“I know that tat on his shoulder: WR. It shows sympathy with a specific biker gang.” Ben turned to the open door to the back offices, yelled, “Wanda!”
A second later a heavy thirtyish woman with braided hair pushed her head through the door. She wore one of those formless dresses people wear when they don’t give a damn for fashion.
“Yo?”
He held up the shot and she stepped into the office. “This is Wanda Tenahoe,” Ben introduced. “She coordinates the info on biker gangs; a big job, but Wanda has a photographic memory.”
“It’s good,” Ms Tenahoe corrected in a bright, musical voice at odds with her first impression. “Not photographic. Let me take a peek.”
She studied the photo. Yanked her thumb for Ben to move from his desk so she could sit. She pecked keys, faces flying past on the monitor.I wondered if the SLDP had face-recognition software. They seemed to have everything else to gauge the whereabouts of people, not just in locale, but spanning decades.
The computer beeped and four photos unfolded on the screen.
“Here we go,” she said. “Your baby-snatcher’s name is Terry Lee Bailes. There’s not much on him because he wasn’t singled out for individual surveillance, meaning he’s not considered particularly dangerous.”
I looked at Harry, mouthed not dangerous ?
“I’ve got a few photos of him peripheral to other investigations. Here they come.”
We leaned close to the monitor. In the first two pix, the man we now knew as Terry Lee Bailes was on a scruffy, dented Harley parked with a dozen other bikers outside a roadhouse. The third was the same bar, a different day, a few different participants.
“That’s the Southern Gladiators’ clubhouse over by Jackson,” Tenahoe said. “It’s a bar where a lot of the WR biker-types hang out.”
“WR?” Harry asked. “White something-or-other?”
“How’d you guess?” Tenahoe grinned. “White Riders. They’re a nasty lot. Not real organized, not real smart, but murderously mean and loving to prove it. They’re also allied with the Aryan Revolutionary Army, its security and enforcement wing.”
Something caught Harry’s eye. He leaned close to the photos, scanning between them. He pointed to something only he had seen.
“Look how their bikes are parked. The gang’s machines are lined up straight and so tight they’re almost touching, but here, five or six feet away, is Bailes’s bike. Both times.”
“He’s not part of the group,” I said, suddenly seeing it. “It’s subliminal. He couldn’t park his bike up close and personal to theirs. The physical distance reflects a psychological distance.”
Harry nodded. “He’s not fully accepted by the group.”
“Incredible observation,” Tenahoe said, staring at Harry with undisguised admiration.
The last shot was Bailes with two other guys, smoking and talking. One guy’s palm rested on Bailes’s shoulder, like they were buds.
“Who’s the guy with his hand on Bailes?” Harry asked.
“The guy the shots were meant to catch,” Tenahoe said. “Donnie Kirkson. He’s a low-life scuzzer who operated as a conduit between movers and shakers like Arnold Meltzer and the rank-and-file types like the White Riders. Kirkson’s nasty business: aggravated assault, breaking and entering, wanton endangerment, drug busts, sexual assaults. He’s not bright enough to be a chief, but he probably killed or kicked the shit out of someone Meltzer considered an enemy, so he moved up to the equivalent of middle management.”
“You said ‘operated’, past-tense,” Harry noted.
“Kirkson got caught having sex with a fifteen-year-old runaway. He befriended her, then loaded her with alcohol and dragged her to a motel for four days. Kirkson took a six-year prison fall. He went in last winter.”
I looked again at the spread of surreptitious photos, always amazed at the minutiae Ben and his people could garner.
“Anything else you need?” Ben asked.
I handed
A second later a heavy thirtyish woman with braided hair pushed her head through the door. She wore one of those formless dresses people wear when they don’t give a damn for fashion.
“Yo?”
He held up the shot and she stepped into the office. “This is Wanda Tenahoe,” Ben introduced. “She coordinates the info on biker gangs; a big job, but Wanda has a photographic memory.”
“It’s good,” Ms Tenahoe corrected in a bright, musical voice at odds with her first impression. “Not photographic. Let me take a peek.”
She studied the photo. Yanked her thumb for Ben to move from his desk so she could sit. She pecked keys, faces flying past on the monitor.I wondered if the SLDP had face-recognition software. They seemed to have everything else to gauge the whereabouts of people, not just in locale, but spanning decades.
The computer beeped and four photos unfolded on the screen.
“Here we go,” she said. “Your baby-snatcher’s name is Terry Lee Bailes. There’s not much on him because he wasn’t singled out for individual surveillance, meaning he’s not considered particularly dangerous.”
I looked at Harry, mouthed not dangerous ?
“I’ve got a few photos of him peripheral to other investigations. Here they come.”
We leaned close to the monitor. In the first two pix, the man we now knew as Terry Lee Bailes was on a scruffy, dented Harley parked with a dozen other bikers outside a roadhouse. The third was the same bar, a different day, a few different participants.
“That’s the Southern Gladiators’ clubhouse over by Jackson,” Tenahoe said. “It’s a bar where a lot of the WR biker-types hang out.”
“WR?” Harry asked. “White something-or-other?”
“How’d you guess?” Tenahoe grinned. “White Riders. They’re a nasty lot. Not real organized, not real smart, but murderously mean and loving to prove it. They’re also allied with the Aryan Revolutionary Army, its security and enforcement wing.”
Something caught Harry’s eye. He leaned close to the photos, scanning between them. He pointed to something only he had seen.
“Look how their bikes are parked. The gang’s machines are lined up straight and so tight they’re almost touching, but here, five or six feet away, is Bailes’s bike. Both times.”
“He’s not part of the group,” I said, suddenly seeing it. “It’s subliminal. He couldn’t park his bike up close and personal to theirs. The physical distance reflects a psychological distance.”
Harry nodded. “He’s not fully accepted by the group.”
“Incredible observation,” Tenahoe said, staring at Harry with undisguised admiration.
The last shot was Bailes with two other guys, smoking and talking. One guy’s palm rested on Bailes’s shoulder, like they were buds.
“Who’s the guy with his hand on Bailes?” Harry asked.
“The guy the shots were meant to catch,” Tenahoe said. “Donnie Kirkson. He’s a low-life scuzzer who operated as a conduit between movers and shakers like Arnold Meltzer and the rank-and-file types like the White Riders. Kirkson’s nasty business: aggravated assault, breaking and entering, wanton endangerment, drug busts, sexual assaults. He’s not bright enough to be a chief, but he probably killed or kicked the shit out of someone Meltzer considered an enemy, so he moved up to the equivalent of middle management.”
“You said ‘operated’, past-tense,” Harry noted.
“Kirkson got caught having sex with a fifteen-year-old runaway. He befriended her, then loaded her with alcohol and dragged her to a motel for four days. Kirkson took a six-year prison fall. He went in last winter.”
I looked again at the spread of surreptitious photos, always amazed at the minutiae Ben and his people could garner.
“Anything else you need?” Ben asked.
I handed
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