Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River (3 page)

Harry Callahan had never been in Russian River before. It was not exactly a tourist attraction. He’d ridden by Russian River, but a lot of people had ridden by Russian River. Highway 101 made certain of that.

Harry did not want to be in Russian River. But he had his orders. He was being lent out was what was happening. The word had gone out; Russian River needed cops, detectives used to corpses slit by knives and perforated by gunshots. Russian River was too small to raise its own crop of detectives.

There was no question in Harry’s mind that good detectives were not the only thing lacking in Russian River. It looked as though night life here ended before a six-year-old’s bedtime. But what struck Harry as he drove down the town’s main drag, Van Buren Street, was the number of youths who came into view.

Russian River didn’t look like the sort of place that would attract anyone over the age of fifteen unless they had settled there to collect Social Security in sight of the forested mountains that loomed in the distance. But the presence of so many young people, hinted at the abundance of dope to be obtained within the towns precincts. They all had the same dazed, listless expressions that Harry remembered seeing in the Haight-Ashbury district in the late sixties.

Time seemed to have forgotten these sixties’ veterans who had failed in any case to acknowledge its passing. Their hair, both men’s and women’s, was long, their dress uniformly shabby. The appearance of a car on Van Buren Street was something of an event, particularly when it occurred after nine at night. A congregation of youths who were too young to have ever known the sixties firsthand had assembled in front of a garishly lit donut place that was clearly one of the local hangouts.

“Any of you know the way to April Street?”

Harry didn’t expect anything good to come of asking the question. On the other hand, he didn’t expect anything good to come out of April Street. There was a motel there that Harry was supposed to put himself up at for the duration of the investigation. He did not expect a luxury establishment. The San Francisco Police Department was footing the bill.

In response to his inquiry, a man with hair that hung in coils down his back stepped forward. He thrust his head into the open window, and he could have rubbed noses with Harry had that been his inclination.

“Who are you, man?”

“You’re not answering my question,” Harry replied as calmly as he could.

“You’re a cop.”

The man hadn’t jumped to this conclusion because of the way Harry was dressed. Rather it was an assessment based on precedent.

‘Why do you say that?”

“Because everyone coming into Russian River is a cop.”

The man spat, leaving a residue of yellowish phlegm on Harry’s cheek. Harry rolled the window up and wiped the spit from his face.

This, he thought, is one hell of a welcome to Russian River.

A more public-spirited fellow a few blocks down Van Buren was better able to direct Harry to his destination—Danton’s Motel Inn—which sat on the north side of April Street in what looked like the middle of nowhere. Despite so much darkness surrounding it, there was no mistaking its location; it was the only place that had lights blazing. Danton’s Motel Inn proclaimed its identity in bright red neon. That was the most arresting aspect of the place. Otherwise, Danton’s resembled a series of Quonset huts around a parking lot barely lit by a single sodium light overhead.

A woman of uncertain age and sobriety appeared in the office after Harry’s repeated clanging of a bell he found on the desk.

“You must be the Callahan gentleman?” she said, peering with myopic eyes down at the register, which was as empty as the parking lot. “You can have Number 8. How long do you plan on staying?”

Harry told her he had no idea.

This gave her pause. Nobody came to Russian River without having a good idea of when they’d leave. “Well, let’s say you give me fifty dollars in advance. That will see you through to Thursday.”

Thursday was five days away. Harry handed her the cash. The woman deposited an overgrown key in his palm. “Anything you need you just let me or Dennis know. Dennis be my husband.”

Harry slid the key into the door of Number 8, only to discover that it was unnecessary. The door was already open.

He walked in, set down his suitcase. He had only one objective in mind: to get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, he figured, he’d contend with the various authorities who were waiting to speak to him.

But as soon as he flicked on the overhead light he saw that he might have to postpone sleep for a while. There was somebody sitting on his bed.

“How are you doing, Harry?”

Harry stood there for a few moments, saying nothing.

“Aren’t you going to greet an old friend?” the man on the bed asked him.

“Your notion of friendship and mine happen to differ, Mike.”

“Ah, well, I see at least you remember my damn name. I’d hate to think you’d forgotten.”

“I don’t forget, Mike. I am also not in the habit of forgiving. Now why don’t you take a walk?”

“Nowhere to go. Dull fucking place, Russian River.”

“What are you doing here? How did you know where I’d be?”

“How? Don’t you credit me with any intelligence? I’ve been doing this sort of shit for years. The old lady always assigns 8 to cops, it’s her style. I know.”

“You know?” Harry regarded him dubiously.

“Of course, I know. We’re not on opposite sides, Harry. Not anymore. Hasn’t anybody told you? I’m a cop now myself.”

C H A P T E R
T w o

A
nd it was true enough. Mike had a badge to prove it, a detective’s shield that looked perfectly genuine to Harry’s eyes. But how could a former felon, a man whom Harry had taken in once himself, turn into a cop within a period of three years? Jesus might have known how to walk on water and change water into wine, but Mike Kilborn seemed to have pulled off a miracle that was more spectacular still.

And Kilborn’s criminal record wasn’t the only issue here. He’d done time, been picked up on charges ranging from assault to trafficking in narcotics, gone on the lam after skipping out on bail, dealt drugs in Mexico, smuggled hashish and heroin back and forth between Turkey and western Europe, and now here he was in the middle of Russian River, sitting in Danton’s Motel Inn, flashing a police badge.

That was just a part of it. Given the abundance of illicit substances that he’d done over the years, the acid, the hash, the heroin, the DMT, cocaine, the barbituates, the ludes, the amphetamines, the opium, MDA, PCP, White Cross, Mauna Loa, the Methaqualone, Thai sticks, and Pattaya Beach buds, it was a wonder that anything of his mind was intact.

“You want to explain that?” Harry asked, indicating the shield. This will be very interesting, he thought.

“No problem. Couple of years ago when I was in the joint the Man came to me, said, ‘Mike, you’re in a lot of trouble.’ Well, that makes sense. I’m doing a ten- to twenty-year stretch in Folsom, hey, you don’t have to tell me about trouble. You hear me? But the Man says, ‘We know you have lots of connections, Mike.’ Of course, I do. That’s my life, connections. When it comes to connections Ma Bell has nothing over me. You hear me?

“The Man says, ‘Would you be willing to use those connections for us? You do and we’ll spring you.’ Now that sounded very interesting, working for the other side. But I told them that the D.A. had made the same kind of offer. Why should I listen to him? But the Man said, ‘You don’t know the power I have. I can do a lot more for you than the D.A. ever could.’ ”

“And so the Man, as you call him, procured that for you?”

Harry’s eyes were still fixed on the shield.

“You got it. My ambition in life is not to be a snitch. I wanted something bigger.”

“Yeah, you always did aspire to higher things, Mike. You wouldn’t want to tell me the name of the Man.”

“You could threaten to cut off my dick and I wouldn’t tell you. You know how it is? But believe me, the Man is
very
high up. I’m not talking about Sacramento now.”

The implication was that the Man, Mike Kilborn’s rabbi, worked with the Feds.

“Next question.”

“Shoot.”

“What the hell are you doing in my room?”

Kilborn used his false teeth to good advantage when he smiled.

“I figured you’d want to know.” In a show of bravado, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a joint that was nicely tapered and covered with chocolate paper. Though he knew very well Harry would refuse to share it with him he offered nonetheless, laughing when the inevitable rebuff came. “This is dynamite shit. Homegrown.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the mountains visible through the solitary window in the drab motel room.

“Get to the point. I’m tired.”

“You shouldn’t be in such a hurry. This is a very mellow place.”

A cloud of potent smoke issued from his mouth, half-concealing his face.

“Am I going to have to throw you out?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. My purpose here is to offer my services to you. Don’t look at me like that. Tomorrow you’ll go see the local narks, Turk and Davenport, and they’re going to offer you a chance to ride in their special Sikorsky helicopter, take you for a reconnaissance tour of the terrain. And that is how it is, man, I am telling you. You have two believers in the power of technology. Turk has his map full of pins and his five-year plans. The way he figures it, he’ll have the weed business eliminated entirely if he’s given more toys to play with. I mean radar, I mean choppers. That sort of shit. But there’s one hitch. The fucker doesn’t have any connections on the ground. He’s waging war against the growers the way Johnson and Nixon tried fighting the Cong in Vietnam.”

“And you’re telling me you have the connections on the ground.”

“Absolutely. You want to stick with me, Harry, you’ll learn much.”

“About the murders?”

“About murder, mayhem, whatever you’d like to know.”

“You have any idea who killed Harris and Nutting?”

“And who offed Chapman and Smith and Horgan and Quidlock. Never heard of them, have you? You don’t know what kind of burial ground they got up there. You don’t know shit. And Turk won’t educate you. And you know damn well that he wouldn’t want to even if he could. These cops coming up here are giving him a sour disposition. He thinks they’re muscling in on his territory. All he’ll do is stonewall you, play with you, maybe, if he can, stage some scenario where you get your ass kicked in, enough so you’ll go scurrying back where you came from. You and the others.”

“Why me?”

The answer came promptly. “Because I like you, Harry.”

“Yeah, sure. You make this offer to the other homicide detectives that have come up here?”

“Just you. I swear.”

“Get out of here.”

“Hey, don’t get testy. You shop around, see what everyone else has to offer you. You’ll see what I’m saying is true. Mention my name. See the kind of reaction you get. Then when you’re ready for me, I’ll be back. You never have to look far. I’m always around.”

Kilborn slid past Harry, a thin, shadowy figure with the air of a fugitive about him. “Later, my man,” he said and vanished into the dark of the parking lot.

The sodium lamp had been extinguished there, to save electricity. The only source of illumination was the red neon letters that signaled to those driving up and down April Street that when all the other choices of lodgings had been exhausted, there was always Danton’s Motel Inn.

Turk Raven had appropriated the unused courtroom to deliver his orientation lecture to the half dozen homicide detectives who had so far assembled in Russian River. He was to brief the men and to coordinate their activities. He hadn’t gotten all he wanted from his superiors in Washington, but at least he had the satisfaction of knowing he enjoyed some control over this operation.

He was standing up on the dias, where the judge usually sat, and with a pointer was directing his audience’s attention to a map of the region, an enlargement of the map hanging in his office.

The mountains had names like Lunar, Inca, Rain, and Summer. Some were more hill than mountain actually, but this topographical discrepancy didn’t bother Turk. In fact, he eschewed the use of their true names for a military-sounding parlance, referring to them as Alpha, Beta, Charlie, and Delta mountains. Each one was a potential battleground.

The more that Turk expounded on his elaborately contrived strategy the more enthusiastic he became. He no longer viewed the newly arriving cops as a threat to his five-year plan. On the contrary, he now saw the imported cops in a whole new light; they could be employed to advance his timetable. He had Washington’s approval for this. Or that was how he had chosen to see the situation. The cops would be led to assume that they’d be investigating a string of murders—and yet what they’d really be doing was something quite different: aiding in the destruction of the marijuana business, vanquishing it entirely from Mendocino and Humboldt counties.

And if this happened, one of the prime beneficiaries would be Turk himself. Already he was picturing himself behind a desk with a window overlooking the Potomac. A salary commensurate with such a position featured significantly in his fantasies.

Turk was just concluding his lecture, which had by this point gone on for nearly an hour, when a man entered the courtroom, distracting him from what he was saying.

“Who are you?” Turk asked, irritated.

“Callahan, SFPD,”

“Callahan? You’re late. I am just about to finish my briefing.”

“I think you’ve got it wrong. I am exactly on time.”

There was a sudden burst of laughter from the six detectives who’d had to suffer through Turk’s rambling exposition.

Turk flushed. He did not know exactly how to respond. At last he grumbled, “You’ll have to ask one of the other men what I said. I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“From the looks on these gentlemen’s faces I expect that you already have.”

Turk glowered at him but refrained from saying anything more. He realized he’d only be getting himself in deeper.