'Definitely. Even if no one ever washes the thing, normal wear and
tear from the weather would at least break down that line a little bit.
That's real new paint, with a clear edge left from the tape.'
That was enough for me. 'Alright, we need to run the plates and make
sure it doesn't belong to some priest down the street. Assuming we
don't get something on the plate that changes our minds, let's order a
tow and get paper on it.' The law permits police to tow a vehicle and
secure it while they apply for a search warrant. I asked Chuck,
'What's the best way to do this?'
'I don't have my phone with me. It's back in my car.'
He was looking at me like I could change that. I'd proudly avoided
buying a cell phone for years. 'You know I don't have one of those
things.'
'Let's drive up the street to the gas station, and I'll call Southeast
Precinct to have a patrol officer come out and sit with the car until a
tow comes. What'll work best is if you drop me off at the Justice
Center. I'll start the warrant application while you drive Kendra
home, then you can swing back by Central to review the warrant. Up to
you whether you want to stick around for the search.'
It must've been a slow night for crime. It only took a few minutes for
a patrol officer to meet us at Derringer's. Kendra and I dropped Chuck
off at the Justice Center, where Central Precinct is located. Then I
hopped onto 1-84 and headed back out to Rockwood.
I walked Kendra to the front door, then remembered Chuck's contraption.
We went around back, and I pushed on the back door hard enough to pull
off the tape, holding the knob tightly so the door wouldn't swing open.
Reaching my hand in at the bottom of the crack, I pulled out the glass
of water. It was still full.
'Are you going to be OK here by yourself, Kendra?'
She nodded. 'Uh-huh. I'm used to it since Mom started working
nights.'
'What time does she normally get home?'
'A little bit after eleven.'
I looked at my watch. Kendra would only be alone for about an hour.
'OK. Make sure you tell her that's Chuck's car out front. He'll
probably have a patrol car drop him off so he can pick it up, so don't
get scared if you hear him leaving in the middle of the night.'
'Alright.'
'It was really nice meeting you, Kendra. You're a very strong girl to
be doing so well after what happened to you. I want you to know that
all of the police and I are extremely impressed and very proud of
you.'
She was smiling with her lips together, which I suspected was as close
to beaming as Kendra got. 'Thanks.'
'One of the MCT detectives will come by Friday morning and pick you up
for grand jury, but I want you to know you can call me before that if
you want.' I wrote my direct line on the back of one of my business
cards for her and then waited at the back door until I heard her lock
it.
Once I saw lights coming on inside the house, I pulled out of the
driveway. My car was racking up more miles tonight than it usually saw
in a month. I got back onto 1-84 and drove into downtown. Cones of
red and green rippled on the Willamette, reflecting the lights of the
Hawthorne Bridge. I grabbed a parking spot on the street across from
the Justice Center and took the elevator to the MCT offices on the
fifth floor.
Chuck was sitting at his desk, his attention focused on his computer
screen. He didn't hear me, and I paused a moment to take a good look
at him. I suddenly realized that for years I hadn't been seeing him
clearly. In my mind, he still looked like he had in 1978; he had
simply exchanged his football uniform for a badge and a shoulder
holster. But the twenty extra pounds of bulk he'd carried as a kid
were gone. His face was thinner, and lines had begun to mark his
forehead and the corners of his eyes, just as they had mine.
Working as a cop wasn't this year's sport. Whether he entered law
enforcement initially for the thrill, to rebel against his family, or
out of sincere dedication, he was in it now for real. With his
father's contacts, he could have taken any career path he wanted in
this city. But here he sat fifteen hours into his workday, at a metal
and cork board cubicle, in front of an outdated monitor, waiting for
his first lover to review his warrant so he could prove that a dirtbag
like Frank
Derringer had brutalized a thirteen-year-old heroin addict and
prostitute in a Buick built while we were still making out under the
Grant High School bleachers.
For the first time, I was seeing Chuck Forbes as a man, not as an icon
of a glorious time in my life that was over. I felt tears in my eyes,
