The Cadet

by Doug Beason

  “Congress must not think so. And we have additional evidence found at the scene in addition to the murder weapon, linking you to the crime.”

  “What evidence? I demand to know what you found—”

  The assistant DA smiled thinly. “You can’t demand anything, General. You’re at the mercy of the court. The judge has sealed the evidence and it is not accessible to the public.” He stepped close and looked down on Hank, then lowered his head until he was inches from his face. “Only your attorney and the prosecutor may access that file, so I suggest you retain legal counsel. You shouldn’t have dismissed your attorney so quickly this morning after the arraignment.”

  Hank’s voice shook as he stood his ground. “Whatever evidence you have won’t hold up in a trial! Why else would I have been released without posting bail? I’ve been falsely accused and now I’m being illegally detained.”

  “Careful, General. I am an officer of the court!”

  “Then you should be ashamed of yourself,” Mary said. She walked around the table and stood right next to the tall man, craning her head back to look him in the eye. “Not telling my husband what additional evidence you have against him, and forcing me to accompany him to the police substation and this stuffy room!”

  Moore took a short step back and pointed at the table. “General, you have not yet signed the release papers. If you keep this up, I can hold both you and the missus in contempt. Do not make a spectacle of the court.”

  Hank turned his back and hobbled away. “Then I suggest you follow your own damn advice if you know what’s good for you.”

  Rod stepped forward. “Dad!”

  The assistant DA shook and grew even redder. “Don’t threaten me, General. This is not a spectacle. And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Balancing with one hand on the table, Hank turned and pointed his cane at the gaunt man. “The hell you don’t! Who’s ever heard of rousing innocent people out of bed, not allowing us to dress properly? And whisking us away in the middle of the night!”

  “The arresting officer took Mrs. McCluney with you for your own protection, so she wouldn’t tamper with any evidence in your house—”

  “Whatever evidence you have must have been planted, made up, or is just plain flimsy. And … and those reporters outside! How did they discover we were here? You’re setting us up to leave the courthouse in our nightclothes with cameras at the ready!” Hank raised his cane over his head; his hand shook, making the cane wobble in the air. “You have some nerve telling me not to create a spectacle!”

  “Settle down, Dad.” Rod stepped forward and put a hand on his father’s cane, forcing it down.

  “Careful, General. You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Moore snapped.

  “The El Paso County government will not allow this to happen!”

  Mr. Moore leaned forward and said in a low voice, “You didn’t hear me, General. You really don’t know who you are dealing with.” He straightened and pointed at the papers covering the table. “Sign and get the hell out of my courthouse.”

  “Just do it, Dad,” Rod said.

  Hank jerked his cane away as he turned to the table. “Mary, I need something to write with.”

  She turned and stepped to her purse, quickly withdrawing a pen. “Here, husband.”

  Hank sat and scribbled his name at the bottom of several pages. He thrust the papers back at the assistant district attorney, holding them up in the air without looking at the man. “Call off your hounds.”

  Moore grabbed the papers. “Smile for the cameras from your staff car.” He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Mary put her hands on her hips. “Was that the smart thing to do, husband? You don’t want to make an enemy of the man.”

  Hank turned slowly in his chair. Rod was shocked to see that his face was now white, drained of color; he looked worn out.

  “He’s not a friend,” Hank said. “Especially when he’s so transparent.”

  Rod walked around the table. “What are you talking about? Mom’s right. You shouldn’t have upset him. He’s the assistant district attorney.”

  Hank slapped the table with his hand. “Think, son. How could he have known that we would have driven out of here in a staff car?”

  Rod hesitated. “Why, because I’m here, that’s why. I came in in one.”

  “How many cadets are chauffeured in an official government vehicle?”

  “But Captain Whitney told me it would get me here faster than if I were to change and drive myself …” Rod trailed off. He thought for a moment, and felt suddenly warm. “You’re right. Mr. Moore couldn’t have known. But the Superintendent told Captain Whitney it was okay for me to use the car and driver—”

  Hank pushed up and balanced on his cane. “I called General Briggs and specifically asked that you leave the Academy in your civilian clothes and pick us up in your own car, keeping this low profile. By bringing us here in our nightclothes, I thought this might turn into a publicity stunt, designed to make your mother and me look as foolish as possible while leaving the courthouse. At least General Briggs was able to convince the judge to conduct our arraignment today and not keep me locked up over the weekend. But still, leaking the news to reporters is a heavy-handed move designed to turn public opinion against me.”

  He wacked the table with his cane and pointed at Rod. “That poor excuse for an assistant DA knew reporters would get a picture of us using official government transportation for our own personal benefit. Can you imagine the front page of The Denver Post showing a photo of us leaving the Courthouse in our nightclothes? And with you in uniform and us being chauffeured in an official government car after I was charged with murder? They’d pile accusations of misuse of government funds on top of whatever fraudulent charges they’ve already cooked up. I’d never get a fair trial!”

  He turned to Mary. “We can’t trust either Darius Moore or Captain Whitney as far as we can throw them. And besides, the man seems to think I don’t understand whom I’m dealing with.”

  Rod frowned. “What are you talking about? You’re dealing with the government, and you don’t mess with them.”

  “It’s not the damned government, lad, it’s George Delante! I know exactly who’s behind this.”

  Rod glanced at his mother, but she only stared at her husband. Rod said slowly, “That’s a pretty far stretch, Dad. How do you know he was behind this?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind.” Hank pointed at the door. “Now find your way to that waiting room and call us a taxi. Have it meet us at the back service exit, away from the side entrance where they’ll be expecting us to leave. And don’t talk to any of those reporters!”

  “Yes, sir,” Rod said. He wanted to get out of there without being noticed as much as his father did, but why couldn’t the old man treat him more like an adult, rather than ordering him around like a little kid? And despite all these coincidences with Captain Whitney and this assistant district attorney, he was still curious about why the police had found Rafelli’s body so close to his parent’s house … and if mom’s shotgun had really been used to kill him.

  There seemed something odd about his father’s abrupt dismissal of the evidence and circumstances surrounding Rafelli’s death. Why did Hank think the evidence was so flimsy, especially if it hadn’t been presented? Exactly who was this reporter? And why did his father so quickly connect George Delante with all of this? Was it really possible that this was being orchestrated by Fred’s father? Rod knew that Fred was a liar and couldn’t be trusted, but was it true of George Delante as well? And if so, then why?

  He’d never actually heard his father say that he was innocent, so was this another reason why he couldn’t trust his father? Not being forthright about adultery and keeping it from his mother was one thing … but now, murder?

  After he arranged for the taxi, he walked back to his parents, more confused than ever about what he thought. But one thing he knew for cert
ain, his respect for Hank had never been lower.

  ***

  Chapter Forty

  “Why Don’t They Understand?”

  Thanksgiving, 1958

  Colorado Springs, CO

  Our ingress into the world was naked and bare;

  Our progress through the world is trouble and care.

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Tales of a Wayside Inn, “The Student’s Tale”

  Rod downshifted and turned the jeep into his parent’s circular driveway. He glanced over at Julie. Her eyes were closed and she looked pale. Slowing to a stop, he skidded on the ice and shut off the engine.

  Julie kept her eyes shut. “Are we there yet?”

  “Yeah. Just … just remember not to ask about the murder charges. He still hasn’t heard about a trial date, so it won’t do any good to ask. All he’ll do is rant.”

  “Sure,” she mumbled.

  He leaned over and rubbed her shoulder. “You don’t look well. Are you sure you feel like having Thanksgiving dinner?”

  She turned away. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”

  “People don’t vomit when they have a cold,” Rod said. “I had to stop twice for you to lose your cookies on the way up here, remember?”

  Julie opened her eyes. She patted the space by her feet, pulled up her purse, and clutched it tightly to her chest. “I have to get to the bathroom.” She opened the door and a rush of cold air tumbled in.

  The air was crisp and clear as snow blanketed the ground from last night’s storm.

  Rod jumped out of the jeep and rushed around to help Julie. He slipped and caught himself. He held out a hand to steady her.

  The sound of the front door opening came behind him. “Rod, be careful,” his mother said. “The ice packs up by the door.” She turned and called inside the house. “Hank, Julie and Rod are here. Can you help with the luggage?”

  Rod heard his father’s muffled reply, “Aye, as soon as I get off the phone.”

  Rod put an arm around Julie. Her coat and bulky garments made her unwieldy as he helped her pick through the snow.

  Rod’s mother held the door open for them. She frowned when they approached. “Julie! My goodness, lass, you look ill. Have you the flu?”

  “She says it’s a cold,” Rod said. “But she can’t keep anything down.”

  “It’s … probably something I ate,” Julie said. She stepped slowly up the stairs.

  “I hope you’re over it soon, lass.” Mary furrowed her brow as she studied Julie. After a moment her eyebrows rose; she smiled and her voice softened. “I’ll get you some hot tea, dear.” She tapped up the steps and gently helped her inside. “Come in here by the fire. You shouldn’t be out in this weather. Step carefully.” Her whole demeanor seemed to change toward helping Julie.

  Once she was inside the house, Rod turned back to the jeep to get the rest of their things. So far Thanksgiving was turning out to be a bust, but it was best that Julie stayed here, rather than being alone in her apartment. The trip from downtown Colorado Springs had taken nearly an hour with the icy roads. They always seemed to have bad weather over Thanksgiving, but at least they were now safely at his parent’s home.

  Rod pulled her suitcase out of the back of the jeep. He turned as he heard a crunching through the snow.

  His father steadied himself with his cane. “Let me help.” He looked grim.

  “I can do it,” Rod said. He picked up the suitcase. “Go back in—you’re going to trip and fall on the ice.”

  “Just need some air, son.”

  Rod studied his father’s face. His father had deep lines in his face. “Have you heard any news about the trial? You look worried.”

  “No, not yet.” Hank avoided his eyes and turned; he made his way back to the house and held the door open for Rod. “In you go, lad.”

  “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” Rod said. He motioned Hank to go on in; Rod followed him and put down Julie’s suitcase. He stomped his feet to remove his snow.

  “I’m fine.”

  Rod snorted. “You’re sure not acting like it.”

  Hank straightened, his face flush. “Just a lot on my mind.” He averted his eyes and turned away. But he stood still, with his back to Rod, as if debating to turn or to continue down the hall.

  Rod watched his father. When he saw Hank’s shoulder’s slump, he suddenly realized that the man wasn’t upset but was … embarrassed.

  A moment passed; Hank spoke in a low voice. “It takes money to retain legal help, and the government isn’t helping with my costs. Lawyers are expensive.”

  Rod nodded. He remembered Mr. Delante telling him and Fred that lawyers made a lot of money, but he knew that this was definitely not the time to bring that up.

  “Between the congressional investigation and this upcoming murder trial, I’ve … I’ve about run through our life savings. Your mother and I are selling the house, moving down to Texas, and staying with family until we can get our feet back on the ground.”

  “What!” Rod drew himself up. “You can’t sell this place.”

  “I must take care of Mary, lad.”

  “But it’s your home. Our home.” Rod was at a loss for words. “That phone call—did it have something to do with this decision?”

  Hank turned and placed his hands on his cane. “That was the congressional liaison. The investigating committee has dropped all charges against George Delante, but my case is still open. I have to keep my legal team together, for that and to prepare for the murder trial, and that takes money. A lot of it.”

  “Mr. Delante was being investigated by Congress?” Rod shook his head. “What’s going on?”

  Hank’s face grew red; he lifted his cane at Rod and shook it in his face. “Keep out of this, lad. I don’t want you involved. Your mother and I will make do. But whatever happens, stay away from George and that no good son of his.”

  Rod felt short of breath. “Don’t you think I know that? Fred Delante turned out to be a thief and a liar, and I had to go through an honor board to prove it. And his father is probably an opportunist. You weren’t there in San Francisco when he urged Fred and me to leave the Air Force as soon as possible.”

  Hank turned and shuffled down the hall toward the living room.

  Rod followed him. He raised his voice at Hank’s back. “Why don’t you talk to me? Why was George Delante being investigated? Tell me what happened!”

  Hank stopped. He stood with his back to Rod for a moment. He said, “Just stay away. We can discuss it later, and … and some other things Delante did—such as trying to blackmail me into using his land near Fort Carson to build the Academy. But not now. It’s not a good time.”

  With his back still to Rod, he shuffled into the living room.

  Rod turned, stunned. Blackmail? He stomped down the hall and stepped outside, breathing deeply. The air felt ice cold in his lungs after being in the warm house. His heart raced.

  Once again, he and Hank butted heads. Why couldn’t the old man just open up and not lecture him for once, put aside his pride and talk to his son? What did he mean about Delante attempting blackmail? And how? Was the old man just paranoid?

  Was that what Hank had been ranting about all these years, the evil deed that Delante had supposedly done?

  How bad could George Delante really be? His father seemed to be giving the man a lot of credit for pulling strings and working behind people’s backs, from blackmail to murder.

  He stepped into the yard and looked west, toward the Rampart Range. Light glinted off the Academy buildings, nestled into the mountains as a diamond set by a meticulous jeweler. As his breathing slowed, he briefly wondered about how things were going back at the Zoo, with the Fourth classmen running the place now that all the upperclassmen were on Thanksgiving break.

  For what it was worth, it wasn’t his problem the next few days. So he’d try to relax, catch up on some sleep. Now if he only could get along with his father.

  ***

  Ch
apter Forty-One

  “Guess Things Happen That Way”

  Two weeks before Christmas, 1958

  USAF Academy, CO

  Love of honour and honour of love.

  —Philip Sidney, English Literature: Mediaeval

  Rod was in the middle of finals before it hit him that he had only one more semester left before he finally graduated. He had so many things on his mind: applying for graduate school, making plans for pilot training, worrying about his father’s trial, and of course, wondering where his relationship with Julie would take him.

  Her stomach flu lingered on, and although she’d been to the doctor, she couldn’t seem to shake it. Rod’s mother had brought her several meals, and if Julie had not insisted on staying in her own apartment, she could have been pampered the entire time.

  Throughout the sickness she chose to keep working and not take unpaid sick leave; she wasn’t thrilled about working as a receptionist for a local printing company, but it paid the bills.

  She missed the last football game of the year, where they pounded Army to end the season with a perfect record. It was in all the papers about Coach Ben Martin’s miracle “freshman season.” Now with a bid to the Cotton Bowl on New Year’s Eve, the Academy had become a major university in classy style.

  With finals over, Mary dropped Rod and Julie off at the train station in Denver. They boarded the train to Washington, DC to spend time with Julie’s family over the long holiday break. Rod would have to leave a few days before New Year’s, so he could join his classmates in Texas for the bowl game—but the decision wasn’t a hard one, since supporting the football team as “the twelfth man” on the sidelines was what had brought the fledgling Academy team to national prominence.

  O O O

  They slept most of the way, Rod exhausted from the last week of finals and Julie still recovering from her flu. Rod insisted that she see her own doctor once they got to Washington, DC.

  As they approached Union Station, Rod gathered their things. Julie had not spoken the last half day, and for the life of him Rod could not figure what he had done wrong. Or maybe it was something he had forgotten to do. As he stacked their suitcases outside the door to the sleeper compartment, he racked his brain, trying to remember if there had been anything he might have said, or had not said, but it was to no avail.