Tom Lowe - The Black Bullet

A car pulled in at the end of his driveway. Rarely did he ever see a car pull in his long drive. His nearest neighbor was almost a mile away, and lost motorists didn’t need to use his drive to turn around. There were plenty of access roads leading into the national forest. His driveway made a slight bend to the left from the front of his house to the road. Even from his dock, he had a line-of-sight to the end of the drive. But visitors seldom noticed him from that distance.

He watched a woman get out of the car and start toward his front door. She stopped, hesitated, like she wanted to turn around, and then continued.

“Come on Max, let’s go see who has come calling. If it’s the Avon lady, boy did she get the wrong house … that is unless you want something for your nails.” Max scampered up the backyard, climbed the steps leading to the porch, and waited for O’Brien to open the screen door. He heard a knock.

“Be with you in a second,” O’Brien said, checking the drawer for his Glock. He wedged the pistol under his belt, beneath his shirt, and opened the door.

The woman was frightened. O’Brien cut his eyes from her to the car. A small gray head barely protruded over the console. The woman at his door was about one hundred and ten pounds, mid-thirties, auburn hair pulled back, and hazel eyes that were filled with fright and fervor. She wore blue jeans and a blouse open enough on her shoulders to show a powder sprinkling of freckles.

“Mr. O’Brien?” she asked.

“That’s me.”

“I apologize for coming to your home unannounced. But ….” She bit her lower lip and said nothing.

“I’m the one who called you-the one who talked about her grandfather being murdered.”

There was a strong gust of wind for a moment causing acorns to rain down from a live oak, beating against the tin roof before falling into O’Brien’s yard.

The woman bit her lower lip and tried to smile.

“You said your name is Abby Lawson?” O’Brien asked.

“Yes … and I’m sorry I had to hang up before I could explain further. My grandmother, she’s in her late eighties, I was visiting her, bringing some dinner over, when we watched the story on TV. I saw the expression on her face when they reported about the submarine. It was like she’d seen a ghost. I told her I was going to find you.”

“I assume that’s your grandmother in the car.”

“I talked her into coming. She’s not well … lymphoma.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. How’d you know where I live?”

“I used to work for the Volusia County Sheriff’s office. You’d helped Detective Leslie Moore with one of her cases before she was killed. She and I were friends. One day she mentioned how much respect she had for you, and how good you were at seeking justice for the families of victims … murder victims. Leslie said you had a natural-born talent for it, a sixth sense. Anyway, she had mentioned you lived off Highway 46 near the Ocala National Forest. I grew up in DeLand so this wasn’t too hard for me to find.”

“Would you and your grandmother like to come in?”

Max wedged out the door and trotted over to the Abby Lawson. “Your dog’s so cute. Now I remember Leslie telling me you had a little dachshund, too.”

“She’s my watchdog.”

“I can tell by the rambunctious wag of the tail. Look, I don’t want to impose. I’m prepared to pay you.”

“To do what?” O’Brien studied her face, the eyes that evaded his, a red patch appearing on her lower neck. “Would you like some water, soft drink, or something?”

“No, I’ll get right to the point. If you want to talk further, I’ll come inside. If not, I’ll turn away and never bother you again.”

O’Brien was silent.

“My grandfather was twenty-one when he was shot and killed off Matanzas Beach. The year was 1945, the nineteenth of May. The war in Europe had just ended. My grandfather had fought in the Army overseas where he was wounded and lost some of the function in his left leg. He was shipped back home, recuperating, and on active-reserve. One night he was surf-casting, trying to put food on the table, when he spotted something out in the ocean. Then he saw six men row to shore in a life raft. My grandfather hid, watched them bury something. Before they started back to their boat, he saw someone else, a man, walk down from the road to meet the men. Mr. O’Brien, four of those men were German soldiers, two were Japanese. The man they met, my grandfather said, looked American. They buried something in the sand that night. My grandfather saw it … he saw one of the Germans shoot and kill another one. Granddaddy managed to get to a phone booth to call my grandmother. He told her everything and said for her to call the Navy in Jacksonville and tell them what he saw.”

“Why the Navy?”

“Because the boat my grandfather saw that night was a U-boat. I think you may have found it. They killed my grandfather because he saw them and the submarine. Before grandfather was shot, my grandmother said he told her he’d seen the two Japanese men leave the Germans and walk toward Highway A1A. Don’t know what happened to the guy that came out of the bushes. Maybe he shot granddaddy. Maybe one of the Germans did. The U.S. Government never even acknowledged what he reported that night. He was the first and only American soldier in World War II killed on U.S. soil. His murder has gone unsolved for more than sixty-seven years. There’s not a day that goes by that my grandmother doesn’t think about him. She was pregnant with my mother when he was killed. My mother and father were killed in a car accident when I was twelve. Grandmother raised me. Maybe, before she passes, you could help her … help her by finding out who killed him. It would bring closure to a patriotic, old woman.”

O’Brien was quiet for a long moment. He looked at the gray head in the car, eyes peeking above the console. “Please, you and your grandmother, come inside.”

Susan Schulman stood from behind her desk in an alcove of the Channel Nine newsroom and walked toward the restroom. Nicole Bradley looked up from the computer on her desk, her first assignment as an intern-searching through digitally-stored stock footage-and watched Susan disappear down the hallway.

“How are you coming?” asked the five o’ clock news producer, a no-nonsense, prematurely balding veteran of television news.

“Oh, fine,” Nicole said. “I found some shots of alligators for the story Rod’s doing on habitat destruction.”

“Good, punch in the reference numbers for Sam to pull them in. He’s in editing.”

“Okay.”

The producer looked at his watch. “I’ve got a story rundown meeting now.” He crossed the newsroom to sit with the executive producer.

Nicole walked down the hall to the restroom. She entered and saw Susan Schulman applying lip gloss. “I’m Nicole Bradley. I just want to tell you I’ve always thought you did great work. I watched you a lot before heading up to UF. Still watch you when I come home. You’re one of the reasons I’m studying journalism.”

Schulman didn’t miss a beat applying lip gloss. “You’re the new intern, right?”

“Third day.”

“So you want to get in the news biz?”

“Absolutely.”

“Lots of people do now. It looks like a sweet job, but you’ve got to work hard at it. To get to a larger market, the networks, CNN or Fox, you’ve got to really stand out, and that usually comes by finding a breakout, killer story.”

“Have you ever found that story?”

“Close, but no Emmy yet.” Susan picked up her purse and started for the door.

Nicole said, “Wait a sec. What if I had that killer story for you?”