by Philip Chen
In a rare move, the chairman of the tribal council invited Mike into the meeting hall to enjoy the camaraderie of the men in a traditional male ceremony. All the while, Mike was careful at every opportunity to show his respect for Johnny Thapaha, an elder of the tribe and one to whom all the tribal members showed great deference. Johnny Thapaha spoke very little and for the most part sat stoically, looking into the distance as he had done all the time that Mike had known him.
Given Johnny Thapaha's aloofness, Mike was astonished at Richard's invitation to Mike to join his father-in-law at a sunrise ceremony.
"Mike, Johnny would like you to accompany him to the mesa tomorrow to welcome the sun. Be at his hogan at 5:00 a.m.," said Richard.
Promptly at 5:00 a.m. the next morning, Mike was at the hogan of Johnny Thapaha at the foot of Red Mesa. As Mike got out of his government sedan, the door of the hogan opened. Johnny Thapaha walked out without a word and started up a narrow footpath carved out of the side of the mesa. Mike followed slowly and carefully. One false step and he would fall several hundred feet to his death.
After a half hour hike up the narrow footpath, Mike reached a small landing just under the mesa top. He stopped for a moment to admire the vista that this perch offered. To the east he could see the first few rays of sunlight breaking the horizon. Overhead, two hawks made swooping motions in the sky as they searched for early-morning thermals. The dark morning sky was still, cold and desolate. Mike wished he had worn more clothing as he pulled his windbreaker around his neck. Somewhere in the dark valley below, Mike heard the haunting, mournful tones of a Native American flute, its tune occasionally broken by the muffled cadence of a drum.
Snapping out of his reverie, Mike made the final climb to the top of the mesa. Reaching the top of the mesa, he saw Johnny Thapaha already kneeling before the sunrise, his hands outstretched before him. Johnny Thapaha said nothing. His countenance was frozen by the early rays of the sun. Mike quietly walked to a point behind Johnny Thapaha and also kneeled, out of respect for the old man's worship ceremony.
As the morning light filled the sky, Johnny Thapaha rose, with his sacred bundle clutched hard to his breast. Having been warned of the tribal custom, Mike averted his eyes. He looked out over the valley below, examining the valley and the sparsely populated land. The landscape was broken by occasional hogans spewing forth plumes of smoke as Navajo mothers prepared the morning meal. Yellow school buses slowly made their way across the desert flats, stopping to pick up Navajo children and carry them to government schools.
Navajo shepherds took their flocks out of the corrals that held them during the night. Faithful black, white and rust colored collies ran helter skelter, yipping and collaring wayward sheep. This pastoral scene was exciting to Mike, whose entire existence to this point had been spent in the homogenized sanitary world of cities and college towns.
Mike was transfixed by the sight of a Native American community wakening and stood in awe of the tremendous vistas painted by nature in this southwestern desert. In a way, Mike felt as though it were a homecoming. His youth had been spent growing up in a culture as alien to him as it would have been to these Navajo. Having been landed in America as a very young child, Mike's passage through his country had been hampered by his feelings of being a stranger in his adopted land. Here, the pastoral scenes evoked a sense of community unlike any Mike had felt before.
Turning around, Mike realized that he was alone on the small windswept mesa, alone with only the two circling hawks floating high in the clouds. In near panic, Mike wondered where Johnny Thapaha had disappeared to. Of course, thought Mike, remembering where he was -- Johnny Thapaha wasn't going to wait for him.
Mike hurried over to the edge of the mesa. Sure enough, Johnny Thapaha was well on his way down the twisting narrow footpath. Mike started down.
By the time Mike reached the bottom of the timeworn path, Johnny Thapaha was almost to his hogan. He hesitated for a moment at the door to the sod hogan. Then as silently as ever and without looking back, he opened the door and disappeared inside. During the entire time that Mike had been with Johnny Thapaha, not one word had passed between the old Navajo and the young Chinese-American.
Mike stood next to his car and watched as Johnny Thapaha went inside. Mike then got in and drove back to the motel in which he was staying, a small, privately run motel with small individual cabins for each guest.
Mike went to the public pay telephone in the aluminum and glass box and dialed McHugh's telephone number at the National Security Agency.
The familiar gruff voice answered. "McHugh here."
"Commander, this is Mike Liu. I'm calling to check in."
"Well, bust my balls, if it isn't our wandering man in the desert. I didn't know you worked here anymore, it's been over three weeks, you know. Have you found out anything?"
"Well -- actually no, sir. However, Johnny Thapaha did invite me to a special ceremony this morning."
"I can't keep you out there forever. I'll give you another week. Then you'll have to come home to reality."
"Yes, sir."
2200 Hours: Sunday, August 3, 1970: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico
Mike stirred the glowing embers of the campfire with an old branch and then put in two small logs to keep the fire going. Sparks flew out as Mike stirred the fire. The two new logs quickly caught fire and the campfire crackled with renewed energy. Tiny gnats and moths flew around the fire flirting with conflagration every second. Mike and Johnny Thapaha were on Red Mesa in the dead of a moonless night. The night sky was filled with millions of stars shining steadily on the two men sitting by the small fire. A city boy, Mike had never seen so many stars. He leaned back and just soaked in the energy from so many light years away.
Once again through his son-in-law, Richard, Johnny Thapaha had invited Mike to the top of this desolate mesa, this time to spend a night under a brilliant canopy of stars. Johnny Thapaha sat with his back to the fire, looking over the valley below. There, the utter darkness was broken by the occasional light from Navajo homes preparing for the night.
Mike had prepared for this outing, wearing a wool sweater under his blue windbreaker. Even with the layered clothes, Mike felt the biting cold of the night air. He boiled some water in a metal coffee pot on the fire. He put a few jasmine tea leaves into two metal mugs, splashed hot boiling water on them, and offered one to Johnny Thapaha, who silently accepted the mug. Johnny Thapaha put the fragrant brew to his lips, blowing over the mug to cool the tea before taking a sip. Mike, sitting off to the side, did likewise.
In the darkness, by the flickering fire and occasional sparks that shot into the air, Mike had talked about his childhood. How he was born in China and how he grew up in Washington, D.C. He spoke about the lessons that he had learned these past few weeks and about the sense of community that he felt on the Navajo reservation. Through all of this, Johnny sat quietly neither replying nor even suggesting that he was paying attention.
The two men sat on the stark mesa and pondered each other, the cosmos, and why they were there.
"Michael. He was young -- like you. And like you he had traveled over great distances to come to this place. He was Cha-le-gai, as you are. But his voyage was through the cosmos; yours across the ocean."
The words snapped Mike out of his reverie. "Was he alive? Is he still alive?"
"No. I found him in the wreckage of a great ship. It was the fourth ship from far away. He was gasping for breath. His three companions had passed on before him. He was the fourth, the promised one. The traveler."
"What do you mean the promised one?"
"All of nature is divided into four. There are four colors, four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west, four sacred mountains, and the four visitors. The traveler has been spoken of for many generations, through many voices."
"What did you do?"
"I brought him to this mesa, on the ledge below. I tried to bring him back to walk with us, but his injuries were too great."
"Did he say anything?"
"It was not talk as we know it."
"What do you mean?"
"I saw wondrous things. I saw horrible things."
"What things?"
"Things I cannot say."
"What were they doing here?"
"To discover and to learn."
"How long did he live?"
"Not long. Four days and four nights."
"Where is he now?"
"His travels were many and of long duration. Now he walks with the spirits of his fathers. After his spirit left, I committed his mortal remains to the earth. His clothing I burned."
With that Johnny Thapaha lapsed into the silence that Mike had come to know so well. The rest of the evening was spent in solitude. Johnny Thapaha meditated; Mike marveled at the brilliance of the night sky and pondered the meaning of Johnny Thapaha's message and his fourth traveler.
1000 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.
"Mike? I'm sorry to interrupt," said Smith, as he reentered the small conference room where Mike stood quietly, hand still on the receiver. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Oh, hi, George. I just got word that a good friend of mine passed away. Sorry, I was distracted," said Mike as his thoughts once again focused on the present.
Although Mike visited the gentle mystic many times over the years, Johnny Thapaha never again spoke of the traveler. Mike did, however, learn much from the Navajo and, in the course of that relationship, developed a strong sense of belonging. Over time, Mike was accepted into Johnny Thapaha's extended family.
The news of Johnny Thapaha's death had a profound effect on Mike. It was more than losing a friend. After all, people do get old and pass on. That wasn't it. It was the mystery, the unresolved questions that would now remain unanswered forever.
In his hands, Smith held a lightweight summer tan poplin suit, blue cotton buttoned down long sleeve shirt, brown leather belt and tie shoes, brown socks, and, wonders of wonders, a navy blue silk tie with orange diagonal stripes -- the University of Virginia school tie. The normally reserved Mike was pleasantly surprised by Smith's resourceful nature.
"I thought the tie would be a nice touch," said Smith.
1993: Identification
1300 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: Severna Park, Maryland
Mike and Adams decided to take Adams' government issued sedan for the trip to Severna Park, Maryland, to interview Jerry Mitchell, the owner of the panel truck involved in the attack on Huntersville Road. It was late afternoon before the two of them were able to get going.
About 6:30 p.m., they pulled into the driveway of the neatly kept clapboard frame house, with the black wrought iron sign spelling out "Mitchell" at the corner of the driveway. Adams and Mike walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. A middle aged woman answered the bell.
"Hello, Ma'am. I'm Herbert Adams, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is Mr. Mitchell available?"
"Jerry isn't here. I'm Mary Lou Mitchell, his wife. Is he in trouble?" said Mrs. Mitchell, a worried look on her face. "He hasn't been home since yesterday morning when he left for work. I've called and called, no one knows where he is."
Mike and Adams exchanged quick glances.
"Does he often not come home?" Adams asked.
"No, it's not like him at all. God, I hope nothing's happened to him," said Mrs. Mitchell with tears starting to form in her eyes. "Do you know something? Is Jerry okay?"
"We don't know," said Adams. "Do you have any photographs of Mr. Mitchell?"
Getting suspicious, Mrs. Mitchell said, "Just why are you here? Is Jerry in some kind of trouble?"
"A black paneled truck registered to Mr. Mitchell was involved in a matter under investigation by the Bureau. We don't know if Mr. Mitchell was involved."
"Oh, my God!" screamed Mrs. Mitchell. She began to shake, tears pouring down her cheeks. Mike moved forward to hold her and she kept crying as he held her to him. After she was able to regain some composure, she asked between sobs, "Is he dead, injured? I've got to get to him. Where is he?"
"As I said, Mrs. Mitchell, we don't know," said Adams. "If you have some photographs of Mr. Mitchell, they would help a lot in our investigation. By the way, this is Mike Liu, an investigator with the Navy. Some Navy vehicles were involved in this matter."
Mrs. Mitchell let Mike and Adams into her simply furnished living room, which was immaculate. The early American maple furniture had cushions in a green floral design. A braided oval rug covered the otherwise bare hardwood floor. The hangings on the wall were all prints of various scenes, Norman Rockwell, Grandma Moses and that vintage.
Mrs. Mitchell had been cooking when Adams and Mike came up to the house. The beefy fragrance of stew cooking on the stove made Mike think about dinner.
The two Mitchell children came into the room for a brief moment and were told by their mother to go into the kitchen and watch some television.
Mrs. Mitchell sat down on the couch and invited Mike and Adams to sit in two maple occasional chairs. Fumbling about out of nervousness, she brought out an imitation leather-bound photo album and started to leaf through the book for a recent photograph of Mitchell. Finally, she found one of Mitchell hugging his eight-year-old son, Tommy. Tommy was holding a baseball bat and Mitchell had a fielder's glove and softball. As she handled the picture over, she wiped her tears on the cuff of her sleeve.
Both Adams and Mike carefully studied the picture and furtively glanced at one and another. Mitchell was definitely the man who drove the black paneled truck and fired the rocket at the first Suburban. Both were sure of this despite the fact that the corpse, now on a slab at CSAC, had a major portion of his head blown off. Adams asked Mrs. Mitchell if he and Mike could keep the photograph. She nodded.
"Mrs. Mitchell, could you tell us where your husband worked and if he had any close friends that we can talk to?"
"Is Jerry in trouble? I mean, should I get an attorney or something?" said Mrs. Mitchell.
"You can always get an attorney, if you wish, Mrs. Mitchell," Adams said. "But what Mr. Liu and I want is some information concerning your husband; we're not charging you or your husband with anything at this time. You can help us or not, it's your choice."
"Jerry worked at the Catonsville Lumber Yard in Catonsville, Maryland. He's such a likable guy, I know he had lots of friends at work, although he hardly ever brought anyone home -- said that home was where he could relax. He did, however, sometimes go with friends from work to a rod and gun club near Dickerson, Maryland."
"How long have you been married?" said Mike.
"We've been married for ten years, about ten months after I met Jerry at a church social."
"Does Mr. Mitchell have relatives?"
"No, he was an orphan. His parents died when Jerry was ten and he grew up in a series of foster homes. That's why he loves kids so much."
"Where and when was he born?" said Mike.
"He was born in Rosston, Illinois, on January 10, 1940."
"What was the name of the rod and gun club near Dickerson?"
"I'm not sure, but Jerry would often go for a weekend with some of his friends. It might have been Dickerson Rod and Gun, something like that."
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Mitchell. If you remember anything else please give me a call," said Adams as he handed Mrs. Mitchell a card with his telephone number.
As Mike and Adams drove away from home of Mitchell, both of them were even more mystified. It was clear in their minds that one of the Huntersville attackers was Mitchell, but why?
"Maybe the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club has the answer," said Mike.
Adams nodded thoughtfully. "I'll have a background check run on Mitchell."
0800 Hours, Monday, June 14, 1993: Washington, D.C.
Adams went to the FBI building in Washington, D.C., instead of the CSAC office so he could run a trace on Mitchell. As he was getting ready to leave his office, the telephone rang. It was Mike.
&
nbsp; "Hi, Mike," answered Adams. "So far, Jerry Mitchell is coming up clean. He doesn't seem to have a record of any kind. No service, no crimes, not even a parking ticket. This guy seems to have lived a clean, straight life. Wait a minute."
Adams put Mike on hold as Special Agent Martha Thomas barged into his office.
"Herb, I thought you should see this right away. You may be on to something."
Adams took one look at the photocopies of Mitchell's two documents, one a birth certificate and the other a death certificate. He gave out a long, low whistle.
"Thanks a lot, Martha. You've earned your pay for today."
Martha smiled and left Adams' office.
"Mike, are you sitting down?" said Adams, picking up his telephone.
"What's up?"
"We just got some records on Mitchell. Special Agent Martha Thomas in our Management Information Systems section did a reverse check on Mr. Mitchell as well as a check of birth records from Rosston, Illinois. What she found is that Jerry Mitchell was born on January 10, 1940. However, Jerry Mitchell died that same year on March 20, from complications of birth. He lived barely more than three months.
"It seems that before 1970, Rosston kept separate birth and death records. Anyone wanting to establish a false identity can do so easily by searching the death records for an infant death and then separately requesting a birth certificate from the birth registry. The office usually issues them without question, if you have a driver's license or something like that. Happens all the time, people get them for such things as school admissions, marriage certificates, passports, and even, driver's licenses. Because the birth registration office is separate from the one for death records, they don't do cross-checks. So with a little ingenuity, you can get a birth certificate for someone who died. This was used by student radicals in the sixties and 1970s to establish false identities for who knows what purpose."