S. Tooley - When the dead speak

“Have you ever talked to the men who made it out?”

“I met with each of them at the hospital. All four had been unconscious when they were pulled out of there.

“So they don’t remember anything about the rescue.”

“Just what they were told… that four men from the Eighth pulled them out and drove them back to base. Those boys were decorated heroes.” Joe coughed and wheezed again. Frank could hear Joy mumbling something.

“Just one last question, Joe. What does the term lightning strike mean?”

“That’s when the North Koreans conducted a full assault, threw the whole damn shit load at us. It was quick and deadly. I guess you could say that’s what my boys got.”

“I received my medical examiner’s preliminary toxicology report,” Murphy whispered into his phone. “It’s negative. Did you hear me, Preston? Negative on the drug or alcohol theory.”

“I have confidence in you, Dennis. Get your people in line. I have a major announcement that I can’t talk about right now. I don’t need a full-blown story about the death of some black deserter to overshadow my campaign. I’ve had a flawless record when it comes to introducing laws to keep down the crime in Chasen Heights. This would diminish everything I have worked for. It would certainly look bad for you and anyone in law enforcement. How could I even entertain the thought of your promotion in the necessary circles if this unfortunate occurrence tarnishes our efforts?”

Murphy shook his head. Preston was good. No wonder he was in a high-ranking elected office and Murphy was just a patsy, doing Preston’s bidding.

“I can’t ask my medical examiner to falsify his report.”

“You don’t. You order him.”

Murphy listened to the dial tone, then dropped the phone in its cradle, as if it were as repellent as Preston. He walked over to the glass partition and scanned the outer office. He watched Frank and Jake walk into Casey’s office.

He pursed his lips, walked back to his desk and buzzed Janet.

“I need you to take a letter, Janet.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Sam closed the door behind them. “If,” she continued, “ lightning strike is a North Korean term, why the lightning bolt pins?”

“Maybe they really don’t have anything to do with it.” Frank laid his notepad down, tossed his pen on the desk next to it. “I just wish Joe Kelly knew a little more about Hap’s unit. I wish Hap’s commanding officer were still alive.”

Maury knocked on the door before entering. His tailored white pin-striped suit and pink shirt, a sharp contrast to his dark skin, looked right out of a Miami Vice television program. His aftershave was subtle yet pleasant.

“I’ve tracked down a couple of the guys in the Eighth.” He handed Frank a sheet of paper with the names from Preston’s unit, then left, closing the door behind him.

“Leonard Ames… wonderful…” Frank read, “died in a car accident in 1976. George Abbott is in a VA hospital in Dallas. I’ll get Janet to look up the phone number, see if I can talk to Abbott.” He punched the intercom on the phone.

Sam looked over at Jake. He was too quiet, ever since Frank explained the term lightning strike.

“Anything you care to share with us?” She studied his face, looking for any telltale sign of life behind those private eyes. There was an undercurrent in the air, electrical. She found herself admiring his chiseled features and rugged good looks.

“Not yet,” was all he replied.

She had to force herself to pull her eyes off him to check her watch. Tim was supposed to call her after he delivered his package to her house. Without his device, she would not be able to make her trip to Preston’s tonight.

Lincoln Thomas shuffled to the kitchen in his modest three-bedroom brick house in San Francisco. From his kitchen window he could see the Golden Gate Bridge lighting up the night sky.

Again he had been unable to sleep. He told himself it was because of business. He should have hired an accountant rather than try to do his quarterly taxes on his own.

His daughter, Nina, had been by earlier to bring him dinner. She knew he never stopped to eat when he had to figure out his taxes. She had a key to his house and stops by to clean and do his laundry. He had resisted her offer for him to move in with her, her husband, Raymond, and their son, Raymond, Jr.

Lincoln had always been independent, didn’t want to be a burden on his family. He considered himself successful, accomplished what he wanted in life. Nina had been his greatest pride. She looked just like her mother, Sia. Dark hair, dark eyes. He had buried Sia ten years after Nina was born. Pancreatic cancer, the doctors had said.

Lincoln owned a successful employment agency with a staff of eight. Raymond was the vice-president. Thomas Associates was responsible for placing over three thousand Koreans in varying jobs, from offices to hotels, cleaning services, bakeries, retail stores, hospitals. Every type of market. And he made sure they all took night classes to learn English and skills that would make them more marketable. The people saw him as their savior. And it gave him an overwhelming sense of pride and satisfaction.

He walked through the tidy living room, past the awards hanging on the wall from the Chamber of Commerce, the mayor, the California Businessmen’s Association. Next to a picture of Sia and Nina was his certificate of U.S. citizenship, framed in oak, matted in light peach to match the peach floral couch. He ran his fingers down the frame. That had been his lifelong dream since he was five years old. He would sit and listen for hours to his uncle’s stories of life in America. He knew that was where he was going to live once he was old enough to travel alone.

He carried his cup of tea to the enclosed breezeway where he sat in the dark. On the coffee table in front of him was a copy of yesterday’s Korean Today newspaper. He could still hear Nina’s voice saying, “Didn’t you tell me once that you were in the war, Papa?”

Even in the darkened breezeway he could see the outline of the man on the front page of the paper. Do You Know This Man? the headline asked. It gave the man’s name as Harvey Wilson. A black man, young. Back then, they had all been young, too young. Lincoln himself had been fourteen. He had closed his eyes to that war, but obviously not his mind. Because in his sleep, he started to re-live it. Started to remember. Back then, Lincoln Thomas had been known as Ling Toy.

“You didn’t have to come,” Sam whispered. The closet was dark. She could feel Jake’s body pressed against hers.

“Baby-sitting is not exactly my way of spending an evening either,” Jake whispered back. He wrapped his hand around the knob and slowly opened the door.

An earlier phone call to Juanita, Preston’s housekeeper, confirmed that Preston would be attending the Chamber dinner tonight.

“Wait.” Sam took a small remote control from her pocket, peered out at the bookcase to her right, and aimed the remote at the shelf which housed the video recorder. A tiny red beam located the one-inch hole which exposed the recorder’s control panel. With the press of a button, the remote sent the recorder into pause mode.

“Clever. Where did you get that?” Jake asked, stepping from the closet.

Sam smiled coyly. “A friend.”

“How much time does it give us?”

“About two minutes.” Sam opened the safe and pulled out several items. “There it is.”

Jake pulled Hap’s pin from his pocket to compare the two. Once Jake snapped pictures of the pins side by side, Sam placed Preston’s pin and the remaining items back into the safe.