Watching the men carry away the body, Jake realized that once again he found himself at the center of the action. It was the story of his life — right place, right time. Scratch that, he corrected himself, the wrong time this morning.
He stole a glance at the fire chief who was just ending his conversation with the woman investigator. Dressed in full bunker gear, the chief turned and faced Jake. The man was an obvious leader in physical presence alone. Tall and barrel-chested, he wore a handlebar mustache and spectacles. Jake estimated his age to be late-fifties. The chief pulled a portable radio out of his coat pocket and turned his back on Jake. Jake read the large white letters on the back of his coat, Fire and Rescue, and his name at the bottom, Bailey.
“Cranberry command to county dispatch?” the chief broadcast in a slow deep voice.
“Go ahead chief,” the radio hissed back in a faster female voice Jake recognized as the original dispatcher he heard in his SUV.
The chief keyed the transmit button. “All units leaving the scene and heading back to the staging area at Hirschman’s Farm. We’re sealing off the well too. The state investigator will be out here a while longer to finish her report.” As he spoke, his fire captain placed several large rocks on the edges of the plywood to weigh it down over the hole. The chief gave him a thumbs-up and motioned him to head back.
The radio crackled again, confirming the chief’s report. “Affirmative. The well is sealed. All units back to staging area. Investigator still on scene. 7:42. KED-758 out.”
Pocketing his radio, the chief turned around and deliberately settled his eyes back on Jake. With a stern glare, he approached. The way the chief swaggered over, Jake figured another sparring match was in the making. The chief glanced down over his spectacles at Jake’s Army rank and nametag.
“How do you pronounce your name Major?” he slowly asked.
“TUNUN-DA.”
The chief smiled widely and surprisingly extended his right hand. Jake gladly accepted and gave a bone-crushing squeeze in return.
“Hoo-ah, Major Tununda. I’m Chet Bailey. Just wanted to personally thank you for your effort down there in that God-for-saken shit hole. My captain says you’d make a great member of his rescue team.”
Jake cracked a grin, catching the Hoo-ah, Army slang for a job well done when addressing a fellow soldier. “Thanks chief. But it was your crew who had to haul the basket up. I just secured it tight to make their job easier. Hey, so when did you serve?”
Bailey snorted, took off his glasses and started to clean them. “Early seventies. 82nd Airborne. Was in that jungle clusterfuck of ‘Nam.’ Couldn’t wait to get the hell out.”
“Can’t blame you,” Jake nodded, knowing full well how politicians screwed up that past war. He could relate. In fact, politicians usually screw up everything they touch.
“Yourself? When’d you get in?”
“Signed up at seventeen years old,” Jake replied. “ROTC at Cornell. Been with the 10th Mountain for the last twenty years. Tours in every hotspot. A hell of a rollercoaster ride let me tell you.”
“I’ll be damned,” said the chief. “An Ivy-League university trained combat officer.” He winked.
Jake grinned back. “A rare breed indeed. Just don’t tell Senator John Kerry that.” They both laughed.
Fresh from college with a bachelor degree in American history and a Reserve Officers’ Training Corps commission as a second lieutenant, Jake had been assigned to one of the busiest divisions of the Army — the 10th Mountain — up at Fort Drum in Watertown, New York. The soldiers of the 10th were renowned for their high level of physical agility, their ability to foot-march for long periods of time, their proficiency in combat tactics, and their will to close with and destroy the enemy in some of the most treacherous climates conceivable. The 10th gave him all the combat experience he had longed for and more.
But after twenty years of constant deployments to the Balkans, Afghanistan, and Iraq, he needed a change of pace that didn’t require him to kill somebody or be killed in the process. Coupled with the incessant bullshit politics the higher he advanced in rank, the rigors of combat had worn him down psychologically. He had been surrounded by death in a never-ending cycle of human conflict. And history told him that despite his best intentions of trying to make a difference, the inherent gene disposition of humans killing humans would never end. He felt he had given enough to the world and now it was his time to settle back — to start a new chapter in life — and to enjoy it.
“My last job was Executive Officer of the 2-14th Infantry Battalion, 10th Mountain,” explained Jake. “Experienced a lot of twisted shit out there in the field.” A career move had been definitely in order for Jake, but not out of the military. A year and a half ago he decided to pursue his other passion — military history — and enrolled in an accelerated master degree program. “I just landed a nice, non-combat role with the Army’s Military History Institute based out of Carlisle, Pennsylvania.”
“I’ve heard of MHI,” the chief acknowledged, sliding his glasses up his nose. “You guys do some interesting work. Hey, so lemme ask you, how the hell’d you get on-scene here so quickly?”
Before replying, Jake noticed the state police investigator inch her way over within earshot of their conversation. He raised his voice slightly so he wouldn’t have to re-explain the events to her again later. He told the chief he had left his home in Carlisle some five hours south, where MHI is based, and decided to take the more scenic route through Ithaca and then up through the Finger Lakes for his afternoon appointment further north in Rochester. He deliberately passed by the old Seneca Army Depot trying to catch an early morning glimpse of the famous white deer. Not seeing any deer, he continued north through Romulus and, just out of sheer boredom, happened to turn on his police and fire scanner. The event in the hole unfolded simply as a result of him picking up the GPS coordinates on his scanner and finding himself right around the corner from the victim. “Dumb luck, I guess you could say,” Jake offered with a shrug of his shoulders.
The chief praised the benefits of the GPS cell phone tracking software.
“Worked great,” agreed Jake. “My hand-held led me right to the shaft. Almost fell in myself. Didn’t matter though. Poor guy must have slipped down after he made the original 9-1-1 call. He knocked his head on a rock or something. Was all busted up. Dead on arrival.”
“If only you knew that poor bastard,” replied the chief as he shook his head. He pointed to a few objects sitting in the weeds next to the Indian mound Jake hadn’t noticed before. Three empty Old Milwaukee beer cans sat next to a rusted leg trap used to catch muskrat.
“His name’s Derrick Blaylock. Well known here in south Seneca County. Was doing some illegal trapping and some early morning drinking, looks like. Same crap he pulled two months ago.”
“What did he do then?”
“Shot a white deer on the Depot lands.”
Jake paused, blinked a few times and said, “You know there’s a well documented story out there that anyone who shoots and kills a white deer will soon meet a similar fate.”
“Yep, I heard that one too. There’s been a number of Army personnel over the years that killed the white deer on the base and one way or the other something bad happened to them too. It’s sort of a local mystery. Hell, there’s lots of mysteries surrounding that old Depot.”
Jake nodded. “But how did he find an Indian grave out here in the swamp?”
“According to the investigator he basically stumbled on it by accident. Then got his own ass trapped in the hole. Listen, this guy was what we call a real woodchuck, a real piece of white trash. He was a level-three sex offender who liked young boys. Add grave robbing to his list too. All said, he won’t be contributing his talents to the community anymore.”
Jake shook his head. No wonder the cops practically spit on his body. He told the chief he had found the Indian broach in Blaylock’s vest pocket, confirming that the victim did steal it.
&nbs
p; “Yep. My captain gave that jewel to the investigator and she made a match to the same cloth that Indian skeleton is wrapped in. Plus, Blaylock had some arrowheads in his pants pockets and a small piece of jawbone and tooth that just so happens to match the missing piece off the skeleton.” The chief’s radio suddenly squawked in his coat pocket. It was one of his firefighters. He acknowledged the call. “Cranberry command. Go ahead.”
“Chief. We’ve got a News10Now reporter here at the Hirschman Farm staging area. She won’t take no for an answer. Says you owe her one.”
“Ah damn, I know who it is. Tell her I’ll be there shortly,” the chief replied.
“10-4,” finished the firefighter.
“Major, I’ve got to fend off the vultures. Do you need an ambulance? Get you checked out?”
Jake assured the chief he was already looked after, that he was fine, just dirty, wet, and cold. The chief responded with an open invitation for a beer next time he was passing through. He then sloshed back in the swamp leaving Jake alone with the New York state police investigator.
She immediately closed the gap and planted herself squarely in front of him, hands on hips, jaw jutted forward, apparently ready to give him a piece of her mind. Despite her aggressive demeanor, she had an air of powerful attractiveness about her. No make up, she was a natural beauty. She looked a bit Hispanic, maybe a touch Asian. He admired the sizzle in her green eyes and how they tapered off at the corners as her fiery gaze met his. Although her lean body stood a bit shorter than his five-foot-ten inch frame, she made up the size difference with the look of scorn.
“You botched my crime scene,” she snarled.
Jake arched one of his black brows. A wry grin formed at the corner of his mouth.
“Next time you try being a hero, mister, make sure you follow certain rules. Number one,” — her long slender index finger popped up in his face — “let the professionals handle the job. Number two,” another finger. “If you plan on climbing into a hole anytime soon, call 9-1-1 so we know we’re rescuing two people. Number three—” The third finger never came up.
“Can the lecture!” Jake retorted with a slight smirk. Taken aback, the investigator gave a head wiggle. Now it was Jake’s turn. “Number one, I am a trained professional rescue specialist. This was a cakewalk. No one had to rescue me. Number two. I was closest when the call went out, so sorry to rain on your parade, lady. Number three—” He never finished.
“Oh no. You will address me as investigator, don’t ever call me lady, understand?”
“Fine. Investigator. Do you have an actual name that goes with your fancy title?” He noticed a small pin on her collar showing the rank stripes of sergeant.
She blinked twice. “Name’s Rae Hart.”
“Well then, Investigator Rae Hart, you will address me as Major Jake Tununda since I outrank you.”
Rae rolled her eyes and gave him another comeback. “Pulleeze, this is my turf, soldier.” Her eyes quickly summarized Jake’s weathered face. Cheekbones high, nose prominent between light brown eyes with crow’s feet. Graying temples blending in with shortly cropped black hair. Not bad, she thought, for a split second. “Being the Good Samaritan is not always the best option,” she said, her voice wavering ever so slightly. “Leave it to the locals next time.”
“And never taking a risk in life is the greatest failure,” Jake countered.
She gave him a condescending head to toe body scan, noticed no wedding band and was about to bite on his bait but instead turned and walked away.
Jake shrugged the blanket up his neck and shook with feigned coldness. “Brrrr. Now that was a chilly reception.”
She ignored him.
He’d play her game. Turning his back on her, Jake walked over to gather his duffel bag. Stuffing his gear back in, he could now suddenly feel her stare digging into his back. Dropping the blanket, he pulled off his soiled dress shirt and his sweat-stained under shirt and tossed them into his bag. He stood up and stretched out his naked, well-defined, wedge-shaped back, then rolled his arms and shoulders to work out the kinks in his muscles.
Rae’s eyes inspected every inch of him as he bent over and pulled a gray hooded sweatshirt from his bag. He turned around as he pulled it on, exposing a tattooed shoulder, chiseled chest, and cut biceps. He wrestled into the sweatshirt as his six-pack abs rippled. She could feel her face warm.
She couldn’t help but give him one more dig. “You always come that prepared?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said rather curtly, pulling the sweatshirt down to reveal stenciled gold and black letters of the word Army. “You never know when you might end up being shafted.” His last word he timed perfectly as he zipped his duffel bag shut with a tug. He then stood upright and flung the bag over his shoulder readying to exit the scene.
Rae’s mouth fell open. She then pursed her lips and finally smiled. “Major Tununda, listen, I still have to get your contact information and have some questions for you before wrapping up the investigation. And actually since—”
Jake spun around with a grin. “Hey, call me Jake.”
“Touché Jake. Listen, I overheard you saying you work with the Military History Institute. You’re a historian?”
“That’s right, a traveling field historian,” he said, taking a few steps closer. “Kind of a battlefield detective, if you will.”
“You’ve got some Native American in you,” she stated while tucking a loose fall of hair back behind her ear. “Are you Iroquois by any chance?”
He wasn’t sure where she was leading but definitely caught the subtle flirtation of adjusting her hair. Now he took the bait. “I like to think of myself as a full-blooded American first,” he said. “Half Englishman and half of Haudenosaunee ancestry, specifically from the Tonawanda Band of Seneca Indians. Grew up on the reservation over near Akron.”
“You know I’ve heard that term Haudenosaunee used before but never understood the difference between that and Iroquois,” Rae confessed.
Jake was more than happy to oblige her with an answer. He went on to explain that the traditionalist Indians in New York liked to refer to themselves as the Haudenosaunee, or the longhouse people, based on the original wooden structures they used to build. They didn’t care for the Iroquois label, as that was a term given to them by their enemies. Iroqu came from the Algonquin tribe who had battled the Haudenosaunee for many generations. It meant rattlesnake. When the French arrived on scene they added the ois to make it plural. Either word was acceptable though, he assured her.
“You’re certainly versed on the subject. Maybe you can help me out here,” she said, gesturing toward the grave. “This is an Iroquois Indian, right? I mean based on first observation at least. Like what the corpse is wearing, the artifacts, the location here in the original homeland, and the grave structure itself. It all adds up, correct?”
Jake stepped over to the grave. “Pretty safe to assume. Could be from the Seneca or Cayuga tribe. This was the border between the two.” He lifted crime scene tape and bent down to peer inside the mound where Blaylock had collapsed the roof. “It fits a typical Iroquois burial chamber, from what I’ve read.” He pointed out to Rae the distinct structure of an ancient Iroquois gravesite. There was an outer frame made of bark — now rotted and covered in moss, an inner box or coffin-like chamber made of warped wooden planks, and then the actual body itself, wrapped in heavy cloth and skins and placed in a sitting position against a rock.
Jake stood up. “I’m no archaeologist but…” The biting morning breeze sent a true shiver through his body. “From a historian’s perspective this is one amazing discovery. Keep in mind this is a sacred site too. It’s already been desecrated. Technically, it belongs to the Iroquois. You are going to inform them, right?”
“Technically, this site belongs to the land owner, a Mennonite farmer named Martin. But yes, I intend to contact the proper Iroquois authorities. I’ve never come across anything like this before. I mean a corpse this old. By law I have to
consider this a crime scene, but the case is pretty well closed. So, I do want to contact the right group and get this off my shoulders. I’m honestly not sure who I should call first. Was wondering if you could offer some guidance.”
“I charge by the hour but will cut you a deal over dinner and a fine bottle of Finger Lakes Riesling?” Jake offered.
Rae rolled her eyes. “Negative, Major.”
“Wow, it sure is frigid out here.”
Rae paused then looked down, reconsidering. “Tell you what. You’re cold and you stink. Head over to our Troop E Romulus station. It’s just on the other side of the Depot, near the old Army Airfield off 96A south of Kendaia. There are locker rooms for fire and police trainees where you can get cleaned up. Then I’ll get your official statement.”
“You’re right, I do need to shower before our date tonight,” Jake answered with a sly, gleaming smile.
“Cut the crap,” she replied with stern lips. “This is business. See you in a few.”
“Okay then,” said Jake. “Since you operate by the book I do have one request in return for my expertise.”
“Shoot.”
“I want a picture of that silver broach that Blaylock stole. It has some very strange symbolism on it I’d like to do some research on.”
“I’ll think about it back at the station,” said Rae, stepping into the swamp. “And please don’t try rescuing anyone on your way over.”
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