Stuart Woods - Choke

“I’m sure; the place wasn’t all that crowded, and I looked at every face.”

“Okay.”

“Oops, looks like we came up empty,” Daryl said.

“No record,” the computer screen read.

“Try the FBI computer,” Tommy said. “I’m going to get some coffee.”

“Right. Bring me some, will you?”

Tommy walked into the little kitchenette and poured two cups of coffee, black for himself, milk and two sugars for Daryl. One day the kid would learn about coffee, Tommy thought, about how much better it was without all that stuff in it. He returned to the squad room and looked over Daryl’s shoulder.

“Bingo,” Daryl said, hitting the keystrokes for a printout.

Tommy grabbed the sheet as it came out of the printer. “Well, well,” he said. “Mild-mannered Merk wasn’t always so mild-mannered. He had two arrests for assault with a deadly weapon in 1970, in California, no convictions, and lookahere, he got a year for battery in L.A. a few months later and served four months on the county farm. He was picked up on a parole violation, what looks like a barroom brawl a couple of months after that. Then nothing; I guess he’s been clean since then.”

“How old is the guy?” Daryl asked.

Tommy looked at the sheet for Merk’s date of birth. “Fifty-one, why?”

“That would make him the right age for military service during the Vietnam War, wouldn’t it?”

“Daryl, you amaze and astound me. Get off a request to the Department of Defense; let’s see if he has a service record.”

Daryl began typing out the request on the computer. “This’ll take a while,” he said. “We’ll be lucky if we get a reply today.”

“Mark it urgent,” Tommy said. “Say it’s for an investigation of a serious crime.”

Daryl finished the request and sent it out by modem. “Maybe that’ll move them a little quicker.”

“Maybe, but let’s not count on it.” Tommy thought for a minute. “While we’re at it, why don’t we run the record checks on Victor and Chuck. You never know.”

“Okay,” Daryl said, and began typing.

Tommy sat down and sipped his coffee, drumming his fingers on the desk, trying not to think of anything in particular. Sometimes his mind came up with stuff when it was just idling.

After a few minutes, Daryl swiveled around in his chair. “Nothing on either the FBI or Florida state computers. They’re squeaky clean, both of ‘em.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tommy said.

“Tommy,” Daryl said, “do you always think that people you like wouldn’t commit a crime?”

Tommy shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I’m in the habit of thinking the worst of everybody, until they prove me wrong.”

“Even me?”

Tommy grinned. “Especially you, kid.”

When Tommy arrived in the squad room the next morning a secretary handed him an envelope. “This came in late yesterday,” she said.

Daryl arrived while Tommy was opening the envelope. “What’s that?” he asked.

Tommy looked at the sheaf of papers. “It’s a digest of Merk Connor’s service record.”

“Read me the juicy parts,” Daryl said.

Tommy started through the document. “He was drafted in ‘66, right out of college; he went to OCS and got into Special Services.”

“You mean like the Green Berets? Was he in Vietnam?”

“No, like the entertainment and sports services. Yeah, he was in Vietnam, running a tennis program at an officer’s club in Saigon.”

“Not bad duty.”

“Sounds like pretty good duty to me, in the middle of a war and all. Still, he managed to get himself court-martialed.”

“What for?”

“Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,” Tommy read. “I wonder what that means? Sounds like a catchall charge that could cover just about anything.”

“Was he convicted?”

“No, the charges were dropped, and he was, I quote, ‘transferred at the request of his commanding officer.’”

“Sounds like he was told to get the hell out, doesn’t it?”

“Sure does, but that’s all the record says. Wait a minute, he was discharged as a second lieutenant; he didn’t get promoted in three years of service. Now that ought to tell us something. I mean, shavetails get promoted to first lieutenant automatically if they keep their noses clean. He also got a general discharge under honorable circumstances. That’s a peg down from a regular honorable discharge.”

“If you say so. Does it say who his commanding officer was? Maybe we could run him down.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Morrell, it says here.”

“I’ll get some e-mail off to the DOD and see if we can get an address,” Daryl said.

“Let me phone instead, see if I can press them for an immediate answer; it’s all in their computer.” Tommy picked up the phone, consulted a directory, and called the Pentagon, asking for personnel records.

“Active or retired?” the sergeant asked.

“I’m not sure; try retired.” He gave the officer’s name and listened to the keystrokes on the other end.

“Here we go, got a pencil?”

“Shoot.” Tommy scribbled down the information, thanked the sergeant, hung up, and handed the results to Daryl. He lives in Fort Myers,” Tommy said. “How far is that?”

“It’s just up the west coast of Florida; there’s a direct flight, I think. If not, there’s one to Naples, and it’s not much of a drive from there.”

Tommy grinned. “I got to go to L.A.; you can have this one.”

“Thanks a lot,” Daryl said.

Daryl flew to Naples, rented a car, and was in Fort Myers by noon. He grabbed a hamburger, then found the colonel’s address, which turned out to be one of an attractive group of condominiums across the road from the beachfront hotels. He found the apartment and knocked.

A gray-haired but very attractive woman answered the door. “Yes?” she said.

Daryl thought she must have been a knockout when she was twenty-one. “Good morning, ma’am,” Daryl said, “I’m looking for Colonel Morrell.”

“He isn’t in right now,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Morrell; may I help you?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am; I’ll have to talk to the colonel himself.”

“With regard to what?” she asked.

Daryl produced his badge. “It’s a police matter,” he said.

The woman’s face fell. “Police?”

“It’s a routine inquiry, ma’am, in connection to somebody he served with.”

“Oh,” she said, looking relieved. “Well, he’s playing golf.” She looked at her watch. “He should be finishing his round soon, and he’ll have lunch at the clubhouse.” She gave Daryl directions. “By the way,” she said, “it’s General Morrell; he retired as a brigadier. You won’t get a thing out of him if you call him Colonel.”

Daryl thanked her and returned to his car.

The golf club was less than five miles away, and, after identifying himself to a security guard, he was directed to the clubhouse. He asked for General Morrell at the pro shop, and the young man pointed outside to two men who were sitting on a bench, removing their golf shoes.

Daryl went outside. “Excuse me, gentlemen, is one of you General Jacob Morrell?”

The older of the two men removed his cap and wiped his head with a towel. He still had a whitewall haircut, even in his mid-sixties. “I’m Jack Morrell,” he said. “Let’s not bother with rank.”

“I wonder if I could speak to you in private, Gen… Mr. Morrell.”

“This is Mark Haber, an old comrade-in-arms,” the general said, nodding to the slightly younger man on the bench beside him. “I don’t have anything to hide from him.”

Daryl produced his badge. “My name is Daryl Haynes; I’m a police officer. I’m looking for information about a man who served under you.”