Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

Shot once in each eye, Spud and Lyle’s bodies were found by a hiker later that summer. David Rogers’s murder was never solved.

“COULD YOU TELL US your name, for the record? And where you’re from?”

“Uh, my name is Sean Ward. I’m a student at the University of Washington. I’m from Selkirk, um, Selkirk, Washington. I need to, uh, talk about some things.”

“What do you need to tell us, Sean?”

“Well, this isn’t about just me. Yeah. It’s about my roommates, Aaron and Barry. Uh, that’s Aaron Rogers and Barry Church.”

“Yes?”

“Well, you see, we’re the guys in the masks. The ones who’ve been beating up Indians. We’re the baseball bats. Uh, yeah. We’re the masks.”

“Where are Aaron and Barry now?”

“They’re still out there, I guess. I left them earlier. I tried to get them to stop, but they wouldn’t.”

“Is that why you have that bump on your head?”

“Yeah, Aaron punched me.”

“Why are you telling us this?”

“I’m not sure, you know? I mean, I love those guys. Aaron and Barry. I mean, I think we started doing this for a good reason.”

“A good reason?”

“Well, uh, maybe it’s not a good reason. But people would understand, I think. You know that David Rogers? The guy who disappeared from the casino? He was our other roommate. I mean, David and Aaron were brothers. That’s what started us in, you know. It was for, uh, revenge.”

“How many people did you assault?”

“Well, there was the guy on the Burke-Gilman Trail. Then that couple on Queen Anne Hill. Then some homeless old guy earlier today. Uh, that makes it what, four people? Yeah, four.”

“Three of those people are still in the hospital. You almost killed them.”

“Yeah, I know. But, uh, I know you’re not going to believe me. You shouldn’t believe me. But I didn’t hurt anybody. I carried a bat and stuff but I never used it. It was mostly Aaron. Barry, too. But it was mostly Aaron. I made them quit, you know? I made Aaron stop hitting people. If I hadn’t been there, Aaron might have really killed somebody.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Sean.”

“I know.”

“Why’d you do this? What are you going to tell your parents? How are you going to explain this?”

“I don’t know. I mean, uh, it’s like this white-Indian thing has gotten out of control. And the thing with the blacks and Mexicans. Everybody blaming everybody. I mean, it’s like white people get blamed for everything these days. I mean, I know we did some bad stuff. I know it. I know what me and Aaron and Barry did was wrong. But it was anger. Frustration, you know? David disappeared, and we, uh, just lost control. I mean, somebody had to pay for it. Somebody was to blame for it. I don’t know what happened. I can’t explain it all. Just look around at the world. Look at this country. Things just aren’t like they used to be.”

“Son, things have never been like how you think they used to be.”

WILSON LEFT BIG HEART’S after his encounter with Reggie and drove home to his apartment on Capitol Hill. He wondered how he was going to fix things with Reggie and Big Heart’s. He had done so much for his fellow Indians. He had made the ultimate sacrifice. He wanted them to love him. He parked his pickup in front of the building, slowly trudged up the front walk, and checked his mail.

Isn’t that how it happened?

He loved his mail. There was none, of course, but he checked anyway. Then he walked upstairs, opened his door, and turned on the light. His apartment was as neat as always. The small table. Two forks, two spoons, two knives, two plates. The black-and-white photograph of his birth parents on the dresser. The foldout couch. It was cold in the apartment because Wilson always turned down the heat before he went out. Seattle was cold at night during the summer and winter. He was slightly chilled and wanted to climb beneath the covers and sleep for days. First things first, though. He brushed and flossed his teeth, undressed, and tossed his dirty clothes into the hamper.

Isn’t that how it happened?

Then he slipped into his favorite pajamas and settled into bed. He could hear his neighbors turning in for the night. Running water, flushing toilets, creaking bed springs. It was very quiet. One police siren, then another, and a third. Cars on the freeway ten blocks to the west. Muffled conversation between two men walking down the street in front of the building.

Isn’t that how it happened?

In his bed, awake and wondering about the Indian Killer, about finishing the novel. He thought about John Smith, who, in Wilson’s mind, remained as unfinished as the novel. In the dark, Wilson could still see the photograph of John at the construction site. John’s fellow workers eat together, share a joke and common laughter, slap one another on the back. John sits back all by himself, his eyes dark and impenetrable. Wilson thought that a person driving down a road and coming upon a tunnel as dark as those eyes would stop, turn the car around, and go miles out of his way to avoid it. As it was, Wilson had tried to follow those eyes. Sitting with John’s mother, he had felt it when something left her body. Something solid and substantial. Following John’s eyes into Big Heart’s, he saw Reggie’s eyes, just as dark, but lit with a more volatile fire. Quicker to burn, easier to extinguish. Reggie was probably in Big Heart’s telling stories and laughing right now, reliving his encounter with Wilson, turning a potentially fatal conflict into a series of comic escapades.

Isn’t that how it happened?

Wilson was thinking about John Smith, then fell so quickly to sleep that he effortlessly slipped into a dream about Smith. He dreamed about Smith pushing that knife into the white man in the University District. He saw Smith slit the throat of the businessman. Then Smith was smiling as he lifted the young boy from his bed. Then Wilson saw himself with that knife. Wilson saw himself pushing the knife into one white body, then another, and another, until there were multitudes.

Isn’t that how it happened?

Then the dream changed, and Wilson was pulling up in front of his apartment building again. A brown hand reached through the open window of the truck and smashed Wilson’s head against the steering wheel. Stunned and barely conscious, Wilson slumped in his seat and somebody, a dark figure, reached inside Wilson’s jacket and took his weapon. Then the dark figure opened the door and pushed him out of the way. With Wilson stuffed under the dashboard, the dark figure sat quietly at the steering wheel, waiting to see if the commotion had attracted any attention. A police siren in the distance, but nobody shouted out. No lights suddenly appeared in the apartment building. No cars passed by. The dark figure started the pickup and slowly drove down Capitol Hill.

“DR. MATHER, I HEAR you know who the Indian Killer is.”

“Well, Officer, I don’t know who the Indian Killer is, but I have some information you may find useful in your investigation.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s about a former student of mine, a Spokane Indian named Reggie Polatkin.”

“Any relation to Marie Polatkin?”

“Why, yes. They’re cousins. How do you know her?”

“She’s the Sandwich Lady.”

“Excuse me?”

“She delivers sandwiches to the homeless.”

“Really. I can’t imagine her in such a role.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she always seems so impulsive, so emotional. What’s the word I’m searching for? So individualistic. Not tribal at all. I mean, she actually threatened me with physical violence earlier today.”