Having reported from many other accident sites, Ben knew how police operated. In a multi-vehicle collision, investigators focused on recreating conditions to figure out the trajectories and examine mechanical components for failures that could have contributed to the accident. It was obvious the police did not give any credence to the rumor of a white Ducati and treated this as a single-vehicle accident due to driver error.
But with respect to victims’ belongings, the efforts to collect and inventory items was not related to accident investigation but was done to ensure safe delivery to bereaved family members. Police teams were trained to engage in this process with a methodical and well-practiced empathy, but with hardly any sense of urgency.
Back at the overlook, the uniformed officers had done all that, following routine procedures even at the less common occurrence of a vehicle falling off the road and down the hillside. But Porter’s behavior had been odd, even if his job included investigating road accidents. Ben planned to ask Fran about it.
His attention was drawn back to the iTouch. If there was anything hidden on it, he wanted to find out before handing it over to Fran.
Like its iPhone sibling, the iTouch home screen was filled with icons. He started to check each of the fifty or so applications, just in case.
Most were junk, things that came with the device or were added for free, such as games involving military battles, warships, submarines, fighter jets, and even face-to-face combat with nothing but spears and short swords. There was a CIA vs. FBI game, a Putin look-alike in a judo outfit, and KGB minions on a mission to control the world against an American president who resembled G.W. Bush, as well as a game featuring James Bond, played by a young Sean Connery, who used a water gun against baldheaded masterminds. Another icon brought up a Johnny English game involving a karate duel against violent female ninjas. A sailing ship icon led to a game featuring a knightly woman who wielded a yellow sword against pirates and a giant sea creature with tentacles.
Ben looked closely. The sword in the woman’s hand was actually a pencil, complete with #2 designation, a sharpened lead tip, and an orange eraser at the top that blinked like a tiny turn-signal. He touched the blinking eraser, and a new screen opened, showing a photo of a soldier. It took Ben a second to recognize Zachariah Hinckley—much younger, with buzzed hair and a deep tan. At the bottom of the screen, a line appeared: We’re the United States Marines. What’s our motto?
Ben touched the screen, and a keypad appeared. He typed: Semper Fidelis
A banner flashed across the top: Welcome to my journal!
Chapter 6
Z.H. Journal Entry # 1:
You are reading this journal because I’m no longer alive. My death, most likely, was caused by the events recorded here. This journal, therefore, is intended to ensure that my death wasn’t for nothing.
What you’ll read here might cast doubts as to the purity of my faith or the goodness of my heart, but the truth is that my actions have not been motivated by vanity or rebellion, but by my devotion to the three things I love more than anything else:
My church, the True Church.
My country, the United States of America.
My children, who deserve to know the truth about their father’s life.
For things to make sense, I have to start with a bit of history: My name is Zachariah Hinckley. I had a blessed upbringing in most respects. Both my father and my mother, who now rule their own heavenly world in the Celestial Kingdom of God, traced their ancestral lines back to the early restoration of the true gospel in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Having been blessed by the prophet Joseph Smith himself, our family survived the persecution of Saints in New York, Ohio, Missouri, and Illinois, the building of God’s kingdom in Nauvoo and the exile from there on to the long march to the Salt Lake, and the Gentiles’ wars against our people. My ancestors’ unwavering faith in the face of mockery, violence, and bereavement had lain the ground for the building of New Zion with Brother Brigham Young. Their faith still burns in me.
In our small town of New Hebron, an hour west of Salt Lake City, my father led our family righteously, with my mother as his helper. Being the youngest of eight, I was the apple of everyone’s eye.
There’s nothing better than a Mormon childhood. I was surrounded by love, friendship, and happiness. I excelled in school and loved the afternoons and weekends at our ward—the New Hebron Ward of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—which my great-great-grandfather had established back during the time of the pioneers. At the ward, we studied the Book of Mormon and learned how the lost tribes of Israel came to America, how Christ ministered to them and how He came again in 1820, together with God the Father, to Palmyra in upstate New York to tell Joseph Smith to restore the True Church after 1,700 years of abomination and falsehood.
On Sundays, everyone came together at the ward to bless newborn babies and remember those who departed to eternal life. Everyone shared their testimonies—declarations of faith in the True Church—as well as emotional stories of miracles and personal revelations. On Mondays, we had Family Home Nights, gathering around the dining table to enjoy my mother’s cooking, study the scriptures together, and give testimony of our love for each other, for the blessing of a family sealed together for eternity, here and in the afterlife.
Like all good Mormon boys, my life progressed through the wonderful milestones set by our prophets and apostles, whose commands came from God. You could say that I learned the blessing of obedience at the same time that I learned how to walk, talk, write, and eat with my own knife and fork. And until recently, my obedience to our church authorities had been total in every respect.
At the age of eight, my baptizing celebration drew relatives from all over Utah, Iowa, Idaho, Wyoming, California, Nevada, and Arizona. At ten, I spoke in front of the whole ward about how the sin of pride was hard for me to avoid because of my father’s prominence, having just been called to serve as Stake President—a volunteer clergy in charge of all church affairs for the region.
My father was a stern man, but I still remember how he trembled with joy when I, his youngest, advanced to the Aaronic Priesthood at age 12. My mother was more expressive. Her tears flowed freely when I first fulfilled my duty as Deacon to pass the sacramental bread and the water to the congregation. She even sobbed at my Eagle Scout ceremony, and my framed certificate soon hung over her kitchen sink so she could look at it all the time.
At 14, I advanced to Teacher, and at 16, to Priest, which entitled me to recite the prayers over the sacramental bread and water and fill in for the adult priesthood holders in conducting meetings and even in baptizing converts. And, finally, like all worthy Mormon males, I advanced to the Melchizedek Priesthood and experienced the secret Temple ordinances, rituals, and oaths, which endowed me with all the powers and authority of God. There are few occasions in life more dramatic than the first participation in the rituals—so special and secret that we had to pantomime the punishment for revealing them to Gentiles by pretending to slit our throats and slice our stomachs in pretend disembowelment.
As a holder of my own Temple Recommend Card—the laminated admission card to the Temple and the most sacred rituals of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—I was a true Saint.
Living in Utah, where a Temple is never too far, I regularly served as a proxy in baptizing dead souls. The process had two parts that were performed at different times by different proxies. The first part required stamina to endure 30 or 40 immersions in the baptismal bath while the dead people’s names were read from a list. Taking the Temple ordinance rituals for the dead was easier, but also a slower process that took a lot of time. But serving as a proxy for the dead gave us, male teenagers who were selected for this honor, a sense of great importance.
After that, it was only a matter of time until our bishop certified me as worthy, and the lette
r came from Salt Lake City to call on me to serve as a Missionary.
My imminent departure was a cause of mixed feelings for my parents, as I was the last child still living at their home. I had spent the previous two summers working in my uncle’s CPA office, entering endless lines of numbers into a slow and capricious computer database at $3 per hour, to save up enough money to pay my expenses during my Mission. I was about to earn the most prized feather in a Mormon man’s cap—the honor of saving Gentiles from a life of apostasy and ignorance of the True Church, and later, an afterlife of hell.
Behind my typical 18-year-old’s bravado was a good deal of nervousness about going away for 2 years, most likely to a foreign country. According to church policy, the place of service is revealed to each missionary only a few weeks beforehand.
I was right to be nervous! My assignment was New York City!
It could have been Somalia, as far as I was concerned, because from our small town in Utah, the urban jungle was more intimidating than a real one.
Several intense weeks at the Missionary Training Center in Provo taught me the art of “tracking” – approaching Gentiles with intriguing questions to make them curious about the Mormon faith. We practiced greetings and light-hearted opening lines to be used on Christians, who could always be enticed to hear ‘another testimony of Christ.’ We acted out situations that commonly occurred as prospects agreed to hear more. We used videotaping to record and watch ourselves declare our solemn, hearty personal testimony that the LDS principles were true, with the goal of reaching such level of emotional sincerity that our prospects were moved emotionally. We practiced praying and singing catchy hymns, and we learned how to read the gospel with prospects while sharing deeply personal experiences of salvation and miracles. The key was to create a moving experience so that the prospect felt the Holy Ghost as a sort of “warmth of kinship” in their bosom. That feeling would turn a Gentile into an “Investigator” who’s willing to learn more.
Our trainers practiced with us repeatedly, as if we were in acting school. We learned how to challenge a Gentile ever so subtly: Are you ready to set a date for baptizing into the True Church? That was the goal. Later on, a baptized convert would be committed to the Gospel and would work hard to feel the truth, to become more righteous and worthy of the priesthood or, in the case of women, of serving her priesthood-holding husband.
The Church’s multiple Missionary Training Centers prepared tens of thousands of us to go out with fervent dedication to every country in the world, except those that banned missionary work, such as China and the Islamic countries.
I reached New York City in my black suit and tie, carrying 2 suitcases with everything I needed for the next 2 years. I knew there would be no vacations, no family visits, and no phone calls home other than Christmas and Mother’s Day.
But my expectations of feeling repulsed and dismayed by the Sin City never materialized. Rather, it was the most exciting time of my life. I loved the daily cycle of proselytizing to men and women of all colors and ethnicities, to people who spoke Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, French, or English with an Irish accent so thick it sounded like a foreign language.
Missionary training was a work-in-progress. Every night in the walk-up apartment, prayers and intense discussions went on about how best to approach a prospect. Tracking only had a chance to work when we emphasized the similarity of our LDS faith to mainstream Christianity while avoiding the differences. At first we only shared the common belief in the divinity of Christ so that converts opened their hearts. Their salvation required initial ignorance. It was for their own good. Those who agreed to be baptized needed time to become part of a ward and grow attached to our warm community and wholesome way of life. The more detailed teachings were left for later. In time, they would discover how the True Church was alone among the falsehood of the other so-called Christian churches, as Jesus Christ and God the Father had told Joseph Smith in the First Vision.
Frequent visits from local LDS leaders and missionary officials helped us survive emotionally under the constant barrage of rejection and ridicule. Successes were few and far between, most people unwilling to hear our pitch for Jesus Christ and His restored church. But among those polite enough to listen in whatever language they understood (we had translators on standby), the most challenging were the Yiddish speakers. Not many of them were left in the Bronx by 1988, but enough of them humored us with curiosity and a glass of water while making us realize how staunchly Jews clung to a religion many of them weren’t even practicing on a regular basis.
I returned home to Utah greatly matured. My faith had solidified by the challenges and by the successes—I had baptized eleven converts, a good average for which I was commended. But the biggest change in me was an awareness that New Hebron and the rest of Utah felt like a small town. I had seen the real America, experienced its greatness and diversity, and wanted to go back out there and make a difference. I decided to study computer science and join IBM or another large corporation that offered opportunities to rise to leadership positions. You’d think I was naive, and perhaps I was. But even now, with all that has happened since, some of my boyish enthusiasm still persists, mixed with a sadness for unfulfilled dreams.
Our bishop called me in for a meeting. He explained that the divine mission of our True Church to eventually lead the United States depended on sending young men like me into every branch of the government, where our personal excellence would bolster the Mormon image and extend the reach of our True Gospel. The reports from the mission director in New York had suggested that my dedication, deference to authority, and resilience would make me an excellent military man. The bishop therefore instructed me to pray and fast so that God would reveal to me which part of the armed forces I should join.
Naturally, I obeyed.
After a week of praying and skipping meals, an explicit and unambiguous revelation came. God told me what my next mission would be. I was going to enlist in the United States Marine Corps.
Chapter 7
Ben’s phone rang, tearing him out of Zachariah’s story. It was Fran. “That’s quick,” he said. “You check messages on a Sunday night?”
“I get an e-mail alert whenever a message is left.”
“Government efficiency. Impressive. Where are you?”
“At home, watching Lilly cook dinner. You’re on speaker, by the way.”
“Hi, Lilly,” he said. “What’s cooking?”
“Ethiopian red lentil stew. I’m making it with lamb this time. You want to join us?”
“I’ll take a rain check.”
“He’s too busy,” Fran said, “playing accident investigator. What’s up with that?”
Ben looked at Zachariah’s iTouch. “It’s a long story.”
“Give me the short version.”
“Biker was speeding, flew off the road, crashed, and died. I stuck around to take photos of the cleanup, went down to look around at the crash site, and found an iTouch half-buried in the ground. Being a good citizen, I’m going to bring it to my friend at the state police so she can pass it on to the family.”
“But your nose is itching, smelling a story, right?”
In the background, he heard Lilly say, “Ben found another conspiracy?”
“That’s unfair,” he said.
Fran was laughing. “We’re worried about you. It’s not the toll road again, is it?”
“I was right about that,” Ben said. A year earlier he had spent months pursuing a rumor that the body of a missing Washington lobbyist was buried by his unhappy client in the foundations of a toll road overpass in Montgomery County. “The contractor was dirty.”
“But the lobbyist was alive!”
Fran was correct. The lobbyist had run off to St. Thomas, fearing for his life, and resurfaced only after his client was arrested for overcharging the federal government.
“So tel
l me,” Fran said, “what is it now? Harley Davidson is orchestrating an insidious cover-up to hide the fact that the victim was actually testing its concept flying motorcycle?”
“That’s bad,” Lilly yelled from the kitchen. “I’m calling Keera!”
“She’s calling Keera,” Fran said. “It’s for your own good.”
“No problem,” Ben said. “Have your queen call my queen.”
“I heard that!” Lilly’s voice sounded closer. “You’re in trouble, boy!”
“Laugh all you want,” he said. “Even paranoids are sometimes right. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Stop by after ten,” Fran said. “I have a team briefing first thing in the morning. But you can still join us tonight for…what was it, sweetie?”
“Ethiopian lamb stew,” Lilly said.
“It’s tempting,” Ben said, “but I’m in the middle of reading something good.”
Chapter 8
Z.H. Journal Entry # 2:
Boot camp at Parris Island required very little adjustment for me after serving two years as a Missionary, almost a decade of Boy Scouting, and a lifetime of happy obedience to church authorities. The simple diet, physical exercise, and pride in excellence were also ingrained in me. It was as if I exchanged my Missionary’s uniform of a dark suit and black tie for the soldier’s uniform of fatigues and dog tags, the authority of our bishop for the clout of our drill sergeant, and the ascetic life of long days filled with pavement pounding and upbeat proselytizing for the military routine of dawn-to-night drilling, spit and shine, and weapons training.
It was that last element—the process of integrating weapons into the fabric of our minds and bodies—that later popped up as an unexpected hurdle for me. Guns had been part of my life—for hunting and for protection during camping trips in bear country, so at first I totally embraced the military’s drive to forge a unity of man and his firearm. I had somehow suppressed the fact that all this effort had a single goal: To kill people.
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