Chasing a Blond Moon

by Joseph Heywood

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  “He’s sucking the eagle’s tit.”

  “Retired?”

  “Ninety-four or -five, I think, after the Gulf War. He had a brigade over there, went out with two stars. Last I heard he was living in Alexandria.”

  “You got his number?”

  “You know how to call information, right? They have that service up there?”

  “Don’t jerk me around. Did you get the information on Siquin Soong?”

  “You a motherfucker, you know that? Takes time to get shit like this. What’s crawled inside you and gone sour?”

  “Ambiguity.”

  “My black ass. Cops breathe that shit.”

  “I need help.”

  “You’re gettin’ it. Just stay cool.”

  Stay cool with so many holes in this case?

  He called information and found thirteen listings for Gates, but no Theodores and no retired generals. In the process he pissed off the long distance operator. Add unlisted phone numbers to your hate list, he told himself.

  Newf was pawing at the door when he went downstairs. He looked out and saw that the other dog was gone and opened the door. Newf came in, looked up and wagged her tail.

  “You’re worthless,” he said.

  He got into bed, but couldn’t sleep and got up again. It was 4 a.m. and Newf followed him downstairs, whining to go out. He decided to take her along—not that she’d be worth a damn if the red dog were still hanging around. But it wasn’t. She settled into the passenger seat, went to sleep, and began snoring.

  The DNR office in Marquette was dark and he let himself in with his key. The captain’s truck was parked in the lot, which didn’t surprise him. The captain’s hours and rhythms were as erratic as his own.

  He went to his cubicle, told Newf to take a nap, and turned on his computer to check e-mail.

  Captain Ware Grant appeared in the opening to his cubicle, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a folder in one hand, two glasses in the other. “I didn’t expect company tonight,” the captain said.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Things rolling around in my mind.”

  Grant set the glasses on the desk and poured a couple of fingers in each. “Ice dilutes.” He eased a glass over to Service. “Does your dog suffer insomnia as well?”

  They sipped in silence. The captain pushed the manila folder across to him. “The lab results,” Grant said. “The fax came in after you left.”

  Service opened the folder and read the summary.

  Genetic testing verifies that hair samples, USF&WS—MI-4128–205 #B.1–3, are those of Selenarctos thibetanus (protected under Appendix I, CITES). S. thibetanus (Asiatic black bear) is indigenous to a variety of transasiatic climates and habitats, north to south in the east and west. The status of bears in heavily populated central China is unknown. While S. thibetanus is widespread, there has been minimal scientific study of the species and there are little reliable data about basic biology, etc.

  NOTE 1: USF&WS has previously examined only one sample of S. thibetanus exhibiting the light color of MI-4128–205#B.1–3. It has been theorized that this may represent an unknown color phase of S. thibetanus, or potentially (but unlikely) a previously unknown species of ursus. The previous sample was collected in Cambodia, and has been attributed to, but not confirmed as, a “golden” or “blond moon” bear.

  NOTE 2: Tests confirm that galls in sample MI-4128–205 #sA.1–2 are that of Ursus americanus; all hair samples in MI-4128–205 #s B.1–3 are S. thibetanus.

  CITES was the acronym for Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora. Appendix I listed endangered species and allowed no international trade. He knew from previous experience that North American black bears were in the less restricted Appendix II, which annoyed the hell out of wildlife managers. Not all states banned the sale of bear parts, and those that didn’t served as havens for sellers and buyers.

  Service looked up from the report to find the captain staring at him. “The historical intersects between you and complex cases remain unparalleled,” Grant said.

  “I don’t pick the cases,” Service said. “Especially this one.” He had been visiting Gus when this one landed on him.

  “That’s what makes it extraordinary.”

  “A blond moon bear?” Service said shaking his head. “Live from the Upper Peninsula, it’s the Twilight Zone.”

  Captain Grant flashed a rare smirk. “I have faith in your abilities, Detective.”

  Service opened a pad of yellow lined paper and began making notes.

  FACT: Professor Harry Pung found dead at fish house, Hancock.

  FACT: Pung poisoned with cyanide in chocolate-covered figs. COD confirmed by autopsy. Case classified homicide.

  FACT: Two bear galls discovered in same package with the figs. Galls confirmed by USF&WS as U. americanus, our blackie.

  FACT: Bear scat and hair found in victim’s vehicle, species now verified as Asiatic black bear (but possible golden/blond moon bear, new species/color phase?). Different than our blackie.

  FACT: Hair samples recovered at Harry Pung’s rental home in Houghton, and at stainless steel cage in rented cabin on Lac La Belle. All hair samples confirmed as from an Asiatic black bear.

  FACT: Lac La Belle cabin rented by Harry Pung.

  CONCLUSION: The bear in Pung’s vehicle was also in the rented house and cabin.

  QUESTION: Did Pung possess and move these animals willingly?

  QUESTION: Boat used to move bear from Hancock?

  FACT: Second body discovered at house on shipping canal in Houghton.

  FACT: Prints, documents, and immigration records confirm second body as that of Terry Tunhow. One witness confirms identity: Maggie Soper, the landlord.

  FACT: A second witness (Enrica) says body is not Terry Pung, but a Korean student who was in her classes under the name of Terry Pung. Witness claims to have met the real (another?) Terry Pung.

  FACT: Masonetsky confirms that Terry Pung was using a substitute to attend classes in his place and using his name and identity.

  CONCLUSION: The actual Terry Pung is alive. Another Korean male was, with his permission and perhaps by his design, acting as Terry Pung. (Harry’s role? Why?)

  FACT: House on shipping canal in Houghton rented by the false Terry Pung, also confirmed by landlady.

  FACT: Witnesses who found the body also report meeting another Asian male there (the “other” Terry Pung?).

  ASSUMPTION: The second still-unidentified male—prolly the ersatz Terry Pung.

  FACT: Witnesses at house saw smaller aluminum boat tied to a larger blue craft. Both boats sailed south.

  QUESTION: Destination?

  FACT: Harry Pung left all to ex-wife, Siquin Soong.

  QUESTION: Why does she get everything?

  QUESTION: When were they married, where, how long, reason for divorce, etc.?

  FACT: Siquin Soong is major player in state Democratic Party, owns businesses in Detroit. Married to prominent lawyer.

  ALLEGED: Per Tree, Soong suspected of illegal activities by the feds.

  QUESTION: Which fed agencies interested, and why?

  ALLEGED: The real Terry Pung transferred to U of M, Ann Arbor. No: A Terry Pung or somebody going by that name. Still not clear if either of the younger Koreans in Houghton was Pung.

  FACT: The Pungs were members of archery jung in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Son’s membership dropped. Why?

  FACT: Per Pyykkonen, Soong’s attorneys not playing ball with the investigation.

  QUESTION: Why not? What are they hiding?

  UNKNOWN: Why did Harry Pung leave previous position at Virginia Tech?

  QUESTION: Fight, conflict between father/son?

  UNKNOWN: What is known about golden/blond moon bears?

&
nbsp; UNKNOWN: Why bring another species of bear into Michigan where blackies are more than plentiful?

  UNKNOWN: What do feds think Soong has done?

  UNKNOWN: What is relationship of Soong to Terry Pung? (Her son, Harry’s son? Neither?)

  Service set down his pen and read over his notes. In his mind he began to make a list of things he needed to do before meeting Soong at the fund-raiser downstate. He was surprised when he looked up to find the captain still sitting across from him.

  “Lost in the case?” the captain asked.

  “Just lost,” Service said.

  The captain held out his hand and Service gave him the notes.

  Captain Grant sipped Jack Daniel’s and read slowly, nodding now and then.

  “Siquin Soong?” the captain said, looking up from the notes.

  “Yessir. She was previously married to Harry Pung.”

  “She is a significant political force,” the captain said.

  “And a key backer of Timms,” Service said.

  The captain nodded. “What are the federals looking at?”

  “I’m still waiting for that information.”

  “You may have to operate in concert with federal agencies.”

  Service understood, but wanted to avoid such cooperation as long as possible. Last year he had gotten mixed up with U.S. Fish and Wildlife and the FBI. The case had been resolved, but only after a lot of conflict and virtually no cooperation, which left a bad taste.

  “Do you feel like you’re making progress?” the captain asked.

  “Very little, Captain.”

  Grant refilled their glasses. “Progress is progress,” he said with a nod.

  “Siquin Soong’s political connections put us in a minefield,” Service said.

  “William Jennings Bryan told Democrats at their national convention, ‘The humblest citizen of all the land, when clad in the armor of a righteous cause, is stronger than all the hosts of Error.’ Don’t let your imagination be restricted by raw fact.”

  Service took a sip of whiskey. Sometimes his captain acted like a man with his mind rooted in another dimension, one that always seemed to elude Service.

  “The art of investigation,” Grant added in his professorial tone, “once could be reduced to shoe leather. But we are in a new era, and the art now resides in the marriage of fingertips to the brain. You can’t do everything alone, Detective. Your colleagues respect you and trust you. Use and depend on them.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “What have you found on the Internet?” the captain asked. “If Soong is culpable, don’t be swayed by who she is. Let only what she has done be your guide.”

  “Are you telling me to go after her?”

  “Go where the evidence takes you.”

  20

  Service knew that the Internet had been invented in the sixties by government and university scientists who wanted to talk back and forth in their insulated languages—and not waste travel money. Now the Net was bastardized by commercial interests and expanding like a newborn universe. In the early days, its use had been restricted; now it was open to any fool who could afford a monthly fee. Service had never had access to the original Internet, but wished it would come back so he could be excluded in order to avoid frustration.

  After the captain went back to his office, he took Newf outside for a quick pee before the two of them settled back into his cubicle.

  A cursory look at the Internet made it appear to be overflowing with information, but more often than not his search engines dredged up and regurgitated garbage. He first went to Switchboard.Com and got nothing, then two other telephone registries, with the same result. Over a couple of hours of Net searching, he snared a couple of leads, one to do with Teddy Gates, the other pointing to a cultural anthropologist who might know something about Asiatic black bears.

  The first sweep took him into the organizational octopus that enveloped POW/MIA affairs. There was a lot of pent-up emotion surrounding the issue, a lot of anger and mistrust of government—though based on his own experience last fall with the FBI, maybe mistrust of government agencies in some circumstances was not entirely unjustified.

  He learned that there were more Americans killed in Vietnam than in Korea, but only by four thousand or so. He had always thought the differential to be much larger. He also found that about a thousand confirmed American POWs went unaccounted for after the mass repatriation. He learned that there was a Senate Select Committee on POW/MIA Affairs, created in 1991 and still in existence, though reports since 1993 were few and far between. He also discovered by reading various reports that there was no central government clearinghouse for POW/MIA information, no comprehensive, one-stop shopping database, and that for a long time, gathering such material carried the lowest of national priorities. Some agencies collected such information only if they could justify it in connection with a national priority, but they did not routinely share. It was depressing, especially when he read that American soldiers lost during intelligence and secret missions were somehow excluded from overall POW/MIA considerations. Had he and Tree gone missing, they very likely would have been in this category. After rooting electronically for two hours, he discovered testimony from the Senate Select Committee’s hearings of 1992—and there he found his first lead. Major General Theodore Gates had testified.

  Teddy’s testimony bristled with indignation over troops left behind in Vietnam and Korea, but as strident and angry as his former commanding officer seemed, there was little in the way of actual information, and where his affiliation was to be listed, there was nothing but a series of XXXXXs. Looking at other testimony, he found the same technique employed. Okay, so they kept some personal shit secret. 1992 and Gates had been a two-star. The Gulf War was in 1991. Had Tree said Gates retired in ninety-four or -five? If so, had his testimony had something to do with it?

  Two telephone calls to Washington, D.C., did not yield the general’s phone number or address. An officious senate committee staffer informed him that what witnesses said was public domain, but their private lives—including their home addresses and phone numbers—were just that, private. This sent him scrambling for a back door.

  During his Net scans he had developed a list of other witnesses from the date of Teddy’s testimony, including one from a group called Reckoning Over Korea (ROK). The words of a civilian, the daughter of a missing naval aviator, struck home, and he had jotted them down: “The living bear the pain of not knowing until they die, and we can only hope that Almighty God will then reunite us.” The offices of the operation were listed in Clyde, New York, and the witness’s name was Augusta Rivitz. Teddy Gates was a gregarious softy in many ways, and if he had testified with others, there was a fair chance that the other witnesses would have his telephone number and address.

  A woman answered the phone. “Mrs. Rivitz?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s Ms. Rivitz, and if you’re trying to sell something I’m not buying,” she said.

  “Are you the Augusta Rivitz who testified before the Senate Select Committee on POW/MIA Affairs in February 1992?”

  “Oh yes, that was me. Are you calling about my father?” she asked anxiously.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Oh, my,” the woman said, obviously deflated. “The senators promised they would get back to me, but it’s been over ten years.”

  Her voice faded, but quickly strengthened. “Darn government. Oh yes, they rip out your heart and throw it in the trash bin. My father, Lieutenant Barry Rivitz, was seen alive in his parachute and on the ground by his wingman, Lieutenant Junior Grade Edward Gisseler. My father was alive but never heard from again. We are still waiting, still waiting.”

  She did not identify the “we.” The woman’s father had never returned, the result being that she was mired emotionally and mentally somewhere between Clyde and wherever her
father might be. He knew from his own experience and military training that the most dangerous time for a prisoner was immediately after capture—before transfer to a group camp of some kind. Ironically, this also was the best opportunity for escape. Even if her father had been seen, it didn’t mean much. The invisible companion of every soldier was luck, both good and bad, but in this case, Ms. Rivitz was as much MIA as her father.

  “You testified the same morning as Marine Major General Theodore Gates.”

  “Oh yes, I remember him,” she said. “Such a southern gentleman, but he gave those senators the dickens. His older brother was also MIA in Korea, I believe.”

  This had not been in Teddy’s testimony and he had never talked about it in Vietnam.

  “Oh yes, a fine, lovely man,” she went on. “Kind but fiery. Before we testified they put us all in a room and we could tell why he was a general. He was a born leader and of course, he had not been killed in a war. Oh yes, Mother insisted Daddy would have become an admiral.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have the general’s number?”

  “Oh, certainly. The general suggested we all exchange names, phone numbers, and addresses, and stay in touch. I get a Christmas card from him every year. He said I should call him if I ever needed anything, but I never have. Do you think he meant it?”

  “I knew the general and yes, he meant it.” Teddy Gates always meant what he said and said what he meant, which made it a miracle he had been promoted so high. If you crossed him, he could be brutal, and while his men loved him, his superiors usually harbored a different opinion. “Could I impose on you for the general’s number and address?”

  “Are you a friend of the general?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I served with him in Vietnam.”

  “Oh yes, that dreadful mess; but you came back alive. Were you an aviator?”

  “No, ma’am, mud marine.”

  “My father was an aviator. The navy calls them aviators, not pilots.”

  The navy did a lot of things Service considered stilted, pompous, and downright archaic. Marines called all sailors rust pickers, and swabbies called marines bullet sponges.