Chapter 9
The Dolphin Expressway practically butted up against the Graham Building, and Jack was on it immediately after his meeting
with the state attorney. The Dolphin was no place to be for anyone in a hurry, and it didn’t get much worse than four o’clock
in the afternoon on a weekday. Jack dialed Elliott’s cell phone number several times while crawling along in bumper-to-bumper
traffic, and each time it went to voicemail. When expressway traffic literally came to a complete stop, he took the opportunity
to shoot a desperation text: Elliott, answer your phone!
It was odd that a client wouldn’t be eager to take a call from his lawyer after a meeting with the prosecutor. Something was
off, which only made it more urgent that Jack speak to him, face-to-face, if necessary. He exited the expressway and drove
to VanPoll Enterprises.
Compared to his after-hours visit on Friday, the manufacturing plant was a hub of commercial activity. The parking lot was
full, delivery trucks were backed up to the open loading docks, and the beep-beep-beep of forklifts in motion echoed from inside the warehouse.
Jack entered through a glass door marked business center, which had been hidden behind roll-down shutters on his last visit.
Jack announced himself to the woman at the reception window.
She turned her head to inhale from her vape pen and then responded.
“Elliott left early. He clocked out after lunch.”
The news did nothing to ease Jack’s concerns. He asked to see Elliott’s friend, hoping she could help him get to the bottom
of things.
“Yeah, Sheila is here. But she’s in the studio with the other martial arts trainees.”
A martial arts studio seemed like a strange use of manufacturing and warehouse space, but Jack assumed it had something to do with CJ’s demonstrations, like the one in Bayfront Park. “I just need five minutes of her time.”
Another long drag on her e-cigarette unleased the scent of berries into the air. “Sure. I can take you there.”
She buzzed him through the security door, and Jack met her on the other side. The studio was at the end of the hallway, and
the interior wall was made of glass, offering Jack a clear view. It was as nice as any private martial arts dojo, with a training
ring in the center, a floor-mat-exercise area surrounding the ring, and a separate weight training and bag training section.
About two dozen demonstrators in training, six rows of young men and women, were bouncing on the balls of their feet, shadowboxing
the air in front of them. It was like a dress rehearsal of Saturday’s march—mostly black hoodies, black sweatpants, and black
New Balances. Sheila was in the first row directly in front of C. J. Vandermeer, who was leading the instruction. The receptionist
told Jack to wait in the hallway, and as she opened the door to go inside, Jack could hear CJ instructing the class while
demonstrating a mixed martial arts maneuver on a trainee.
“Remember, you want to go out and away,” he said to the class. “It’s a good tactic for de-arresting yourself.”
The door closed. Jack watched in silence as the receptionist interrupted. CJ said something to the class that had the effect
of “take five,” stepped out of the studio without Sheila, and joined Jack in the hallway.
“Do you expect all your employees to be trained demonstrators?” asked Jack.
“I expect anyone who wants to join the revolution to be able to protect himself from tyrants,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”
Jack stayed where he was. “We shouldn’t be talking without your lawyer. Patricia doesn’t see your interests as aligned with
my client’s interests.”
“Patricia speaks for the company, not for me personally. No one speaks for me. If I thought Elliott could hurt me, I’d fire his ass. I haven’t. That should tell you something.”
“I suppose it does,” said Jack.
CJ led Jack into a small room that served as the company kitchen. They were alone with a coffee machine, a watercooler, and
the toaster oven on the counter.
“How did your meeting with the state attorney go?” asked CJ.
“How did you know about my meeting?”
“Patricia told me.”
There was no rule prohibiting the prosecutor from sharing that information, but the speed with which the news had traveled
was a little surprising.
“Basically, the state attorney confirmed the legality of a strange but true fact about your business. You don’t really ‘destroy’
much of anything around here.”
“So what? How, in your mind, is the perfectly legal operation of a firearms destruction business pertinent to the death of
Owen Pollard?”
Jack wasn’t interested in brainstorming with CJ, but he was curious to watch, firsthand, CJ’s reaction to one possible line
of thinking.
“Your company gets paid to destroy firearms. Thanks to a loophole in ATF regulations, you’re really in the business of recycling
gun parts. That could piss off a lot of people.”
He smiled and nodded. “I get it. Your theory is that a school in Connecticut or some church in Baltimore gets all excited
because they raise enough money washing cars or baking cookies to have a gun buyback and take twenty handguns off the streets.
When they find out the guns that they sent to us aren’t really destroyed, some do-gooder gets so angry that he kills the owner
of the company.”
“Maybe,” said Jack.
“Nice try. But that theory will never fly.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your suspects are all sheep.”
“Excuse me?”
CJ walked to the water-bottle filler and topped off his Yeti.
“Let me tell you something about Owen and me. Some people can’t understand how we were business partners.
He was retired FBI; I think the FBI should cease to exist. He was a capitalist; I’ve been a communist since high school.
The points of fundamental disagreement were endless.
But there was one thing we agreed on. Something very important. ”
“What was that?”
“Have you ever read Dave Grossman’s essays?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Grossman was retired military, but the military disavows most of what he says, so I find him worth listening to. Owen and
I completely agreed on the way Grossman divides society into three categories. First are the sheep. They’re ‘kind’ and ‘gentle,’
and ‘can only hurt one another by accident.’ They are prey to wolves, who ‘feed on the sheep without mercy.’ And then there
are sheepdogs. They have ‘a deep love’ for ‘fellow citizens.’ But they also have ‘a capacity for violence.’ Sheepdogs ‘live
to protect the flock and confront the wolf.’”
“So, when you said my suspects are all sheep, you meant what?”
“Anyone who runs a gun buyback is a sheep. A sheep didn’t kill Owen.”
“Was Owen a sheepdog?”
“Without question. As am I.”
“Was it another sheepdog who killed Owen?”
It was a loaded question, and it was the reason Jack had allowed this conversation to continue—to gauge CJ’s reaction to it.
“Owen killed Owen,” he said in a matter-of-fact fashion.
Jack let the answer hang between them, but the silence didn’t seem to make CJ uncomfortable in the least.
“If that’s what you think, then why does Patricia say that your interests are at odds with Elliott’s?” asked Jack.
“Because I don’t know that Owen killed Owen. The police seem to think Elliott killed Owen. And—” he started to say, then stopped.
“And what?”
“So does Helena.”
“Why?”
The kitchen door opened, and one of the trainees entered. “Excuse me, Mr. Vandermeer. Are you coming back to the studio, or
should I tell everyone that the session is over?”
“Tell them I’ll be right there.”
The trainee left the room, and CJ wrapped things up with Jack.
“If you want to know what’s behind Helena’s thinking, you’ll need to ask Helena. Now, I have a training class to finish. But
stop by anytime. Don’t let Patricia Dubrow’s bark scare you away. I have nothing to hide.”
He started toward the kitchen door.
“Before you go, let me ask you one last question,” said Jack, stopping him.
“Anything at all. Shoot.”
“Is Helena a sheep or a sheepdog?”
“Oh, be careful with that one,” he said with an uneven smile. “Helena’s a wolf.”
Jack couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.
CJ left the room, and Jack was left alone to wonder how a suicide became a murder, why Elliott was the only suspect—and, most
of all, why his own client was no longer answering his calls.