Chapter 38

As I sat there, waiting for Charnock's shift to end, I revolved around in my mind what I knew and what I intended to do with it. That is a benefit of surveillance – you get plenty of time to review your plans and fix holes in them.

I found one hole immediately – there really wasn't any need to check NCIC. I already knew all I really needed to know about his criminal record, and finding out that Charnock might have a conviction for burglary in Boise, or might be wanted for a mugging in Memphis, wouldn't change my opinion of him or make me any more careful than I already intended to be.

I came up with another hole too. I'd been thinking along the lines of following Charnock around, and then confronting him. But it would be beneficial if I got a look inside his house, when he didn't know I was going to be there, and wasn't there himself. In short, I needed to search his place. Of course burglary – entering a place without permission – is illegal, and anything I found while I tossed the place wouldn't be legal evidence in court, but it would give me a better idea of what I was dealing with. It might, in fact, give me a conclusive answer to the question of whether Charnock was the guy who'd been sending the threats. I believed he was, but the only thing I could even come close to proving was that he'd heaved some paint onto the abortion mill's carpet.

I was tempted to drive back over to his place and do my thing right then, but though I assumed he had an eight-hour shift I figured I'd better make sure. There were a couple of ways to do that. I decided to try one right then and there. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, called Information to get the number to the Wal-Mart I was parked in front of, and then called that number. When I finally got an answer – it seemed that either no one heard the phone ringing, or no one was interested in answering it until I'd let it ring about 10 times – I asked for Richard Charnock. When he came on the line I lied.

"Mr. Charnock, this is Loyal Pest Control, a new company in town, and we were going to drop by and let you know about our services, but you're not there and so I've taken the liberty of calling you at work. Would you be interested in hearing what we can do for you? What time would you be available?"

"Well, I get off at 4..."

"Would 5 be all right then? Or perhaps on the weekend?"

"Tell you what," Charnock said, "why don't I get your number and call you back?"

"Oh, I left a card stuck in your door, Mr. Charnock. It's got our number on it, and you can call us whenever you like."

"Oh, okay, I'll do that then."

And so the call was over. I don't like lying, but it was the quickest and easiest way to get where I needed to go. And while I don't subscribe to situational ethics – the ends really don't justify the means – the fact is that in my opinion a harmless lie, which hurt no one but enabled me to determine more quickly how I could proceed, was far more acceptable in God's eyes than allowing someone more time in which to plan and perhaps even carry out vile and murderous intentions. Though I don't pretend to be the ten Booms, or the family which had sheltered the Franks, I firmly believe that when those gentiles told the Nazis that they weren't hiding Jews when they actually were, God blessed the lie. Though, I remembered with a smile, Corrie ten Boom used to expostulate with her sister Betsy, who actually told the truth on at least on occasion. God does indeed watch over His people, though almost the entire Frank family died in the camps, and almost the entire ten Boom family as well.

I looked at my watch – it was nearly 8 in the morning, and time to quit losing myself in the history of the Holocaust. Charnock got off at four, eight hours away. It would take him a while to get home, and judging by the time he'd gotten home the day before, he might not go straight there. Of course that was hardly a reliable indicator, so I wouldn't count on it. I fastened my seat belt, fired up the engine, and pulled out of the slot. I got out onto Menaul, and retraced my path back to the address on Buena Ventura.

There are various ways to get into a house that's locked up. Some of them are brutally simple – smash a window, and either climb in or reach through and unlock the door. That would add breaking and entering to burglary – the two crimes aren't the same, at least not under New Mexico law. Some are subtle – picking the lock. Some – gaining entry by running a con on Charnock, for instance – were right out. I could smash windows easily. I can pick most locks, but not easily, since it's a skill I don't have much occasion to practice. The method I prefer, when I can do it, is to slip the lock – use a piece of plastic, a driver's license or credit card for instance, to push back the tongue of the lock and get in.

I wanted to blend in, but tossing a house right takes time, and as I drove I realized with regret that I wouldn't be able to do much toward making myself unremarkable. I've got a place over on Pennsylvania, what I call my private place, a garage apartment I have on loan from a grateful former client, where I keep various clothes that don't look a thing like what I normally wear. I also have two vehicles I keep there, a Lexus and a beat up old Mazda, which are less notable than my big filthy Blazer and were much less notable than the pickup truck I used to drive. I would have liked to take the time to drive over, change my clothes, and change my vehicle, but I just didn't have the time to take. I might could have done it, carried out a partial search, and then come back another day, but every time I got in it would increase the risk that Charnock would know it.

Of course I might decide, today or some other time, to let him know he wasn't immune to scrutiny. I could do that by making a break-in obvious – kick in the door or jimmy it with a crowbar, leave things where I didn't find them, things like that – but I wouldn't do it unless circumstances made it seem like the way to proceed.

I don't like lying. I don't like breaking the law either. Yet I was on my way, very deliberately, to violate the statutes protecting private property. I didn't agonize over it. I'd had to think all this through years ago, when I quit the police force and set myself up as a private detective, and if I couldn't have lived with sometimes doing stuff like this I wouldn't have remained in this line of work. No, I don't like it – because I wouldn't like it if someone broke into my house and searched through my family's personal effects. But again, I had to balance that against the very real possibility of horrible torture and death for the women at the abortion mill. The only monkey wrench in this machinery was the fact that the women I was trying to protect were in the business of murdering children, and I'd thought that through as well.