The Life and Times of Richard Carson

Part 1: Devil in the First City

"Got in a little hometown jam, so they put a rifle in my hand.

Sent me off to a foreign land, to go and kill the yellow man."

- Bruce Sprinsteen, Born in the USA

Chapter 1

簿子

Tuesday was the loneliest day. Monday was the price he paid for drinking too much alone on the weekend and Wednesdays were the half-way mark to the weekend. But Tuesdays were the lost days. On this particular Tuesday, I drove at 70 miles per hour up the desolate forested canyon highway on his way to Hilltop. I owned a red Jeep Grand Cherokee’s V-8 cruised along smoothly to the pulsing CD music of Cheryl Crow.

That’s when I saw the highway’s ever vigilante sentry. He stood on the shoulder of the road dressed in his khaki uniform, with sharp pressed creases and shined shoes. Only the pony-tail and beard told you something was wrong. He waved his enormous American flag back and forth in the air and grinned that silly grin. The flag was so big that it had to be fitted into a leather holder he wore around his waist. I had seen the specter so many times it hardly even registered anymore. Jerry Wilson was just one more burned out Vietnam vet who lost his mind in the jungle. Jerry was walking toward his daily station. He stood guard on the I-205 overpass everyday and performed his duty for the thousands of drivers that passed under him.

I waved at the man and then slowed down and turned off on Beavercreek Road, and two miles down he pulled into the cul-de-sac and parked. He came to eat a quiet lunch consisting of a bag of potato chips and a sub sandwich.

The Red Soils Industrial Park was little more than a name and a paved cul-de-sac. The name came from the red clay that passed for soil in the place. Robert came here for the view and the quiet.

Oregon City had developed on three distinct levels that stepped up from the Willamette River. Here, at the very top, surrounded by over 50 acres of vacant land, he could see the surrounding hills and in the distance Mount Hood.

Today was just another Oregon spring day. Which meant it was overcast, with a slight drizzle. Another gray, damp day. As he had pulled in, he had noticed there was a Ford Tarus parked at the end of the cul-de-sac and its driver's side window was rolled down about a few inches. He thought both were odd, but Robert was more interested in eating his turkey sandwich and mulling over his troubles.

Robert, no one called him Bob, was Oregon City’s city manager. As such he was in charge of all the city’s government functions. Everything from the police to the fire department, the library, the swimming pool and the cemetery, as well as the building and maintenance on all of the roads, water and the sewer. He was concerned because it was budget time and one of the City Council members wanted his job and to cut the budget. The truth was the Council member, a feisty old Albanian named Freddie Bashkim, didn't like Robert very much and the feeling was mutual.

As he pondered his dilemma, Robert realized he could hear violins. He knew this because he loved driving around town in his trademark red Jeep Grand Cherokee -- with the window up and hi music played loud. He listened to everything from Springsteen to Bach. He rolled down the window a bit and listened carefully. It was Vivaldi’s "Four Seasons" -- but where was it coming from?

Then he noticed that beyond the car was what look like a person laying in the field in front of him. He suddenly got a very sick feeling that jerked him from his reverie like a slap in the face. An empty car in the middle of no where. A window left rolled down in the rain -- like someone had found what they were looking for and didn't care if the window was ever rolled up again.

He put his sandwich down on the seat and thought about it. He should just leave. No questions. Just go. Then again may be it was just some stupid drunk. He would take a look and get the poor sod back to his car. He hesitated. He didn't like it, but was drawn to the figure anyway.

As he walked toward the car the violins grew louder and more intense. Then he saw why. The car door on the other side was wide open. The music poured out from the speakers out into the field. Out to whoever lay there.

As he walked across the open ground he could feel just how exposed he was. He realized he knew why the person came here. This place was at the top of the world. Open to the clouds and sky. Close to God.

He stopped. It wasn't a drunk. It was Ralph Fredrickson, a local and respected and lawyer in town. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties. Blood on his chest. A small gun by his hand. His face as gray as the Oregon clouds that his eyes seemed fixed on them. He was dead.

Robert knew one thing from working with the Oregon City Police Department. Shooting yourself in the chest with a small caliber hand gun meant a slow painful death. This guy didn't know guns. From the amount of blood on his chest he had bled to death slowly. A cop would have used a shotgun in the mouth. Quick, painless and final.

Just his luck. He would have to call Greg Reynolds, the police chief, and tell him that he had found the body. And explain what was he doing here? Eating a God damn sandwich. Great, now Freddie would say that's all he ever did. He decided not to mention he was eating his lunch.

Robert stared down at the body, then walked away. When he reached his car he stopped. It was still drizzling. He looked around and the loneliness pressed in on him. A life gone. Such a lonely place. What if he had arrived just before this guy came? Would a life have been spared? Would the guy have gone home? Would the guy have just waited until he left. A thousand questions, but only one answer. The guy was dead. It was one hell of a lonely Tuesday. He reached into Fredrickson’s car and turned off ignition and the music. The Chief would throw a fit if he knew, so he wouldn’t tell him. Damned if he would wait here and listen to Vivaldi. It was all too weird for him.

He flipped open his cell phone and called City Hall. The young receptionist answered. “It’s Robert, get me the chief.” Everyone at City Hall knew his voice immediately.

“Greg? You better get your guys over to Red Soils. There’s a dead body out here -- it’s Ralph Fredrickson. I think he shot himself.” He paused and looked back over this shoulder to the speck of white in the field. “And Greg, don’t call the God damn papers yet.” He closed the phone. Damn police chief can’t resist talking to the newspapers.

***

Chapter 2

簿子

Robert waited for everyone to show up. The police came first. City police, county sheriffs and the state patrol. Everyone wanted to be part of the circus. Then can the county medical examiner and an ambulance. No one saw any need for doing a forensic search. Open and shut case of suicide. No evidence was needed. As the crowd got larger, Jim decided to go to work. He had no use for this sideshow.

He drove down the hill and pulled into the city hall parking lot. "Not much of city hall," he thought. Just a big cinder block rectangle painted white. He walked in the front door passed the court and police counter, walking into the permits center. No one said a word. They just watched him walk in. He was used to this. Whenever anything bad happened they always watched him silently to see how he was taking it. If he wasn't fuming, then things were going to be alright.

He walked down the hall to his office where his administrative assistant Florence was playing solitaire on her computer. Florence was in her sixties and kept threatening to retire. He walked past her and they ignored each other. He sat down in the new leather chair at the big old wood desk and stared out the window. He looked at the old pictures of Oregon City on the walls and was lost in thought.

The City of Oregon City had the distinction of being the first city incorporated in the American West. It was so old that developers filed the plat for the city of San Francisco here. Its age made it a city of firsts. Robert especially like the fact that the city had the first whiskey still, followed by the first Temperance Society and then the first jail. Now that was real civilization.

This was his hometown, yet Robert had not been born here. He had adopted the town as his -- or it had adopted him. He had come here over 10 years ago to be the City’s Public Works Director. In time he became the City Manager. It was a place where he could drive down a street or walk in a store, and people would wave and say, "Hi Jim." At the City Hall meetings some would call him “Mr. Reynolds.” How odd to be Mr. Reynolds to such everyday people. How odd to finally have a place of my own.

Part of his love for the place came from how it had been there for him. When his wife Kate had died he had simply fallen apart. He still drank too much, but now he at least waited until he got home in the evening. The people of the City had rallied to him, taking him to their hearts. They consoled him, fed him and even chastised him when he began to pity himself. Especially the Fire Chief. The crotchety old fart was constantly threatening to retire. But when Robert was down, it had been Bill Johnson who would come by and give him hell. Sometimes he would even have a drink with Robert, even as he berated him for drinking alone all day. He would storm around Robert's kitchen saying, “If your going to drink, then you could at least call me you ingrate.” So Robert did. He called Bill Johnson whenever he started the dark plunge into himself. Hell, it was easier listening to Bill’s tirade than it was wallowing in his grief.

In time the intense grief passed. Only a dull ache remained. It became a tolerable ache.

Still, he would often sit alone and drink at night. He would play his music and read. He would reread the same books as other listen to their favorite music. He knew it was dumb. It was like being a little child who wants to watch the same video over and over.

He had his favorites and they were as eclectic and his music. Shakespeare to Faulkner. Sun Tzu to Machiavelli. His favorite passages he wrote in a small journal he kept in his library. After Kate’s death his found his favorite in Shakespeare’s Henry V. In the play a young King Henry defeats the French on their own territory and meets with the French King. He is then presented with a gift he had neither wanted or expected -- the King’s daughter Katherine. In the play Henry calls the young princess Kate, and Robert often reread it. Sometimes aloud.

With his single malt scotch in hand he would gently speak it, “I am glad thou canst speak no better English; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain King that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but to directly say...” He would pause and looking away from the text. His eyes brimming with tears, and whisper “I love you.”

Afterward he would chastise himself. Ask himself why he was doing it. But the answer was always too simple. He missed his wife terribly and could not replace her memory with any new reality. Oh people tried to help. But Robert didn’t want to date anyone, especially anyone from Oregon City. “Christ,” he would think to himself, “if I kissed a woman good night it would the topic of discussion at two dozen breakfast tables by morning.” Missing Kate was bad enough, but he was damned if he would give some fools more to gossip about. Or so he rationalized.

Florence leaned in the door and broke his trance. "Robert, the chief says they are done up on the hill." And just as quickly as she appeared, she disappeared.

He looked at the clock. It was 3:45 PM. He decided to go home.

***

Chapter 3

簿子

Katya Anderson left for home early that day too. She was an attorney in the law firm of Fredrickson and Johnson. They were the only local law firm in Oregon City. Just down Molalla Street from the city hall. The news of the suicide of Ralph Fredrickson had hit the staff hard. Katya as an associate with the firm, which wasn't saying much. There were only four attorneys and two of them were the principals. She had graduated from Northwest School of Law up on Palantine Hill in Portland and had been practicing here for about three years. Lots of divorces, wills and land transfers. May be the occasional defense for a drunk driver.

Oregon City was a pretty tame place compared to the big city of Portland. But she liked it. Her mother and her had moved here before the Vietnam War ended. She was a baby, so she didn't have the accent her mother still did. All day they kept asking the same question, "Why did Ralph kill himself." It didn't make any sense. Ralph was a 61 year old bachelor who lived alone with his cat. He didn't have any real friends or enemies. He was crotchety. But what the hell, he had been 61.

***

Chapter 4

簿子

Katya walked into her house in a fog. She changed into her t-shirt and sweats, fed the cat, poured herself a glass of white reisling and sat in front of the computer. For some time she liked being on the Internet Relay Chat. Unlike the big Internet providers like MSN, AOL and Yahoo, the IRC was a vast worldwide Internet set of chatrooms. Even though it had been the birthplace of the Internet, it was now a forgotten place. It was not a software that came with your computer. No, all you got was the major Internet players. The IRC had no pictures, no animation, no breaking news stories. It was simply text. It was words on a screen. She had learned it was a relic of something called the Arpanet that had once been use for the national defense command and by universities to swap data and ideas. Now it was just a mind boggling universe of servers and channels.

She usually talked on a network provided by a service called Delphi. It was less intimidating that many of the other server groups and had a lot less weirdos. People there didn’t spend their time talking about drugs, sex or conspiracy theories. She especially like a channel called Wobbelyworld. She had been talking to folks there for about a year and they were all fairly normal. They would talk about the work, relatives, significant others and anything else about their day-to-day lives. It was odd, but a lot of people within the IRC seemed depressed or suffering from some mental problems.

Today’s topic soon became the fact that one of Katya’s bosses had killed himself. People loved to talk about a death in their family or of a friend. Usually as the result of some disease or a car accident. But suicide by gun was unheard of and Katya was getting a lot of attention.

That’s when she got the message from outside the room. Now that, in and of itself, was not unusual. People were always talking to folks outside of the chat rooms. But it was usually some underage guy looking to talk dirty.

<Legnakrad> Good evening

Excuse me?

<Legnakrad> You are excused

Cute

<Legnakrad> How was your day?

Lousy, now leave me alone

<Legnakrad> As thee wish Katya

She stared at the monitor for a minute, not sure what to do next. How did this creep know her name? May be it would be better to just ignore him. He probably got it from some big mouth in Wobbleyworld. But only a couple of them new her real first name and that was all they knew. She decided to be subtle about getting information from him.

<Vietgirl> Who are you?

<Legnakrad> The name is Legnakrad.

<Vietgirl> NO. I mean who are you really. You called me Katya.

<Legnakrad> I can stop that if you wish.

<Legnakrad> I can also stop talking to you and block you. Who are you?

<Legnakrad> If you read the name Legnakrad in a mirror it reads Darkangel.

<Vietgirl> OK, cute. I am going to block you if you don’t answer me.

Last chance. Who are you?

<Legnakrad> …

<Legnakrad> I am your guardian.

Yeah right. Well, I that's not exactly original. I am not buying it.

You don’t know the first thing about me. Get lost.

<Legnakrad> Your boss died yesterday.

<Vietgirl> Everyone in the chat room knows that. Leave me alone freak.

<Legnakrad> I will not bother you anymore, but I will be here when you need me.

Just send me a message.

<Vietgirl> Fat chance. Bye.

<Legnakrad> Your boss didn’t commit suicide. He was killed.

<Vietgirl> You are one sick bastard.

<Legnakrad> Your father’s name is John. John Anderson.

She took her hands off the keyboard, staring at the words. She took a sip of wine. This guy wasn’t making this stuff up. No one here or even at work knew here father’s name.

<Legnakrad> Your father was lost during the Vietnam War in December 1972. MIA.

Plane shot down during the Christmas bombings.

Her heart almost stopped. Tears welled up.

<Vietgirl> jesus…

<Legnakrad> no, John

<Vietgirl> How do know these things

<Legnakrad> I told you. I am your guardian.

She paused thinking.

<Vietgirl> OK, fine. You are my guardian. Why are you talking to me now?

<Legnakrad> You are in danger. Whoever killed Ralph Fredrickson will kill you too.

<Vietgirl> Stop it. It was a suicide.

<Legnakrad> Go the city manager of Oregon City. His name is Robert Kilmarnoch.

Tell him to check the gun for finger prints. He will do it when you tell him

it is a murder. Tell him I am your client.

<Vietgirl> Wait. This is nuts!

<Legnakrad> Insanity is a matter of perspective Katya. But I kid you not.

<Vietgirl> Who the hell are you?

He was gone. She turned off the computer and sat curled up in the big chair with her wine. Her emotions out of control, her fear rising in her body. A phantom on the Internet knew all about her life. She knew about her father. He said a suicide was a murder. The police would think she was a crazy woman if she brought this to them, certainly not a lawyer. She didn't represent anyone but an Internet client named Dark Angel. She didn't smoke, but wanted to now. Instead she filled her wine glass.

***

Chapter 5

Robert Frost

She walked out to the mail box in her shorts... and it was snowing. She was crazy like that. She opened the mail box and looked at the package. It was from a law firm. She read it as she walked. In the house she opened it and looked at the book. And she stopped. I was a journal. Her grandmother's journal. Who sent it? She opened it. She sat in her kitchen and drank the coffee and read the first page.

"You are my grandchild and this is my story. I was very young when the war started. I was put in charge of the north tower on the cliffs of Dover. My job was to kill Germans. It is not a job I liked. I would get up in the morning and put on my socks and ride to the north tower on my bicylce. And I would turn on the radar. The German Luftwaffe did not know we had radar and that we could see them coming. And I did not know that the British high command sent in one of their own to parachute into Germany. His name was Robert Kilmarnoch. I knew him. He was introduced to me at a party in Manchester. He was very tall and very nice to me. He had brown eyes. And he was a fly boy. They were all marked for death in my mind.

And on that fateful day I saw 11 German bombers crossing the channel and ordered up all guns. But there was a small chase plane following them. So small that I did not see it at first.

The ground defense shot down most of the Germans and the RAF got the rest. But the small plane vanished. I was drinking my coffee when I saw it. Just sitting in the tower when it came over the cliffs of Dover.

It came in so low that it was off radar. The relay messages were intense. A maverick German fighter. I ordered it killed. And yet it flew so low that no one could stop it. I was in the tower when it came up and over the hills. I dropped my coffee. I started screaming. I admit that I just ordeec that German bastard dead. The Messerchmidt roared past the Dover tower. And in that moment, I thought I was dead. The bastard had us.

The plane was so close that I saw his eyes. I said two words. I remember them well. 'Fucking Robert.' How did he get that plane?

I ordered all ground guns to not fire. I ordered all RAF to return. And he swooped left. A God damn showoff, he roared past the tower and came in and landed. And I ran out of the tower. I rode my bike onto the field to the burning plane. And he was laying there in the field covered by a blanket. And I knew I was his forever. He sat up like a ghost and waved at me. He was so annoying."

Red Soils