J. Margos: Shattered Image

© 2004

While the City of Austin, the City of Houston and the Towns of Manor, Giddings and Hempstead exist, the persons and events that take place in this story are fictional and do not reflect any real persons or events. Any resemblance by any characters herein, or this story, to real persons or events is purely coincidental. Further, the Towns of Angler’s Point, Rock Hill and Viola, to the best of the author’s knowledge, are fictional places.

This book is dedicated to my father, Louis Gregory Margos, Jr., who didn’t live to see me complete this work, much less to appreciate its publication. He was an amateur (only in the sense of wages) race driver, a master mechanic, and a machinist and heli-arc welder with a penchant for restoring classic Mustangs. He taught me some of the best things I know, including an appreciation for great automobiles and the proper way to take a hairpin turn. He was father, hero, teacher and friend. I love you, Daddy. “Drive on!”

Louis Gregory Margos, Jr.

1922-1994

May his memory be eternal

First of all, I would like to thank my mother, who never faltered in her support of me during all my writing projects. She made sacrifices to assure my success, and I could not have accomplished any of this without her. I love you very much, Mom.

Also, thanks to my two sisters, Carol and Jill, who are my best friends and buck me up when I’m down, with a special thanks to Carol for shooting my photo. Thanks to my brother-in-law, Myron, for helping me with all the stuff I don’t know how to do, and to my niece and nephew, Jeni and Gregory, for just being themselves. Also thanks goes to my dear friend, Sue Stevens, who constantly gives me moral support and kicks my rear as necessary. Thanks also to Mary Long (aka the “Kid”) who gives pretty good advice for a youngster.

Thanks to my godfather, Deacon George Bithos and his great wife, Presvytera Ria, for all their support and understanding, and for being part of my family and letting me be part of theirs.

I would also like to thank my Spiritual Father, Fr. Jordan G. Brown, who advised me in many spiritual areas both as background for this book, and just in general over the many years we have been friends and spiritual relatives.

To my friend, John Esper, for brainstorming on the title. Nice work, dude.

Special thanks goes to my agent Helen Breitwieser, who believed in me at a time when I had begun to lose that belief in myself. I did not expect such steadfast encouragement, advice and undaunted support. I am blessed, Helen, by your professionalism and your friendship.

Thanks also goes to my mentor in business, and attorney, W. Robert Dyer, Jr. Bob, you took a stupid kid and educated her. The things you have taught me have proven invaluable indeed. I don’t know where I’d be in life without your guidance and support, I just know I’m glad I won’t have to find out.

Finally, it is fitting and right that we should all acknowledge all the women and men who served in the Vietnam War, but in particular those women and men who served so valiantly in the medical field, facing death to save life. I would most especially like to acknowledge and thank my friends Doyle Dunn (who served in Vietnam in the American Red Cross) and his wife, Lauri Dunn, R.N., former captain in the United States Air Force and a Vietnam veteran. Both Lauri and Doyle were an invaluable resource to me in the writing of this book. Thank you so very much for all of your help to me, and for serving our country in such a difficult time.

Thanks and acknowledgment to the great teams at CILHI (Central Identification Laboratory Hawaii) who make incredible sacrifices and go to the far reaches of this planet to bring home our departed soldiers.

I would also like to acknowledge and pay tribute to all of those Americans who died in Vietnam in the service of our country (8 women and over 58,000 men) and to the many-too many-who still remain missing in action. At this writing, there are still more than 1,900 Americans missing in action from the Vietnam War-lest we ever forget.

May their memory be eternal.

The dense fog slithered up the riverbank, coiling itself around the traffic light ahead of me and partially obscuring the green glow until I was underneath it. With daylight barely peeking over the limestone cliffs on the other bank, the fog was an especially unwanted handicap. I plunged the clutch pedal into the floor and, feeling the ball of the gearshift lever in the palm of my hand, I eased the stick down into second, slid the clutch slowly out of the floor and appreciated the rumble of the downshift and the tug of the engine braking. With my left palm I wheeled the car into a left turn and began my descent down the hill to the low-water bridge below the Tom Miller Dam. They called that machine of mine a Mustang, but it had a roar and rumble more like a wildcat.

I pulled the car over to the edge of the road when I reached the island in the middle of the bridge. Red Bud Isle they called it, but on that morning it was a gray silhouette on gray water shrouded in a thick, gray mist. I was sick of this weather and ready for spring and Texas sunshine.

I could see red and blue strobing lights through the underbelly of the fog. Bones found on the riverbank of Red Bud Isle had attracted a large and serious crowd, and I was about to become part of it. It would be my job to put a face back on the deceased.

As I turned off the key, I saw Malcolm walking toward the car. His uniform looked as if he’d slept in it.

“Well, Toni, I could sure hear those wheels comin’ before I ever saw them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow, what a machine. You know Steve McQueen drove one like this in Bullitt.”

“Mine is a ’65.”

“It’s just like the one McQueen drove.”

“McQueen’s was a ’67. Where’s Chris, Malcolm?”

“Sorry, Toni, off to the right-hand side of the bridge here, and then down on this side of the island.”

I began to walk toward the area to which Malcolm had directed me.

“Toni, can I drive it sometime?”

“Absolutely not, Malcolm,” I called over my shoulder, stifling what I really wanted to say. Somehow Malcolm always brought out the worst in me. I should have been more patient and tolerant. Satan sends the simple to make us stumble.

It was cool out and the dampness of the fog added even more of a chill. I was wearing my jeans and black western boots, with the pointy toes like a real Texan, and an old faded yellow T-shirt. Most people would have worn a light jacket in the cool air, but I was enjoying it in my shirtsleeves.

This was the least favorite part of my job as a forensic sculptor, but a necessary part of it nevertheless. Luckily, most of the bodies I saw in my work were devoid of flesh-a far cry from the sights I had seen in Vietnam as a nurse.

I made my way through the redbuds and other trees that covered the islet. The trees were dense and the underbrush was thick in between them. Boots and jeans were definitely the right gear to be wearing. Straight in front of me, several hundred feet beyond the tip of the island loomed the concrete face of the Tom Miller Dam. The soft rushing of the water from the hydraulic power plant provided backup for the mourning doves cooing their morning song. As I made my way through the foliage, the smell of damp earth, tree buds and tall grasses moistened by dew filled the air. The fog was lifting with the sunrise and thinning to a wispy ribbon overhead and I could see the back of Dr. Christine Nakis, the Travis County medical examiner, near the island’s edge. Her short, dark hair curled over the collar of her lab coat and she stood with both hands on her hips overseeing the excavation of Austin’s latest John or Jane Doe. Between Chris and the river was a muddy area where the excavation was being carried out by three forensic technicians.