Abandoned: MIA in Vietnam (16 page)

CHAPTER 22

Wolfe sat at the small table in his room at the Hampton Inn. He scribbled impressions of his interview with Colonel Rhodes in his loose-leaf notebook. When he finished, he pulled Byrnes’s high school yearbook from his suitcase and flipped through it. Wolfe remembered the 1960s well. Only two years behind Byrnes in school, he remembered the ducktail hairstyle, DAs they had called them, for duck’s ass. And the beehive hairstyle on the girls. And ring pins.
Jesus, was it really more than fifty years ago?
he thought.

Unwilling to spend a fortune on scanning the yearbooks, Wolfe compromised with himself. He wrote down the names of all Byrnes’s friends who had written remarks in the book. There weren’t that many. It appeared to Wolfe that Byrnes had had a small circle of close friends, mostly from the football, wrestling, and track teams pictured in the high school yearbook. In addition, there was a number of students in the same alphabet range as Byrnes’s last name. These Wolfe assumed constituted homeroom acquaintances. In his barely legible handwriting, Wolfe made a list of the relevant high school students in his large notebook. He left space around each name, in case Byrnes’s sister or mother knew a phone number or address. If Kimura knew where a few of these people lived, and if they lived near Washington, DC, he might be able to talk with them before he flew back to Florida.

He wasn’t certain why he wanted to talk with friends of Byrnes, except he was also a friend. Maybe they could find some solace in talking about a man they all knew and liked. Maybe there had been some purpose in his short life that Wolfe had missed.

In the two Annapolis yearbooks, Wolfe found even fewer autographed pictures or comments. Byrnes again had friends on the 150 pound football team, but far fewer close friends. The only other signatures seemed to be from some midshipmen in his company.

As Wolfe slid the yearbooks back into his carry-on, someone knocked at the door to his room. Wolfe waited a minute, believing the person had made a mistake. He thought the visitor had probably meant to knock on the door to the adjacent room, given he didn’t know anyone other than Colonel Rhodes in Blacksburg or Christiansburg.

The knocking repeated, along with a loud, masculine voice. It said, “Dr. Wolfe, I’d like to speak with you.”

Surprised to hear his name, Wolfe went to the door and opened it. A man dressed in a dark suit stood outside Wolfe’s room. “May I help you?” Wolfe asked.

The man reached into his inside coat pocket and produced a wallet, which he opened and flashed in Wolfe’s face. Wolfe had a brief glimpse of a green identification card. The nearly transparent letters across the front of the ID read, CIA. The man spoke in a near whisper. “Agent Drugi Jaskolski, Doctor,” he said. “May we talk in private?” He slipped his wallet back into his coat pocket.

Wolfe stuck his head out the door and looked both ways down the hallway, curious as to whether the man was alone. No one else stood in the corridor. “Sure, Agent Jaskolski. Come in. To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit by a CIA agent?”

“You may call me Drew, Dr. Wolfe,” Jaskolski said, closing the door behind him. “All my friends do.” The agent crossed the room quickly and pulled the curtains closed, darkening the room. Wolfe flipped on a light switch. Two desk lamps and an overhead light came on. “Mind if I borrow a bottle of water?” Jaskolski asked, opening the mini-fridge.

“Be my guest,” Wolfe said, settling into one of the two chairs at a small table in the room.

Jaskolski sat next to Wolfe. Wolfe waited. He had no idea as to why a CIA agent would want to talk with him. Jaskolski opened the water, took a long swig with evident pleasure. “It’s been a long, dry day,” he said. “Mind if I ask you some questions?”

“Depends,” Wolfe said. “About what?”

“James T. Byrnes, the third.”

Surprised, Wolfe’s eyes opened wide. “What would the CIA know, or why would they care about Jimmy Byrnes?” he asked.

Jaskolski placed both hands on the table, fingers intertwined. “Would you mind telling me why you visited Mrs. Emiko Byrnes yesterday and today?”

“Sure,” Wolfe said. “I was a shipmate of Jimmy’s on the USS
Oriskany
, during the Vietnam War. We were good friends.”

“But, as far as we can tell, you’ve never visited before. It’s been forty-eight years since you and he were on the hangar deck together,” Jaskolski said. “Why go visit now?”

“Well,” Wolfe started, “I recently found out that Jimmy died shortly after I left the
Oriskany
. Or, at least most people thought he had committed suicide by jumping overboard then. He apparently survived falling from the ship. Colonel Rhodes is sure he died some three plus years later, by friendly fire.” Jaskolski nodded. His face suggested to Wolfe that he already knew the answer to the question before he had asked it. And he also somehow knew Wolfe and Byrnes had been on the hangar deck together. A troubling thought occurred to Wolfe. “And how would you, or anyone in the CIA, know if I had been to Mrs. Byrnes’s house before now? Have you been surveilling her house? For forty-eight years?”

Ignoring the questions, the agent said, “When you joined the armed services, you were made aware that you might have to die for your country, were you not?”

Wolfe laughed. He said, “Part of the reason I joined the navy was so that wouldn’t happen. If I wanted to die for my country, I might have joined the marines. But, yes. The navy made us all very conscious that servicemen, including sailors, sometimes gave their lives for their country. That fact was impressed upon me several times during my time in the service. Shipmates died in accidents. Men died in the
Forrestal
fire. Why do you ask?”

“There are over 1600 MIAs that served in Vietnam. We are sure a majority died in combat or air operations,” Jaskolski said. “Some,” he faltered, then continued, “Some have had to give their lives over a prolonged period of time as POWs. Long, slow deaths for their country, if you know what I mean?”

Suddenly angry, Wolfe shook his head. “No. I don’t know what you mean,” he said. Almost immediately he had an epiphany, “The POWs came home in 1973. Unless you mean there are still men in captivity, and the way they are giving their lives for their country is by continuing to be slaves, or worse to their captors. Is that what you mean? Are there still POWs in Southeast Asia, who are alive and abandoned by our government?”

“You’re a quick study, Doctor,” Jaskolski said. “James T. may be dead. We don’t know for certain. Probably, he is. What we do know is that we don’t want you stirring up an international incident, because you recently found out that he died. It’s the price some servicemen have to pay. Like it, or not. Do I make myself clear? The United States Government doesn’t want you to remind the public of these sacrifices. Not with the possibility of MIAs in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria. Not to mention a dozen other countries, or the men who went missing during the Cold War. Understand?”

Stunned, Wolfe stared at the CIA agent. The man returned his gaze, unblinking. Wolfe said, “You mean there is a chance that some of these 1600 MIAs are still alive in Vietnam, Cambodia, wherever, and the government isn’t trying to find them, or recover them? And it has no intention of trying? I’m not certain I can ignore that. What happens to me if I somehow cause an incident that brings this state of affairs to the rest of America’s attention?”

The CIA agent chuckled. “Well,” he said, “first of all, more than likely no one will believe you except possibly some conspiracy theorists. If, however, it appears that you are on track to embarrass your government, you might find out that you, too, can give your life for your country.”

Shocked, Wolfe asked, “You’d have me killed?”

“Possibly,” Jaskolski said, “More than likely you’d end up in prison for a long time, for tax evasion or some other crime. You might find the
After Hours
billing scam laid in your lap, for instance. You’re sixty-nine years-old now. A fifteen-year sentence for Medicare fraud would be comparable to a life sentence. And who listens to prisoners when they maintain their innocence, or blame their predicament on a government conspiracy?” Jaskolski stood. He pushed the chair under the table. After taking a swig of water from the bottle, he tilted it in a toast to Wolfe. “Think about your family and your reputation, Doctor. Is the suffering you might cause worth finding out additional info about your friend?”

The CIA agent walked to the door of the hotel room and opened it. Wolfe remained silent as he followed the man to the door. “Good-bye, Dr. Wolfe,” Jaskolski said and closed the door behind him.

“Good-bye, asshole,” Wolfe said, after the door shut. “It may not have been worth the effort before, but it certainly is now.” Looking toward the ceiling, imagining his friend looking down from his personal heaven, Wolfe thought,
We’ll find you Jimmy, whether the government wants us to or not. Promise.
 

CHAPTER 23

Tamiko Kimura sat in the waiting room of the Alexandria Hospital ICU. Wolfe sat next to her, his hand on hers. “When did she have the stroke?” he asked.

“Right after you left for Blacksburg. The ambulance brought her here. They say the blockage is on the right side of her brain,” Kimura stared into her lap, tears dripping onto her clothing. “They say there is nothing they can do now except wait it out. They tried the clot dissolving medication. If her blood pressure goes up, they’ll have to operate.”

Wolfe nodded. If Mrs. Byrnes started to bleed inside her head, the blood would compress her brain, also requiring surgery. At her age, she had experienced some cerebral atrophy. That meant a little more space for blood inside her skull, a blessing and a curse. More space meant room for bleeding without damage to the brain itself. The smaller brain meant any damage would have a more serious effect. “Has she been awake?” he asked.

“She moans occasionally, but we haven’t had a conversation yet,” Kimura said. “The doctor believes she might wake up today.” A taller, thinner, younger version of Kimura left the ICU and sat next to Kimura. “Dr. Wolfe, this is my younger sister, Yasuko Barnes. Yaz, Dr. Wolfe.”

“Addison, or just Addy,” Wolfe said, standing and offering his right hand to the woman.

She looked up at him momentarily and held his hand briefly, loosely, limply, and then dropped it. She spoke in a flat tone, not looking in his direction. “A pleasure,” she said. “Mom’s awake, Tammy. She wants to talk with you.”

Kimura stood. “Excuse me Addy, I’m sure our time is limited, so I’ll go right in.”

“Of course,” Wolfe said. After Kimura left, he sat next to Barnes. “Is she coherent?”

She ignored the question and examined Wolfe closely before asking, “You knew Jim?”

“In the navy.”

Using a disdainful tone, Barnes said, “So, why did you visit my mother and sister? Did you not suppose that your visit might stress my mother? Might bring on a heart attack or a stroke?” Her frown and stare blamed Wolfe for her mother’s condition.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Barnes. I didn’t know your mother was in fragile health, or I would have taken that into consideration,” Wolfe said. “I apologize if my presence adversely affected your mother’s wellbeing. The reason I came was to offer my condolences to your family over your brother’s death. He was a good friend. I didn’t know he had died until last week.”

“Real close friend,” Barnes said. The bitterness in her voice astonished Wolfe. “Kept in close touch all these years. I suppose – ”

“Addy! Addy!” Kimura waved at him from the door to the ICU. “Come quickly. You stay there, Yaz. Only two visitors at a time, remember?” The younger sister sat down.

Wolfe walked over to Kimura who grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him into the ICU. The door closed quietly behind them. Wolfe found himself standing at the nurses’ station, surrounded by ten ICU beds, each in its own glass cubical. Every cubical except one had a patient in it. All the patients had multiple electronic devices attached. Intravenous bags hung on poles in every room. Monitors beeped quietly, keeping electronic watch over their charges.

Kimura pulled him into the third glass room and closed the door behind him. “Your sister is certain I caused your mom to have a stroke,” Wolfe said.

“My sister is not rational,” Kimura said. “To her, if two things happen close together, then they are related. And the one that came first caused the second. No matter how bizarre the connection.”

“Your mother’s better?”

“You tell me,” Kimura said. “Mother, Dr. Wolfe stopped in to say hello.”

Emiko Byrnes’s eyes opened and swept the room in front of her. A crooked smile appeared on her face, asymmetrical because the left side of her face barely moved. “Addison,” she said. “So nice of you to come by. My Jimmy like you very much. You go see him. Okay?”

Startled by her words, but convinced she was confused after the stroke, Wolfe smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am.” He looked at Kimura and wrinkled his brow.

“Yes,” Kimura said, “I think she’s a little befuddled, too. But did you notice? She spoke in English for the first time in six months.”

“Oh, pshah,” Mrs. Byrnes said. She waved her right hand at her daughter as if to dismiss her. Her left arm and hand remained motionless. Then she closed her eyes and appeared to drift off.

Wolfe and Kimura backed out of the room quietly. A nurse entered as they left. She brought a pan of water, washcloth, and towel. “Bath time,” Kimura said. The nurse nodded.

Kimura and Wolfe spoke briefly with Barnes and decided to return to the Byrnes’s residence. Barnes chose to remain in the waiting room in case her mother could see visitors again later. “Come get me in a couple hours,” Kimura said, handing her car keys to her sister. “Dr. Wolfe and I will be at home.” Barnes’s head bobbed. She glared at Wolfe.

After reaching his rental car, Wolfe said, “Your sister seems to be furious with me.”

“She’s been irate for twenty some years. Since my father died,” Kimura said. “He was a good man. She doesn’t feel God should have taken him at such a young age.”

“How old was he?”

“Seventy. He died of prostate cancer in 1991.”

“Sorry. So your mom must be pushing ninety?”

“Ninety-four next week. God willing. Dad would have been ninety-five this year,” Kimura said.

Inside the Byrnes’s house, they sat at dining room table, side by side. Wolfe placed the yearbooks on the table, next to the binder. It held the letters from Jimmy Byrnes’s friends. He pulled out his notebook and opened it to where he had written down the names of Byrnes’s assumed friends. “Do you know any of these people?” he asked. “There are some pictures missing from your brother’s high school yearbook, too. Do you know about them?”

Kimura turned the notebook to get a better view of the names. She smiled. “My mother removed the pictures. They were of a girl Jim dated and liked a lot. Emily Rose. His first and only steady girlfriend. She liked him, too. They broke up when he left Annapolis. My mother didn’t want Jim’s future wife to worry about competing with an ex-high school sweetheart. While he was away in the navy, she cut out the pictures. Burned them, too. We only found out about it after the navy told us he was missing.”

“Very considerate of your mother,” Wolfe said, laughing. “Is that a Japanese thing?”

“No. A future mother-in-law thing,” Kimura said. “She so badly wanted grandchildren with the last name Byrnes. My sister and I both thought about marrying almost any man named Byrnes to make her happy.”

“Why did your brother and his girlfriend break up?” Wolfe asked.

“Her father was a marine colonel. A real hero. He was on a battleship at Pearl Harbor, and stormed the beaches in Okinawa as a lieutenant in World War Two. In Korea, he held a position against the onslaught of a Chinese battalion with only a company of men. Jim’s girlfriend was pushing him to be a marine when he finished at Annapolis. He wanted to fly like my dad. When he quit, she apparently decided he was a loser. Found another midshipman, who did become a marine. And paid for it in Vietnam.”

“A lot of that going around back then,” Wolfe said. He pointed to the list of names, again. “Recognize some of these people?”

“How long will you be in northern Virginia?” Kimura asked.

“I have to go back to Florida this evening,” Wolfe said. “In fact, I have to return the rental and get to TSA in the next hour or so. I can come back again in a couple weeks. Why?”

“It’s probably not necessary for you to come back. Some of these people still live in the D.C. area,” she said, and circled some names. “I’ll get their phone numbers and email addresses together. If you give me your email address, I’ll forward that information to you later this week. Okay?”

“That would be great,” Wolfe said. He started to stand, pulling his cell phone from his pocket to check the time.

“You can’t go yet,” Kimura said. “I found something that might interest you.” He sat again. She pulled the large binder closer to her and opened it. A piece of paper marked one of the slots. From that slot she pulled a long envelope. Inside the envelope was a yellow piece of paper from a legal pad. “Read this,” she said, handing the paper to Wolfe.

Wolfe pulled his reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He unfolded the yellow lined page and read the marginally legible script. “The navy should do a more thorough investigation into your brother’s death,” it read. “He DID NOT commit suicide. And his disappearance was NO ACCIDENT!” Wolfe turned the page over. The backside was blank. There was no date. No signature. He scanned the envelope. There was no return address. “Who sent this, and when?”

Kimura pointed to the postmark cancellation over the stamp. “It was mailed on May 1, 1968, so I guess we got it soon after that,” she said. “We never found out who sent it. The navy refused to re-open the investigation when we showed the legal affairs people the letter.”

“Not much help then, is it?” Wolfe said.

“Except this,” Kimura said. She pointed to the cancellation again. “The zip code is 32223. That’s in Jacksonville, Florida, isn’t it?”

Wolfe pulled his cell phone out and tapped on it quickly. He stared at the map that appeared on the phone. “32223. Mandarin. Southwest Duval County. Jacksonville, Florida. May I take a copy of that with me?”

Kimura handed him copies of the letter and the envelope that she had already made.