’t good execution of a good idea.”
Mac considered that. “OK, can I quote you when I send him an email telling him why there won’t be a feature piece?”
Janet rolled her eyes and went back to editing his blotter items for Tuesday’s paper.
Mac decided to shelve it all for the time being. He had enough small stories to keep him busy — he never lacked for copy. Maybe he could have regular hours and see Kate. He frowned. He hadn’t seen her much lately. They’d gone to a movie Friday night. But she hadn’t invited him to Sunday dinner, the first he’d missed in a long time. Time to do a relationship checkup? God, he hated those kinds of talks. They usually resulted in relationship death.
And then Rodriguez called.
“Want to listen to the tape of the interview with the man who killed his wife and kids?” He asked.
“You’re going to let me listen to an interview tape?” Mac said startled. Cops didn’t let reporters do that. Ever. Rodriguez was worried about something. Really worried. Even if he couldn’t articulate what it was.
“Yeah, but you better come over now, before I get cold feet about this,” he said.
“On my way.”
George Martin hadn’t been willing to talk about the actual murder of his wife and children. He’d lawyered up at that point. But he’d been quite willing to talk about guns. About the weapons he had, the weapons he wanted to get. About Andy Malloy and his certification program. And the guys he’d bonded with there.
Maybe he was willing to talk so freely because he was talking to cops who were all weaponed up? Mac wondered. Or maybe he just liked to talk about guns.
“So, what got you started with guns?” Joe Dunbar asked. Mac had met Dunbar before. He was a dogged investigator, but Mac had thought the department kept him away from civilians because he, well, was a dogged investigator who pursued questions a bit too far for the comfort of the general public. Not unlike Mac in that way. No one let Mac do touchy feelie stories either. Thank God. But there was Dunbar, a tall, thin Black man who look like a marathon runner or a long-distance bicyclist, interviewing this white desk jockey about guns.
A friend, of course. George Martin talked enthusiastically about a friend who was in this club for people who thought there was trouble ahead, and they needed to be able to fight for their families if it came.
“It might be civic unrest, or a natural disaster, or a military takeover, an invasion from another country. But trouble is coming, and we need to be ready to fight,” Martin said earnestly. He mentioned the SHTF websites and Facebook groups. “It’s real, man, you know it is,” he said. “Shit is going to hit the fan.”
He was given the team photo picture and asked to identify the men in it. He had listed about a half-dozen names, when suddenly he stopped. “What are you going to do with these names?” he asked suspiciously. Day late, dollar short, Mac thought disgustedly, although he would be glad to get his hands on those names himself. But damn, the guy was gullible and stupid — stupid enough to run away from his arsenal, he reminded himself. He grinned.
Joe Dunbar just shrugged. “Curious, that’s all,” he said. “This is America. You can have all the guns you want.”
The man relaxed at that comment. “Damn right,” he agreed.
“Is there a leader you particularly like?” Dunbar asked. “I’d like to check this out for myself — personally.”
Should maybe have had a white guy ask him that, Mac thought sourly. But George Martin was happy to have another convert. He talked about Andy Malloy and Craig Anderson, and then he said, “If you want to really know about all this though, you need to go online. Facebook. Search for SHTF, and look for Sensei. He’s the one who really knows this stuff.”
“Online? Not local then?”
George Martin hesitated as if he hadn’t thought about it. “No, he’s in this region,” he said. “Western Washington. He’s been really good about specific advice. Like where would be best to go if there’s a big earthquake in the Puget Sound area? That kind of thing.”
Dunbar nodded as if this was all very sensible. Mac decided he was a better interviewer than he’d thought.
“Maybe I best add a white man’s picture to my page before I go looking though,” he said laughing, pointing to the team photo again. It was all white men, ages 25-45. Mac had noticed it too.
“Nah man, just tell him you’re a cop. He likes it when cops join up.”
“Why?”
Martin shrugged uncomfortably. “When SHTF we’re going to want to have law enforcement siding with us, you know?”
There was more chat, but nothing particularly
