The Last Detective (12 page)

13
            

time missing: 31 hours, 22 minutes

I
brought the tape home, and played it without stopping to think or feel. The SID would digitize the tape, then push it through a computer in an attempt to determine the caller's location by identifying background sounds. They would map the caller's vocal characteristics for comparison with suspects at a later time. I already knew that I didn't and wouldn't recognize the voice, so I listened to get a sense of the man.

“They slaughtered twenty-six people, fuckin' innocent people! I'm not sure how it got started—!”

He had no accent, which meant he probably wasn't from the South or New England. Rodriguez had been from Brownsville, Texas, and Crom Johnson from Alabama; they both had thick accents, so their childhood friends and families probably had accents, too. Roy Abbott had been from upstate New York and Teddy Fields from Michigan. Neither had accents that I could remember, though Abbott spoke with the careful pronunciation of a Yankee farmer and used expressions like “golly.”

“They were in the bush, off on their own—”

The man on the tape sounded younger than me; not a kid, but too young to have been in Vietnam. Crom Johnson and Luis Rodriguez both had younger brothers, but I had spoken with them when I got back to the world. I didn't believe that they would be involved. Abbott had sisters, and Fields was an only.

“—they swore each other to secrecy, but Cole didn't trust them—”

His language was arch and melodramatic, as if he had chosen his words to amp the drama in minimal time.

“—Abbott, Rodriguez, the others—he murdered them to get rid of the witnesses! He fired up his own friends!”

The events he described had the feel of a straight-to-video movie. Forced.

“—I was there, lady, I know!”

But he wasn't. Only five of us were in the jungle that day, and the other four died. Crom Johnson's body was never recovered, but his head had come apart in my hands.

I played it again.

“I know what happened and you don't, so LISTEN!”

He sounded angry, but the anger rode the top of his voice. His words should have hummed with rage the way a power line sings from the energy burning through it, but he seemed to be saying the words without truly feeling them.

I made a fresh cup of coffee, then listened to the tape again. The false quality in his tone convinced me that he did not know me or the others—he was faking. I had spent all evening unsuccessfully trying to figure out who he was, but maybe the answer was to figure out how he knew what he knew. If he hadn't served with me, then how did he know about Rodriguez and Abbott? How did he know our team number, and that I was the only one who survived?

The house creaked like a beast shifting in its sleep. The stairs to my loft grew threatening; the hall to Ben's room ended in darkness. The man on the tape had watched me and my house, so he had known when we were home and when we weren't. I went upstairs for the cigar box, and sat with it on the floor.

When a soldier mustered out of the Army, he or she was given what was known as a Form 214. The 214 showed the soldier's dates of service, the units in which he served, his training, and a list of any citations he received; kind of a one-line version of his career. Details were few. But whenever a soldier was awarded a medal or commendation, he or she was also given a copy of orders accompanying the medal, and those orders described why the Army saw fit to make its presentation. Rod, Teddy, and the others had died, and I had been given a five-pointed star with a red, white, and blue ribbon. I had never worn it, but I kept the orders. I reread them. The description of the events that day were slight, and included the name of only one other man involved, Roy Abbott. None of the others were mentioned. The man who took Ben could have gotten some of his information from my house, but not all of it.

It was ten minutes after five when I folded the papers and put them aside. Ben had been missing for over thirty-six hours. I hadn't slept in almost fifty. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, then put on fresh clothes. At exactly six
A.M.
, I called the Army's Department of Personnel in St. Louis. It was eight
A.M.
in St. Louis; the Army was open for business.

I asked to speak with someone in the records department. An older man picked up the call.

“Records. This is Stivic.”

I identified myself as a veteran, then gave him my date of separation and social security number.

I said, “I want to find out if anyone has requested my 201 file. Would you guys have a record of that?”

Where the 214 was the skeleton of a military record, a soldier's 201 file contained the detailed history of his career. Maybe my 201 showed the other names. Maybe the man on the tape had been able to get a copy, and that's how he knew about Rodriguez and Johnson.

“We'd have a record if it was sent.”

“How can I find out?”

“You'd know. Anyone can get your 214, but your 201 is private. We don't give out the 201 without written permission unless it's by court order.”

I said, “What if someone pretended to be me?”

“You mean, like you could be someone else pretending to be you right now?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

Now Stivic sounded pissed off.

“What kind of bullshit is this, a joke?”

“My house was robbed. Someone stole my 214, and I think he might've gotten my 201 for nefarious purposes.”

I probably shouldn't have used “nefarious”; it sounded like bad television.

Stivic said, “Okay, look: The 201 doesn't work that way. If you wanted a copy of your 201, you'd have to file the request in writing, along with your thumb print. If someone else wanted your 201, say, for a job application or something like that, you'd still have to give your permission. Like I already told you, the only way someone gets that 201 without you knowing about it is by court order. So unless this guy stole your thumb, you don't have to sweat it.”

“I still want to know if someone requested it, and I don't have eight weeks to wait for the answer.”

“We have thirty-two people in our department. We ship two thousand pieces of mail every day. You want me to holler if anyone remembers your name?”

I said, “Were you a Marine?”

“Master Sergeant, retired. If you want to know who requested what, gimme your fax number and I'll see what I can do. If not, it's been nice talkin' to ya.”

I gave him my fax number just to keep him going.

“I have one more question, Master Sergeant.”

“Shoot.”

“My 201, can you pull it up there on your computer?”

“Forget it. I'm not telling you anything that's on anyone's 201.”

“I just want to know if it contains an account of a certain action. I don't want you to give me the information, just whether or not the account contains two names. If it does, I'll request the file, and you can have all the thumb prints you want. If not, then I'm wasting both our time.”

He hesitated.

“Is this a combat action?”

“Yes, sir.”

He hesitated again, thinking about it.

“What's that name?”

I heard him punching keys as I told him, then the soft whistle of his breath.

“Are the names Cromwell Johnson and Luis Rodriguez in the report?”

His voice came back hoarse.

“Yes, they are. Ah, you still want to know if anyone requested this file?”

“I do, Master Sergeant.”

“Gimme your phone number and I'll walk it through myself. It might take a few days, but I'll do that much for you.”

“Thanks, Master Sergeant. I really appreciate this.”

I gave him my phone number, then started to hang up. He stopped me.

“Mr. Cole, ah, listen . . . you would've made a good Marine. I woulda been proud to serve with ya.”

“They made it sound better than it was.”

His voice grew soft.

“No. No, they don't do that. I spent thirty-two years in the Marine Corps, and now I'm on this phone 'cause I lost my foot in the Gulf. I know how they make it sound. I know what's what. So I'll walk this through for you, Mr. Cole, that's the goddamned least I can do.”

He hung up before I could thank him again. These old Marines are amazing.

It was not quite six-thirty, which made it almost nine-thirty in Middletown, New York. If the man on the tape didn't or couldn't scam a copy of my 201, then the only other name he had to work with was Roy Abbott. The day would be half over for a family of dairy farmers. I had written to the Abbotts about Roy's death, and spoken with them once. I didn't remember Mr. Abbott's first name, but the New York Information operator showed only seven Abbotts in Middletown, and she was happy to run through the list. I remembered his name when I heard it. She read off the number, then I hung up. I thought about what I would say and how I would say it.
Hi, this is Elvis Cole, does anyone in your family want to kill me?
Nothing seemed right and everything seemed awkward.
Remember the day Roy came home in a box?
I made another cup of coffee, then forced myself back to the phone. I called.

An older woman answered.

“Mrs. Abbott?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“My name is Elvis Cole. I served with Roy. I spoke with you a long time ago. Do you remember?”

My hands shook. Probably from the coffee.

She spoke to someone in the background, and Mr. Abbott came on the line.

“This is Dale Abbott. Who is this, please?”

He sounded the way Roy described him; plain-spoken and honest, with the nasal twang of an upstate farmer.

“Elvis Cole. I was with Roy in Vietnam. I wrote to you about what happened a long time ago, and then we spoke.”

“Oh, sure, I remember. Mama, this is that Ranger, the one who knew Roy. Yes, how are you, son? We still have that letter of yours. That meant a lot to us.”

I said, “Mr. Abbott, has anyone called recently, asking about Roy and what happened?”

“No. No, let me ask Mama. Has anyone called about Roy?”

He didn't cover the phone. He spoke to her as clearly as to me, as if the two conversations were one. Her voice was muffled in the background.

He said, “No, she says no, no one called. Should they have?”

When I dialed their number I didn't know what I would say. I hadn't wanted to tell them why I was calling or about Ben, but I found myself telling him all of it. Maybe it was my history with Roy, maybe the honest clarity in Dale Abbott's voice, but the words poured out of me as if I were giving confession, that I had lost a child named Ben Chenier to a man on the phone, that I was scared I would not be able to find Ben, or save him.

Dale Abbott was quiet and encouraging. We spoke for the better part of an hour about Ben and Roy and many things: Roy's four younger sisters were married with families, three to farmers and one to a man who sold John Deere tractors. Three of the four had sons named after Roy, and one a son named after me. I had never known that. I had no idea.

At one point, Mr. Abbott put on Roy's mom, and, while she spoke with me, he found the letter that I had written and came back on the line.

He said, “I've got your letter right here, that one you wrote. We made copies for all the girls, you know. They wanted copies.”

“No, sir. I didn't know that.”

“I want to read something you wrote. I don't know if you'll remember, but this meant a lot to me. This is you, now; this is you, writing:
‘I don't have a family, so I liked hearing about Roy's. I told him that he was lucky to come from people like you and he agreed. I want you to know that he fought to the end. He was a Ranger all the way, and he did not quit. I am so sorry that I could not bring him home to you. I am so sorry I failed.”

Mr. Abbott's voice grew thick and he stopped reading.

“You didn't fail, son. You brought Roy home. You brought our boy home.”

My eyes burned.

“I tried, Mr. Abbott. I tried so hard.”

“You
did!
You brought my boy back to us, and you did not fail. Now you go find this other little boy, and you bring him home, too. No one here blames you, son. Do you understand that? No one here blames you, and never did.”

I tried to say something, but couldn't.

Mr. Abbott cleared his throat, and then his voice was strong.

“I only have one more thing to say. What you wrote in your letter, that part about you not having a family, that's the only part wasn't true. You've been part of our family since the day Mama opened the mail. We don't blame you. Son, we love you. That's what a family does, doesn't it, love you no matter what? Up there in Heaven, Roy loves you, too.”

I told Mr. Abbott that I had to go. I put down the phone, then brought the coffee out onto my deck. The lights in the canyon faded as the eastern sky grew bright.

The cat crouched at the edge of my deck, his legs tucked tight underneath as he stared at something in the murky light below. I sat by him with my own legs dangling off the deck. I touched his back.

“What do you see, buddy?”

His great black eyes were intent. His fur was cool in the early-morning chill, but his heart beat strong in the warmth beneath.

I bought this house not so many years after I came back from the war. That first week after escrow closed, I stripped the floors, spackled the walls, and began the process of making someone else's home into mine. I decided to rebuild the rail around the deck so I could sit with my feet dangling in space, so I was outside one day, working away, when the cat hopped onto the corner of my deck. He didn't look happy to see me. Here was this cat with his ears down and his head cocked, staring at me like I was yesterday's bad surprise. The side of his face was swollen with a dripping red wound. I remember saying, “Hey, buddy, what happened to you?” He growled and his hair stood, but he didn't seem scared; he was cranky because he didn't like finding a stranger in his house. I brought out a cup of water, then went back to work. He ignored the cup at first, but after a while he drank. Drinking looked hard for him, so eating was probably worse. He was skanky and thin, and probably hadn't eaten in days. I took apart the tuna sandwich I was saving for lunch, and made a paste with the tuna and mayonnaise and a little water. He arched his back when I put the tuna paste near the cup. I sat against the house. The two of us watched each other for almost an hour. After a while, he edged toward the fish, then lapped at it without taking his eyes from me. The hole in the side of his head was yellow with infection, and appeared to be a bullet wound. I held out my hand. He growled. I did not move. The muscles in my shoulder and arm burned, but I knew that if I drew back we would lose the bond we were building. He sniffed, then crept closer. My scent had been mixed with the tuna, and the tuna was still on my fingers. He growled softly. I did not move. The choice was his. He tasted my finger with a tiny cat kiss, then turned to show me his side. That's a big step for cats. I touched the soft fur. He allowed it. We have been friends ever since, and he has been the most constant living creature in my life since that day on the deck. Even now, he still was; this cat and Joe Pike.