Yeah, he and his unit, about 10 other men, had gone up into the mountains in Skagit County to practice wilderness survival skills. He gave up a couple of names as “alibis.” And then he’d come home.
“And then you came into the house, and found the folder with divorce papers in it? Damn that’s cold,” Joe Dunbar said sympathetically.
“I need an attorney,” George Martin said suddenly. “I want an attorney.”
Joe immediately described the process to get an attorney, and that he’d wait in jail until one could be appointed.
“That’s fine,” Martin interrupted. “Call this number,” and he gave Dunbar a number from his phone, “and tell them I need to have representation now.”
Rodriguez shut off the video.
“Stupid fuck,” Mac observed just as Joe Dunbar walked into Rodriguez office.
“Hope you’re talking about George Martin and not me,” Dunbar said.
“Martin. Stupid enough to run away from his own arsenal,” Mac said. “That may become my new line about stupid. And then he talked to you for a half-hour about his gun fetish before he realized he needed an attorney?”
Dunbar nodded. “As you said, he’s a stupid fuck.”
Rodriguez rolled his eyes. “Any other bright conclusions now that we’ve got the obvious one out of the way?”
“So, who did you reach when you dialed the number he gave you for an attorney?” Mac asked.
“His personal attorney,” Dunbar said. “Poor fuck, it’s the same person who drew up the divorce papers for his wife.”
Mac winced. “And?”
Dunbar shrugged. “They handed him off to another partner who is more familiar with criminal proceedings, and he’s going to be here later. So that seems like business as usual.”
“Do I get a list of the names from the photo and from his ‘unit’?” Mac asked trying to sound hopeful. He was doubly surprised when Dunbar handed him a list. “Really?” Mac said. “You all usually aren’t this helpful.”
The two cops looked at each other, and Mac watched fascinated as they seemed to have a complete conversation with a few twitches and a shrug.
Rodriguez sighed. “Did you notice the comment about ‘just say you’re a cop’? They’re recruiting cops into this gun-nut club, Mac. And his comment about Joe to the contrary, I’m not seeing any black or brown faces in those group photos, are you?”
“You think this is connected to the white supremacists that surfaced last fall in the SPD?” Mac said slowly.
“I don’t know,” Rodriguez said uncomfortably. “I’m not sure they’re connected, or if I’m just afraid they will connect, and there will be hell to pay.”
“I want to know who this Sensei is,” Joe said. “I don’t like the sound of that. And I don’t believe him when he says I would be welcome in their Facebook groups. I’m going to try it and see what I find, but....”
Mac got it. “You want me to check them out because they’ll think I’m white and let me in,” he said as the lightbulb went on.
“Think you’re white?” Joe said. “Mac, you are white.”
“Says who? Not my mother — she doesn’t seem to know.” Mac shrugged. That bothered him less every year, he found. Who knew? Another few years and he’d find it funny. He kinda did now. “Never mind. Yeah, I’ll check and see whether a former Marine outweighs reporter. Have to create a page.”
“You’re not on Facebook?” Joe Dunbar said, startled. “Everyone has a Facebook page.”
“Why would I need one?” Mac said. “But I’ll get Shorty to set me up. Have you run the names he gave you?”
“Cleanest bunch of names I’ve ever run,” Joe said. “Not even an outstanding parking ticket.”
“But they’re real people?”
“Yeah, I added phone numbers to some. Addresses to others. They’re real. Just law abiding, financially solvent men who want a certificate that they know how to shoot an AR-15.” Joe rolled his eyes.
“OK, so you think this is a white supremacist militia form of preppers? Is that what I’m hearing?” Mac asked trying to get his mind wrapped around it.
“That’s about the sum of it,” Rodriguez said uncomfortably. “And it may have its tentacles into the police departments of the region. And they’re doing wilderness survival training. And collecting hundreds of guns.”
“And killing their wives and kids,” Joe Dunbar muttered. “Let’s not forget that part.”
“One did. And he could have just as easily used a butcher knife,” Mac said.
“Yeah, yeah, just what every gun nut says in defense,” Dunbar groused. “But guns make it easy. And quick. And too common.”
Hard to argue with that, Mac thought.
Chapter 5
(Tuesday, 5 p.m., Fairchild house in the U District)
Mac usually called ahead, but he’d been told it wasn’t necessary. So why was he sitting out in his car with a sense of dread? He sighed, got out and went across the street. Kate answered the door, and her smile was welcoming. Mac relaxed a bit.
“I didn’t expect you!” she said. “Come in! Can you stay for dinner?”
She led him out to the back courtyard, one of Mac’s favorite places. It had brick walls, although you could barely see them with all of the vines and shrubs that crawled up them. A big evergreen magnolia provided shade over the patio table and chairs. Since it was late April, Kate — or her mother — had pulled the table out into the center of the space where people could soak up some sun. He liked sitting there, just watching Kate as she fixed him some iced tea. He liked watching her. She was about 5-foot-6 with long hair that she usually wore in a braid down the back. The first time he’d met her, she’d been baking and had two flour handprints on her butt. She had a nice butt — flour or no.
She sat down opposite him, got him to talk about his day, and told him about hers. Mac relaxed. Maybe he’d been wrong to worry.
“I missed you Sunday,” she said.
“I wasn’t invited,” he protested.
“Mac! You don’t need an invitation!” she
