Jo-el

Chapter 8 THE PROBLEM

The Muni Metro from the Sunset District where I lived was the busiest line in San Francisco, but on Thursday afternoon, heading east, the carriage was almost empty, just how I liked it. I examined the faces of my travelling companions and tried to guess who they were and whether they had any secrets. Then I called up Sally and asked her. None of the passengers met my criteria of ‘bad’. Mostly they were either old or heading in that direction like myself, or young women, often with pre-school age children, on their way home from visiting friends and relatives and eager to miss the rush-hour crush. All the new passengers at each stop were equally boring. My thoughts drifted to other things. Sally had said the recordings had started two-hundred and forty million years ago. What should I review? The obvious to me was Jesus Christ. As I was forming a question in my mind to ask, a wrenching feeling tore at my stomach. Did I want to find out the truth about the most famous person to ever walk the earth? I was brought up Catholic, my parents went to church on Sundays. But I couldn’t resist. I asked if there was a man called Jesus of Nazareth? And to show him to me. My heart thumped in my chest as his picture lit up on the screen. He appeared to be a poor man in a calf-length robe, dirty along the bottom edge and cuffs. His facial features bore a gentleness and his deep blue eyes radiated understanding. Not totally in keeping with the images that we all know, but similar. Yes, he did exist and yes he did preach his gospel of devotion to God. He died on the cross as we all believe. There was endless writing, which I would have to come back to. I was mesmerized by the simple image of this man who single handedly changed the world for the better and still after two thousand plus years was so revered. Was I the only person on earth to have seen him? It was an awesome feeling. I prayed quietly to myself asking Him to help me understand my current endeavor and I felt tears well up in my eyes and run down my cheeks. It was a truly moving moment.

I alighted at Powell St. and meandered slowly to Union Square, an immense feeling of pride and insignificance encasing me. My target was coffee in the square and an examination of the throngs that hung around that central landmark. I stopped in at a Starbucks and purchased a Grande regular to go, which I laced with half and half. I had a devilish sensation building up inside as I envisioned the results of my future snooping. I felt empowered, God-like. I would steal a look at various people and mentally point at them, exclaiming my superiority. ‘I know what you’ve done. You can’t hide from me.’ It was totally childish, but it was fun.

I took a seat on a cold bench across the street from the Westin St. Francis to begin my review of the people that frequented San Francisco. Using just thought I called up Sally and asked her to find me a ‘bad’ person in the Square.

One. What? I was disappointed. I lifted my head and saw a middle-aged guy sitting not too far away at an open-air café. He looked pretty tame to me. My heads-up display said he was Milton Frisen and his only crime was hitting his wife twenty odd years ago in Germany. I ignored him.

‘You might try expanding the area, include all the offices, shops and hotels?’ It was Sally’s voice I heard in my head.

‘Good idea, Sally.’ I imagined bad dudes only came out at night and were sleeping off yesterday’s sins.

Dang! Six hundred and twelve people made the list. I could feel a sudden fright inside myself. I queried the total number of people reviewed, which was more than three thousand. All of them were out of sight. Mostly men but there were a few women. I was totally fascinated. More than twenty percent of the population of this area. That’s pretty telling. I told Sally to sort the names by criteria. Most of the bad people were wife beaters, four hundred and two. I wondered if a slap would add your name to the list. I moved on and asked if there was a murderer in my midst? Seven, and two were women. Wow! I reviewed the two women. Both had killed their husbands; one had been caught but got off claiming self-defense. The other had done just five years for manslaughter. But the details on my screen told a different story. They were both guilty as hell. The first murder happened in 1997, eighteen years ago and she’d been re-married and done nothing bad since. The other woman, a Hispanic woman, was also reformed and a little further digging into her life, revealed that her husband was a true bastard. Good riddance.

I turned to the men. Many of the crimes were a long time ago, one guy had done time, twenty-five years in various penitentiaries. The other men on the list hadn’t been caught. I picked one, a guy called Manuel Fuentes. A nasty piece of work. Six murders, starting eight years ago. Four were gang-bangers, drug related, one was a woman, prostitute, he’d wanted rough sex. One was a kid, her kid; I didn’t like that. A ten-year-old boy, he had tried to defend his mother, Fuentes had hit him, too hard. No witnesses. I cringed, my heart beat a little harder. One never knew who was sharing your space. Fuentes was twenty-eight and from Chicago, the south side. I asked for his current location. He was across Geary in the mall, with a girl, checking out the shops. ‘Put him on the screen, real time’, I demanded. I could feel sweat building on the back of my neck. I loosened my coat, it appeared to be warmer even though I knew it was just my reaction to being so close to the child killer. I had to see this guy in the flesh, so I left my bench and crossed Geary. The little shopping mall was spotless; shoppers were well dressed and the stores were expensive. Not a place I’d expect to see the likes of a murderer. I glanced at a stranger walking alone, coming toward me and wondered, but didn’t check.

Fuentes was sitting outside a women’s clothing store, examining his phone. I took up a vantage point behind him to the left, so he couldn’t see me. He was wearing a Suns sweatshirt and blue jeans and a clean pair of expensive looking sneakers. I didn’t see a coat. Tattoos were clearly visible on the left side of his neck. His build was small, wiry. I walked past him, he was intent on his phone and didn’t look up. There was a one-day old stubble on his face, his nose was broken and what was left of it was squashed flat and bent to the right. His eyes were close set and dark. Not a pleasant looking person, at all. I carried on to a jewelry store and pretended to look at the display in the window. I could see his reflection in the glass. What should I do about him? I had no idea.

I walked on until I was out of his sight. I requested the list of his victims, they were all Hispanic from the Phoenix area. I re-checked his address, which was Chicago. I guess he’d fled town. The last murder was just five months ago. Ricky Gomes, twenty-two, Phoenix address. My heart jumped a beat, he was standing next to me, looking at the rings.

“Hey Manny, look at that one!” it was the girl he was with. She was beaming at a big diamond. I glanced at her briefly, Fuentes noticed and smiled at me. She was cute, petite, with enormous, brown eyes. Short black hair, she also wore blue jeans, her top was covered with a red leather jacket, it looked new. I nodded and moved away, telling myself to calm down, he had no idea that I knew who he was and what he’d done. I had to look again, mistake, he noticed, this time no smile, just a ‘who the fuck are you looking at, stare’. I walked away, not looking back. Jeez! I’m a moron.

There’s a Starbucks in the mall, I headed there and ordered a tall coffee and sank into a comfortable sofa facing out into the mall. What had just happened? I asked myself. Why was I so scared? What on earth did I expect to do? I hadn’t thought through any of this prior to embarking on this foray into the secrets of the populous. I breathed deeply and made no effort to check out the other patrons. It felt better that way. I needed to think and really wanted to have someone to talk to.

Eventually I asked Sally by thought. “What can I do about Fuentes?”

Sally’s image appeared on the heads-up display. She was wearing black, cotton pants and a light blue top, cut across the shoulders. She looked sophisticated and totally stunning. The sins of the shower were forgotten. “Well let’s see. You could just ignore him and let him live out his life in Chicago. He’ll probably get caught someday, anyway. You could confront him and say that you know who he is and what he’s done, but that might elicit an unpleasant response which might not be conducive to your health.” She was smiling. I’m sure if anybody had noticed my expression, sitting there alone, they would have thought I’d farted and felt good about it. My computer was becoming very cheeky. I growled silently to show my indignation. “You could terminate him. Well technically, I would do that, but on your orders.” The smile was now a grin, almost a laugh.

“What! What did you say?”

“Get rid of the dude, it’s really simply.” She said.

“How?”

“Well I could slice him up real bad, but that’s messy.” Now my eyes had widened to their fullest extent and I nearly coughed up my coffee. “Or, I could induce a heart attack. He’s a bit young, but no-one will care, he’s not a pleasant fellow, is he?” She had placed her hands on her hips and was grinning from ear to ear.

I was speechless for a moment, my brain all knotted up. I glanced around the coffee shop. Had anyone heard us plotting murder? No one paid me the slightest attention. I swallowed hard, holy crap, this was difficult to get used to.

“How?” I queried, placing my coffee on the table before I spilt it.

“What, slice him up?”

“No! the heart attack thing.” She was having fun with me.

“Well, pretty easy actually. I just fire a burst of atoms at him. They penetrate his chest cavity, leaving no trace of course, and form into a clip that attaches to his aorta. That cuts off his blood supply and you can guess the rest.” Again she grinned as if killing this guys was like going for a bike ride. “The clip dissolves after a while, no trace.”

I’m dumbfounded again. “Have you done this before?”

“Nope! This would be the first. I’ve been longing to try it though.” She looked like a schoolgirl at that moment.

“It doesn’t seem to bother you?”

“Why should it? He’s a nasty person. Right up there in your bad category. Anyway, it would be your decision. I just do what you say.” Ah! the military answer, I was just carrying out my orders. There was a pregnant pause as I tried to figure out what the hell was happening here. Was I some pawn in a game? It was all crazy, I’m not killing anyone, murderer or not. We have a justice system in the US. This is not the way civilized people acted.

“It’s not going to happen, Sally, no way.”

Her face frowned, a stark look of disappointment came over her. Then a smile crept along her mouth. “How about we send an anonymous email to Ricky Gomes’ brother?”

“Who?”

“The last guy Fuentes killed, Gomes. His brother wants to find Fuentes. I’m sure you can guess why? We send him an email with Fuentes address in Chicago.”

“And let him kill Fuentes?”

“Yep. Your hands would be clean. Neat huh?”

“It’s the same thing, Sally. I’d still be the conduit to Fuentes death. No!”

“Oh, you’re no fun!”

I was wrestling with this discussion. “I’m having a problem here young lady,” I said to Sally. “I don’t see myself as a vigilante. However bad our justice system is, we do at least have a system. If Gomes’ brother knows that Fuentes killed Ricky, why doesn’t he go to the police?”

“Come on, Dave, you know why. Thick as thieves. Snitches. Those people don’t do that. They take care of their own business.

I guess she was right. “So what are the police doing about the Gomes murder?” I asked.

“Nothing. They know who did it, but they can’t prove it in court. The witnesses won’t testify. They know Fuentes has moved to Chicago. They’ve informed the local police force where he lives and they’re happy to see him gone. One more bad guy off their patch. You have a system in the US but I’m not sure you can say it works. Do you know how many crimes go unpunished? About eighty-two percent.”

I picked up my coffee and finished what was left. I’d lived in America for thirty years and I’d never suffered any violence. Was I just lucky? The media was alive with disasters, murders and all the horrible things that happen to other people. I followed it and frowned about it and criticized every mistake by the authorities, but I didn’t do anything about it. I mean, what could I do? But now I could do something and I was shying away.

“Sally, can you make a video of the Ricky Gomes murder and send it to police officer in charge of solving the case?”

“Sure, I can. But you better think through the implications. Someone, the defense council for Fuentes, will ask where the video came from. How is that going to be answered? Last thing you need is your name and face plastered all over the press. Imagine trying to explain how you came to have the video?”

“We could send it anonymously.”

“We could and for one or two cases that may work. But there are thousands of unsolved murders every year. It would look sort of strange if videos started turning up for all those cases.”

She was right. Okay, enough of this. I checked the time, it was gone five. The mad rush home had begun. I had no reason to suffer the misery of breathing the stale odor of bored commuters. I headed back into the mall and out onto Geary. Every hotel had a bar and every bar had Black Label. That lifted my spirits and the pun brought a smile to my face.