Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

He moved through the nearly deserted residential streets near his town house, the occasional face peering at him from behind the large bay windows common to homes in the upscale neighborhood. A black man running at night? Here? Art didn’t let the ignorance bother him as much as it had the first time he’d been stopped by a police car after a “concerned” citizen had reported “suspicious activity.” The cops were apologetic. They were only responding to a call, after all, and they had quite forcefully informed that concerned citizen that the man running past her half-million-dollar home was an FBI agent. End of the problem with her. But there would be others. There would always be others.

Still, he cherished his runs, which he sometimes took early in the morning. The present situation, though, dictated longer days, and he and Frankie had worked out a semi split schedule so that one of them would be on duty during most of every day. She took late mornings mostly, which gave her the time to see her little girl and drop her at kindergarten before hitting the office at ten. Her mother would then pick Cassie up and sit with her until Frankie got home between midnight and one. Art usually took the six A.M. to eight P.M. part of the day, leaving time for his runs in the evening, and some for Anne.

But, being honest with himself, it was the running he was thinking of at the moment. Not Anne. Not the investigation. Just running. He was even thinking of entering a charity ten-mile run in a couple of months. The competition interested him somewhat, but it was the thought of finishing a ten-mile run that was his motivation. Crossing that line as everyone watched, whether he was in first place or last.

Mile seven. Still feeling strong. Not winded yet. The sound of the Eagles’ “Peaceful Easy Feeling” soothing him through the headphones. A little more than five thousand feet to — Shit!

Art did the runner’s equivalent of slamming on the brakes as the familiar Chevy pulled around from his left and cut him off using felony stop procedures.

“Dammit, Frankie!” Art cursed his partner as she stepped from the driver’s side of the car. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“There was no answer at your place, so I figured you’d be doing some roadwork,” Frankie explained. “This couldn’t wait.”

Art bent over to catch his breath, robbed by the instant excitement and not the exertion. “What is it?”

“Jacobs got something on the gun Allen had.”

Art stood straight now. “What?”

“The test bullets he fired and sampled came from one of the three guns used in the Saint Anthony’s shooting.”

“What?” Art wondered, the word spoken slowly.

“It was one of the guns,” Frankie said. “Jacobs says he’s one hundred percent positive on the match.”

“Allen? Working with the AVO in that shooting?”

“That was my first reaction,” Frankie said. “If that’s true then the prosecutors were missing some big pieces of that case.”

“So was Thom,” Art added. Danbrook hadn’t reported any connection between the AVO and the Aryan Brotherhood.

“Maybe Barrish and his group were more careful than we thought,” Frankie suggested.

“The Brotherhood and Barrish?” Art asked, looking skyward as he caught his breath. “Hart never even hinted that Allen knew Barrish.” Chester Hart, an Aryan Brotherhood member serving time in Folsom State Prison, had been feeding the Bureau information on Freddy Allen in hopes of favorable consideration on outstanding charges. Little had been of use, and none of what he’d offered had even hinted at this development.

“Maybe it wasn’t an AB thing,” Frankie said. Behind her partner the porch lights of several houses were going on.

Freelancing. It was a possibility, but he would not have attached this new development to that theory in a million years. “Allen offering himself up to Barrish?”

“Or maybe he was recruited,” Frankie offered alternately.

“If Allen was in on Saint Anthony’s then that means he was hooked up with Barrish somehow,” Art observed. Both he and Frankie knew that, despite what the court said, John Barrish was as responsible for the Saint Anthony’s massacre as the never-identified triggermen. With the gun Allen had on him now, though, at least one identification, for what it was worth, seemed possible. As did one other thing. “Barrish could be mixed up in this.”

“But he was in detention until just a few days ago,” Frankie reminded her partner.

“That hasn’t stopped bigger creeps from doing bad things,” Art said. He leaned on the Chevy’s roof as the impromptu session of hashing the possibilities played out in the middle of the street. “But this won’t be easy to dig into.”

“Why not?”

“Barrish is fresh from having federal charges dropped against him,” Art explained. “All we have with this is a possible link between Allen and a crime that John Barrish was technically found innocent of.”

“In a pig’s eye,” Frankie said.

“Look, partner, you and I both know the man is guilty.” Danbrook’s recounting of the conversations with Barrish was enough to convince Art of that. If only his damn gun hadn’t jammed, Art thought, Thom might be alive and John Barrish would definitely be behind bars for good. “But without some legal connection to Saint Anthony’s this Allen link is phantom incrimination.”

“You’re being awful pessimistic,” Frankie commented.

“No, just realistic,” Art countered.

“So, what? We take this nowhere?”

Art’s face twisted in a grimace. “No, we take it. But we have to approach this as if Barrish is just a possible source of information — not a suspect. Otherwise Horner will be down on our asses for harassing Barrish quicker than either of us can spit.”

Malcolm Horner, the judge who had reluctantly dismissed charges against the leader of the AVO, would probably like to see him staked out on a hot day in the desert and left for the buzzards. But that was a desire, not the law, and Frankie knew from experience in the judge’s court that it didn’t matter if you were a racist or if you wore a badge — if you violated someone’s constitutional rights you were likely to feel his wrath. Barrish was cleared of a crime Frankie knew he was guilty of, and even insinuating that he was still being investigated for such would violate the constitutional guarantee against double jeopardy.

“Are we going to talk to him?” Frankie asked.

Art tapped the top of the car and climbed in, his partner following his lead. “As soon as I get out of these sweats and into something decent.” He motioned to the road, signaling his partner to head for his place. “And as soon as we can find him.”

“I heard he lost his house and just about everything else,” Frankie said.

“He has to be somewhere.”

“And how do we find him?”

“The same way we find every self-respecting criminal,” Art said. “Through his lawyer.”

Chimps were not peaceful, cuddly little creatures, Toby thought as he watched the simians battle and fornicate in the Los Angeles Zoo enclosure they knew as home.

“You know what these little guys remind me of, Stan?”

“Don’t,” Stanley said, avoiding looking at his brother. “Dad doesn’t like that kind of talk.”

“I know, but he’s not here. Lighten up.” Toby ribbed his brother with an elbow. “Hey, maybe these little suckers are the guys we’re supposed to meet. Huh?”

Stanley turned away from the exhibit and leaned his back against the railing, watching the families and groups of friends stroll lazily by. A typical Sunday, the kind he had never known. “Toby, I think they’re here.”