S. Tooley - When the dead speak

Carl smiled. “Did better than that. I have all the original depositions from the guys in the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division including the commanding officers.”

“You’ve saved me a lot of footwork. Thanks.” Jake studied the list of names. “Was this your war?”

“Please,” Carl laughed, “I’m not that old. But I’ve read a lot about it and I had an uncle who was right on the front line.”

Jake took a sip of coffee and winced. “It’s a little too late for coffee. Do you have anything that foams?” He walked over to the bar and retrieved a beer. “What did your uncle say?” Jake returned to the conference table.

“Well, it wasn’t a pretty sight,” Carl replied. “According to what I remember Uncle Paul saying, approximately eight or nine thousand POWs or MIAs are still unaccounted for. Over thirty-four thousand men were reported missing the first week of the war, and that was from the Republic of Korea Army. Our troops were poorly trained and physically unfit. They threw these troops in so quick they didn’t even have time to unclog their machine guns or set their sights.”

“Sounds more like a suicide mission,” Jake said. He gestured toward the stack of letters. “What was the gist of Hap Wilson’s letters?”

Setting his horn-rimmed glasses on the table, Carl said, “When he talks about the Army it’s like listening to a kid talk about football. He mentions nicknames of some of the guys in his unit. Basically, he was proud, patriotic, for god and country, that sort of thing.” He studied the coffee ring in his cup and told Jake about the bond between Mattie and her brother.

“That lady,” Carl continued, “would dust my pictures and framed awards. She thought cleaning the office of the FBI security director was the most important job in the world. She would have coffee ready, leave home baked goodies on a paper plate. Everyone loved her.”

“Confirmed bachelors bring out maternal instincts in many women.” Jake thought about Abby and smiled.

“Tell me about Sergeant Casey,” Carl said.

Jake took another long swallow of beer. “She has a great Indian lady for a housekeeper and cook. And Sam’s hell-bent on proving that State Representative Preston Hilliard had something to do with Hap Wilson’s death.”

Carl straighten up at the mention of Preston’s name. “What on earth would make her tie Representative Hilliard to Hap Wilson?”

Jake handed Carl a picture saying, “This is what Hap Wilson was holding.”

Carl stared at the picture, put his glasses back on and studied it closer. He was silent for a while, then asked, “Any prints?”

“No, we couldn’t lift any.”

Carl put the picture down. “What does this have to do with Preston?”

“Sergeant Casey found an identical pin in Preston’s safe.”

A dull rhythm jarred Sam awake. Staring at the ceiling, she willed her body to move which was always a chore before nine in the morning. In her sleep, it seemed as if the dull sounds were the exercise equipment calling for her to make one of her too infrequent visits to the pain room. Her feet slowly hit the floor. She struggled into her sweat shorts and top and trudged downstairs.

“Aw, jeezus.” Sam pounded the door jamb at the entrance to her gym where Frank and Jake in sweat-soaked gym clothes were working out. “Six in the morning and I get to put up with you two.”

Jake climbed off the rowing machine sporting a five o’clock stubble and a look of pain on his face. “God, do you always look this bad in the morning?” Frank gave a half-hearted wave from the stair-stepper.

She stared them down with contempt. Sheet marks lined her face. Her hair was making a desperate attempt to unleash itself from the fabric tie. Jake met her in the doorway, gave a nod toward the room and said, “A lot of dust on those machines.” He brushed by her and headed out to the backyard for a jog.

The sun was peeking over the trees. The dew on the wet grass stained Jake’s tennis shoes as he made his way to an asphalt path past the gazebo.

He followed along a six-foot-high wrought-iron fence in which ivy had been allowed to crawl through and over. Sculptured multi-tiered gardens had been designed using perennials in increasing heights. A maze of trees blocked his view of the house.

His mind kept replaying his meeting with Carl. He wondered why Carl wouldn’t just have his Chicago office handle the investigation. He may have a soft spot for Mattie, but surely, Carl must have better things to do back in D.C.

As Jake turned the corner he noticed a small, ranch-style home which he assumed was the gate house. He didn’t stop. Not too far from the house was a timber-framed structure covered with heavy blankets.

One hundred feet beyond the structure he came to an abrupt stop. Standing before him was a thirty-foot-tall tipi. Jake touched the hide skin that had been tanned to a silky finish, then ducked his head and entered. Tall lodgepole pines supported the cone-shaped structure. There were enough tall trees around that only a pilot would be able to detect the tipi.

Hides covered all seven-hundred square feet of ground except for the center where charred remains of wood lay. Bowls and what looked like cooking pots and utensils hung by ropes nailed to the large timbers that stretched up toward the peak.

Jake slowly backed out and continued his run. His mind returned to Carl. Jake had gotten the distinct impression that Carl had seen the lightning bolt pin before. Jake saw a glimmer of recognition in Carl’s eyes. All Carl said when Jake had pressed him was, “I’ll look into it.” Then Carl asked him to keep an eye on Sam and to report back if anything new develops.

The well-manicured lawn was beginning to blend into taller rye grass. Off to the right was a vegetable garden. Past a field of what looked like hay the lawn narrowed to just a few yards wide.

Jake slowed to a walk and then stopped to take a few deep breaths. The air was filled with the sounds of nature. What lay ahead looked like it had been left to grow thick and natural. Creeping phlox meandered through the rye grass and over the rocks surrounding a sizable pond.

It was there, sitting on the rocks by the side of the pond that Jake saw him. The mahogany-skinned face was stoic and weathered. A red and white bandanna was wrapped around his forehead and tied just above his gray ponytail. The body under the blue denim shirt seemed firm and muscular. His neck and wrists were adorned with coral and turquoise jewelry.

Jake watched the Indian gently apply a salve and then wrap the foot of a squirrel while talking softly to it in a language Jake didn’t understand. In the back acres of Sam’s property Jake felt he had been thrown into another world.

The squirrel saw Jake first. It fled for the safety of the tree by the vine-covered fence. The Indian and Jake locked eyes. Neither said anything. The Indian’s eyes contained a lifetime of distrust. He gazed briefly at the coral-handled knife that lay next to him.

Jake saw the knife, too, and wondered with amusement how many other men were lured to the back acres and never made it out, their scalps left hanging out to dry in the tipi.

“Nice morning, isn’t it, Alex?” Jake remembered Abby mentioning his name the first day he met her.

Alex eyed him suspiciously but after a few seconds acknowledged his greeting with a nod. Jake quickly broke into a jog and then a run and never looked over his shoulder until he reached the patio.

Sam watched as the printer spit out pages of background information on Preston Hilliard. She had skimmed through the sections about his pompous father and socialite mother, the boarding schools. Libraries went a little too in-depth about the family life.