M. Forsythe - While Rome Was Sleeping

“No matter who asks; if the FBI, CIA or any person from any agency like that should contact you, call me immediately, but please don’t get involved. Promise me, there is something very heavy duty going on. I don’t know what it is and maybe that’s a good thing. It just might be that the less we know the safer all of us will be. Promise me,” he said again looking into her eyes. His hands were pressing on her shoulders emphasizing his words.

She shivered nodding her promise then looked away and questioned softly, “What about Jim Savalza?” Suddenly she was afraid and she didn’t really know why. Andrew put his jacket around her shoulders as they started back toward the car.

“Jim knows what he needs to know. He’s going to continue to investigate Kelshaw’s murder. Don’t worry about Jim, He’s okay.”

The drive back to St. Mark’s parking lot was muted. Neither spoke until they arrived at the Cathedral. The last rays of the sunset filled the sky with color silhouetting the giant stone box in deep gray. They walked to her car; taking her keys Andrew opened the door and as Charlene started to get in he leaned over and kissed her cheek and said, “Thanks for the day. I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”

She touched his hand still on the open door. “Yes, and thank you for the day as well.” Licking her lips she smiled and said, “I was right, I can taste the salt.”

“Charlene, be careful; here is my home number, if you need anything or if something doesn’t feel right, call me.”

She nodded as she took the card. Waving she put the car in drive and turned onto Tenth Avenue and was soon lost in traffic. The thought flashed through his mind that he wished he had tasted the salt on her lips.

His thoughts were scattered as he started the car at first intending to go home, but instead of his apartment he nosed the car down the hill to The Seattle Times. He wanted to know more about General Bradley Coleman and the newspaper morgue was a good place to start. It would supply at least some of the information he needed.

Inside the Times he headed for the archives and began searching the files for any biographical data about General Bradley Coleman starting from the late 1950’s to his 1978 appointment to the Defense Intelligence Agency.

At first he found very little material other than the usual rah rahs given on his appointment; but as he read further, his eye focused on a notice from a newspaper society page announcing the marriage of an Olivia Carter Laird of Philadelphia to West Point graduate, Second Lieutenant Bradley Coleman from the little town of Marietta, West Virginia.

There was another biographical article attached in the file, someone else had conveniently clipped to the page. It told of Coleman’s background as a poor kid from a mining town in West Virginia. His dad had been a coal miner. It was a sort of reversed gender ‘Cinderella’ story.

Brad had been desperately poor but was an outstanding student and athlete with a strong work ethic. He was determined to overcome his circumstances and get an education to better himself; at 16 he had acquired a summer job as a caddy at the posh Greenbrier Resort. The Greenbrier was a well known hotel near White Sulphur Springs known and used by the quietly wealthy families in the Virginia environs. Many of its guests played golf and by studying the game, Brad became one of the more requested caddies by the golfing patrons.

It was there that West Virginia State Senator, Mike Owens, had met and taken an interest in this bright young man. He admired Brad’s tenacity and his dedication to earn a better life. At the summer’s end he hired him as a page and eventually recommended him to the military academy where Brad excelled.

Andrew knew the story of Senator Mike Owens, a well known Korean War hero and an ex-POW. He had been with the 1 stMarine Division at the Chosin Reservoir where he had saved a number of his men by sheer courage; braving terrible cold and frostbite he managed to get some of his troops through to rescue by sacrificing himself. As a prisoner he survived brutal beatings and starvation and was barely alive when finally released by the North Koreans. After regaining his health, he ran for public office again and was reelected handily.

No wonder Coleman got ahead with a man like Mike Owens promoting him. Andrew closed the file and started home; his thoughts moved forward to Vietnam more than a decade later.

The questions were coming faster than the answers. Preoccupied, he drove into the garage of the apartment building; he felt very tired and instead of the stairs, he decided to take the slow, but certain, elevator to the fourth floor.

As he put the key in the lock he noticed the door was unlocked and not even tightly closed. Immediately alert, he stepped aside and cautiously pushed the door open.

“What the…?” The sight that greeted his eyes was unreal. Stunned, he stood in the open doorway for a moment before entering a room that looked as though a hurricane had passed through. Everything had been thrown off his desk and tables and strewn all over the room. Someone had gone to great lengths to make as much of a mess as possible while searching for only God knew what. It was clear there was neither rhyme nor reason for the destruction.

He found the same chaos in the kitchen and bedroom where many of his clothes had been pulled out of the closet and dumped on the floor; he noticed the linen closet had also been emptied. The bathroom medicine cabinet had been searched and emptied on to the floor. “What a mess!” Andrew groaned. “I wonder where the phones are. The bedroom phone was gone and after a short search he found one behind the sofa with the wires pulled out. Andrew swore and sighed wearily as he went back to his car; he had to find a telephone and call Savalza.

11:25 PM the phone was ringing in the Savalza bedroom; Jean Ann reached across her sleeping husband to answer, but Jim took the phone from her hand, “Hullo” he said drowsily.

“Sorry to wake you, Jim this is Andy…”

“Yeah? What now??”

“Someone paid me a visit today, and I know it wasn’t Tanner and Schultz; but by comparison, the Seamen’s Center looked amateurish.”

“Yeah? What’s missing?” Jim was awake now.

“Nothing—everything— I don’t know; it’s such a mess who could tell?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Maybe you should move into a better neighborhood.” Jim added. “Have you called 9-1-1? Never mind I’ll take care of it.”

“Right! Anymore good ideas?”

“No, see ya’…”

When Andrew returned to the apartment building he noticed a blue and white Seattle Police cruiser parked outside; inside on the fourth floor, two uniformed officers were waiting by his door.

“You Kincaid?” one of them asked.

“That’s me.” Andrew answered.

“We were told to meet Detective Savalza here.”

“Sure, come on in, but watch where you step.” Andrew warned.

One of the officers gave a low whistle. “Holy… What hit this place? Looks like a tornado!”

The officers were talking with Andrew and making notes when Savalza appeared at the door. “Holy smoke! Don’t touch anything until the lab guys do their thing,” he said to no one in particular. “Andy, looks like someone sure doesn’t like your column!”

“Funny!” Andrew commented grimly. He was leaning, arms folded, against the wall that separated the living room from his bedroom.

Jim looked at his obviously weary friend, “I guess you won’t be spending the night here. Why don’t you come home with me? I know Jean Ann won’t mind—”

“No, thanks anyway, Jim; I’ll get a room at the WAC, it’s closer to work and,” he paused, “I don’t want to be too far away from here.”