Final Answers

by Greg Dinallo

  She goes directly to one of the panels and, like a blind person reading braille, gently and lovingly runs her fingertips over one of the names.

  JOHN W. ACKERMAN.

  “Your husband.”

  She nods. “You see that?” she asks, pointing to the space between his name and the next.

  I move closer to the wall and see a tiny cross engraved in the granite.

  “You know what that means?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “Well, if you look around you’ll notice that most of the names have a diamond engraved after them; but a few have one of these.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I admit warily, expecting to be chastised again.

  Instead, as the rumble of distant thunder rises and darkening clouds move in front of the sun softening the light, she seems to have a change of heart and smiles. In an almost contrite tone, she says, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Morgan, most people don’t. I’m afraid I overreacted before. I owe you an apology.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, returning her smile. “You were right. I guess I am a little out of touch.” I step to the wall and run the edge of my thumb over the tiny cross, feeling the texture of the stone change. “This means he’s missing in action, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s right. The original group of MIAs, about twenty-five hundred in all, were included on the Memorial. Of those, thirteen hundred or so were declared dead due to the circumstances surrounding their loss.”

  “Killed in action, body not recovered,” I say, reflecting on my meeting with Collins in St. Louis.

  Kate nods. “They were lost in air crashes mostly. Flight crews, special forces guys, fighter jocks,” she pauses reflectively, then adds. “A lot of them were pilots.”

  “Your husband a pilot?”

  “Yes,” she replies, her face suddenly coming alive. “He loved to fly; he loved danger more. That’s what attracted me to him. We were such opposites.”

  “No Volvo for him, huh?”

  She shakes her head no and breaks into a wistful smile. “You know, months after those men were declared dead by Congress somebody flying over a crash site saw one of their initials and date of loss burned into a field.”

  “You think the man’s still alive?”

  “No. Probably not. But there’s always that little glimmer of hope. Of course, after twenty years, almost thirty for some, most families are realistic. I am.”

  A few drops of rain streak the granite next to us as we resume walking. She seems to be looking for something on the wall. We’ve gone a short distance when she finds it and points to a space between two names. “See this?”

  The symbol she indicates is a combination of the other two; a cross with a diamond inscribed around it, connecting the four points.

  “That means he’s an MIA whose remains have been repatriated and identified . . .” Her voice breaks and she pauses briefly to regain her composure. “They added the diamond to signify that his fate’s been resolved.”

  “That’s all you want, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what all the families want. To know what happened to their loved one beyond any doubt. To have that final answer and to have some part of him, however tiny or grotesque, to bury with honor and dignity.”

  Despite the painful longing in her eyes, her face has a serene strength that reminds me of Nancy; of how she looked when, by the sheer force of her will, she would rescue me from terrifying flashbacks of violence and human carnage. I can’t help thinking, but for a lot of luck and the grace of God, that could easily be my wife standing there.

  “What if one of them turns up alive,” I wonder.

  “Then a circle, not diamond, will be inscribed around the cross.” She looks off for a moment, then adds, “I can’t show you one of those.”

  A steady drizzle has begun falling. We’re about to leave when an idea strikes me. “Just a minute. There’s something I want to check,” I say, curious to see how my name is marked. I walk along the wall until I find the panel. I’ve seen it before, but the sight of it sends a chill through me anyway. A cross, not a diamond, separates my name from the next.

  “You okay?” she wonders, seeing I’m deep in thought.

  “I’m fine. This is the problem,” I reply, pointing to the cross. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, like you said, a cross after a man’s name means his body wasn’t recovered, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which means somebody—one of his buddies, his commanding officer, a fellow pilot—either saw or deduced what happened and reported him missing in action.”

  “Yes. What’s your point?”

  “I was wounded. My guys got me out. I checked my personnel file. I even saw the reports the medics filled out. There weren’t any mistakes. No one reported me missing.”

  “So, what do you think happened?”

  “Well, I know for certain that I got separated from my tags and ID when I was wounded; I figure a KIA ended up with them by mistake.”

  “But that means his body would have to have been recovered for your name to be on the wall.”

  “Exactly. But it wasn’t,” I counter, indicating the cross. “That’s the piece that doesn’t fit.”

  “It probably never will,” she says resignedly. Then her chin lifts with curiosity and she asks, “What do you do? I mean for a living?”

  “I tell fortunes.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I do statistical analysis.”

  “A number cruncher?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You don’t like that.”

  “Well, we’re usually called actuaries, though there are those who think accountants without personalities is more like it. Why?”

  “Oh,” she says with a little laugh, “I was just wondering why you think things have to add up.”

  “Because they always do.”

  She smiles thinly and makes a gesture with her shoulders to indicate she disagrees. Then, with a glance to her watch, she announces, “I almost forgot. I’ve got a house on the brink of escrow.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll grab a cab.”

  “You’ll never get one in this,” she says, turning a palm to the rain. “Where are you staying?”

  “Hay Adams.”

  “It’s on the way. Come on.”

  It starts pouring as we return to her car and drive north on 24th. We’re approaching Washington Circle where traffic slows to a crawl when I realize I’d been so caught up in the details, I’d overlooked their significance. “If my guy is MIA, he’s on the Memorial,” I announce brightly.

  Kate breaks into a knowing smile and nods.

  “How many guys could be listed as missing on 12 May ’68 in Bolikhamsai Province?”

  “Something tells me you know how to find out.”

  I call the Friends of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial offices on Kate’s car phone, give the clerk the time/place parameters, tell him my guy is MIA, and ask him to run a search.

  Traffic has come to a complete standstill. The wipers move across the windshield like metronomes, each hypnotic sweep adding to my anticipation. We’re just starting to inch forward when the clerk finally comes back on the line. I switch the phone to the hands-free mode so both Kate and I can hear him.

  “I list twenty-three men missing in Bolikhamsai Province,” he reports. “But none on that date. None at all in May as a matter of fact.”

  “None. You sure?”

  “Far as I can tell.”

  “Far as I can tell? What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, as I said, it’s a new program. We’re still working out some bugs. In an oddball case like yours, there’s always a chance he slipped through the cracks. Wish I could be of more help.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I say glumly, ending the call.

  “Sorry,” Kate says softly.

  “You’re sure all the MIAs are on the wall?”

/>   “Positive. Have you given any thought to his being listed as AWOL?”

  “Sort of.”

  “That would explain why his name isn’t on the Memorial.”

  “I guess. I’m not real thrilled at the idea of this guy being a deserter.”

  “Maybe he isn’t. I mean, being listed as AWOL doesn’t always mean a man deserted. There have been cases where GIs on leave were mugged by bandits, or murdered by enemy sympathizers, and their bodies disposed of. When they didn’t return to their units, it looked like they went AWOL. It took years to clear their names.”

  “Never thought of that. Trouble is, this guy Collins at NPRC thinks the data works against his being AWOL; and I tend to agree. Maybe he did fall through the cracks.”

  “It’s possible. I’m sure Mr. Collins knows his business, but, for what it’s worth, when it comes to people who are unaccounted for, nobody’s better than the CIL. That’s where I’d go next, if I were you.”

  “The CIL?” I say, forcing a smile at the mention of yet another group. “Who’s the CIL?”

  “Central Identification Lab. They recover and identify remains of missing personnel. They have all the original files.”

  “Computerized?”

  “Uh-huh. Cross-referenced every which way,” she replies, maneuvering around a truck into a faster-moving lane. “The League works very closely with them. I know Colonel Webster, the commanding officer, and some of his people pretty well.”

  “And they are where?”

  “Hawaii.”

  “I should’ve known.”

  “But they’re all going to be here at the meeting next week.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think I can take any more time away from my business.”

  “You could leave the information with me. I’d be more than happy to go over it with him.”

  “Thanks. I can always do it over the phone and fax it to him.”

  She nods, then tilts her head thoughtfully. “You know,” she says, her voice taking on a more serious tone, “a lot of things’ll be competing for the Colonel’s attention after this meeting. It wouldn’t hurt to be sponsored by the League’s unofficial expert on Laos.”

  I mull it over for a moment, then nod. “Okay, Mrs. Ackerman, you’re on.”

  “Was it my charm or my furrowed brow that convinced you?”

  “Neither. I decided to practice what I preach to my clients, and delegate.”

  “Good. Now you can relax.”

  “I can?”

  “Well, I’m sure the CIL will be able to track him down. It’s only a matter of time now. This week, the next at the latest, you’ll know who he is.”

  About twenty minutes later, she drops me at my hotel and drives off into the rain. I don’t want to admit that it’s been a burden, but as her car vanishes in the thickening traffic, I suddenly feel a tremendous sense of relief. Despite it, I can’t help thinking about the tiny cross. Whether my guy was listed as MIA, AWOL, or just fell through the cracks, it’s virtually impossible for my name to be on the wall unless a body was recovered, but the cross and the documents I’ve unearthed leave no doubt that one wasn’t. Kate Ackerman’s right. It doesn’t add up, and it’s bothering me.

  8

  The rain has turned into a raging thunderstorm. I have dinner at the hotel and spend the evening in my room working on the laptop. It takes me several hours to boil down the information in my data base to a few manageable pages.

  The next morning, while I’m meeting with the senator’s staff, one of his secretaries is good enough to make printouts and fax them to the real estate office in nearby Alexandria, where Kate Ackerman works. I finish the revisions to the social security bill, and catch an early afternoon flight to Los Angeles. Nancy picks me up at the airport in the Range Rover. As she maneuvers through traffic to the freeway, I fill her in on the progress I’ve made.

  “Good,” she replies with a grin when I finish. “Now you have no excuse for being distracted.”

  “Why? What’s going on anyway?”

  “Couple of things. For openers, I got the tickets for Phantom. We’re going two weeks from Thursday. I already confirmed with the Grants.”

  “Great. How much were they? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  She grins and holds up two fingers.

  “Hundred?”

  She nods.

  “Apiece?”

  She nods again. “Best seats in the house. Front row center, dress circle.”

  “Well, Gil’s an important client.”

  We’re on the coast highway when I detect a muted rotational clicking. “It’s still making that noise, isn’t it?”

  Nancy nods contritely.

  “I thought you were getting this tank serviced while I was away, because you’d have the Mercedes.”

  “I know. School’s been a little crazy and I just haven’t had a chance. I mean, I haven’t even had time to touch up my roots.”

  “Nance!” I exclaim, feigning shock as I muss her fashionably short-cropped bob. “I thought this was really you.”

  She laughs. “Well, every girl has her secrets.”

  “I missed you, babe.”

  “Me too.”

  A short time later, we’re heading up the canyon into the mountains. It’s been a hellish week. Nancy insists I need to unwind and arranges for us to spend the weekend sailing with some friends. On Monday, Kate Ackerman calls me at the office and reports she’s met with Colonel Webster, the commanding officer of the Central Identification Lab. He was clearly intrigued by the case and will put it in the works when he returns to Honolulu. I’m finally able to put the Memorial out of my mind and concentrate fully on business, family, and friends.

  One morning about a week later, I’m dressing for work when Nancy, who always leaves before I do, kisses me good-bye and hurries from the bedroom. I hear the Range Rover drive off as I finish dressing, then I go downstairs to the den. I’m putting some files in my attaché prior to leaving when the phone rings.

  “Hi, hon, it’s me.”

  “Nance?”

  “Yes, I’m at the gas station at the bottom of the hill.”

  “You okay?”

  “Of course. Look, it’s probably nothing, but as I was leaving, I noticed there’s someone sitting in a car down the road from the house.”

  I turn to the windows that overlook a section of the road that twists down the hillside. A blue sedan, perhaps a top-of-the-line Olds or Buick—they all look alike to me—is parked on the shoulder just where the road turns. I can make out a man in sunglasses behind the wheel. He seems to be sipping coffee from a Styrofoam container. “Sort of bluish one?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yes, I can see it from here. I’m in the den. What about it?”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like it belongs to any of our neighbors, and after those burglaries up on Mountain View, I’m a little concerned.”

  “I don’t know, babe. The man’s driving an expensive car. You’ve heard the rumors about what’s her name next door. I think he’s coveting our neighbor’s wife, not his TV and VCR. Chances are he’s just cooling his heels until hubby leaves for work.”

  “Well, you’re probably right,” she says with a lascivious chuckle, “but I have a feeling the same car was there yesterday morning too.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Cal—”

  “Okay, I’ll check it out when I leave. Hey, twelve thousand bucks for a security system, remember?”

  “I’m sorry. You know how I get worried sometimes.”

  By the time I leave for work the blue car is gone. As I drive off, I imagine the sultry actress who lives up the road making it with the mysterious stranger in her spa. I have a ten o’clock meeting at a client’s office downtown. So instead of taking the coast highway as I do most mornings, I head east through the canyon toward the freeway. The Mercedes glides through a series of turns, emerging onto a long straightaway. Now, I notice there’s a car behind me. It could be blue; it’s
too far away to tell. Ten minutes later I’m on the Ventura approaching the 405 interchange where traffic always starts backing up at this hour, when the phone twitters.

  “Cal Morgan—” I say in my business baritone.

  “Hi, Daddy,” a young woman’s voice says with a little giggle. It’s our oldest daughter, Laura, a twenty-one-year-old music major at Berkeley.

  “Hi, Laur. You always manage to track me down somehow, don’t you?”

  “Well, I tried the house and the office—”

  “How much you need this time?” I ask, teasing her.

  “How much you got?” she fires back without missing a beat. “Actually I’m trying to decide whether to take a class pass/fail or for a grade. I have to make up my mind today.”

  “Be easier if I was at my desk.”

  “Dad,” she says knowingly. “I just want your advice.”

  “My best advice.”

  “I knew you were going to do this,” she scolds, with adoring affection.

  “No problem. Traffic’s at a standstill. Hold on a sec.” I switch the phone to hands-free, then flip open the laptop on the seat next to me and turn it on. “Okay. Ready. Which class?”

  “Advanced psych.”

  “How’d you do in basic?”

  “An A minus.”

  “Good,” I say, letting the car roll to a stop before I encode the data. “How many students in your class?”

  “Hundred-fifty, maybe two hundred.”

  “You’re in the top ten percent?”

  “Not after that C in European History.”

  “Ugh. Okay, now, how many—” I pause, catching sight of something in the rearview mirror that makes me look again. There’s a metallic blue sedan two or three car lengths back in the right-hand lane. Olds? Buick? I can’t tell. The driver is wearing sunglasses. A few uncertain seconds pass before it dawns on me that so is every other person on the freeway.