Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

SEATTLE POLICE OFFICER RANDY Peone turned from Denny onto Third in downtown Seattle and saw a barefoot old Indian man staggering down the street.

“Officer, Officer,” the old man slurred. “I want to report a crime.”

“What crime?” asked Peone.

“I’ve been assaulted.”

The old man’s face was a mess of cuts and bruises. His left eye would be swollen shut in the morning.

“Who assaulted you?” asked Peone.

“A bunch of white kids,” said the old man. “They stole my shoes.”

The officer looked down at the old man’s bare feet. They were stained with years of dirt and fungus. Peone figured the old man was delusional. Who would want to steal the shoes that had covered those feet? But the old man was in a bad state, and there had been a number of racial attacks since the Indian Killer case became public, and especially since that white kid had been kidnapped. Though the child was safely home now, the Indian Killer was still at large.

“What’s your name?” Peone asked the old man.

“Lester,” he said.

Peone climbed out of the cruiser, tucked the old man into the back seat, jumped back into the car, and radioed the dispatcher.

“Dispatch,” said Peone. “This is unit twelve. I’ve got me a drunk who needs a band-aid and bath. I’m taking him to detox.”

Peone was on his way when he passed John Smith kneeling on the sidewalk farther north on Third. John was singing loudly and had attracted a small crowd. He was also holding a pair of shoes that could barely be defined as shoes. Peone figured he had found the man who had beaten up the old guy and stolen his shoes. These two Indians were probably buddies and had fought over the last drink in the jug. He pulled up close to John and turned his flashing lights on. The red and blue distracted John from his singing. Peone looked at John. A big guy, thought the officer, who only briefly considered calling for backup.

“Hey, there,” Peone said as he walked up to John, who was still entranced by the flashing lights.

“He’s crazy,” said a guy from the crowd that had gathered. “He’s singing church songs.”

The crowd laughed. Officer Peone looked at John and wondered which mental illness he had. The Seattle streets were filled with the mostly crazy, half-crazy, nearly crazy, and soon-to-be-crazy. Indian, white, Chicano, Asian, men, women, children. The social workers did not have anywhere near enough money, training, or time to help them. The city government hated the crazies because they were a threat to the public image of the urban core. Private citizens ignored them at all times of the year except for the few charitable days leading up to and following Christmas. In the end, the police had to do most of the work. Police did crisis counseling, transporting them howling to detox, the dangerous to jail, racing the sick to the hospitals, to a safer place. At the academy, Officer Peone figured he would be fighting bad guys. He did not imagine he would spend most of his time taking care of the refuse of the world. Peone found it easier when the refuse were all nuts or dumb-ass drunks, harder when they were just regular folks struggling to find their way off the streets.

“Okay, okay,” Peone said to the crowd. “The show’s over. Let’s clear it out.”

Since it was Seattle, the crowd obeyed the officer’s orders and dispersed. John had forgotten about the flashing lights and was singing again, in Latin. Peone had been an accomplished altar boy way back when and recognized the tune. He could almost smell the smoke from the thousands of altar candles he had lit.

“Hey, chief,” said Peone. “You okay?”

John stopped singing and noticed Peone for the first time. He saw the blue eyes and blue uniform, the pistol and badge. Blue sword, scabbard, white horse. The bugle playing.

“He’s gone.”

“No, he’s not gone. He’s in the back of my car.”

John stood, walked over to the car, and looked inside. He saw the old Indian man. He threw the Indian’s shoes at the window. They bounced off the glass and landed on the sidewalk.

“That’s not Father Duncan,” said John.

“Who?” asked Peone.

“Father Duncan. He’s gone.”

Peone could see the terrible sadness in John’s eyes. The officer wondered where the Indian thought he was, and who he thought he might be. Probably a schizophrenic. He was big and strong enough to hurt a man, but Peone, through years of applied psychology lessons taken on the streets, knew that most schizophrenics rarely hurt anybody except themselves.

“Hey, big guy,” said Peone. “You been taking your medicine?”

“No,” said John. “They’re trying to poison me.”

“Is that why you hurt your friend?” asked Peone, pointing toward the old man in the back of the car.

“He’s not my friend. I don’t know him.”

“Really?” asked the officer. “Well, then, what happened to his face?”

“I don’t know,” said John.

Officer Peone knew he would have to take John to the hospital. He was obviously sick and needed help. He began to wonder if John might be dangerous, might be the Indian Killer. Why hadn’t he called for backup?

“Hey, chief,” said Peone. “Let’s you and me go for a ride.”

John, suddenly frightened, took a step back.

“You could be the devil,” John said to Peone.

“I could be,” said Peone. “But I’m not. Come on, why don’t I take you and your friend to the hospital. Get you both fixed up, okay?”

“I’m afraid,” John whispered, then he kneeled and began to pray. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will be done…”

“On Earth as it is in Heaven,” continued Peone.

Surprised, John stared at Peone.

“Give us this day our daily bread…,” said Peone.

“And forgive us our trespasses,” said John, “as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation…”

“But deliver us from evil…”

“For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever.”

“Amen,” said John and Peone together.

John closed his eyes and pressed his head against his clasped hands. He was praying. Peone reached for his handcuffs. John heard the jangle of the cuffs and keys, opened his eyes, and panicked. He leapt to his feet and ran into an alley. Peone ran a few feet after John before he came to his senses. He climbed back into his car, told the dispatcher what had happened, and then shook his head.

“Indians,” whispered Peone.

“Yeah, Indians,” said Lester, the old man in the back seat. He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Peone.

“Catholic cops are funny,” said Lester.

“You were listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Catholic Indians are funny.”

“There’s lots of Catholic Indians.”

“There’s lots of Catholic cops.”

The old man started laughing again. Peone had to laugh a little with him.

“So, tell me the truth,” said Peone. “Why did your friend beat you up? I thought you Indians took care of each other.”

“We do take care of each other,” said Lester. “But I don’t know that Indian and he didn’t beat me up. I told you. Some white guys did it. And stole my goddamn shoes.”

Peone stepped out of the car, grabbed the shoes, and threw them into the back seat with the old man.

“There’s your shoes,” said Peone when he was back in the car. He wondered how he would fill out the paperwork on this encounter. After his fellow officers heard about this, they would probably give him a nickname. Something like Altar Boy or Shoes. Peone smiled. He liked nicknames.