by Joan Hess
“Or a reaction to Tuck’s death.”
“I don’t know,” Will said, “but I do know that I don’t want to piss off Junie. Good luck with all this junk. Maybe you’ll find a stack of death threats, signed and dated.” He gave me a crooked smile as he went out the back door.
I spread out the envelopes and studied them. “Oh, Tuck,” I murmured, “you were a sly dog, weren’t you?”
11
As I’d anticipated, Tuck had been unable to destroy his correspondence, addressed to a variety of aliases at post office boxes in unfamiliar towns in Oklahoma and Missouri. I was vaguely put out when I had to walk down the long driveway to collect my mail; Tuck had driven hours for his. There were no return addresses, and the postal marks were difficult to decipher. The earliest letters had arrived five years ago; the most recent, fourteen months ago.
I gave myself a moment to bask in my success, however minor, and then removed the letter from the oldest envelope. It began with a cheerful salutation and a mention that the writer had come across an allusion to him on something called Facebook and, through mutual acquaintances, had tracked down his PO address. It was a curiously guarded message: If he were indeed the person who had worked in a taco food truck on Venice Beach in 1968 and remembered the name of his co-worker, he could refer to it on Facebook and the writer would send another letter. The letter ended with a peace sign drawn in purple ink
Apparently, Tuck had obliged. The writer had imparted leftist opinions about the political climate, news of a career in handmade textiles (macramé and tie-dye), and inquiries about Tuck’s health and well-being. Purple peace sign. The next letter offered advice about herbal supplements. Purple peace sign. I skimmed several more with the same gist. I was about to admit defeat when I came across a letter that referred to the incident at the campus. Did he regret his decision to flee? Did he feel remorse about the slain undercover officer? Why hadn’t he stayed to help the other members of the group? Purple peace sign.
I felt as if I were eavesdropping on a private conversation. I put down the letter and went to the refrigerator to find something to eat. It all looked suspiciously vegan. I settled on a box of gluten-free crackers and a jar of organic almond butter, refilled my glass with water, and sat back down. I would have scrutinized the handwriting with laser eyes had it been handwritten. It wasn’t, although the FBI could have nailed the brand of the printer and, with all its stealth capacity unleashed, the day of the week it was sold. I tried to imagine Peter, Jorgeson, or even my late husband selecting a purple marker to sign his letters. The writer was female—and she knew what had taken place during the fateful demonstration. Whether her knowledge was firsthand or based on something as innocuous as a newspaper article was difficult to discern.
I dived back into Tuck’s clandestine correspondence. The writer had bombarded him with questions about both the past and his current situation. As I continued to read, I began to feel that a level of intimacy had intensified. A reference to a night on the beach in San Diego. Warm memories of a camping trip in the desert. Nothing overt, mind you, but a middle school kid would have no problem spotting the implicit sexual references. Luanne would have taken to her bed with a cool compress. I opted for a damp paper towel.
The last dozen letters made it clear that the author was residing in Farberville and was no longer reticent about her desires. The prose was more purple than the peace signs. She and Tuck had found places to meet and do more than greet. My eyes widened at the increasingly graphic reminiscences of afternoons spent in lascivious behavior. Tuck’s wife and best friends had seriously underestimated his capacity for physical intimacy. My face was warm when I opened the last letter, dated a week before his death. I paid little attention to the description of their last tryst, which had taken place on a picnic blanket. I blushed at the improbability of what had occurred, scolded myself for being a prude, and arrived at the last line. “Same place and time, my lustful lover. Wait for me.” Purple peace sign.
Tricia Yates was the obvious suspect. From what Will had said, she’d disappeared immediately after his death and stayed out of sight for most of a week. Was she mourning, or was she overcome with guilt? I spread almond butter on a cracker and nibbled pensively. If she was one of the members of the Student Antiwar Coalition, she’d gone to prison or gone underground. I peered more closely at the postal marks, and finally detected postal abbreviations from the Midwest. Before coming to Farberville, the writer had lived in states laden with vowels. I took out the cell phone to call Peter, but then reluctantly put it down. The darling man would want to know where I was and what I was doing. These were topics best left alone until I concocted a truthful if carefully edited response that would not cause him undue distress. He had so much on his plate, what with his mother coming for a visit and his wife going bonkers.
A dusty shirt box caught my attention. I moved the folders to a chair and opened the box. It was crammed with newspaper and magazine clippings, more than enough to wallpaper the kitchen. Most of the newspaper articles were yellowed and brittle. Tuck had written the dates in the margins in print the size of ant tracks. I shuffled through them until I found a photo that depicted police tape across a pair of double doors. FBI AGENT KILLED BY STUDENT DEMONSTRATORS. It was dated March 1, 1970, and contained little hard information. A second article, dated the following day, had a photo of the demonstrators lounging against the same doors. A heavy chain prevented the doors from opening. The demonstrators were dressed in jeans and sandals, and all of them had long hair and defiant grins. I looked for Sarah, but the photo was grainy and faded and it took me several minutes before I recognized her. She’d been a beautiful young woman.
I went into the living room and fetched the photo of Tuck with the Lunds. He was harder to locate, because most of the men sported facial hair, but I finally decided that he was in the middle, his face lowered as he lit a cigarette. There were no women with short silver hair. If Tricia Yates was among the group, she was as elusive as Waldo. A subsequent article identified the demonstrators in custody by name, as well as the slain agent, Abel Reddy. The national press had picked up the story with zealous glee, as had the news magazines. The chief of police had acknowledged that at least five of the demonstrators had eluded capture, but his detectives were working day and night to locate them. When asked if he knew their names, he’d declined to answer.
I picked up the newspaper photo of the group and counted heads. Some were seated, and others leaned against the doors. It was hard to be sure exactly how many had participated, since several of their peers had pressed in to be captured for posterity. If the incident had occurred recently, all of them would have been holding up cell phones.
The next batch of articles, held together with a corroded paper clip, concerned the trial. The FBI had opted to allow the state of California to take its best shot at the six defendants. Four were men, two women, and all of them were in their twenties; three were from California, the others from Wyoming, Ohio (a young man with muttonchop sideburns), and Connecticut. Sarah had told Evan and me that a guy named Roderick, a more practiced antiwar activist, had joined their group. Roderick James, originally from San Jose and more recently, Berkeley. The judge had refused to sever defenses. Their attorneys, no doubt the best money could buy, tried to claim that the undercover agent had instigated the demonstration and provoked the violence, but the jury didn’t buy it. The defendants were found guilty of first degree murder during the commission of two other felonies: the murder of a law enforcement agent and kidnapping. The demonstrators had been incarcerated in California federal prisons. I had no idea if federal prisoners became eligible for early release or parole, but those who’d gone to trial had received forty-year sentences, with a minimum of twenty-five years to be served. Fifteen years ago they would have served their time and, presuming they’d behaved with adequate decorum, been sent out into a techno-crazy world with bus tickets, minimal funds, and impending cultural shock.
I went through more art
icles about appeals (unsuccessful). The media lost interest and moved on, but Tuck had remained ever vigilant. A short article related that one of the women prisoners had developed terminal cancer and was released for humanitarian reasons. Years later, one of the men had been killed in a gang-related riot. I riffled the stack, focusing on the dates that Tuck had conveniently provided. Finally, after twenty years, the Student Antiwar Coalition stumbled back into the news. Roderick James, deemed the mastermind, had escaped from Folsom Prison after he acquired a hacksaw, cut through a fence, fled into a storm drain, and later crawled through a pitch-black sewer to a raft awaiting him on the bank of the American River. Johnny Cash would have been proud.
Nowhere in Tuck’s clippings was an announcement that either the escapee or his confederate had been captured. I wondered if Sarah knew any of it. What I did know, however, was that Tuck had been having an affair with a local woman. I spread almond butter on another cracker and leaned back to gaze at the ceiling. Tuck had told Sarah that he would be gone overnight. It was a rather arrogant lie, since Will had not been prepped. There were two possible reasons for the story. Either Tuck had planned to spend the night with his paramour at the “same place, same time,” or he’d intended to catch Sarah in bed with her paramour. She claimed she didn’t have one, but her credibility had bottomed out several days ago.
Something was gnawing at me, and the organic almond butter was not the culprit. I clasped my hands together and leaned my chin on them. I’d found Tuck and Sarah in the photo. I hadn’t found Tricia, but I hadn’t ruled her out. By the age of sixty, faces began to sag. Chins softened, wrinkles distorted mouths, eyelids drooped. I shuffled the articles until I located the photo of the demonstrators. It bothered me. One of the articles about the trial had contained a courtroom sketch of Roderick James. He sported the mustache of an old-fashioned bandito and heavy stubble. The artist had depicted him with glowering eyes and a menacing scowl.
I was staring at it when Deputy Frank Norton, who was not at the top of my list of dear friends, came into the kitchen. His uniform looked as though he’d slept in it, perhaps cuddled up with a teddy bear in a matching outfit.
“Mrs. Malloy,” he said with a sigh, “what the hell are you doing here? I told you to butt out, but every time I turn around, I see you. Are you like a serial trespasser?”
“I have Sarah’s permission to be here.”
“The FBI says it’s off-limits until they’ve completed a thorough search.”
“How am I supposed to know that, Deputy Norton? Did they notify Sarah’s attorney? Shall I call him?” I realized it was not wise to bait the man with the badge. “I was driving by and stopped when I saw movement inside the house. Two men were here, intending to cart off any valuables they could find. I have their first names and the license plate of their truck. They’re the ones who broke into Miss Poppoy’s house and tied her up. Teenagers, not very bright. I ran them off, and then decided to see if I could find any relevant material about the death of John Cunningham.”
His initial belligerence diminished a tad. “You sure about that?”
“You want their names?”
He took a pad and a pencil out of his back pocket. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll call it in. I got a grandma, just like everybody else.”
I cheerfully threw Bubba and Benedict under the prison van, and then sat impatiently while Norton made a call to the sheriff’s office. His language would not have pleased his grandma. After he finished, he put away his cell phone and frowned at the mess on the table. “You find anything?”
“Did you know Zachery Barnard?” I asked.
“Nasty sumbitch. I busted him a couple of times for DWI and pestering folks. He’d do thirty days and then go off to the nearest liquor store. I wasn’t surprised that he got so drunk he fell in his own pond. Ain’t no one going to claim his body, so the county’ll have to bury him.”
“I think,” I said cautiously, “that he’s in this photo.” I handed him the clipping. “Second man on the left, in an army surplus jacket.”
Deputy Norton stared at the photo. “That guy?” he said as he jabbed his finger.
“He looked so familiar. It’s been a long time, granted, but the facial bones are right. I’m almost sure that’s Barnard.”
“The hell it is,” he said with a snort. “There’s no way that’s Zachery Barnard, Mrs. Malloy. You may be desperate to save that woman, but that’s not an excuse for concocting baloney.” His frown deepened as he read the article. “You think Barnard went to a fancy college in California? I’d be surprised if he ever left Stump County. He could barely read and write. College? Did they offer a scholarship in moonshining?”
“Look at this drawing.” I wanted to tell him to use a little imagination, but I wasn’t sure he would find my remark endearing. Our relationship was as fragile as almond brittle. It wouldn’t help to mention that Zachery had quoted Oliver Goldsmith.
“Not Barnard,” Norton said firmly. “Why are you so damn devoted to unraveling the case against Sarah Swift, or whatever her name is? She and her friends killed a law enforcement agent. That doesn’t bother you?”
“She didn’t. She and Tuck—that’s what she called him—ran out of the building before the situation turned violent.” I picked up the article he’d dropped on the table and shoved it at him. “This is Roderick James. He escaped from prison twenty years ago. He came here and changed his name.”
“How many times do I have to tell you that this isn’t Zachery Barnard?”
I sensed frustration in his voice. “In the police reports, there was a notation that he’d seen a green van in the area. I drove out to his house on Friday and asked him about it. He wasn’t helpful.”
“Did you get pissed and push him into the pond?” Norton asked, edging away from the table.
“Of course not. I went back yesterday to try again and realized I was too late.” I hesitated for a moment. “I’m not a fan of coincidences, Deputy Norton. I questioned him about the green van, and his body was discovered less than twenty-four hours later. Maybe he thought I’d recognized him and couldn’t bear the idea of being sent back to prison for a very long time. Did you find an empty whiskey bottle by the pond?”
“The medical examiner ruled it an accident. Now you’re saying it was suicide. You know something, Mrs. Malloy? I don’t give a rat’s ass if he fell into the pond or decided to go for a swim. It has nothing to do with Cunningham’s murder. We built a solid case against the Swift woman. There were no other suspects. She’d threatened to kill him, and she did. You need to keep your nose out of this and go on about your business.” He made a curt gesture. “I’m going to walk you to your car and watch you drive away. If you got a problem with that, we can talk some more at the department.”
I had no desire to make new friends in the holding cell. “Fine, Deputy Norton. Let me put all this back in the boxes so the FBI won’t find papers scattered on the floor. You might want to inventory the items that the burglars piled by the front door.”
He gave me a well-deserved suspicious look and then went back down the hall. I stuffed the letters and articles about the trial in my purse, dumped everything else back in the box, and joined Norton at the front door. He was squatting next to the TV set, copying down the make and model. I told him I was going back to Farberville and wished him luck corralling Bubba and Benedict. He told me that I would have to make a statement in the next day or two.
I kept my chin high as I walked to my car. I was frantic to call Peter, but I dared not linger. I drove into town and parked in front of Evan’s office. His car was where it had been hours earlier, when we’d walked to the county jail. I rapped my keys on the door. He emerged from the depths of the building, his shoulders slumped and his face expressionless.
“How was church?” he asked as he unlocked the door.
“Enlightening. I’ll fill you in, but first I need to call my husband.” I sat down behind the receptionist’s desk and took out my cell phone. Evan shuffled
away with the alacrity of a zombie on tranquilizers. I waited until he was out of earshot before I picked up the office telephone and dialed home.
“Yeah?” Peter answered succinctly.
“Can you get me in the morgue?”
“You don’t need a reservation. Is someone pointing a gun at you?”
“It’s too convoluted to explain right now. Do I need official clearance to view a body in the morgue?”
The consequent silence suggested that no one had ever asked him that, especially not his devoted wife. “I have no idea. Go there, knock on the door, and make your request. If that doesn’t work, call me. Exactly how convoluted is whatever’s going on? Give me the short version.”
“I need to see the body of Zachery Barnard, the man who drowned yesterday. I think he was one of the SAC demonstrators.” I told him about finding Tuck’s cache of clippings in the attic. Bubba and Benedict did not merit mention, at least for the moment. “The only way I can be sure is to compare his face to the one in the photo and sketch.”
“I would never dream of interfering with your planned assault on the morgue,” Peter said. The poor man may have lacked sincerity, but he was aware that I rarely allowed myself to be sidetracked by technicalities. “I know where Caron and Inez are. I got a call from the department, and I was on the way out the door when you called. They’re being held for breaking and entering, trespassing, and vandalism.”