Vineyard Stalker

by Philip R. Craig

  “I didn’t know they were there until I read about them later.”

  “I spent a little time along the border. We bombed a lot of the temples and did some major damage, but that’s where the Cong were hiding out, so they got a lot dropped on them. Roland and I mostly worked up north of there, out of Dakto and Ben Het.”

  “You sound like you worked with him.”

  “We did the same kind of work, but he was better at it. In fact, he was the best I ever saw. He liked his job better than being back on R & R at China Beach. He was testy back then and rubbed a lot of people wrong, but out in the field he was in his element. I think it took his mind off the Dear John letter from his girlfriend. I used to wonder if he became a sniper because he really wanted to kill the girl. Beer makes you think odd thoughts.”

  “I’ve heard that he was a very gung ho, dedicated guy. They say his medals could sink a ship.”

  Mullins rubbed his mustache and gave one end a twirl. “We’d been friends here on the island when we were kids and we did a lot of hell-raising together. The police suggested that it might be a good idea for us to join the army before they had to throw us in jail. Then, like I say, his girl dumped him for another guy, and that nearly killed him, so we enlisted together.” He shook his head. “Seems like a long time ago, but I guess things haven’t changed too much. Kids are still raising hell.”

  “Some of them,” I said. “I joined up when I was seventeen. I was bored and I thought being a warrior would be interesting.”

  “Yeah. High adventure. Anyway, Roland and I ended up over there as snipers.” Mullins looked me in the eye. “Roland killed seventy-five people that I know of. Had a special rifle. He’d lie up there and pick people off as they came near our fire support base. One time he killed twenty people in one day. They came along and he shot the officer in front, then he shot the guy who tried to lead a retreat back up the trail. The patrol took cover and one by one he shot everybody who tried to make a break or showed himself any other way.”

  “I’ve heard a few sniper stories. I don’t know if I could have done it.”

  “The two of us worked together sometimes. He was the best shot I ever saw. When they pulled us back for R & R he mostly lived in brothels. He was surly and had a bad mouth and just wanted to get back on duty so he could keep killing people. He was popular with the brass because he was so good at his work, but the grunts stayed away from him. I stuck with him, though.”

  “What happened to change him?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe he just got tired. I know I did. In my case when I got tired I got careless and got myself shot.” His hand strayed to his massive chest. “Roland carried me out of there and saved my ass doing it. It took him two days and the Cong were looking for us all the way back. We’d hide and hear them going by, then move on and hide again. He got the Silver Star for that.

  “Later he came to see me in the hospital and told me things were fine, but his eyes were different. Something had changed in him. When he left he said good-bye instead of see ya, which was what he usually said when we went different directions.

  “Next time I saw him was years later right here on the island. He wasn’t the same person at all. There wasn’t any wildness in him. I kidded him about it. Told him he reminded me of a priest. He said he wasn’t any kind of priest and told me about going over the hill. A separate peace he called it. He’d given up booze and only drank tea. He only ate vegetables. Said he was going to build himself a house up there on land his aunt had bought, get himself a job of some kind, and try to live a quiet life.

  “Around here people treated him like a hero when he first got back, but he slipped away from them as quick as he could and built that little house of his. I go by sometimes and we talk. He may think I’m the only person who understands him because of what we did in ’Nam, but I don’t think I really do. What I do is listen and make small talk.”

  “That’s probably quite a lot.”

  He shrugged. “After forty years, it may have added up. Did you know there’s a woman who’s been waving herself at him, and that he seems interested in her?”

  “Melissa Carson? I met her earlier today. She’s a case. She says he’s more interested in her than she is in him.”

  Mullins frowned. “Can’t say that sounds too good. She’s a looker, though. I’ve seen her.”

  “She is that, all right.” I switched gears. “Over the years you’ve never heard Roland mention anyone who might have it in for him? Never heard of any enemies of any kind?”

  He shook his big, bald head. “Like I told you, forty years ago I could have named a few here on the island and over in ’Nam, too. But since he got back? No. Nobody. Although those neighbors and his cousin Sally Oliver would all be happy to see him sell out and move on.”

  “Does anyone else know about his desertion?”

  “Nobody that I know of. The only people who know are me and Carole Cohen and now you. Why?”

  “I thought there might be an angry vet out there who’d think he was fair game.”

  He considered that, then said, “I think a mad vet would probably just rat him out.”

  “One may have decided that Roland might not give a damn if he was ratted out, and to try a little terrorism first.”

  He shrugged. “I go to the VFW every now and then. I’ve never heard anybody bad-mouth him. He never goes there, and half the gang doesn’t even remember him.”

  “And as far as you know he hasn’t left any angry women in his wake.”

  “You mean that hell-hath-no-fury stuff? No, as far as I know, there haven’t been any women until this Melissa Carson.”

  “How about the places he works? Any trouble with anyone there?”

  “Not that I’ve heard of. Maybe you should ask people who’ve worked with him. He’s been framing with Milt Jorgensen for a couple of years. Ask Milt.”

  “I will.” I told him I’d be back in touch if I thought of something he might know and asked him to call me if he remembered anything that had slipped his mind.

  “I’ll do that,” he said, putting out a beefy hand. “Roland saved my life and I owe him. Besides, he’s a friend.”

  I got back into the truck, wondering if I had learned anything new. If, perhaps, someone from long ago in the Monk’s past was now reemerging to take revenge for a slight or crime forgotten by everyone else. I thought of the folklore that said Italians preferred their vengeance cold, and of the cask of amontillado.

  At home I prepared a cream of fridge soup for supper, which is a meal that is always good but never quite the same, depending as it does on what you have in the way of leftovers in your refrigerator. I put the soup in the freezer to chill and had a Sam Adams while the cats and I socialized, agreeing that the place was empty without Zee and the children. When the soup was cold, I ate two bowls of it, each sprinkled with a few Herbes de Provence. Delish! Then I drove to West Tisbury, parked, and walked down the ancient way to the Monk’s house.

  He was seated on a mat on the western side of his house, taking in the rays of the setting sun. Mr. Mephistopheles was lying beside him, looking very comfortable and wise the way cats do.

  I sat on my heels and told him most of what I’d done that day, who I’d seen, and what they’d said. When I was done, he smiled that gentle, amused smile of his and said, “I can think of no one I’ve offended at work. But ask Milt, if you wish; maybe he knows something I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t exactly made a friend of Melissa Carson.”

  The smile became broader and gentler. “So you found out about Melissa. She’s charming, but I don’t think she’s interested in my kind of life. I really have nothing to offer a wife.” He waved a hand at his house. “What woman would choose this house when she could choose another?”

  “A nun?”

  He smiled. “Melissa is hardly a nun!”

  “True. She’s had a couple of husbands already and she’s sporting a diamond from a guy named Alfred Cab
ot, but she isn’t sure she wants to marry him, either. She seems to like you, though.”

  He shook his head, and I heard tension in his voice. “I want that to be true. Your ring says you’re married. When I think of Melissa, I think of marriage. But she keeps me at an emotional distance and I think she’ll shortly give me up and go after better game.”

  I thought he might be wrong about that, but only said, “I haven’t decided whether or not to park myself out yonder again tonight. I doubt if those guys will be back so soon, after what happened last night. I think they’ll want to talk to their boss and decide whether they even want to keep on hassling you. If one of the people I talked to today is the boss, they know I have those photos because I told everyone that I did. In any case, what happened last night should cause them pause for a day or two at least. Maybe for good, especially if the experts can clear away the camouflage from that one guy’s face.”

  “That makes sense to me,” said Nunes. “I think we can both get a night’s sleep, and I’ll keep Mr. Mephistopheles inside. We can talk again tomorrow if you wish, but I believe it’s all over.”

  “I hope so.”

  I walked back to the Land Cruiser and drove home. Later that night, when I put out a hand and Zee wasn’t beside me, I recalled the old agnostic saying that sleeping alone in a double bed is evidence that there is no God.

  The next morning as I was weeding in the garden I heard the telephone ringing and for once actually got to it before it stopped. It was Carole Cohen.

  “Did you hear?” she asked, her voice sharp and worried. “They found a body this morning beside the highway, at the end of the ancient way we took when we went to my brother’s house. It was Melissa Carson. They say she was murdered.”

  10

  “I think you’d better get a lawyer for your brother,” I said. “The police will be talking to him and he may need one. Did you know that he and Melissa Carson were lovers?”

  “What are you talking about? My brother’s been celibate for thirty years. He’s like a priest, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Maybe he’s a priest, but he hasn’t been celibate recently. Her mother will tell the police about the affair and Roland will automatically become a suspect, especially if they found her body on his land.”

  “I don’t really know exactly where they found her, but that’s what I heard. Oh, dear! You’re right. I’ll call a lawyer right now.”

  “Good.”

  “Can you go up there and find out what happened? Tell the police that you’re working for me. Find Roland and tell him to say nothing until the lawyer’s with him.”

  “All right, but I won’t have any influence. The police will have no reason to tell me anything.”

  “Then just tell Roland to say nothing! He’s so honest that he may get himself into trouble without realizing it! Please go now! I’ll be there myself as soon as I can.”

  “This might be a good time to tell the police about the vandalism. That would give them something to think about besides Roland.”

  “No, don’t do that yet. No one should say anything until we talk with a lawyer. Please just go up there and make sure that Roland stays quiet while you find out what actually happened. I’ll see you up there. Hurry!”

  The phone buzzed in my ear.

  I hung up, found Ann Bouchard’s number in the book and called her. Ann was a reporter for the Gazette. In the days before I met Zee, Ann and I had spent some time together. Now both of us were married to other people, but we were still friends. I thought if I tipped her about this killing she might pass me off as an assistant when she went up to cover the story. But Ann was already gone, having been tipped earlier. So much for the latest of my best-laid plans. I got into the Land Cruiser and drove west.

  Carole Cohen had a right to be worried, even if her brother was innocent as a dove. It was possible that the police wouldn’t look back forty years into Roland Nunes’s past, but if they didn’t it was likely that some newspaper reporter would. Ann Bouchard, for instance, would see a story in the fact that a war hero turned reclusive monk was now a principal figure in the murder of a sexually charged woman who had been his lover. If Ann dug very deep both she and the United States Army would discover the truth about Nunes and the military would be sure to prosecute him for desertion.

  Unless, that is, the real killer was discovered quickly enough to cause both the police and the reporters to lose interest in Nunes so that his past remained unexamined.

  Both sides of the paved road were lined almost bumper to bumper with cruisers and civilian cars when I got to the site, but I found a spot where I could park and walked toward the center of activity, where local and state police were holding back curious civilians and trying not to contaminate the crime scene encircled by yellow tape. There was no body, which meant that the ambulance had come and gone, but detectives were still looking for anything that might help clarify things for them. They were being careful trying not to join the ranks of investigators who infamously destroy more evidence than they find.

  Ann Bouchard and another reporter were talking with Sergeant Dom Agganis of the state police while Dom’s underling, Officer Olive Otero, kept an eye on what was going on inside the tape. Olive and I had wasted a lot of time and energy over the years disliking each other with irrational intensity, but recently that had changed and we had become friendly due to a small, unlikely discovery: We were both fans of old Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller as the ape man. Warmed by that revelation, our ancient animosity had melted away and stayed away. Now, seeing me, she waved a hand before turning back to watch the detectives at work.

  Dom was an old acquaintance, a tall, thick man with fingers the size of sausages and an aura of command that allowed him to do his tough job without actually having to use force very often. In one locally famous incident, for instance, a drunken bow hunter had loosed an arrow in the direction of his ex-wife’s house and fled into the woods with several very nervous members of the Edgartown police in pursuit. All of them wanted him disarmed and taken into custody but after surrounding him none wanted to risk getting shot with a hunting arrow, a possibility that frightened them much more than being shot with a bullet.

  The standoff, with the hunter shouting drunken threats and the police reluctant both to shoot or be shot at, lasted until Dom, in civvies, unshaven, and irked because the call he’d gotten had forced him to stop fishing just as the blues were beginning to hit, appeared, grabbed a speaker, stood and looked right at the perp, and said, “Dave, this is Dom Agganis. Put down that goddamned bow and come here right now!”

  And Dave, cowed, did just that.

  I walked over and listened to what Dom was saying to Ann. It wasn’t much, since Dom, like many police officers, liked to play his cards close to his vest until he knew more about what was going on.

  Now, seeing me, he said, “J.W. Jackson. I guess I should have known you’d show up. What is it about you and trouble? Every time we have a situation, there you are.”

  “Not every time,” I said.

  He patted his shirt pocket. “I haven’t got your name here on my list of people to talk to. Should I add it?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. I nodded to Ann. “Hi, Ann. How are things with the fourth estate?”

  “Enlightening the ignorant, keeping an eagle eye on the authorities, and entertaining the masses, as always,” said Ann. “What are you doing here, J.W.? Are you so bored living alone for a week that you’re offering your sleuthing services to the police these days? By the way, how did you find out about this killing?”

  “Yeah,” said Dom. “How did you find out? Ms. Bouchard here has snitches working for her, but you don’t. Or maybe you do.”

  “I got a phone call,” I said. “Is it a killing? Is it murder?”

  “The ME will let us know,” said Dom. “Who phoned you?”

  “A woman I know.”

  “Who? And how’d she find out? And why did she call you?”

  “Carole Cohen
. I don’t know how she found out. She called me to ask me to come up here and see what was going on. What is going on? Is it true that Melissa Carson is the vic?”

  Dom looked at me with his flat cop eyes. “Why is Carole Cohen so interested?”

  “You can ask her.”

  “Don’t dance with me, J.W. Why is she so interested?”

  “Roland Nunes is her brother.” I gestured with a thumb. “He lives down that path about a quarter of a mile. She thinks he’s a saint and she doesn’t want you to bother him.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “I’m supposed to keep him out of your clutches until she gets here with her lawyer.” I held up a hand as Dom’s brows drew together. “I told her that I didn’t think I’d swing much weight with you, but she insisted and you know what a sucker I am for women’s tears.”

  “Ha!” said Ann.

  “You’re right about swinging no weight,” said Dom. “Hey, Olive!” Olive trotted over. “Olive, I want you to go down that path there and find a guy named Roland Nunes. Bring him back here so I can talk with him.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  “No, you won’t,” said Dom. “Get going, Olive.”

  As she left I said in a loud voice, “Just make sure you Miranda him!”

  Dom tipped his head a bit to one side. “Why the advice, J.W.? Does Nunes know something I’d like to know?”

  I shrugged. “I doubt that he knows anything, but his sister doesn’t want him talking without her lawyer being there. I guess she’s heard stories about you guys and your rubber hoses.”

  Ann was scribbling in her notepad, taking all this down just in case it might mean something or at least add color to her story.

  “You never did tell me if the vic is Melissa Carson,” I said.

  “That’s right, I didn’t,” said Dom.

  “Well, I guess I can ask Babs.”

  “No, you can’t,” said Ann. “Babs had chest pains when they told her about Melissa, and they’ve taken her to the hospital.”