Tahoe Hijack Read online

“High-value prisoner demands plural guards,” Santiago said. “Owen McKenna, meet Barry Downywood and John Farnum.”

  We said our how-do-you-dos.

  “Sidearm?” Santiago said to me.

  “I don’t carry,” I said.

  He gave me a quick, puzzled look, then took out his own gun and put it in the safety locker.

  We walked with Deputy Farnum through to the cells. Thomas Watson sat cross-legged on the bench, his eyes shut, his arms down, palms facing out. His legs were thick like his arms. It didn’t look like he’d be able to get them into the lotus position, but cross-legged was close.

  “Owen McKenna to see you, Watson,” Santiago said.

  Farnum unlocked the cell gate, let me in, locked it behind me.

  “You want me to stay nearby?” Santiago glanced at Watson. “He’s in a tough business, might be a tough guy.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, knowing that he’d said it just to rile Watson.

  “Let Barry and John know when you want out.” Santiago and Farnum walked away.

  I leaned against the wall opposite the prisoner. Watson ignored me and stared off to my side.

  Watson had probably learned my name after I arranged to sample his arm hair. If not, I imagined that someone, one of the arresting cops maybe, would have said something about the DNA warrant, which would have tipped Watson off to the real reason I stuck the tape on his arm. He didn’t need to look at me to know that I was the person who started the sequence that landed him in jail. But Watson exhibited no recognition of me.

  “I’d like permission to ask you a few questions,” I said.

  “You can ask,” Watson said. “Doesn’t mean I’ve got any answers for you.”

  “You no doubt know about the hijacking incident on the lake a few days ago,” I continued. “I’m here to ask you if you have an idea of who the hostage taker was.”

  Watson didn’t respond, so I recapped how the hostage taker had put on his grand performance ostensibly just to convince me to go after Watson. “He claimed, with great confidence I might add, that you were Sun’s killer. The hostage taker killed one man, nearly killed a woman, and put an entire boatload of passengers at risk, all because he was determined to have me bring you in for Sun’s murder.”

  I paused. Watson stared at the wall.

  “Why would a hijacker do all that just to get me to go after you? The only answer I could think of was that either you killed Grace Sun, and the hijacker was trying to serve the cause of justice, or the hostage taker had a real negative thing for you, separate from his desire for justice in the killing of Grace Sun.”

  Watson didn’t speak.

  Maybe I could just keep talking. Wear him down.

  “The hijacker was obviously out to get you. You would be the most likely person to know his identity. When you think of it, a lot of people would know if someone really hated them, right? Can you tell me who the hijacker was?”

  Watson shut his eyes. Took a deep breath, held it while he rotated his shoulders, then relaxed them and let his breath out slowly. He appeared to go into a trance. Or a coma.

  “I forgot to explain that the hostage taker tripped and fell into the lake wearing a heavy backpack,” I said. “He drowned. So you don’t need to worry that there could be any repercussions from telling me who he was. And besides, it’s not like anyone could get to you inside of San Quentin or wherever you’re going on permanent vacation.”

  Watson was so still, it was as if he had stopped breathing. His eyes had drifted open until they showed slits of white. His lips had gone slack. He looked like he’d had a stroke. Maybe I could insult him into speaking.

  “Maybe you’re just silent because you’re scared. You were the big man in your previous world, your wallet full of the proceeds from smuggling weapons into the country. Now you’re a little man in jail, and this jail is the Taj Mahal compared to the snake pit where you’re going. You know that newbies at the state’s country clubs are required to provide special entertainment for the long-term residents, right? Some don’t survive. And of the ones that do, the physical and emotional trauma is so severe that some of them end up unable to care for themselves.”

  Watson took a long, slow, deep breath, his ribs rising, belly pushing out. He held it for a ten-count, then exhaled, slow as a tire puncture that lets you drive a dozen miles before the rim hits the pavement. At the end, his body relaxed another notch, flesh sagging, all tension leaving his face as if he had died.

  I waited for a minute, but I saw no sign of inhalation. It was as if Watson had so thoroughly transcended the limitations of earthly life that he no longer needed the earthly requirement of air. He was gone to me.

  “Deputy Downywood? Farnum?” I called out. “I’m ready.”

  I heard a distant buzzer. Santiago appeared a minute later. He opened the gate and let me out. We were back to Downywood’s desk when a voice came from behind.

  “My guess is that the hostage taker was Nick O’Connell.”

  I turned and walked back to the cell. Watson hadn’t changed position. He still sat cross-legged, arms in his lap, palms up, eyes closed.

  “Who was Nick O’Connell?” I said through the bars.

  Watson kept his eyes shut as he spoke. “Meanest psychopath you could meet. Be glad he’s at the bottom of the lake.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Met him once or twice. Mostly just heard things.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “He used to work for Carlos, leader of the Nogales Cartel. He was Carlos’s knife man. But O’Connell stole a shipment and disappeared. Then O’Connell started working with Davy Halstead, leader of the Red Blood Patriots.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It was a big mistake. Davy didn’t know how wicked O’Connell was. It was a lucky break for Davy that O’Connell died. Otherwise, O’Connell might have fomented rebellion and tried to take over the militia.”

  “Fomented?” It was the kind of word Diamond would use.

  “Yeah. Incite. Provoke.”

  “Does the militia want to get into the drug business?” I asked.

  “Already is. Davy Halstead is a pro. But in this case, I think Davy wanted O’Connell’s expertise in other ways. O’Connell didn’t steal a shipment of drugs. He stole a shipment of money. Carlos was so upset that he put out the word to the other cartel bosses. He let them know that O’Connell was an unacceptable risk because he knew too much and because he wasn’t afraid of anyone. So they made an agreement to take him out on sight.”

  “The cartels got together on a common purpose?”

  “Yeah. Three of them. All deadly enemies. All trying to kill the same man.” Watson still had his eyes closed. He hadn’t moved position. “Now they won’t have to trouble themselves.”

  “You sound pretty convinced the hijacker was O’Connell.”

  “Makes sense, that’s all.”

  “What kind of drugs do the Red Blood Patriots sell?”

  “These guys in the drug business, they’re scum,” Watson said, ignoring my question. “I hope they all kill each other.” There was venom in his voice.

  “You don’t approve of illegal drugs,” I said.

  “Drugs rot people’s minds.”

  “Yet you peddle illegal guns.”

  Watson made a dismissive snorting noise. I was so tedious. “If O’Connell were still alive,” he said, “I’d skin him alive myself if I could tie him down before he killed me.”

  “What’s a knife man do?” I asked.

  “Bodyguard. O’Connell was Carlos’s personal bodyguard. It’s a new trend for the drug bosses. Guns are loud, bring unwanted attention. A knife man operates on stealth. A guy who’s good with a blade can get the job done and move on to the next and the next and maybe no one has discovered the first job, yet. Plus, the soldiers are used to guns. They don’t fear them. But everyone is afraid of getting stuck with a blade. O’Connell studied Samurai techniques. I watched him use his knife, once. Did
a twirling thing that was impressive. Word was that he was so fast, he could go in below your sternum, reach up and cut out your heart and show it to you before you lost consciousness and died.”

  “Why would O’Connell go from a drug cartel to a militia?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he wanted to be the big cheese in a smaller store. Maybe he planned on kicking out Davy Halstead and taking over the Patriots. He could’ve pulled it off.”

  I watched Watson sit motionless. He had emotion in his voice but no emotion on his face.

  “This hijacker O’Connell, or whoever he was,” I said, “had a partner. He was a small guy who didn’t say anything, just helped the hijacker carry their stuff onboard. The hijacker killed him. Knocked him out, strapped an anchor chain around his neck, and dumped him overboard. Any idea who he was?”

  Watson shook his head. “Could be anybody. A lot of these guys, they just want to hang out with someone tough. Makes them feel tough by association.”

  “How do you know that? You one of them?”

  “I’m a businessman. In my trade, some of my customers have associates and employees who are not quite Harvard Law material. The rest of society doesn’t know the extent of this population. But there are a lot of them. Country guys who live in tents or under pieces of old plywood. Guys who are easily organized using the basic principle of distrust of government. You don’t have to spout much about the oppressor class before people want to sign up to oppose them.”

  “You went to the Naval Academy,” I said. “Doesn’t that make you part of the oppressor class?”

  “I help these people. I empower them.” Watson made it sound like he was a missionary bringing enlightenment to the pagans.

  “Hijacking a boat and taking a hostage is a dramatic way to get the world’s attention,” I said. “Was Nick O’Connell that kind of guy? Would he go to such lengths?”

  “That’s the reason why I think it was Nick. His MO was melodrama. Impulsiveness carried to a neurological extreme. He had no governor. That’s what made him so dangerous, so effective at bending others to his desires.”

  I thought about it. “Did you kill Grace Sun?” I asked.

  “No.” His tone made it sound like I was an idiot for asking.

  “Yet your DNA matches what was under Grace Sun’s fingernails.”

  Watson’s eyes were shut. He made a single, dismissive head shake.

  “If O’Connell was the hijacker,” I said, “why would he try to implicate you in Grace Sun’s death?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did O’Connell have against you?”

  Watson still hadn’t opened his eyes. I waited, but he didn’t answer.

  “Did O’Connell know Grace Sun?”

  Silence.

  “If O’Connell wanted you out of his way for something, and if he was as ruthless as you say, why didn’t he take you out himself? Why put me onto you?”

  No answer.

  “Okay, let’s say that Nick O’Connell was like you say, quick with a knife. And let’s assume that you are right, and he was the one who hijacked the boat. The obvious question is why. Why would he involve me when he could have made no end of trouble for you without me?”

  More silence.

  I prodded, “You don’t know? Or you won’t say?”

  Nothing. Watson was done talking. I called to be let out.

  “Santiago around?” I asked Downywood when he came to let me out.

  “Outside, on his cell. Been talking a long time.”

  I raised a hand toward Santiago as I went by. He nodded at me as he kept talking.

  Spot had his head out the rear window as I approached. He wagged with vigor, no doubt the pure joy of seeing his master. Then he gradually turned, still wagging, until he faced well off to my side. Turns out he wasn’t looking at me at all.

  I looked behind me. A pit bull was out in front of her owner. The pit bull had a bright pink Frisbee in her mouth and carried it high and proud as she trotted. I got to the Jeep, grabbed Spot’s head and rubbed it hard. Spot paid me no attention. He watched the pit bull and wagged harder.

  I knew when I wasn’t wanted. I was getting into the Jeep when Santiago walked up.

  “Any luck?”

  “The patient rallied for a bit, then became non-responsive,” I said. “You know about the Red Blood Patriots?”

  Santiago flared his nostrils. “Bunch of psychos who march around in the woods like soldier wannabes. I’ve got a buddy in the department who works the West Slope of the Sierra. He’s seen these guys. Thinks they’re more dangerous than the motorcycle meth gangs. Some people dismiss them as harmless boys playing pretend with guns. ’Cept, these guys carry modern assault rifles and rant about the Second Amendment and the coming government takeover.” Santiago frowned. “Why do you ask? Something about our inmate?”

  “Watson thinks that a guy named Nick O’Connell was the hostage taker and that he was involved with the Patriots.”

  Santiago shook his head in disgust. “You want me to call Agent Ramos, spread the word?”

  “Please. Okay if I come back tomorrow? Maybe I can wear him down, get him to talk some more.”

  “We’ll give you a VIP pass if you like. But his big transfer is set for two in the afternoon.”

  “Got it.”

  TEN

  The next day I was back at the Truckee jail first thing in the morning. They let me into Watson’s cell. As before, he was sitting on his bench, his legs crossed. But this time his eyes were open, and there was tension in his face.

  “More questions for you, Watson,” I said.

  Watson looked at me and slowly unfolded his legs. He stood up, wincing as he put weight on his left leg.

  “Too long sitting like that will freeze you up,” I said.

  He shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s an old injury.” Watson bent down, pulled up his pant leg and rubbed his skin where there was a nasty purple-brown divot in his shin. “A few years ago, I tripped on a street grate in San Francisco and landed shin first on the curb of the sidewalk. It still throbs.”

  “Two o’clock today, you’re on your way to check in to San Francisco’s finest hotel. Yesterday, you refused to answer some questions. I’m thinking you were just tired, right? Can we try again?”

  Watson said, “I’ll answer your questions. At least you’re looking into this case. Maybe you’ll get me off.”

  “I’m not trying to get you off. That’s a lawyer’s job.”

  “You are investigating the case. You’re the only one asking questions. You may learn something that will exonerate me.”

  “No information can exonerate a guilty man,” I said.

  “I’m not guilty.”

  “You still say that you didn’t kill Grace Sun.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then how did she claw your skin hard enough to fill her fingernails?”

  “She didn’t claw me. She never touched me except for when we met and shook hands. I have no idea how my skin got under her fingernails. It must be a mistake. I’ve read about how some labs are sloppy in their record-keeping. They mislabeled their samples or something. Either way, I didn’t kill her.”

  “You’re admitting that you met her.”

  “Of course. At least I think it was her. I have nothing to hide.” Watson walked to the front corner of the cell, grasped two of the cell bars, slumped his head and spoke toward the corner. “I talked to a woman who may have been Grace Sun one afternoon a day or two before she was killed. Maybe it was the same day. My memory of those days is fuzzy because I didn’t find out about her murder until weeks later. Anyway, if it was Grace I met, we never touched beyond a single handshake.”

  “Why and where did you speak to her?”

  “I was at the San Francisco Library doing some research on nineteenth century Chinese gold miners. A librarian told me that a woman had been looking up similar information. She said that the woman had been in at lunchtime for the last three days. I wa
ited to see if she might come in again that day, and she did. We spoke at some length. Our interests intersected some, but not a great deal.”

  “And those interests are…?”

  “The woman was apparently interested in the history of the Chinese miners because her great, great grandfather was a miner who came from China. She wanted to know more about what his experience was like. I was more interested in the differences between the Chinese miners and the other miners. I wanted to know why Californians of the time demonized the Chinese and not the Irish and other immigrant groups who came for the Gold Rush. Presumably it was racism, but it may have had other cultural components.”

  “Are you an anthropologist?”

  Watson shook his head. “Not in any academic way. But, yeah, I suppose that’s what my interest was.”

  He sounded sincere, but it didn’t seem very believable. The idea of researching Gold Rush racism seemed the kind of subject that only academics would pursue.

  “Are you writing a book or something?” I asked.

  “No. Well, maybe. I’m just fascinated by the Gold Rush. I’m like those people who are fixated on the Civil War. I read everything I can find. I visit the places. I tour mining sites. I go to museums. The Gold Rush created the state of California as we know it. The Gold Rush created the city of San Francisco. The Gold Rush was a huge part of the reason the railroads were built, and it financed the railroads. The second, later gold and silver rush in Virginia City financed the Union Army in the Civil War. It’s been argued that the Confederates might have won if the north hadn’t had that giant flow of gold and silver from the tunnels under Virginia City. Anyway, it’s my hobby. And when the librarian told me that a woman was looking up some of the same things I was, I was intrigued. So we met. We spoke. We shared some stories. Then we parted, and I never saw her again.”

  “What kind of stories did you share?”

  “Small stuff. Nothing significant,” he said.

  “Like?”

  “Like her great, great grandfather was the opposing side in Mulligan’s War.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Seamus Mulligan was an Irish miner and one of the first Irish property owners in the foothills. Apparently, he had a small parcel, but in good gold territory. His neighbor landowner was Gan Sun, one of the first Chinese property owners. For several years they had an intense dispute over the property line. Mulligan and his son tried to lynch Gan Sun. Sun fled up a hill, and Mulligan and his son chased him. It was a steep hill, covered with loose rock. Mulligan lost his footing, fell, and slid a long way down. Mulligan hit his head and died. For the rest of his life, Mulligan’s son continued to threaten Gan Sun with death.