David Rosenfelt - First degree

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end is immediately recognizable, as it should be, since I heard it a number of times earlier today. It is the computer-masked female voice that in the 911 call identified Oscar Garcia as Dorsey's murderer.

"Mr. Carpenter, you're not looking in the right place."

This of course is not exactly shocking news. "Where should I be looking?" I ask.

"Vietnam. That's where it began. That's where you'll find the connection."

"Connection between who? Dorsey and Cahill?"

There is no answer, and I'm desperately afraid she's going to hang up. "Come on, please," I say, "what about Vietnam? I need more to go on."

Again there is no answer; for all I know she may not even be on the phone any longer. Then she answers hesitantly, as if not sure whether to tell me more. "Talk to Terry Murdoch."

"Who is he? Where is he?"

Click.

I don't even put down the phone; I just dial Kevin's number.

"Hello?" he answers with not a trace of sleepiness in his voice.

"What time do lieutenant colonels go to sleep?" I ask.

KEVIN IS OVER BY SIX IN THE MORNING TO JUMP-start our weekend. He informs me that, even though he planned to call his brother-in-law this morning, he couldn't resist and called him last night. It was a great thing to do, because it, has already gotten the ball rolling.

Lieutenant Colonel Prentice has already contacted the Records Division at Fort Monmouth and instructed them to fully cooperate with our investigation. He's established a liaison there, Captain Gary Reid, to deal with us.

Laurie is just getting up as Kevin and I are ready to leave for Fort Monmouth. She's excited about the news and the possibilities it represents and amazed that so much has happened while she was asleep. I can tell it's killing her that she can't go with us today, but she's forced to leave it up to us.

Fort Monmouth is located on the Jersey Shore and is surrounded by beach communities. We've left early to try to beat the beach traffic, but the only way to really do so would be to leave in February.

It's a phenomenon that has always amazed me. People get in their cars in the height of the summer heat and crawl along for two or three hours, all for the right to spend an afternoon lying in grainy dirt, baking, sweating, and burning under a barrage of cancer-causing rays. Their only escape is to enter the water, which can best be described as a freezing, salty urinal. Then, unless they've endured the day covered with sticky grease, they can spend the two or three hours on the way home watching their skin blister.

As you may have noticed, I'm the type of guy who sees the ocean as half-empty.

We arrive at Fort Monmouth, though the only thing that tips us off to the fact that it's an army post is the "U.S. Army" sign at the main gate. It is basically an office complex of nondescript brick buildings, set in the middle of a residential area. For every soldier we see walking around, there are three or four civilian workers. Kevin, whose mind is filled with obscure knowledge like this, tells me that the fort is mainly involved with electronics and that its chaplain school has recently been moved to Maryland.

We head to the main building, and Captain Reid is there to meet us. He is the personification of the buttoned-down military man and looks as if he had his uniform pressed while he was in it. He openly tells us that the order from Lieutenant Colonel Prentice was quite clear: He is to do whatever is necessary to facilitate our investigation. Which is good, because there is no doubt that this is a guy who follows orders.

Captain Reid assigns four young enlisted men to do our bidding. It gives me a feeling of power; I'm tempted to send them into Guatemala Bay to rescue the otters. But first things first, and we request all military files related to Dorsey and Cahill, as well as a search for any records for a Terry Murdoch, the only stipulation being that he be someone who served during the Vietnam era.

Within moments we are looking at and comparing the military histories of Dorsey and Cahill. The files are quite detailed, listing on an almost daily basis every commendation, every assignment, every communication, even every illness that they had.

There are similarities to be sure. Both were Army Special Forces, both had advanced infantry training and were considered outstanding soldiers, and both served a lengthy hitch in Vietnam. Dorsey's time there started two months after Cahill's, which means they overlapped for a long time.

Unfortunately, there is no obvious connection. The two men came from different parts of the country, went to different schools, trained stateside at different posts, and were assigned to different divisions in Vietnam. There is no evidence, at least none that we can see, that they knew each other. Certainly nothing that should have caused them both to die, their deaths interrelated, all these years later.

Captain Reid comes in with the military records of two men and one woman, all named Terry Murdoch. They all served in Vietnam, but only one of the men was there at the same time as Cahill and Dorsey. He was also Special Forces, advanced infantry, and much decorated, but again has no other obvious connection to the others. Murdoch left the army in 1975, and as with Cahill and Dorsey, that is when the army lost track of him.

"Do you have any idea where we could find him now?" I ask Reid.

"We don't keep those records," he says, "but we have some resources we can call upon when it's absolutely necessary."

He says this cryptically and ominously, and I'm afraid to ask him what he's talking about, since if he tells me, he might have to kill me. Kevin's not the bravest guy either; right now he wouldn't open his mouth if I offered him a raspberry turnover.

"Lieutenant Colonel Prentice indicated everything was possible," I say.

Reid smiles. "Yes, he did."

Reid leaves, suggesting we go over to the mess hall, as aptly named an establishment as has ever existed, for lunch. I just have some coffee, then watch as even Kevin is challenged to find something edible. Finally, he settles on a plate of what looks like baked linoleum. He puts things in his stomach I wouldn't put in a Dumpster.

"It's not bad," he says, and goes up to see if he can negotiate another helping. The server agrees; I'm sure it's the first time he's ever been confronted with a request for seconds. Kevin is polishing off plate number two when a soldier comes in and summons us back to see Captain Reid.

"You guys get enough to eat?" Reid asks us when we return.

"I would say we both had as much as we wanted," I say.

"Good. Terry Murdoch has not exactly been a credit to the army since he went civilian."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"He's currently serving time in Lansing."

Lansing is a federal prison in Pennsylvania, less than a hundred miles from here. "What is he in for?"

"Counterfeiting," he says. "Twenty-five to life, must serve the twenty-five minimum?"

"Which means he can't get out until he's seventy-five years old. Can you get us in to talk to him?"

Reid hesitates. "Lieutenant Colonel Prentice didn't mention anything about interceding with federal prison authorities."

"I'm sure it just slipped his mind," I say, and then turn to Kevin. "He's your brother-in-law, why don't you call and ask him?"

Captain Reid shakes his head with authority. Actually, he does everything with authority. "Won't be necessary," he says. "When do you want to go?"

It's getting late in the day, and we haven't done any case preparation yet. I also want some time to figure out how to approach Murdoch, so I say, "How about tomorrow, late afternoon?"

Reid nods. "Done. He'll be expecting you. Whether he talks to you or not is up to him."

Reid tells me that I should not hesitate to contact him if I need anything else, so before we leave, I test that by asking if we can have copies of the files on all three men. Within moments I have them. This kind of power is so intoxicating that I've decided I want to be a lieutenant colonel when I grow up.