by Peter Telep
Corey pushed off his haunches and straightened with a groan. The cold had penetrated his bones, and his back cracked in protest. He squinted off toward the tree line, where in the whisper quiet of morning, Johnny and Willie were combing the area. They had the chief’s permission to come out for another look, but he doubted they would find anything his investigators had missed. His people had been searching all night and were just finishing up. The chief said he would call or visit Johnny once he received the preliminary autopsy reports.
Josh’s hands were jammed into his jacket pockets as he hiked up the embankment and joined Corey. “What I see... is not what Johnny wants me to see.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all obvious.”
“Really?”
“I think so. I’m this guy. I’ve hit a few other houses in the Cottages, easy marks. I’m good at this, and I’m getting better.” Josh closed his eyes as though he were reenacting the crimes. “I recon the house, I know when they come and go. I don’t want any trouble. I just want to get in and get out. Easy day, like Johnny says.”
“But not this time,” Corey said.
“No, she’s home. I didn’t expect that... but why do I push it? Why don’t I just leave?” Josh snapped open his eyes. “Am I that stupid?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe I’m not stupid. I’m desperate. I’m pawning this shit to feed my habit. Believe me, I know that mentality.”
“I talked to one of the other detectives. He said the guy goes for the money, jewelry, guns... that kind of stuff. And that doesn’t say much about who he is. And it’s true. Most of these guys avoid a confrontation.”
“Right. But not this guy. When he realizes she’s home, he’s pissed. He’s already put work into this house, and he’s committed. He can’t stop.”
“Because he’s high and desperate.”
“That’s right. It’s all about his fix, and she’s just in the way. So was Daniel. You can’t talk to people when they’re like that. You can’t stop them.”
Corey nodded. “It all blew apart once he got that door open. While he’s killing her, Daniel walks in.”
Josh’s expression soured. “We can run this by Johnny, but he doesn’t want to hear shit right now.”
“Not until he finds out what Dan wanted to tell him. But what if he doesn’t? You know how he is when he gets fired up. What if this is it? Just a junkie who killed them. Maybe he won’t accept it. Losing guys downrange is one thing, but this was his brother, like the most innocent guy in the world. I don’t know. Maybe Johnny will go off the deep end.”
“What do you mean? We all live in the deep end.”
Corey’s lips curled in a reluctant grin. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
* * *
The VFW hall in Holly Ridge was located halfway down a rural street with a rather commanding name: Hines Stump Sound Church Road. The white, single-story building resembled a converted warehouse with a bright blue entrance canopy and hard water stains creeping up its corrugated aluminum walls. Barely larger than an average tract home, the hall stood on the periphery of some dense woodlands like a ghostly relic from another time. Every winter the grass out front turned brown, while the wind brushed the exterior in a fine layer of dust. When no cars were present, the hall seemed abandoned, yet it was anything but.
Inside, the stench of cigarette smoke, dry roasted peanuts, and drug store cologne worn by several regulars crinkled the noses of the uninitiated. The ceiling tiles were tinged yellow and blotted from leaks. An ancient jukebox sat near the door, glowing with its current selection, an old Hank Williams song that crackled through failing speakers. Seated atop the warped veneer of the counter was a fishbowl filled to the brim. Positioned at its bottom was a shot glass. The object was to drop a quarter into the bowl and see if you could land it directly into the glass. If you did, you scored a raffle ticket for a 50/50 drawing. The quarters did drunken backflips before ever nearing the shot glass, and that was all part of the fun.
Behind the bar and separated by a half wall was a kitchen where specials from chili to chicken soup were prepared. The waitress and part-time cook, Edie, wore her gray hair in a bob reminiscent of Jacqueline Kennedy. Every man in her family was a veteran, so she knew how to navigate around these boys. The regulars were from all branches of the service, although the Marines were best represented, given their proximity to Camp Lejeune. Several of the hoary chain-smokers assumed their usual formation at the bar and never removed their veteran ball caps. Their heavy eyes widened only at the sound of barstools squeaking. They would glance sidelong to scrutinize the new recruits, and then return to their croaking about politics while cradling their warming beers.
Johnny had not said much all morning, and breakfast was no more than a cup of coffee, half of which he had dumped in the sink before heading out. That was why the second beer hit him so hard, and why he abruptly marched outside alone to the adjacent shooting range with his 1911, his holster, and a hundred rounds of Winchester white box. After inserting his earplugs, he assumed his firing stance at roughly twenty-five yards. He sighted a rock seated along the berm and took a few warm up shots. Out of corner of his eye, he spotted the others gathering at one of the tables behind him. To their immediate right stood a tree that Josh and a few members of Small Craft Company had planted, along with a time capsule. The tree and capsule were a tribute to the men he had lost and to their attending families who had wept and thanked Josh for organizing the event. As far as Johnny was concerned, that area adjacent to the berm was sacred ground. As a matter of fact, this entire place was.
Willie waved to the other guys, motioning them to leave Johnny alone.
Johnny continued firing, taking three second pauses between each shot until his magazine was empty. He hit the rock he had been targeting only twice. He raised his trembling hand and scowled at it, then holstered his pistol and stood there, blaming his loose groupings on his lack of focus and the days that lay ahead. He swore and tugged out his earplugs.
“Hey, Johnny,” Willie called. “Why don’t you join the twenty-first century and buy a Glock?”
Anyone unaware of Johnny’s relationship with Willie might deem that a callous remark, given the circumstances. But Willie was trying to cheer him up. Whenever they shot together and Johnny missed, Willie would tease him regarding his penchant for the 1911, a pistol that dated all the way back to a visionary firearms designer whose career spanned the late ninetieth and early twentieth centuries. That man’s name was John Browning, and he had become synonymous with cutting edge firearms technology. Browning held over 128 patents, and his guns were copied all over the world. He was so dedicated to his craft that he literally died of a heart attack while working at his bench, designing a new self-loading gun design. His most famous weapons were his Hi Power pistol, his .50 caliber machine gun, and his automatic rifle. The U.S. Army adopted the Browning pistol design on March 29, 1911, and the weapon became known as the Model 1911. The Navy and Marine Corps adopted the M1911 two years later. Despite all of that, Willie loved to tease Johnny about his preference for an “ancient” weapon.
“Hey, stud, why don’t you get down here,” Johnny urged him.
Willie nodded. His Glock 34 with competition trigger spring kit was tucked in his holster. “I thought we were grabbing lunch first.”
“I can’t eat. They made that big dinner last night. Two bites and I was done. I don’t know, I just can’t sit around any more.”
“Well, looks like you won’t have to. We might have something.” Willie lifted his chin at the sound of car tires crunching over gravel.
Chief Schneider’s silver SUV with department insignia rolled up behind them. The man climbed out, removed his sunglasses, and flipped up his jacket collar. Everyone gathered around him, but he spoke directly to Johnny, “Okay to talk in front of them?”
“What do you think, Dennis?”
“All right, so I got the autopsy. Nothing surprising there. Bruising
, evidence that they both struggled, and they died from their knife wounds. The guy wore gloves, so the only prints we found on the knife were Reva’s.”
“No prints from Daniel?” Johnny asked.
“I’m afraid not. We were hoping to find some evidence of clothing, even the smallest stuff from his jacket, his backpack, or his pants, but so far nothing. Now rest assured, we’re following up on everything else, including the home computers. We have investigators at the University, too, and at Reva’s job. We’ll want to interview their daughters when they arrive.”
“Roger that. Elina’s picking them up at the airport right now.”
“Good. You let me know when we can do that. You call that flooring guy I told you about?”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to meet him later. You sure you guys are all done with the house? You didn’t miss anything?”
“My teams worked all night, Johnny.”
“Roger, and thanks for all your help on this. We’ll be in touch.”
Schneider nodded. “If there’s anything you need, you just call, okay?”
Johnny gritted his teeth and watched the chief leave. He stood there a moment more, and then turned to Willie. “Let’s set up some targets.”
* * *
A few hours later, back at the house, Johnny wanted to console his two nieces. Their eyes were swollen, their hair disheveled, their sweatshirts wrinkled from being jammed on a commercial airliner for several hours. He told them about the police interviews, but then, without thinking, he began his own series of pointed questions. Before either girl could answer, Elina cut him off, saying, “Let’s save that for later, Johnny.” She was right. She told him to focus on the funeral arrangements, while she worked out the details with Reva’s parents. Those items would keep them busy. However, he already was busy going over every word of his last conversation with Daniel, trying to read between the lines and ferret out the hidden message. The realization that Johnny had only once gone to his brother for help cut deep. In trying to obey his father’s wishes and protect his kid brother, Johnny had lowered Daniel’s self-esteem. All he wanted was the best for his brother, and all he had done was make matters worse.
He descended to the man cave and adjoining office, where he began to make his calls. Hunting one day with his brother, discussing his death the next. Unbelievable. Johnny hit the wrong button and was thumbing through voicemails instead of contacts. He came across one dated over a month ago and tortured himself by listening. His brother’s voice buzzed through the tiny speaker:
“Hey, Johnny, Reva wants to know if we can bring anything else over for dinner. Now don’t play martyr again and tell me to show up with nothing. We’ll do the side dishes, whatever, just call me back.”
Johnny never returned the call. His brother and sister-in-law arrived for Sunday dinner with side dishes, and Elina was upset because she had made some as well.
With a deep sigh, Johnny set his elbows on the desk and rubbed the corners of his eyes. His leg began to twitch, the old wound stinging with new pain. He and Daniel had been on their way to little league practice and were taking the short cut through the swamp. Johnny slipped and bashed his leg across a sharp root. Daniel pleaded that they should go back, but Johnny screamed that he was okay. Daniel tried using a leaf to wipe off the blood, but Johnny smacked him away.
Shuddering off the memory, Johnny stood and padded over to the couch. He stretched out with Rookie tucked in beside him, and with Musket and Bomber lying on the floor. He considered a nap, but the door bell rang constantly, as neighbors and more friends stopped by to pay their respects. The ladies, thank God, were handling everything. He told Elina that he was not ready for visitors and that no one should talk to the media. He did not want their faces splashed all over the TV for some scumbag’s viewing pleasure.
Meanwhile, the guys were back at the office, doing some final tweaks on the proposal. Johnny had insisted they do so, offering them a breather from all of this. He already felt guilty enough for disrupting their lives. In hindsight, that might have been a bad idea. They were probably sitting there and ignoring the proposal. They were talking about him, discussing how they could help. He knew those boys like the back of his hand. And that thought triggered a memory of something Daniel had said:
“Sometimes you think you know somebody, right? But you don’t know them at all.”
Who had Daniel been talking about? Himself?
Johnny bolted up, scaring the dogs. He grabbed his jacket and keys and left without telling anyone.
Chapter Eight
“Marines are relentless. And that was Johnny. Never quit. Can’t spell defeat. All he wanted was the truth, and he was willing to fight to the death for it. We all were.”
—Willie Parente (FBI interview, 23 December)
As Johnny proceeded onto Alumni Drive, he glanced at the passenger’s seat, where the ghost of the old man sat with his arms folded over his chest. “I’m very disappointed in you, son. You have no idea.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Johnny cleared his thoughts and pulled into the parking lot in front of DePaolo Hall. He locked the truck and started off. The UNC Wilmington campus was a broad and picturesque collection of colonial style brick buildings located between Cape Fear River and the Atlantic Ocean. Over 14,000 students were taught by over 500 faculty members, according to the website and map Johnny had perused on the way over. Tugging up his collar, he followed the sidewalk until he reached King Hall, a two-story building with a wide staircase leading up to three pairs of entrance doors crowned by fanlights. Johnny hustled inside, hit the stairwell, and reached the second floor. He was out of breath but glad the place had heat. He found Suite 205, the Pre-Engineering Department, and caught the attention of a smartly dressed black woman wearing tortoise shell glasses. Her desk plate read: Mrs. Jennifer Pattel, Administrative Assistant. She glanced up, and her mouth fell open in recognition. “You’re Dr. Johansen’s brother...”
“Yeah, I’m Johnny.”
She waved a hand across her face, trying to compose herself. “I’m sorry, I’m Jenn. I came in to work today, and they told me what happened.” Her tears came fast. “You know, I’ve been working here for over ten years.”
Johnny already had his driver’s license and a picture of him and Daniel in his hand. “I was going to show you these so I could get into his office.”
“The police were here this morning, just after we opened.”
“I know. I wanted to come by. I just had to get out of the house, you know? Maybe I’ll pack up a little bit. Is that all right?”
“I understand. They didn’t put up any police tape or anything.” She reached into her desk drawer and produced a large ring with color-coded keys. She escorted him through the suite and into a hallway. Daniel’s office was the first door on the left, which she opened then flicked on the light, revealing a twelve-foot square room with French style windows. “Dr. Johansen used to brag about you all the time.”
Johnny nodded and felt the air escape his lungs. He was ashamed to admit that after helping Daniel move into the office over a decade ago, he had never visited, not even once for a quick cup of coffee. He felt embarrassed for needing the map and website to find the building.
“Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll lock up after you. Oh, we close at five, so you have about an hour. And, if you would, when you have all the arrangements made, can you let us know?”
“Absolutely.”
“The faculty and staff loved your brother. We’d all like to pay our respects. Our winter break just started here, but I can forward the information to them. Some of his colleagues are still in town, and I know they’d want to be there.”
“I’ll get your card before I go.”
“Just holler if you need anything.”
She nodded and left him surrounded by the artifacts of his brother’s life. While Johnny had his own share of mementoes in the man cave, he had always been the more Spartan of the two. He hated clutter. If
in doubt, throw it out. Conversely, Daniel saved everything with the dedication of a world-class hoarder. An entire wall was dedicated to his book collection. Hundreds of texts buckled shelves rising ten feet to the ceiling. Johnny could spend an hour just browsing the titles, from civil engineering to computer science to mathematics books with technical terms on their spines that could have been written in Chinese.
A small section of books along a lower row drew his attention: these were Daniel’s Hardy Boys Mysteries. He had every book from the original series—all except #8 The Mystery of Cabin Island, which he had given to Johnny for his twelfth birthday. The book was, in part, a token of appreciation because Johnny had protected him from their father and from bullies at their school. Daniel had urged Johnny to read the novel so he could do better in English class, but Johnny never did. He threw the book in a box of old toys and moved on, while Daniel made the honor roll.
Nearby on the same shelf were some framed black-and-white photos featuring the family, the largest of which tightened Johnny’s chest. Two boys in little league uniforms leaned on a chain-link fence. Johnny wore his usual sarcastic grin. Daniel stared wide-eyed like a puppy dog. A few other pictures featured Johnny in his uniform, and there was another of him at Daniel’s wedding, serving as his brother’s best man.