S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“Aren’t you going to the office today?” Abby asked.

“I just needed to run some reports first.” She looked at the wool blankets Abby was carrying. “Are you going to the sweat lodge?”

“Yes. We will be there tonight. I made some chicken and potato salad for your dinner.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Abby paused at the doorway and added, “I made more than enough in case you want to invite anyone to dinner.”

Sam looked up from the printer but Abby had left. She shrugged off the comment and returned her attention to her computer. She scrolled through newspaper articles going back to Preston’s original campaign for state representative. She printed every article she saw about him, even the pictures of him kissing babies and attending church socials although he admitted that he had no particular religious affiliation.

His campaign promises had been all rhetoric — housing for the homeless, jobs in the form of bringing large corporations to Illinois, revenue in the form of casinos.

One paragraph caught her attention. It was Preston’s military record citing his various awards — Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service Cross, and a Congressional Medal of Honor. He had been a member of the U.S. 8th Infantry Division and had served two years in the Korean War.

She scrolled to the beginning of the article. It had appeared in the April 26, 1977, issue of the Chasen Heights Post Tribune. The reporter’s name was Samuel Casey.

Sam walked into her office to find Jake nestled comfortably in her chair, legs propped up on her desk, telephone to his ear. He was doing a superb job of trying her patience.

“What would you suggest? You must have some Internet pen pals in South Korea.” Jake waved a hand at an attractive brunette seated at a desk just outside Mick’s office. Janet, the department secretary, appeared seconds later with a cup of coffee.

Sam watched Janet’s rolling gait as the stiletto heels carried her diminutive frame back out to her desk. Sam leaned on her desk and glared at Jake, whose eyes were glued to Janet’s legs.

“I’ll have a couple photos of Hap Wilson shipped overnight to you,” Jake spoke into the phone. “His sister has some pictures of him in his uniform.” Jake looked up at Sam and raised his coffee cup as if offering her some.

Her eyes glazed over his peach-colored knit shirt that hugged his chest. She looked away quickly, opened her tote bag and pulled out a thermos and a foil-wrapped package.

“Good, Elvis. Anything you can do, the Sixth would be entirely in your debt. Thanks.” Jake hung up, pulled his legs off the desk, and ripped off a piece of Sam’s fry bread.

“By all means, help yourself.”

“You’re late.” Jake motioned through the window to Frank, then moved to one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“I didn’t know you were the keeper of the time clock.” She looked at the phone and as an afterthought asked, “Elvis?”

“Hangor Pannabuth,” Jake replied. “He’s a homicide detective at the Second Precinct, which is in the heart of Little Korea. He has relatives in the police department in Seoul and in Korean communities across the U.S. He’s a big fan of Elvis.” He handed Sam several photos. “He’s going to put Hap Wilson’s picture in the Korean Today newspaper.”

“Where did you get these?” The pictures showed a handsome black youth, a wide smile that displayed even white teeth.

“Mattie, Hap’s sister. The D.C. police sent the pictures by courier.” Jake shoved the photos into a brown envelope.

Frank appeared in the doorway. “Ummmm, I can smell that fry bread all the way out there.” He ripped off a piece and shoved it in his mouth. Inspecting Jake’s hair he said, “Nice haircut.”

Jake patted the back of his head. “Abby does a nice job.” Sam jerked her gaze to Jake’s hair, opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Frank who handed her a list.

“Here’s a copy of the depositions from the men who were in Hap’s division. These were taken over forty years ago when they were questioned after Hap went AWOL,” Frank explained.

“More than half of them are marked as deceased,” Sam pointed out.

“Twelve are considered MIAs or POWs. Not all of them died in the war, Sam,” Frank clarified. “After all, most of the men would be close to seventy by now.” He pointed to a section of the depositions. “There was one deposition they weren’t able to obtain — a house boy by the name of Ling Toy. The base commander was pretty fond of him. He went out with Hap’s unit but never returned.”

“Do we have a picture of him you can give to Elvis?” Sam asked.

Frank shook his head no. “Maybe Elvis can put some feelers out.”

Jake scribbled a note to Elvis and placed it in the envelope with Hap’s pictures.

Sam fanned the sheets of paper. “How did you get this information so quickly?”

“Some of us start at the crack of dawn,” Jake remarked.

“I was working at home, if you don’t mind,” Sam snapped back.

“On what?”

Sam handed them copies of newspaper articles on Preston Hilliard. “The top article is the one I found most interesting. It seems Preston served in Korea. Even earned himself some medals,” Sam said.

“Mushima Valley?” Jake looked up from the page. “Isn’t that where

…”

“Yes. That’s where Hap Wilson was last seen. Preston and some of his men supposedly risked life and limb to carry injured soldiers out of the valley. The injured were members of Task Force Kelly from the Fifth Regimental Combat Team.”

Sam let them read the articles while she read the report Frank had given her.

“Eight men were rescued, four died on the ride back to base,” Frank read from the first article. “I guess I have four more veterans to contact.”

“Wait a minute.” Jake pointed at the byline. “Samuel Casey?”

“My father was an investigative reporter. He followed Preston’s campaign,” Sam replied.

“From the sound of the articles, he wasn’t too fond of our esteemed state rep,” Frank pointed out.

Glancing over the top of his copies, Jake said, “It seems his daughter inherited his distaste for politicians.”

Frank thumbed through the copies of the articles. “What happened? There aren’t any more articles by your father?”

“He died,” Sam replied simply. “Car accident.”

There was a brief silence until the phone rang. It was Tim Miesner, the teen computer geek. He might have a way to make the device she had requested. She was smiling when she hung up.

“Good joke?” Jake asked.

“Just admiring talent.” As she spoke she drew shapes of lightning bolts on her pad of paper. She had to see Preston’s pin again. Posing as a reporter, she had called Juanita earlier and learned that Preston would be gone most of the night on Friday. So Sam knew Friday would have to be the night.

The rocks had been on the fire for most of the day. Alex carefully carried them inside the square structure and set them in a pile on the ground. The sweat lodge was situated between Alex’s house and the tipi. The ground was bare except for the blankets they sat on.

“We are ready,” Alex announced.

Once he pulled the tarp down the entire lodge was sealed off. Alex proceeded to pour water onto the hot stones. Steam filled the air.

Abby sat on her blanket across the hot stones from Alex. Her long hair was pulled around to the front, gathered in two thick ponytails adorned with beads and feathers. They hung strategically over her naked torso, concealing her firm breasts. Her thin skirt was hiked up to her thighs exposing muscular legs.

Alex wore a traditional breechcloth, his bare chest exhibiting a sprinkling of gray hair. The glow from the rocks provided the only light.