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We visit schools, playgrounds, hospitals, and free clinics—all places where they discreetly offer help. Most people have no idea of how much they actually do for Everton, and for some reason, they prefer to keep it that way.
“I don’t understand why, though,” I say as I get off Kendric’s bike and take my helmet off. He gives me my ballcap to put on. We’re outside a plain row of houses on the west side of the city, smack in the middle of a residential area with picket fences and small parks sprinkled at every road junction. “Why? If you’re such knights in shining armor, why do you let the press depict you as these big bad wolves? It doesn’t make sense.”
I’ve been constantly thinking about it on the drive over. I can’t find a reasonable motive.
Sky turns off his engine and carefully looks around. It’s late evening, and the streetlights have come on. Most of the people are already indoors. I can see some of them through their windows, gathered around the dinner table or lounging in the living room in front of the TV. Raylan texts someone, and almost immediately, the front door of the house before us clicks open.
“Because if people know too much about what we’re doing, the charity we’re providing, they’re going to start asking one too many questions, and there are certain entities in New Hampshire that cannot be given any reason to dig deeper,” Sky says.
“For all the work we do with the community, we also do things that fall outside the legal scope,” Kendric adds in a low tone, “which is what you’re about to see.”
“God, I hope you’re not taking me into some drug den,” I mutter.
“Does this look like Crackhead Central to you?” Kendric scoffs, and I instantly swallow the snappy comeback I already had lined up. I’ve had enough humble pie from these guys to last me a lifetime. “Come on.”
I follow them up the steps and into the mysterious townhouse. The lights are on. It looks quiet and clean. They have plastic baggies with straps to wear over our boots. “Put a pair on,” Kendric says before we go into the house.
“Okay.” I do as I’m told.
I’m silently escorted into the living room first. I gasp at the sight before me. The entire space has been converted into an office with desks and high-performance computers. Everywhere I look, I see a plethora of screens, scrawny guys and girls clacking at the keyboards like there’s no tomorrow. On a round table in the middle of the room, a radio frequency scanning device relays calls between the 911 dispatcher and responding units all over Everton.
I don’t recognize most of the codes, but I do know that these people are listening in.
“What is this?” I ask.
“This is our tip line,” Kendric declares while Sky and Raylan go around high-fiving their busy bees, discreetly letting them know that it’s cool for me to be here—a reassurance that each of them clearly needed, given the foul looks they keep giving me.
“Tip line?” I reply, increasingly confused.
I’m shown into another room, then another. Each serves the same purpose. There are computers, radio scanners, phone lines that light up red, and teenage operators picking up, taking notes, and then calling the 911 central dispatch to pass the information forward. I’m stunned as I watch the process unfold, over and over, right in front of me.
“Ken, hey. I’ve got a meth deal going down in Haven,” one of the operators says with a worried expression. “That’s Wasp territory. What do I do?”
“Send it over to Clyde in Narcotics directly,” Kendric promptly replies. “His number should be on the board.”
Automated like a robot, the operator gets up and walks over to the eastern wall, which is dominated by a massive corkboard. Covering it are phone numbers and email addresses on pinned Post-it notes, along with printed photos and Excel spreadsheets with additional information. This is a veritable hub, I realize, and it’s constantly running.
“He’ll know how to handle it,” Kendric adds while the operator inputs Clyde’s number into his mobile phone and makes the call.
“Hi, Clyde. Yeah, I’m calling from the Steel Factory. There’s a deal about to go down in Haven. Wasps are picking up a new transport from out of state. Yeah, it’s a solid lead; he’s given us accurate intel before.”
The conversation fades away as I turn to face Kendric, briefly losing myself in the iridescent blues of his sharp eyes. “What’s this? For real, what is this?” I ask him.
“First of all, it’s illegal,” he says. “If the cops or the Feds catch us scanning their frequencies like this, we’d be in orange jumpsuits before the weekend.”
“That part I actually got. But what are you doing here?”
“This is the Steel Factory. That’s its code name, sort of.The people of Everton know to call this number if they see or know of something suspicious going down or that’s about to go down,” he says. “It’s a tip line and call center for people who know they can’t trust the police force.”
“Why can’t they trust—”
“Because unlike you, most Everton folks have seen what the police do in these parts. They know who’s really in charge and how far the secret interests of our elected officials go. We pick up the tips they send through, we guarantee the informants’ anonymity, and we pass the information along either directly via the central 911 dispatch with as much detail as possible to make it harder for the local cops to brush off or to the cell numbers of police officers we know and trust.”
“That way, we make sure that someone actually follows up on these things,” Sky adds as he joins us in the kitchen, where Raylan is already pulling a few cold sodas out of the fridge for us.
“Remind me to restock this first thing tomorrow,” Raylan tells Sky.
“I find it hard to believe that the police don’t do their jobs,” I mutter, crossing my arms for the umpteenth time. It’s something I’ve found myself doing more and more, especially in the past few days. The more I learn about these people, the more conflicted I become. “Everton may not be the safest place in New Hampshire, but I’m pretty sure we’re ranked in the top ten.”
