Mac rolled his eyes. “What would you do?” he asked. “You’d be right there, marching to the guillotine with me.” If he had a kindred spirit at the SPD it was probably Dunbar, God help them all.
Dunbar laughed. “Got me there,” he said.
Rodriguez scowled at the both. “Well, if you two cowboys would get out of my office, I might get some work done,” he said with a growl.
As they left, Rodriguez said, “Mac? Be careful. There isn’t anyone who can come to your rescue in Skagit Valley.”
Mac hesitated, then he nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.
While he was at the SPD he made the rounds. He stopped in to talk to the PIO, the public information officer. Stopped by the desks of a couple of others he knew. And then he was back out in the sunshine.
He looked at his phone. A text from Shorty telling him to come by after work. And one from Janet that said, call me.
He found a bench, sat down, and called Janet back. He didn’t like talking on the phone to begin with, especially since he spent two hours every morning making a dozen calls to law enforcement and first responders. And he most certainly didn’t want to have any kind of involved conversation while walking. He saw businessmen who did that, thinking it showed how important and in demand they were. To him they looked like assholes who danced to someone else’s tune, and wreaked havoc as they walked, causing people to have to dodge around them.
One of the funniest things he’d seen lately was when one of them encountered a small yappy dog on a leash whose owner pulled one way, and the rat-dog pulled the other, forming as nice a trip wire as any Marine could have set. And the suit had face-planted. Couldn’t even catch himself because he had that damn phone to his ear. Mac had laughed himself silly. He hadn’t been the only one.
He grinned at the memory and dialed his boss.
“It’s me,” he said.
“Got the information back on Norton’s backstory,” she said. “Can you talk?”
“Go ahead,” he said.
“So, you were right. First, Norton has a record in California. He was arrested several times for verbal attacks on gays and minorities. No convictions, he’d just turned 18, I think, so there was probably a juvenile record. Found an arrest photo though. He was a damned Skinhead, Mac. The whole look, even. I suspect if you saw him stripped down, he’d have a few tats. But he looks like he was savvy enough to keep them from showing in clothes. No piercings either. So, a weekend hate warrior,” Janet said with disgust.
“And then, what? He decides he wants to enlist, can’t because of the record, and re-invents himself as a college student?” Mac asked.
“Bingo. Except, he did enlist, and didn’t make it through boot camp,” she said. “They washed him out. Still doing some digging there on why.”
“Probably got spotted doing more of that crap, even just mouthing off,” Mac speculated. “Marine Corps doesn’t put up with that shit, especially if they catch it early. Not those who are overt about it anyway.”
“Could be,” Janet agreed. “I’ll have my guy search the area around wherever he was stationed.”
“San Diego,” Mac said absently, trying to think if he knew of anyone who would talk. “It’s the boot camp for the West Coast. So, when are we talking? He’s what 42?”
“43, it looks like,” Janet said. “So, he would have been 18 in 1989.”
Mac was thinking about it. He’d gone through San Diego in 2003.
“You coming back in?” Janet asked.
“Yeah, I’ve got more interview calls to make,” he said morosely. For a guy who didn’t like phone conversations he’d chosen the wrong damn field.
But once back in the office, he headed down the hallway to the Special Projects team’s offices and found Mike Brewster. Of all the guys he’d met — including their boss — Mike had seemed to be the most approachable.
Mac knocked on the door, and Mike waved him in. “Don’t see you down this way much,” Mike said.
Mac shrugged. “Got a question, and it occurred to me you could probably figure it out,” he said. “I want to know how often a reference to gun stashes, gun collections, arsenals, comes up in divorce and child custody proceedings in the state. And whether its increased over the last, say, 18 months? And are there hot spots?”
Mike’s gaze sharpened. “This for a story you’re working on?” he asked. “When do you want it by?”
Mac nodded, then considered the second question. “I’m headed back to Skagit for part of this story over the weekend,” he said slowly. “While it would be nice to have before I go, I really won’t need it until I get back. So, Monday?”
Mike jerked, and leaned back in his chair. “Jesus, Mac,” he said. “Usually a question like this would be a project for the month. Are all your stories on that tight a turn-around?”
Mac frowned. “Most of my stories run the day they happen or the next,” he said puzzled. “I’ve been working on this one now for almost two weeks. But that’s pretty rare. Haven’t you ever done beat reporting?”
“My first job in journalism. It was a small daily newspaper, and it was grueling. You know, where you go to the city council meeting one evening, and write it up for the paper the next day?” he said. “That’s why I went back for my master’s in data management. Then Steve hired me here. I guess I assumed on a big paper like this, beat reporters got more time than on a small paper.”
“Didn’t you learn that immediacy is one of the characteristics of what news is?” Mac asked. “And now with the web? It’s not just ‘write it up the next day’. Our city reporter often files a web brief on a council meeting before the meeting
