Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

It was past eight in the evening on that last day when he grabbed his keys off the hook near the door, walked quickly to his truck, and drove down Capitol Hill to the Fourth Precinct. A number of television vans were parked at haphazard angles outside. It seemed like half of the reporters in the city had converged on his source of information. After parking in his usual spot, Wilson walked into the lobby and saw a large number of reporters and cameramen milling about. The bright lights of the television cameras were painful to the eyes. The desk sergeant who always supplied Wilson with inside information was using his usual methods to maintain some sense of order.

“All of you, get the fuck out of here!” yelled the sergeant.

Nobody paid much attention. Wilson saw a white man standing alone in the corner between the water fountain and the pay phone. A short, stocky guy, big belly, strong arms, a red flannel shirt, looking confused. Wilson wondered if he knew what was happening.

“Hey,” said Wilson.

“Hey,” said the man.

“Kind of crazy in here, isn’t it?” asked Wilson.

“Yeah, they told me to pick a number a couple of hours ago. I got number three. I figured it wouldn’t take long. I ain’t heard much since then.”

“Maybe they start at a hundred and work backwards.” Wilson laughed at his own weak joke, that sort of short, loud, staccato laugh that men use in social situations. The man smiled and studied the number in his hand.

“So,” asked Wilson. “What is going on anyhow?”

“You a reporter?” asked the man, studying Wilson carefully.

“No,” said Wilson, lying only a little.

“I guess they found a body downtown.”

“A white guy?” asked Wilson.

“Yeah, I heard it on the radio coming over here. On the Truck Schultz show. Do you listen to him?”

“No,” Wilson lied.

“Well, you should. Truck heard about the body and went live with it. I guess it was some visiting businessman. He was all cut to hell, I guess, just butchered.”

“Do they think the Indian Killer did it?”

“That’s what Truck said. All I know is this place was empty when I first got here. And now it’s a zoo. All these reporters are just trying to catch up with Truck now.”

“Life is crazy,” Wilson said to the man, who promptly agreed.

“And you know what else?” asked the man. “I came here because I thought I might know who the Indian Killer is. There was this Indian used to work for me. I was his foreman, you know? Working on the last skyscraper in Seattle. The last one. Guy’s name was John Smith. Kind of a funny name for an Indian, don’t you think?”

Wilson nodded his head.

“Anyways, he was a great big kid. Always kind of goofy, you know? Talking to himself all the time. Don’t get me wrong. He was a good worker and all, but he was just plain weird. He never talked to anybody but himself.”

Wilson was fascinated. A weird Indian climbing through the skyscrapers of Seattle. The foreman noticed the faraway expression on Wilson’s face and was suddenly uncomfortable.

“I know it don’t sound like much,” said the foreman. “I mean, John was a good worker, but there was something wrong with him. Really wrong. He just up and quit on me a while back. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But with these murders happening, it just kept nagging at me.”

As much as Wilson liked the foreman’s story, he didn’t believe it. Every Indian in the city was probably suspected by his neighbors and co-workers. Wilson needed to talk to the desk sergeant, who was still trying to control the crowd. Finally, Wilson caught his friend’s eye, and the sergeant waved at him.

“You a cop?” asked the foreman, noticing the exchange.

“Yeah,” said Wilson, another half lie.

“Listen,” said the foreman, nearly pleading now. “I know I sound goofy. But I mean it. There was something really strange about John. I feel it in my gut. I think he’s the one. Here, look at him.”

The foreman handed Wilson a photograph taken at the construction site. Wilson studied it carefully. In the foreground, a group of workers were eating lunch together. One worker held a hammer above his head, like he was going to drive a nail into his own skull. Everybody laughing. In the background, a tall Indian man sat apart from the others. He stared into the camera with obvious anger. He had eyes like the eyes of all those old-time warrior Indians who were forced to sit still for Army photographers. Those defeated warriors always had smooth faces and flat expressions, but their eyes were dark and filled with a feral, kinetic hate. The foreman’s photograph was color, but the Indian looked like he might have been photographed in sepia tones.

Wilson studied the Indian’s face for a few moments longer and felt a faint sense of familiarity. Then it came to him. The Indian in the photograph was the same Indian who had attacked him outside his apartment. Wilson remembered the Indian’s eyes, how odd they looked when he had taken the golf club away from Eric the cabbie and then towered over Wilson. Out of habit, Wilson had reached into his jacket, ready to pull his weapon. The Indian had come with that Indian woman protester. She was quite the nuisance at his reading. What was her name? Marla? Maria?

“What did you say his name is?” Wilson asked the foreman.

“John. John Smith.”

Wilson stared at the photograph of John Smith, remembered how he’d thought the Indian was Aristotle Little Hawk come to life. Wilson had really thought he saw Aristotle for the first time when he saw John, but it had been so dark and confusing. Later, Wilson just assumed he had seen what he wanted to see, his hero, conjured by a frightening moment. Now he was unsure of what he had seen.

“Can I keep this?” asked Wilson. “For the investigation.”

The foreman was hesitant.

“Listen,” said Wilson. “Why don’t I just sign this into evidence, okay? Just leave me your phone number and somebody will contact you tomorrow. You don’t want to wait around here all night, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Well, then, let’s do it,” said Wilson. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a home address for John Smith, would you?”

“Sure I do.”

The foreman gave Wilson his phone number and John’s address and then left, feeling that he had performed his civic duty. As soon as the foreman drove away, Wilson dodged a reporter, pushed the precinct door open, and walked toward his pickup.

“CITIZENS,” TRUCK SAID. “THE Indian Killer has done it again.

“Folks, I’m tired.

“I’m tired of witnessing the downward spiral of this country. Its culture, its history, its hopes, its dreams. The first Europeans sailed to this country with the hopes of building a new civilization, a better civilization. We dreamed of a country where every man was equal, where we were all given the opportunity to live, love, and die as free men. We didn’t come here to suckle at the morally bankrupt teat of the government. Oh, sure, we made some mistakes along the way, but we learned from those mistakes and put them behind us. Together, we have created the greatest civilization that man has ever known. All along the way, there were many naysayers and cynics. There were traitors and subversives. There were beggars and sycophants. There were those who would have us cater to the lowest common denominator. There were communists and socialists. There were atheists and nonbelievers. My fellow Americans, five hundred years ago, we came to this untamed land as God-fearing individuals who wanted to live individual lives.

“And now, the dreams of one individual, Edward Letterman, have been murdered. The dreams of a young boy, Mark Jones, have been slaughtered. The dreams of a young man, Justin Summers, have been destroyed.