Robert Randisi - Bullets & Lies

“Mr. Roper,” Westover said. His voice was a rasp, and it seemed painful for him to speak.

“Polly, continue to feed him,” Victoria said. “I’ll talk with him later.”

She turned. “Mr. Roper?”

Roper turned to follow her, thought he should say good-bye to her husband, but finally just wordlessly slipped from the room.

Out in the hall she stopped, hugging herself as if she was cold.

“He came home injured,” she said. “Since that time his health has simply deteriorated. Worse and worse every year.” She looked at him. “He’s just wasting away. The only thing he has left is that medal. To tell you the truth, I don’t care if they take it away from him after he dies, just not before.”

“Why tell him any of this?”

“Because they’ll make a ceremony out of it,” she said. “That’s the way the Army—the government—operates. He’ll know.” She put her hand on his arm and squeezed tightly. “I can’t have that, Mr. Roper. I can’t. I need your help.”

“Mrs. Westover,” he said, “let’s go back downstairs and talk.”

9

They went downstairs, found Harwick pouring himself another cup of tea and eating a second cake. Roper and Victoria sat back down.

“Mrs. Westover—” Roper began.

“Victoria,” she said. “Please.”

“All right, Victoria…why me? I’m a detective. Why wouldn’t you send your lawyer to Washington for this?”

“Because I don’t have the best lawyer in the country working for me, Mr. Roper,” she said. Roper looked at Harwick, who didn’t seem to react. “But if you do this for me, I will have the best detective in the country. I need the best. I need a man who will do what must be done to make sure my husband remains a Medal of Honor winner.”

Roper looked at Harwick, who seemed more concerned with his tea cakes than with the fact that his reputation was being impugned.

“Will you do it?” she asked.

“Victoria…let me think about it overnight,” Roper said. “I’ll give you my answer in the morning. Is that all right?”

“That’s fine, Mr. Roper. Thank you.”

Harwick drove Roper back to his hotel in silence, but when they arrived and stepped down, he said to Roper, “May I buy you a drink? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Sure. You want to come inside?”

They went into the bar that was attached to the hotel. It was small, with half a dozen tables and a bar that was barely six feet long. Based on its size and appearance, it was meant to serve guests rather than the public. It was still early, so there were plenty of places at the bar and tables to be had. They got a beer each and took them to a table.

“What’s on your mind, Harwick?”

“I would like to try to influence your decision about whether or not to go to Washington, D.C.”

“You want to try to talk me into it?” Roper asked. “I’m going to give it some thought tonight—”

“No, sir, you don’t understand,” Harwick said. “I’d like you not to go.”

Roper took a sip of beer while studying the attorney.

“Why would you want me not to go, Harwick? Victoria is your client.”

“Yes, she is,” Harwick said. “She’s also my…my friend. I don’t want her to be hurt.”

“It seems to me all she’s been going through for years is hurt,” Roper said. “It also seems to me when her husband dies, the hurt will stop—that is, unless they take away his Medal of Honor. Then the hurt will go on and on for her.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Harwick said. “The government won’t relent on this. No matter how hard she tries.”

“You think she’ll be hurt more by the effort?” Roper asked.

“I do, yes.”

“Harwick, what do you know that you’re not telling me?”

The man looked around nervously, then back at Roper. He played with his beer mug but never took a drink, yet he was licking his lips as if they were dry.

“During the war,” he said, “there was a group of two hundred men who were all awarded the Medal of Honor at the same time. Do you know what they did?”

“No,” Roper said, “what did they do to deserve the honor?”

“They reenlisted.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all. The Army is going to take their medals back.”

“Seems to me they should,” Roper said. “What did Westover get his medal for?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you’re afraid Victoria will find that her husband got the medal for something as mundane as simply reenlisting?”

“Perhaps,” Harwick said. “I’m not sure—I don’t know—she might already know why he got it. Mr. Roper, I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go to D.C.”

“Well, Mr. Harwick, I did promise Mrs. Westover I would think about it overnight, and I will. I’ll give her my answer in the morning.”

“Well…all I ask is that you please also give what I said some thought.”

“Sure,” Roper said. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yes, all right,” Harwick said. He stood up. “I must be going.”

“I’ll stay awhile,” Roper said, “finish my beer.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll, uh, talk tomorrow morning, then.”

“Yes,” Roper said. “Tomorrow morning.”

Harwick stood to leave but hesitated.

“Something else?” Roper asked.

“I…never thanked you properly for saving my life on the train.”

“That’s okay, Harwick,” Roper said. “It was my job.”

“Still…thank you.”

As the attorney left the bar, Roper couldn’t help feeling that there was something else at play here. Something he wasn’t aware of.

10

That night Talbot Roper did a lot of hard thinking in his room.

Part of Roper’s reluctance to take the job was that he’d have to go to D.C. It had been a lot of years since he’d been to Washington. Also a lot of years since he’d had dealings with the government.

But then there was the money. He’d lied in Denver when he told Harwick money didn’t impress him. Numbers with lots of zeroes impressed him quite a bit, and Victoria Westover was waving a lot of zeroes in his face.

And then there was his own curiosity. What had Howard Westover won his medal for? If he deserved it, he should be able to keep it; he should be able to die a Medal of Honor winner.

The image of Westover in the wheelchair being fed oatmeal came back to him. He shook his head to dispel it, walked to the window to look out at the dark street below.

He turned, looked back at the few feet he’d walked to get there from the bed. It was something Howard Westover couldn’t do anymore.

Roper decided to go to D.C., at least to see what the government was planning to do and why. Decision made, he returned to the bed and picked up the Mark Twain novel he’d been carrying with him on his journey. He’d read for a little while to calm his mind of the day’s events before turning in for the night.

In the morning Roper had breakfast in the dining room. He was not disappointed when the lawyer, Harwick, did not appear. There was something about the man he didn’t like, and it had to do with the way he looked at his employer, Victoria Westover.

“Anything else, sir?” the waiter asked.

Roper looked at the man. He was middle-aged and performed his job as if he had been doing it forever.

“What’s your name, waiter?”

“Andrew, sir.”

“Are you from Hurricane?” Roper asked him.

“Yes, sir, been here all my life. It’s a lovely place to live.”

“I met two of your citizens yesterday, Howard and Victoria Westover.”

“Yes, sir, they do live inside our town limits. Nice people.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, sir.”