Robert Crais - The Last Detective

"- I was there, lady, I know!"

But he wasn't. Only five of us were in the jungle that day, and the other four died. Crom Johnson's body was never recovered, but his head had come apart in my hands.

I played it again.

"I know what happened and you don't, so LISTEN!"

He sounded angry, but the anger rode the top of his voice. His words should have hummed with rage the way a power line sings from the energy burning through it, but he seemed to be saying the words without truly feeling them.

I made a fresh cup of coffee, then listened to the tape again. The false quality in his tone convinced me that he did not know me or the others – he was faking. I had spent all evening unsuccessfully trying to figure out who he was, but maybe the answer was to figure out how he knew what he knew. If he hadn't served with me, then how did he know about Rodriguez and Abbott? How did he know our team number, and that I was the only one who survived?

The house creaked like a beast shifting in its sleep. The stairs to my loft grew threatening; the hall to Ben's room ended in darkness. The man on the tape had watched me and my house, so he had known when we were home and when we weren't. I went upstairs for the cigar box, and sat with it on the floor.

When a soldier mustered out of the Army, he or she was given what was known as a Form 214. The 214 showed the soldier's dates of service, the units in which he served, his training, and a list of any citations he received; kind of a one-line version of his career. Details were few. But whenever a soldier was awarded a medal or commendation, he or she was also given a copy of orders accompanying the medal, and those orders described why the Army saw fit to make its presentation. Rod, Teddy, and the others had died, and I had been given a five-pointed star with a red, white, and blue ribbon. I had never worn it, but I kept the orders. I reread them. The description of the events that day were slight, and included the name of only one other man involved, Roy Abbott. None of the others were mentioned. The man who took Ben could have gotten some of his information from my house, but not all of it.

It was ten minutes after five when I folded the papers and put them aside. Ben had been missing for over thirty six hours. I hadn't slept in almost fifty. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, then put on fresh clothes. At exactly six A.M., I called the Army's Department of Personnel in St. Louis. It was eight A.M. in St. Louis; the Army was open for business.

I asked to speak with someone in the records department. An older man picked up the call.

"Records. This is Stivic."

I identified myself as a veteran, then gave him my date of separation and social security number.

I said, "I want to find out if anyone has requested my 201 file. Would you guys have a record of that?"

Where the 214 was the skeleton of a military record, a soldier's 201 file contained the detailed history of his career. Maybe my 201 showed the other names. Maybe the man on the tape had been able to get a copy, and that's how he knew about Rodriguez and Johnson.

"We'd have a record if it was sent."

"How can I find out?"

"You'd know. Anyone can get your 214, but your 201 is private. We don't give out the 201 without written permission unless it's by court order."

I said, "What if someone pretended to be me?"

"You mean, like you could be someone else pretending to be you right now?"

"Yeah. Like that."

Now Stivic sounded pissed off.

"What kind of bullshit is this, a joke?"

"My house was robbed. Someone stole my 214, and I think he might've gotten my 201 for nefarious purposes."

I probably shouldn't have used "nefarious"; it sounded like bad television.

Stivic said, "Okay, look: The 201 doesn't work that way. If you wanted a copy of your 201, you'd have to file the request in writing, along with your thumb print. If someone else wanted your 201, say, for a job application or something like that, you'd still have to give your permission. Like I already told you, the only way someone gets that 201 without you knowing about it is by court order. So unless this guy stole your thumb, you don't have to sweat it."

"I still want to know if someone requested it, and I don't have eight weeks to wait for the answer."

"We have thirty-two people in our department. We ship two thousand pieces of mail every day. You want me to holler if anyone remembers your name?"

I said, "Were you a Marine?"

"Master Sergeant, retired. If you want to know who requested what, gimme your fax number and I'll see what I can do. If not, it's been nice talkin' to ya."

I gave him my fax number just to keep him going.

"I have one more question, Master Sergeant."

"Shoot."

"My 201, can you pull it up there on your computer?"

"Forget it. I'm not telling you anything that's on anyone's 201."

"I just want to know if it contains an account of a certain action. I don't want you to give me the information, just whether or not the account contains two names. If it does, I'll request the file, and you can have all the thumb prints you want. If not, then I'm wasting both our time."

He hesitated.

"Is this a combat action?"

"Yes, sir."

He hesitated again, thinking about it.

"What's that name?"

I heard him punching keys as I told him, then the soft whistle of his breath.

"Are the names Cromwell Johnson and Luis Rodriguez in the report?"

His voice came back hoarse.

"Yes, they are. Ah, you still want to know if anyone requested this file?"

"I do, Master Sergeant."

"Gimme your phone number and I'll walk it through myself. It might take a few days, but I'll do that much for you."

"Thanks, Master Sergeant. I really appreciate this."

I gave him my phone number, then started to hang up. He stopped me.

"Mr. Cole, ah, listen…, you would've made a good Marine. I woulda been proud to serve with ya."

"They made it sound better than it was."

His voice grew soft.

"No. No, they don't do that. I spent thirty-two years in the Marine Corps, and now I'm on this phone 'cause I lost my foot in the Gulf. I know how they make it sound. I know what's what. So I'll walk this through for you, Mr. Cole, that's the goddamned least I can do."

He hung up before I could thank him again. These old Marines are amazing.

It was not quite six-thirty, which made it almost nine-thirty in Middletown, New York. If the man on the tape didn't or couldn't scam a copy of my 201, then the only other name he had to work with was Roy Abbott. The day would be half over for a family of dairy farmers. I had written to the Abbotts about Roy 's death, and spoken with them once. I didn't remember Mr. Abbott's first name, but the New York Information operator showed only seven Abbotts in Middletown, and she was happy to run through the list. I remembered his name when I heard it. She read off the number, then I hung up. I thought about what I would say and how I would say it. Hi, this is Elvis Cole, does anyone in your family want to kill me? Nothing seemed right and everything seemed awkward. Remember the day Roy came home in a box? I made another cup of coffee, then forced myself back to the phone. I called.

An older woman answered.

"Mrs. Abbott?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"My name is Elvis Cole. I served with Roy. I spoke with you a long time ago. Do you remember?"

My hands shook. Probably from the coffee.

She spoke to someone in the background, and Mr. Abbott came on the line.

"This is Dale Abbott. Who is this, please?"

He sounded the way Roy described him plain-spoken and honest, with the nasal twang of an upstate farmer.

"Elvis Cole. I was with Roy in Vietnam. I wrote to you about what happened a long time ago, and then we spoke."