The Sixteenth Man

by Thomas B. Sawyer

  It was the first time Packard had seen her smile. It was lovely.

  “Anyway – when I was in high school I started to wonder about them – the Callans. It felt as if practically my entire heritage consisted of the postcard and the pictures. And remembering my mother going on about her dad. So I started writing to the Reno newspaper, and Los Angeles – oh, and even Moab.” She burrowed into her backpack, found a manila envelope. “Their Public Library sent me copies of the local paper – from around the date on the postcard – but there’s no mention of him.”

  She passed the envelope to Packard, who removed a sheaf of letter-size photocopies, reduced images of the weekly Moab Mirror-Gazette.

  The first was the November 26, 1963 edition. A black border surrounded the left-hand column. A photograph of an American flag with a black banner flying above it. The headline read Moab Joins Nation in Mourning Pres. Kennedy. Other front page stories reported that John Ford had completed location filming in the Moab area for his next movie, “Cheyenne Autumn,” the local high school basketball team, the Red Devils, would begin its season on Saturday, and The Astronauts, “a nationally famous 5 piece dance band,” had been signed for the annual Christmas Dance.

  The following week’s paper, dated December 3, contained similarly unremarkable news. Masonry work was nearing completion on the new addition to the Grand County Courthouse, local oil exploration was increasing, the Lions’ smorgasbord was scheduled for the next Monday. The only report of anything untoward was an incident on the 27th of November in which Sheriff’s Deputies killed a man who started shooting at them from behind a tree across from the west side of the Courthouse. One of his stray bullets had killed a bystander, Mary Ann Gruber, 21, from Minneapolis. The shooter, whose motives were unclear, was Theodore Beasley, 40, a salesman from San Francisco. And later that day, the body of a man identified as Arthur Corman, 42, of Teaneck, New Jersey was found in the Courthouse lavatory, apparently bludgeoned to death. A Sheriff’s spokesman was unsure if it was connected to the earlier gunplay.

  “Three people killed on the same day in a small town, and none of them were locals...” Packard looked up at Kate. “You think this might have something to do with your grandfather?”

  Kate spread her palms. “And it’s the same date as the postcard.”

  “Which is the only sign he was in Moab.” Packard glanced at the story again. “All right – suppose – suppose he was the man in the lavatory – or the shooter.”

  “I guess he could’ve been, but it seems to me somebody would’ve correctly identified him eventually. I went there – a little over a year ago. Checked about six months’ worth of their newspaper, police records, even tried the hotels and motels in the area. Made a real pest of myself. One or two were able to dig out their registers from back then, but...nothing.”

  Except – there it was again, rattling around in Packard’s head. No clear lines between the dots, but rather the furtive, growing, almost palpable sense of some obscure, Byzantine path – from the man in the photographs, across the decades to the confluence of events the past few days. The hairs at the back of his neck felt electric. He moved to the sink, trying to buy a rational, thought-collecting moment or two while he rinsed his mug.

  C’mon, pal – this isn’t an episode of The X-Files. How much am I buying into because of my own curiosity about this guy – because of the lady’s earnestness, her vulnerability? Okay – and the way she looks and smells – like – what is it – pine needles?

  Packard glanced briefly at the pretty young woman sitting at his kitchen counter rereading the newspaper clippings. And he knew the answer.

  Time to disengage.

  “Dr. Packard, all of it, my parents’ deaths, everything else, it had to be connected to---”

  “Kate, stop!” Packard turned, annoyed finally. Mostly at himself for letting it go this far. He rubbed his forehead. “You’re telling me that – what – whoever the hell these people were – all those years later they were still burglarizing and killing and - and setting fires for the same reasons – none of which you understand? And now they’re at it again?”

  “That’s – yes, that’s what I’m trying to explain. For a long time, when I was little, I never thought about it, but – those men – that murdered my parents? They weren’t burglars.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was nearer to them than I am to you right now. They were wearing regular clothes. Suits. With creases. And their shoes were shined.”

  FOURTEEN

  1963

  Friday, November 22nd

  A billboard indicated they were entering O’Donnel, Texas. Charlie switched off the headlights as he rolled slowly past rows of parked 18-wheelers and on around to the rear of the truckstop. Away from the highway. In a few minutes the sun would clear the low cloudbank off his right shoulder. Marjorie was still behind him at the wheel of his Chevvie. He backed the red pickup into one of an adjacent pair of parking spaces flanked by large semis. Marjorie pulled in beside him. Charlie killed the engine, rubbed his temples, the stubble on his jaw. It had been a long night. His brain was additionally weary from questioning and re-questioning his moves. Did they get rid of all the blood in Room 18? Did they rumple the fresh bedding sufficiently to fool the chambermaid? Did he put enough weights on the corpse to keep it submerged for a few days? How soon before anyone notices Joe Bob Millgrim has disappeared?

  Charlie climbed out. Marjorie was still in the Chevvie, putting on her face. He lifted the tarp at the rear of the truck, removed the bundle of soiled bed linens and towels, the mop and bucket. He grabbed the boots and Stetson in his free hand. Marjorie joined him, looking remarkably good given the hour and wear-and-tear; her expertise with makeup left barely a sign of the bruises Joe Bob had inflicted on her eye and cheekbone. They deposited boots and hat in the Chevvie’s trunk. Then, as they passed the restaurant’s trashbin, Charlie disposed of the other stuff.

  Charlie ordered pancakes and sausages. Double. Marjorie asked for the fruit bowl. As the waitress left Marjorie sipped her tea, then: “Why’re you doing this?”

  “C’mon...”

  “But – you wouldn’t have even been there if it wasn’t for---”

  He cut her off. “Look, it’s done, okay...?” He glanced at the time. Not quite 7 AM. “Or it will be in a few minutes.” Charlie knew that if he began analyzing it he’d come back to figuring he was a schmuck. Besides, if his plan worked there’d be plenty of time down the line for self-recrimination. “So anyway – how did he find out? About the eight years.”

  “Our first anniversary? My present. He decided to surprise me – to track down a copy of my high school yearbook. From some service that youknow finds odd books?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “When we were going together I said all that stuff had been lost years ago in a fire.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Mm. Childhood pictures, scrapbooks. Everything. You know how there’s always cars and fashions and stuff that dates them. So anyway there I am in the poolhouse getting a massage and Stan comes barging in and yells at Inga to get out. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way his face looked. Like he’d caught me youknow fooling around – only worse.”

  “So at this point you and Joe Bob...”

  “I hadn’t even met him. Hey, up till then, Stan and I – everything was great...” Marjorie reflected, then: “I mean what the hell, Charlie – everybody lies about their age, right? Especially women.” She shuddered, wrapped both hands around her tea-mug, as if needing the warmth. “Christ, I’ve been fudging it since my late 20’s.”

  Charlie watched her looking inward, remembering. He lit a Camel.

  Marjorie returned to the present. “Anyway it was like everything just – turned to shit. Bang. Like he was never going to forgive me. Ever. Or come near me again.”

  “He sorta mentioned it, but mostly it was about youknow the cowboy.”

  “Yeah well can you blame me? Besides, I think
I’m in pretty goddam good shape for 41 – well, okay – 42.”

  Charlie nodded, recalling how she looked through his camera viewfinder. “I’ve gotta give you that.” He glanced around at the breakfast-crowd. Over-the-roaders throwing horny looks her way. And why not? Marjorie radiated a quality that reminded Charlie of a movie actress back when he was a kid – Gloria Grahame – who wasn’t gorgeous, but always struck him as if five minutes earlier she’d had this great, raunchy roll in the hay.

  “Joe Bob...” She paused. “...He certainly thought so. And showed it. About four times a day.”

  Charlie picked a piece of tobacco off the tip of his tongue. “And this yearbook Stan gotcha – you’re not in it.”

  “Right. The 1947 one. Only instead of youknow asking me why, he calls my high school – back in Norman? Oklahoma? And of course they told him there was no Marjorie Olsen in any of the classes that year.”

  “Yeah, well, you can see where that could make a guy curious.”

  “He says his first thought was I was a youknow criminal, hiding out or something, like with an alias. So that’s when he calls the Norman City Hall and cons the records clerk that he’s a cop from I think he said from Tulsa or someplace and this was a criminal investigation...”

  “He asked me how to run that gag. Coupla months ago. I offered to do it for him, but he said no, just tell him how.”

  “Anyway, the guy tells him the only Marjorie Ann Olsen they had wasn’t born August 12, 1929 – it was August 12, 1921.”

  “A Leo.”

  “That’s what Stan said. He went ‘Trouble. I shoulda known.’ Eight lousy years...”

  “So instead of a coupla years younger than Stan---”

  “I’m five older. Like I said, is that so fucking awful?”

  “Hey, it’s just – that kinda thing can be a shock to a guy’s system.”

  “Okay. But enough to – to wipe out everything else...?” Marjorie glanced at the fruit bowl placed before her by the tall, angular waitress, then continued. “...Like that? To totally refuse to touch me – to let me touch him?”

  The waitress shook her head sympathetically. “Jesus, we must attract the same kinda creep.” She glowered at Charlie as if he might be the lowlife in question – or his advocate. She shoved his pancakes-and-sausages in front of him, moved off.

  Marjorie shared a brief, tacit everybody’s-got-problems look with Charlie, then became distant, watching a livestock rig roll past, heading east on 213. She smiled ironically. “You know the hardest part...?” She looked back at Charlie. “...It’s where I’m talking to people and I hafta keep editing how far back I remember stuff. Youknow major events. They start in on World War Two and I’m like oboy, let’s see – that’s 1943, I’m 22, minus... And I’d go ‘Gosh, I was just a kid then, but I remember my mother saying – whatever whatever...’ Or else I’d go ‘Oh yes, I believe I recall reading about that.’”

  Charlie empathized, thinking about how tiring it was keeping track of the lies he told Phyllis. He realized he was famished, stubbed the cigarette, slathered butter on his pancakes, drowned them in syrup. Stan had been crazy about Marjorie. A lifelong bachelor who’d had his mother living with him till two years ago when she died. Charlie scarfed a forkful.

  Marjorie continued. “I mean my skin doesn’t feel any different. I’m just as good in the sack. Better, probably.” She stirred her tea. “Anyway, that’s how come I took up with Joe Bob. And now look at the mess I made.”

  Charlie, with his mouth full: “Tell me something. Coupla nights ago, that wasn’t the first time he cuffed you around.”

  Marjorie moved the fruit around with her fork, shook her head. “From the start.”

  “Lemme guess. You sorta figured you deserved it.”

  Charlie caught the flash of hostility. Bullseye. He looked at his wristwatch. 7 o’clock. 5AM out in Reno. The hour when Stan Brodax starts his day. “Time to take our shot.” As if to fortify his resolve, he shoved another forkful into his mouth.

  “Good...” Unconvincingly.

  Consciously trying to avoid re-examining his decision, Charlie reached across, squeezed her hand, rose. “Hey, we’re gonna make it work.”

  Marjorie answered with a brave, skeptical smile, slid out of the booth, followed him to the payphone near the restrooms.

  Stan Brodax’s bark interrupted the sixth ring: “Yeah?”

  Charlie grimaced, jerking the phone away from his ear, where he held it so Marjorie could listen. “It’s me, Stan. Charlie. Listen, there’s been some really interesting dev---”

  “Hey, can this keep? I just got outa the shower I’m soakin’ wet.”

  Charlie knew this was going to be uphill, didn’t want to stew about it any longer. “No, it can’t, Stan. First off, it’s over. The cowboy’s gone. Out of the picture.”

  “Charlie, what the fuck’re you talking about?”

  “Stan, it wasn’t what you thought it was. Or what I thought. What it was was – it turns out Marjorie never ran off with him---”

  “Oforchristsake---”

  “Listen to me, pal. The sonofabitch kidnapped her.”

  “Charlie – Charlie, c’mon – whoa. What’s goin’ on there? You drunk or something?”

  “It’s the truth. All he used her for was a punching bag. Last night when I was settin’ up to take the pictures, he damn near killed her. Damn near killed me too when I went in there. A wild man. But I finally got the best of him. Sent the bastard packing.

  “Jesus... Look, why - why’re you bullshitting me like this?”

  “I’m not. Marjorie – she was his goddam prisoner. She never submitted to him except a coupla times when he punched her out her till she was almost unconscious.”

  “She told you that.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you fucking believe her.”

  “Stan, I saw him with my own eyes. Beat her I mean. The first time I decided hey he’s youknow she just pissed him off. But it turns out the guy’s nuts. I mean you should see her bruises. The poor kid’s been getting pounded on for days now. And---”

  “Hey – stop. What, did they buy you off? That’s it, isn’t it? They’re payin’ you more than I am, right?”

  “Hey, pal, think. We’ve known each other for what - ten - twelve years. Would I do that to you? Could I? I mean we live in the same town forgodsake.”

  Silence. Charlie shook a Camel out of his pack, imagined Stan sitting on the edge of his bed, paunch on his thighs, towel in hand, trying to work through it. “Another thing. Do I strike you as the kinda guy who’d blow off a fifteen grand bonus – with that piece of shit I’m driving and a bum septic tank and a knocked-up kid and my business in the dumper?

  “Lynnie? She’s...?”

  “Yeah.”

  Another silence, then: “Okay. What?”

  “There’s somebody wants to talk to you.” He found a matchbook in his trouser-pocket.

  “Forget it.”

  “Stan – she---” The sound of Marjorie blowing her nose caused Charlie to look at her. She was holding a wadded paper napkin, eyes teary. Charlie held the mouthpiece closer to her, hoping she’d sob loud enough for Stan to hear. “She’s been crying her eyes out since last night.”

  “She – she fucking lied to me.”

  “What – a coupla three years? She’s still the same lady you married. Besides – are you gonna stand there and tell me you never lied for something you wanted...?”

  Stan didn’t answer. Charlie passed the phone to Marjorie, stepped aside.

  She sniffled, then, her voice small: “Stan...? It is. True. All of it... I don’t know. I must’ve smiled at him and he took it as a come-on... I know I know...”

  Charlie stared at the match he’d just struck. And thought about how badly he wanted to lay down and get some sleep.

  Marjorie blew her nose again. “You’re right about that, too... No, honey, I can’t. It was too horrible. I don’t want to think about it – ever...”

&
nbsp; She was good. Charlie pictured Stan getting turned on by the image of Marjorie naked, tied to the bed while the cowboy had his way with her.

  “So? So – if it still means anything – I love you...” Her voice became stronger. “Well, I want to come back. I mean if youknow after all that’s happened if you’d give me another chance – I – I’d really like to try and make it up to you...” Marjorie stared at the floor for what seemed like a long time.

  Charlie’s stomach tightened. C’mon, Stan, c’mon. Go for it.

  Then: “Ogod. Thank you, honey.” Her mouth tight, chin puckered, quivering, she looked at Charlie, reached over and touched his hand.

  “To Del Rio. Could you hurry? There’s a car pulling in.” Marjorie was playing lookout as Charlie removed a license plate from an old station wagon and replaced it with one from Joe Bob’s red truck.

  “Almost finished.”

  Marjorie nodded. “He wanted his mother to meet me. He told me the last time he took a girl back there he was on leave before shipping out to Korea. He said there was no way he was going to spend what might be the last two weeks of his life not getting laid, so he brought a hooker he’d picked up in San Diego. Named Gypsy. His mother still thinks they were man and wife.”

  Charlie wiped the license plate with one of Joe Bob’s bandanas, shook his head in awe. “Guys that grow up in cities couldn’t even conceive a stunt like that. Or if we did we’d go ‘What, am I outa my mind?’”

  They crossed to the red pickup truck, to which he quickly fastened the station wagon’s tags, wiping them as he had the interior, tailgate and other surfaces. During this he barely heard Marjorie, who continued to babble her gratitude, her sympathy for the financial cost to him, her promise to at least partially compensate him. “There. That oughta keep ‘em guessing for awhile.” He locked the door, wiped the handle one more time for good measure. They crossed to the Chevvie.