Gatekeeper

Chapter 19

Spinney kept trying to slow down, control his breathing, keep at the speed limit. He was driving from Rutland back to Springfield on Route 103, fresh from another session with Peter Bullis and young George backer. They'd been grilling the kid for his knowledge of Rutland's peripheral drug traffic-Bellows Falls, Fair Haven, Castleton, Springfield, and elsewhere-when the name Sherman came up.

"Sherman?" Spinney had asked, sitting up.

"Yeah," Backer had confirmed. "He's been operating out of Springfield for a long time-years and years."

"Moving heroin?"

The Schemer had shrugged. "Not always. it's just what I heard lately."

"You know this guy?" Bullis had asked Lester.

"Yeah. But never connected to heroin."

Spinney passed another car on a curve, causing an angry blast of the man's horn. That had been the extent of backer's knowledge-a vague rumor, really. Except that given the young man's accuracy so far, even a rumor carried weight.

It certainly did with Lester, who'd begged off attending the afternoon session for some emergency personal time off.

He had yet to speak with Dave about the blunts Wendy had found in her bedroom-his son was still supposedly on a camping trip. As a result, the growing anxiety about that inevitable confrontation had combined with hearing Sherman's name linked to heroin like a match with a fuse. Simple surveillance was no longer the issue. Now Spinney was acting as a firefighter might, running into a burning building with the sinking sensation that it was already too little, too late.

And the stimulus wasn't restricted to a father's love. There was guilt, as well, for not having acted sooner, for having put harmony over honesty and experience. After all, who better than a cop to know how, statistically, marijuana leads to harder drugs? And how a parent is always the last one to admit there's trouble?

Spinney entered Springfield from the west, sped through the intersection near the Zoo, and burned the red light downtown, cutting off several cars in the process. All self-restraint gone by now, the only thing he could see in his mind's eye was putting his hands around Sherman's neck.

He hit the South Street hill hard, only a small part of his brain wondering how he'd react if he was pulled over right now, and proceeded to where Sherman had his half-hearted garage business not far from the high school.

He came skidding to a halt before the open garage door, launched himself out of the car, and strode into the service bay. A pair of legs was sticking out from under a car with its hood up.

"Sherman?" he shouted.

"What?" came the startled reply. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

Not answering, Spinney grabbed both the man's ankles and pulled him out as if he were yanking a tablecloth from under a plate. Lying on a small, wheeled creeper, Sherman went shooting across the floor and crashed against a tall metal tool cabinet.

He rolled off the creeper, both hands wrapped around his left knee. "Jesus Christ," he moaned. "You son of a bitch. Damn, that hurts. What the hell's your problem?"

Spinney dropped down next to him and grabbed his collar to pin him to the ground. His face was inches from Sherman's. "My problem is what you're doing to my son, you asshole, not to mention god knows how many other kids. You know who I am?"

Natty Sherman was not a street smart bad guy, big on attitude and striking a mean pose. In outlook, at least, he was like the hippies of yesteryear-peace-loving, self-indulgent, careless of the rules, and generally aimless. Confronted with this kind of rage, he was not one to fight back.

"Sure I do," he answered, his eyes wide with fear. "You're Spinney's dad-the cop. What're you doing? What did I do?"

Lester bore down, making Natty squirm with pain against the hard concrete floor. "You're breaking the law, you're fucking up people's brains, and worst of all, you're messing with my family."

The other man was now red in the face, gasping for air, and could only just get out, "I just blow a little weed."

That made Spinney even angrier. "Don't you get it? We're not on the record here. I'm one inch away from breaking your neck, and I'll do it to save my kid. Don't give me the 'blow a little weed' crap. You're pushing heroin, and you will go down for it."

Sherman was flopping around by now, his feet flailing and his hands pulling at Spinney's forearm. "No heroin. . It isn't me."

Spinney loosened his hold slightly, and Natty gasped for air like a man breaking free of deep water.

"I swear to god," he continued, "I wouldn't do that. Heroin kills people. It's not like weed. Ask anybody. They'll tell you. I wouldn't allow it in the house. It's weed only. Never anything else. I make sure my kids know that. That they spread the word. I don't even let 'em smoke cigarettes."

Lester Spinney stared at him for a moment and then released him. "Where're your kids now?"

Sherman blinked. "My kids? What?. . Hold it."

Lester grabbed him again. "Focus, Natty. Answer the question, for both our sakes."

Natty's eyes widened. "Andy's at home. Jeff's. . I don't know. He said he went camping."

Spinney let go again and pounded his fist against the cabinet just above Sherman's head, making the latter wince. "Shit," Lester yelled in frustration, and then took hold of Natty's face. "That's the line Dave gave me. Now, think about this: Is that likely? Is it likely the two of them would go camping together?"

Sherman tried shaking his head. "No. I was happy when he told me because it's not something he's ever done before. I was surprised. And he didn't mention Dave."

"Who did he mention?"

"Nobody. He just said 'with friends.'"

Lester pulled Natty up to a sitting position and propped him against the cabinet. The mechanic moved his neck around and felt the back of his head for any damage.

Spinney leaned in close to him once more, crowding him. "Natty, you better be flying straight here. You see where I'm going with this?"

"You think Jeff's been doing heroin."

"Maybe, maybe not. What I know is that a grade A source just told me someone named Sherman had been dealing the stuff lately. I'd like to think Andy's too young. You claim it's not you. That leaves Jeff. Look me straight in the eye and tell me that's impossible-that there's no way in hell he would do that."

Natty Sherman dropped Lester's gaze. His voice was a monotone. "He might."

Spinney backed off and sat on the dirty floor next to Sherman. They looked like exhausted runners after a marathon.

"So, if they didn't go camping, where are they?" Lester asked tiredly.

Natty rubbed his forehead, leaving a dirty smear. "Christ. I don't know."

"Think of Jeff's friends. If it's possible he's doing this, then you can probably think of the people he hangs out with you wish he didn't."

"There's Craig Steidle."

Lester closed his eyes briefly. "Right," he murmured.

Steidle was the young hood driving the car the night Dave was picked up at the Zoo-the one Dave had claimed he wasn't seeing anymore.

"That sounds right," Lester said. "You know where he lives?"

* * *

Westview is one of Springfield's poorer neighborhoods. Developed in the early forties to house the overflow of factory personnel needed for the war effort, it was once probably considered pretty upscale, or at least solidly middle class. It was that no longer. Its dominant feature-a large affordable housing development-had become a regular stop for police and probation officers alike, along with a steady flow of welfare, social, and drug rehab workers.

Typical of an impressively topsy-turvy town, Westview was placed on top of a steep hill, accessible only from a single road connecting it to Springfield's downtown artery, and as shielded from the rest of the world as a distant suburbia. The comparison was apt. In what was becoming a signature of modern affordable housing, the Westview development at first glance looked for all the world like a trendy Connecticut condominium village. Spread along a pleasant tangle of short, winding streets essentially leading nowhere, these plastic-sided, two-story, beige-colored apartment buildings looked as perfect as a planning committee's proposal-and as tidy on the outside as the lives within them were not.

"It's up this way, I think," Natty said, half to himself, craning forward to better see the buildings gliding by.

Spinney slowed to a crawl. "You know the address?"

"I know Steidle's car," he said, predictably enough. "I worked on it enough times."

"You know him well?"

Natty grunted equivocally. "He comes by a lot, but I can't say I know him. He's Jeff's friend."

"Is he why you thought Jeff might be dealing?"

The other man sighed. "I don't like him. Never have. But you can't tell your kids who to hang out with."

Spinney didn't argue the point.

"Steidle has a record, leads a wild life. Jeff looks up to him for that, I guess. I hoped I was setting an example for a better way."

Spinney couldn't stop himself. "By smoking weed with him and his pals? You're famous all over town for that. I told my kid to stay away from your place."

Natty didn't take it personally. "Yeah. I heard that. People get so bent out of shape. If they just legalized the stuff, everyone would see it's just like beer."

"And that's better? Drinking with underage kids?"

Sherman looked at him, appalled. "Oh, come on. Get real. You think they're not doing that already? I thought you guys knew what was going on. I should lay down the law at home so they'll go off and drink and get high Christ knows where? I'm as protective as any parent. I want them where I can see them. You play ball with your son, I bet-go fishing with him. What's blowing a little weed except more bonding?"

"We're looking for Jeff right now because he's suspected of dealing heroin, Natty. What does that tell you?"

Natty shook his head at Spinney's denseness and went back to looking out the window A minute later, he pointed to the right side of the street. "There it is." He was looking at a Firebird with more miles than flash left on it. "And that's the house, too. I'm sure of it. I been here once or twice. Didn't know if I'd remember it. They all look the same."

Lester didn't need convincing. His son's bicycle was leaning against the wall. He pulled over across the street. "You stay here."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I just want to get Dave."

"What about Jeff?"

"I don't care about him, Natty. He's your problem."

Spinney got out, checked for traffic, and took in a few people loitering up and down the block, several of whom were watching him closely, knowing his profession from experience. He crossed the street, climbed the porch steps, and knocked on the door.

The man who opened up was a familiar type, even if unknown to Spinney personally. It seemed that no matter their social status, humans veered toward uniformity. From skinheads to millionaires, we find comfort in cloning one another. This guy was dressed in boots, jeans, tight black Harley T-shirt, long hair, and the requisite tattoos.

"You Craig Steidle?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm looking for my son, David Spinney."

Steidle smiled lazily. "You're the cop. He's not here."

"His bike is."

"I wouldn't know about that. People leave their junk around all the time."

"Mind if I come in?"

"Sure I mind. You got a warrant?"

Spinney forced a smile. "Look, Mr. Steidle, I'm not shopping here, not looking to cause any trouble. I just want my son. I have absolutely no bone to pick with you or anyone else inside."

Steidle leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. "Got that right, 'cause you're not comin' in."

"He's underage, Mr. Steidle."

"Tough. He's here of his own free will."

Spinney laughed. "God, you guys are stupid. You just admitted he was here. I'm his father. You don't give me access, that's custodial interference. Get out of the way."

"Fuck you," Steidle said, stepped backward, and started slamming the door.

Spinney threw his shoulder against it and barreled across the threshold, sending Steidle stumbling in the process.

"Dave?" Spinney shouted into the house. "Get down here. Now."

"I don't think so," Steidle said menacingly, and pulled a switchblade from his boot top.

Spinney didn't hesitate. He spun on one heel and buried his foot in Steidle's stomach, doubling the man up and making the knife skitter along the floor. He then unholstered his gun and aimed it at him. "You're totally nuts, right? Dropped on your head when you were a kid? Get your face on the floor, asshole, and put your hands behind your back."

Groaning, Steidle did as he'd been told. Spinney retrieved and folded the knife, put it in his pocket, and snapped a pair of handcuffs on Steidle's wrists.

"You move, you'll be in worse shit than you are already," he warned him, and headed upstairs.

He didn't call out his son's name again. From the loud music pulsing behind a door at the end of the hallway, he figured it would be a waste of time. Instead, still holding his weapon, he walked the length of the house and paused at the door, listening for more than just the raucous music.

Hearing nothing else, he placed his hand on the knob, gently turned it to see if it was unlocked, and then threw open the door, entering simultaneously in a crouch, his gun covering the room before him.

He saw his son, Dave, a joint falling from his open mouth, holding a small packet of aluminum foil that Jeff Sherman had just handed him.

"Dad."

"Nobody move," Spinney ordered.

Jeff said softly, "Holy shit."

"Who else is in the house?"

"Dad," Dave began.

"Answer the question."

"Craig," Jeff answered.

"That it?"

"Unless someone came in after us. The rest of them went off somewhere."

Spinney holstered his gun and straightened up. He tilted his chin at the shiny packet they were still holding between them. "What is that?"

"Crack," Jeff answered immediately.

"You're doing heroin, too." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir."

"Collect it all, put it in a bag or something. If there's more outside this room, get that, too. I want it all."

Dave was watching him carefully. "Dad, what're you doing?"

"Later," Spinney ordered. "Do it. And crush out that joint you dropped."

Quietly, fearfully, Dave set to work collecting bags and bottles and joints from various corners of the room, as Jeff squeezed by Spinney to do the same elsewhere in the house.

About halfway through his labors, Dave found the courage to address his silent father again. "What's going to happen?"

"You and I are going home. Jeff's father is waiting downstairs. I'll have one of the local cops pick up Steidle."

Dave kept working. "What about Jeff and me?"

"I'll try to keep you out of it."

His son stopped and stared at him.

"I can't promise anything," Spinney continued. "If Steidle talks too much, you might get sucked into it. We'll just have to deal with that if it happens."

"Couldn't you get in trouble for this?"

Spinney hesitated a moment, mulling over just how true that was. He was risking his job certainly, and maybe more.

"Yeah," he conceded.