KIA

by Thomas Holland

  “Sir?”

  “All that pacifist Mennonite upbringing and he ends up a career warrior.” The general smiled. “All those traits, I guess they’re good qualities for a soldier.”

  “Yes, sir. Good traits for anyone, I’d guess.”

  The general drummed his fingers on the glass sheet covering his desktop as he dropped into silence. To Deveroux it seemed as if he were either trying to plumb his brain for some long-forgotten fact or weighing the propriety of what he was preparing to say.

  “Paul Fick spent two tours with the Twenty-fifth ID at Cu Chi. You’ve heard all the stories about Cu Chi, I assume.”

  “Yes, sir. That extensive network of tunnels and all.”

  “Extensive doesn’t start to describe it, son. There were miles of tunnels. Mile upon fucking mile. That’s where he lost the fingers. Fick’s platoon were flushing some of those tunnels when a young kid bobbled a hot grenade; Paul grabbed it and pitched it away just as it went off. Saved more than a couple of lives, they say, but at a cost.” General Anderson held up his right hand, bending the third and fourth fingers down so that they didn’t show. “Didn’t slow him down, although it did end him up stateside. That’s when he was sent off to teach AIT at Benning.”

  Deveroux had heard the story before. His instructor at Advanced Infantry Training School had been an unabashed disciple of Fick’s and had often told a similar but more embellished version. “Sir? Did I hear you correctly? Did you say three tours in Vietnam?”

  “I did, Chief. The first two were with the Twenty-fifth.” He paused. “Back-to-back. Then came the accident. The third…I have to admit I don’t know much about the third tour. It was early summer of 1970; it was my turn in the shithole. I’d gotten a company command with the Ninth ID out of Dong Tam—Charlie Company, Second of the Sixtieth—getting the ol’ ticket punched—I’d been there about three, maybe four months when I had a young kid take a shovel to his squad leader. Times being what they were, Uncle Sam was willing to forget little indiscretions like that provided you hadn’t actually killed anybody and you promised to be good and go back on the line and hump a ruck for God and Country, so I ended up having to drive over to Long Binh to sign this Joe Shitbag out of the stockade, and who do I run into?”

  “General Fick.”

  “Affirmative. Well, it was Captain Fick at that time, but, you’re right, Chief, none other than Iron Paul.”

  “Iron Paul? I hadn’t heard that one.”

  “He had lots of names, Iron Paul is simply one of the more favorable. One usable in mixed company.” Anderson’s tone had lost any reticence and had taken on an air of familiarity bred by easy reminiscence. “I hadn’t seen him since his graduation at the Academy, but you hear things, of course. Grapevine. Paul Fick was like the class yardstick; the one that everyone knows is going to do well and who you catch yourself trying to measure up to even if you wouldn’t have admitted it. I don’t guess anyone ever thought he’d make general, though—too prickly, too…too unbending in a Germanic, Teutonic, iconoclastic sort of way. You always sensed that he could hammer roofing nails with his forehead if he’d decided it was the right thing to do. Men like that make too many enemies to gain rank, but damn if you didn’t wish you could be like him, even a little. Truth be told, Chief, I guess that’s exactly why men like Paul make so many enemies.” The general looked up at Deveroux and caught his eyes. He sensed that veiled beneath Deveroux’s easy grits-and-sorghum veneer was a vein of similar temper, the innate sense of propriety and clarity, and he realized finally why he had taken a liking to the younger man. A chord had been struck.

  “But he made brigadier.”

  “He did. Sure did. Retired as a BG. Against the odds, really. Goes to show that Big Army sometimes makes the right decisions in spite of itself. Not too often, but enough to give you hope.”

  Deveroux returned the general’s look but remained quiet.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, there was Captain Fick, back in the Republic of Vietnam. He remembered me; he was always good at that, and we talked some; I told him I’d heard he’d been injured and was stateside. That sort of thing. He was more tight-lipped than usual, even for him, and the funny thing was that he was in civilian clothes. I can still see him. He was in a white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and khaki pants. I didn’t think much of it at the time until I ran into him in Saigon a week or so later. He was still in civilian clothes, so I finally asked him about it. Paul was one of those guys who just didn’t look right out of uniform. He answered without really answering; the sort of answer that is polite but leaves no room for doubt about whether you should change the subject or not, so I changed the subject. After all, he was Iron Paul.”

  The general fell quiet, and Deveroux became aware of the fact that the sunlight had faded while they had been talking. Both men sat silently in the darkened room. In the adjoining office Deveroux could hear the major shifting his weight and clearing his throat and germinating enough courage to intrude.

  Deveroux broke the silence first. He held the slip of paper up as a reference. “Sir, I guess I don’t see what help General Fick might be in my investigation.”

  General Anderson lifted his head and looked at Deveroux. He seemed almost surprised to find him still sitting amid the shadows, having lost himself in the moist and murk of a decades-old jungle. He blinked, as if to clear the ghosts from his head, and took a deep breath. “I found out later, Chief Deveroux, that Captain Fick was working a special detail, an investigation of some sort; outside normal CID channels. Very outside. He was trying to get a handle on a black market operation that was operating out of the big supply depot at Long Binh.” Deveroux sensed that the general was searching his face for a reaction, but in the long-day shadows it was hard to tell for certain. The general paused, then continued. “In particular he was after an American who was funneling material into the hands of the VC. An American. A traitor.”

  “You think it’s the same case? You think there’s a connection?”

  “I think you should call him, Chief Deveroux.”

  CHAPTER 31

  U.S. Army Central Identification Laboratory, Hawaii

  FRIDAY, APRIL 18, 2008

  The trade winds had dropped off and what little breeze there was came whiffling out of the southwest. Kona winds, they call them. For two days the commercial aircraft that normally flew directly over the CILHI on their final approach to Honolulu International airport were being vectored in from the north. Conversely, the change in the wind also meant that the lab now lay directly under the flight path of massive 747s taking off into the wind bound for Tokyo and Seoul and Beijing. Every few minutes the windows shook and rattled and conversations were momentarily placed on pause.

  Davis Smart was looking up at the ceiling as if he could see through the acoustic tiles to the light-blue KAL jet passing low overhead. He waited for the throbbing roar to subside before continuing his questions. “Least it’s not F-16s,” he commented during the interlude.

  Kel looked at his watch and then back at the folder in his lap. “Give ’em time. The Air National Guard should be gettin’ wound up soon.” He was having a hard time keeping focused and had read and reread the same paragraph without much progress. He’d had a particularly bad run-in with Inspector Botch-It first thing in the morning and had almost tendered his resignation on the spot—his fourth in the last six months. Instead he’d bitten off what remained of the tip of his tongue.

  “Have you gotten to it yet? Let me know when you get to it,” D.S. impatiently prompted again. He’d brought a folder in for Kel to read and was anxious to discuss it. Kel clearly was taking too much time, and D.S. cleared his throat again, unable to hold back. “Aw, c’mon, Kel, will you skim the damn thing. You read like an old woman; you don’t need to read the details, just look at the last two articles.”

  “Is that how old women read? Payin’ attention to details?”

  “Why yes, it is. So how about hurrying it up? C�
��mon, do you see what I see?”

  “All right, D.S., calm down. Did these come in this mornin’?” Kel asked as he began shuffling through the pages to the end, forgetting the commander and skimming as requested.

  “First thing this morning. FedEx. Your suggestion that the genealogist check newspaper files may be paying off. She still hasn’t found a maternal relative for Tenkiller’s DNA, but she ran into these and thought we might find them useful.”

  “Interestin’, but I’m not sure how useful,” Kel answered. His tone still had an echo of distraction.

  “That’s why you need to skip to the last two articles. The first ones are sort of background, it’s the last couple that are…”

  “Gettin’ there, gettin’ there,” Kel responded. The file consisted of a dozen or so photocopied eastern Oklahoma newspaper articles dating to the mid-1950s, and all concerned Jimmy Lee Tenkiller and what appeared to be his phenomenal high school track career. Clipping after clipping compared him to a young Jim Thorpe and hinted at a legitimate shot at the 1956 Summer Olympics scheduled for Melbourne. Kel finally worked the last two articles to the top of the stack. “Is this the one you mean, this ‘Cowboys and Indian’ one?”

  “Yeah, that’s one of them. Read that—actually, don’t read, just skim it and then go to the next one.”

  Kel glossed the article quickly. Tenkiller had been awarded a full scholarship to Oklahoma A&M in Stillwater; great things were expected of him; chance at being the first A&M Cowboy to win a gold medal in the Olympics, et cetera, et cetera. Kel looked at D.S., still not catching what was supposed to be so obvious.

  “Okay,” D.S. prompted. He cleared his throat and adjusted his position in his chair. “Bona fide phenomenon. Now, read the last one—especially the final paragraph.”

  Kel turned to the last article, the one entitled, “Tenkiller Shatters More Than Record: Indian Runner’s Olympic Hopes Crumble.” Kel read further.

  Stillwater, Oklahoma. The Sooner State’s hopes of an Olympic gold medal vanished amid a cloud of dust on the red cinder track of Lewis Field, Monday, when Cowboy running phenomenon Jimmy Lee Tenkiller tumbled in a preliminary heat for the men’s intermediate high hurdles, shattering his right outside ankle. Tenkiller, Oklahoma A&M’s sophomore track sensation who has been compared to the late Jim Thorpe, was leading the six-man heat in the Green Country Invitational when he caught his trailing leg on the last hurdle and fell to the track in obvious pain.

  “What the hell’s an ‘outside’ ankle? Didn’t know we had insides and outsides,” Kel asked. He kept his focus on the photocopied newspaper clipping.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, smart-alec, how about reading the last paragraph like I asked? Suppose you could manage that?”

  Kel smiled at the obvious sense of frustration building in D.S. “Which one?”

  “The last one. Can’t you think of something better to do than spin me up? Look, I’m frothing at the mouth. Happy?”

  “Yup.” Kel quickly held up a supplicating palm. “Okay, okay.” He turned his attention back to the paper and read the last paragraph of the article.

  A spokesman for the Oklahoma A&M athletic department told reporters that Tenkiller underwent a two-hour surgical procedure yesterday at the Regional Medical Center in Tulsa, where two metal screws were required to repair the shattered bone. Doctors say his running career is over, and his academic career may not be any more solid. Following the surgery, Cowboys assistant men’s track coach Monty “Red” Coil was quoted as saying that “scholarships are for athletes; you don’t run, we don’t pay. That’s the way it works.”

  He read the final paragraph again, lingering over each sentence. He was quiet a moment. Finally he closed his eyes and smiled. “Screws,” he said looking up.

  “Yup,” D.S. concurred. “Two of ’em.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Tuesday, General DeWitt Spain Airport, North of Memphis, Tennessee

  FRIDAY, APRIL 18, 2008

  Brigadier General Paul Fick’s voice wasn’t anything like Shuck Deveroux had expected it to be. Instead of the napalm and spittle that legend had imbued it with, it was quiet and as cool as river-bottom sand and most efficiently reserved. Deveroux had called him at his small farm near Waynesville, Missouri, the previous evening and introduced himself, saying that he was calling on Major General Anderson’s specific recommendation. Fick had been cordial, if noncommittal, and the conversation, while short, had politely wandered somewhat—at least until Deveroux had said he was interested in a thirty-eight-year-old investigation into a black market ring that had operated in Saigon during the war. At that point, Fick’s voice had gotten even quieter and cooler; to the point that twice Deveroux had thought the phone connection had been lost. In the end, Fick had simply said that he would be in Memphis on the following morning on business and that they should meet. Later that night Deveroux had received a call from Fick instructing him to be at the DeWitt Spain airport a few miles north of downtown Memphis at nine o’clock in the morning. He could spare him thirty minutes.

  Deveroux had been waiting since eight o’clock. Not knowing for sure how long the drive would take, and not wanting to be late for a meeting with the famous Iron Paul Fick, he’d set out from his quarters on Fort Campbell earlier than proved necessary and arrived early. He passed the time drinking strong coffee and watching small, private aircraft take off and land. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but the white-and-blue, high-wing Cessna 172 Skyhawk that he’d just watch land was piloted by the man he was waiting on.

  Paul Fick was dressed conservatively, light-blue cotton shirt, khaki slacks, brown leather boots, and a blue, lightweight nylon windbreaker. His hair was short and cut in such a way as to square off the top of his head. He carried a thick brown folder tied with a frayed white string under his right arm and made a straight line to where Deveroux was sitting. He pulled back a chair with a squeak. Deveroux started to stand out of an equal mixture of military courtesy and bone-bred southern manners, but the general motioned him down with his left hand. As Fick took his own seat, he dropped the folder onto the seat of the chair to his left and removed his mirrored sunglasses.

  “Chief Warrant Officer Deveroux?”

  “Yes, sir. Glad to meet you, General Fick. I certainly appreciate you comin’ all this way down here to talk with me.”

  “You can save the appreciation. As I told you, Chief Deveroux, I had business in the area. I was coming here one way or the other. I believe I told you I had thirty minutes. The clock started two minutes ago.”

  “Yes, sir. Understood. But I still ’ppreciate the opportunity to talk with you.”

  “Let’s get this straight. General Anderson vouched for you. He says you’re the type of soldier who puts honor and duty before self-preservation. That you don’t have an iota of sense when it comes to your career. That correct?”

  Deveroux shrugged in passive acknowledgment.

  Fick did nothing to further the conversation. He sat, straight-backed, his mottled gray eyes focused on Deveroux’s face, waiting for his lead.

  Deveroux shifted his weight and took a quiet sip of coffee. He set the Styrofoam cup down on the white, speckled Formica tabletop and cleared his throat. “Ahh, can I get you somethin’ to drink, General? Coffee? It’s not much for taste, but it’ll clear the head.”

  “No thank you. My head is quite clear.”

  “Sure? I mean about not wantin’ any coffee.”

  Fick’s expression supplied the answer.

  “Yes, sir. Well, ahh…” Deveroux took another stalling sip from his cup. “Well, sir, as I mentioned to you on the phone the other day, I mean yesterday, ahh…well, I’m ’bout thigh-deep in a double homicide. Two civilians killed within five, six months of one ’nother, one at Fort Campbell, the other over at Knox. Might be coincidental, but I’m sure thinkin’ not. The MO was pretty much the same in both cases; one was found dead in his car and the other wasn’t, but other than that they were pretty much the same. Both victims were middle-
aged Vietnamese businessmen; both former refugees; both were cut up somethin’ vicious.” He paused his narrative to give Fick an opportunity to respond.

  Fick gave a single nod but did no more.

  Deveroux tipped his head forward, as if his weight could provide some needed momentum, and continued. “The real kicker, sir, is that one of the men was implicated as a member of a black market ring that was run durin’ the Vietnam War. What the connection to the murder is—if there is any—is unknown. But, what I do know, sir, is that I’ve got two victims hacked up with a machete or an axe or somethin’, and on top of that, one of them is tied into the disappearance of an American serviceman during the war.”

  Deveroux had managed to maintain eye contact with Fick as he spoke, though it was an effort. There was a flint to Fick’s eyes that was hard to look at, a depth that bespoke expectation but no courteous compassion. At the mention of the American serviceman, though, Deveroux had detected the smallest of flickers, like a candle flame responding to a whisper.

  “Interesting,” Fick said evenly as he reached into the side pocket of his jacket and extracted two brown, plastic medicine bottles. He continued looking at Deveroux as he dry-swallowed a handful of colorful pills. “This American have a name?” he said after a pause.

  “Sir, you sure I can’t get you somethin’ to drink? They’ve got a water fountain if you don’t like coffee. I can…”

  “I’m sure. He have a name?”

  “The American? Ahh, why yes, sir, he does. An army master sergeant by the name of Tenkiller. Jimmy Lee Tenkiller. Indian fella, I think.”

  The two men sat looking at each other.

  “What precisely do you think I might be able to help you with, Chief Deveroux?” Fick said after a moment of silence. He tugged up the elastic cuff on his left windbreaker sleeve and looked at his watch.

  “Ahhh, well, sir,” he glanced down at the table and fingered his coffee cup, slowly turning it around and around. He realized for the first time that he’d unconsciously been carving shapes into the Styrofoam with his thumbnail. Deveroux cleared his throat again, without much effect, for the words were still thick and sticky. “Ahhh, now that’s a good question. Fact of the matter, sir, is that I don’t know for certain. Not sure you can help. It’s just that…” He bounced a quick look down at his cup again and then rejoined eye contact. “Truth is, General Fick, I’m absolutely stumped on this one. I’m so dead-ended on this case that Lee Harvey Oswald is startin’ to look like a viable suspect to me. That’s a fact. So if there’s a connection between this Tenkiller and my two dead Vietnamese fellas, I’d sure like to know it.”