The Secret Corps

by Peter Telep

  On the wall to Johnny’s left hung Daniel’s degrees: a B.S. and M.I.E. in Industrial Engineering, and a Ph.D. in Industrial & Systems Engineering. He had earned all three from North Carolina State University. Daniel said they called it “academic incest” when you tried to get a job at the same school where you had done your coursework, so he had applied to many schools but wound up at UNC, which was part of the North Carolina university system but technically not the same school as NC State in Raleigh. Along with the degrees were plaques bearing the school’s emblem, and these named Daniel as teacher of the year, or researcher of the year, or distinguished him as an honoree for some Greek fraternity or sorority. The old man had “not raised no dummies,” but seeing all of his brother’s accomplishments made Johnny feel inadequate. He had paddles on his walls. Dr. Daniel Johansen had all of this.

  In the center of the office and facing the doorway was Daniel’s desk, more accurately described as a landfill of dog-eared textbooks, piles of mail, and stacks of old school newspapers. Crammed beside them were leaning stacks of manila file folders with class designations written in black Sharpie. Several empty coffee mugs whose lips were stained brown sat precariously along one edge. There was an open area about the size of a cereal box where he squeezed in his laptop and worked in the glow of a dusty green banker’s lamp. Johnny could not blame the entire mess on his brother. No doubt the police had rifled through the papers and all of drawers, looking for anything that might suggest he had brought death upon himself.

  Johnny drifted back to the bookshelves because a title there had caught his eye, one about leadership written by a Marine Corps captain. Beside it was another soft cover on military management. Johnny estimated that Daniel had purchased over a dozen self-help books, and many of them appeared new and had been stacked horizontally in front of some older texts.

  In the far corner stood a pair of steel file cabinets. Johnny opened the first few drawers. Class files, grades, course plans, student roles, and other college-related materials were all there and revealed absolutely nothing about Daniel’s secret. Back at the desk, Johnny flipped through mail, an unremarkable assortment of textbook solicitations and announcements of upcoming engineering conferences. He assumed that if there were anything telling in the stack, the police had already confiscated it. Should he tell Schneider about this visit? Perhaps not. The man might find it insulting that Johnny was working behind his investigators. However, Johnny might find something telling that they, not knowing Daniel, might overlook.

  A faint knock on the open door surprised him, and he whirled toward the sound, expecting to find Mrs. Pattel.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw you go marching across campus like a bat out of hell, and I wanted to stop by.”

  The old man had the face of a well-done hamburger and the voice of a V8 engine burning oil. Describing him as five feet tall was being generous, although he added a few inches via his ball cap with its single row of embroidery—brilliant reds, yellows, and greens. These were military ribbons representing the National Defense, Vietnam Service, and Vietnam Campaign Medals. His stubbly cheeks and broad nose glowed like an alcoholic’s. A wheeled travel bag half-zippered and pregnant with who knew what was clutched in his right hand. Was he some homeless vet? His newer down jacket and orthopedic shoes suggested otherwise.

  “You need help old timer?” Johnny asked.

  “May I come in?”

  Johnny frowned. “You look familiar.”

  “I used to go to the VFW a lot. Haven’t been there in a couple of years, though.”

  Johnny snapped his fingers. “That’s where I know you from. You used to tell that story about the Battle of Lost Patrol. You got banged up pretty good there.”

  “And you told me about your old man fighting at LZ Bird.”

  “Yeah, I remember that.”

  The old timer removed his ball cap to expose his bald, freckled pate. He took a step farther into the office and proffered his hand. “I’m Norm Mack, 1st Battalion, 9th Marines, ‘D’ Company, 1st Platoon.”

  “Roger that, pop. What’s going on?”

  “I’m an independent book buyer here on campus. I go around and collect unwanted textbooks from professors and students. I sell them back to my company and make a small profit. I use the money to support my online gambling habit.”

  Johnny rolled his eyes. Norm might have been a veteran Marine, but he was also a solicitor, and dealing with him was the last thing Johnny needed now. “Well, look here, I don’t know if you heard the news about my brother, but I’m not selling. And I’m a little busy right—”

  “I’m not here for books, Johnny.”

  “You remember my name?”

  “I’ve known your brother for years. He used to tell me all about you. That night raid in Fallujah? Man, that was some shit. He was so proud. You boys must have got along famously.”

  Johnny winced. “Yeah, so, uh, what do you need?”

  Norm hesitated. “First, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “I appreciate that, but right now I need to start packing—”

  “No, right now you need to listen to me.”

  “What?”

  “I said listen up, Marine. Like I said, your brother and I were friends. I’m on campus two, three times a week. We spoke a lot. And I don’t think what happened to him was just a robbery. I think he might’ve been involved in something really bad.”

  “Whoa, slow down there, ranger. What’re you talking about?”

  Norm yanked his bag out of the doorway and shut the door after him. “How well do you know your brother, Johnny?”

  “Who are you?”

  Norm lifted his palms. “Look, I was going to contact you. I don’t want any trouble. But when I found out what happened last night, I thought no way, it can’t be a coincidence.”

  Johnny took a step toward the old man, who began to shrink under Johnny’s gaze. “Talk to me, pop.”

  “Did your brother ever spend any time in the middle east?”

  “He traveled for work, but I don’t remember him ever saying, hey now, wait a minute. What the hell are you asking me that for?”

  “Daniel and I... we never talked about religion. I just always assumed he was one of those liberal academic atheist types, and I was okay with that. We got into politics a lot, but he never talked about his faith. You ever talk about that with him? He ever say he was converting to another religion?”

  “Norm, do you know something about my brother? Yes? Or no?”

  He hesitated, scratching nervously at the stubble on his chin. “I saw something that really bugged me. Could be nothing, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I just can’t. Did your brother have any Arabic friends?”

  Johnny threw up his hands. “He’s here, you got people coming from all over the world, foreign professors teaching classes. Maybe he did. So what?”

  “Do you know if your brother reads Arabic?”

  “Look here, I’ll kick you out on your ass right now. Last chance, pop.”

  “Wait. Just please listen. I came in one day, a little later than usual. He’s usually got the door open, and I stopped knocking years ago. I just roll in and take a seat. Even if he’s got books to sell, we bullshit for a while. He tells me about the students or some research he’s doing, or we talk about you or what’s going on in the news. So I come in one day, I don’t know, I think it was just after Halloween, and he’s got the door cracked open. I don’t think anything of it, so I push it open and walk inside. He’s got some papers and pieces of unopened mail spread out all over the desk. He says hi, but I can tell he’s nervous. While he’s scooping up the mail and shoving it in the drawer, I see it’s all written in Arabic.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s what you wanted to tell me? My brother was an engineer. You don’t think he dealt with engineers from all over the world? Maybe he reads Arabic. What’re you getting at?”

  “Look, I’m sorry I e
ven told you. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was nothing. But I felt like I knew your brother. Or at least I thought I did. I see his beard getting longer, I catch him reading shit in Arabic, and a month later, he’s dead. What would you think?”

  “I think back in ‘Nam you took some shrapnel to the head, and it’s making you see things.”

  “Johnny, do you really believe it’s all a coincidence?”

  “All right, pop, let’s cut to the chase. You think my brother converted to Islam? Are you shitting me? He was the son of an Army Black Hat and the brother of a United States Marine. You got some pair. How dare you. Get out.”

  “I’m not accusing your brother of anything, Johnny. I’m just saying that from where I stand, and based on what I saw, it looks like he had some secrets. And maybe it was those secrets that got him killed.” Norm reached into his inner jacket pocket and placed one of his business cards on the desk. “I haven’t talked to the police yet. And I won’t. Because you and I are Marines. My number’s there. I’m really sorry.”

  Johnny glared at Norm as he moved to the door, opened it, then shuffled out. Johnny remained there, trying to catch his breath.

  The beard. The Arabic. The need to tell him something. Johnny cast his mind back to a snippet of conversation from that Sunday dinner he had been thinking about earlier. Daniel had shared a story about one of his sophomore students who had just won an engineering competition. The kid’s name was Abdul Azim Mohammad, and Johnny had been unable to hide his reaction.

  “What? What’s that look for?” Daniel had asked.

  “I don’t know. Be nice if just for once an American kid won something.”

  “The kid is American, Johnny. And he happens to be a Muslim. And he doesn’t want to kill either one of us—or anyone else at this table.”

  “How are the sweet potatoes?” Elina had asked. “And don’t forget, we also have corn, carrots, green beans, and mashed potatoes.”

  Pushing himself off the door, Johnny went to the desk, yanked open the drawers, and tore through the envelopes, index cards, and any other papers he could find that might be written in Arabic. He grew more frustrated as he sifted through the files. He whirled to the steel cabinets and dug through them as though searching for a bomb. By the time he got to the third drawer, he was exhausted and bleary-eyed. He faced the massive wall of books, and his heart sank. Any one of those texts could hold secrets shoved within its pages. Was he prepared to search every book? Daniel was the master at concealing things.

  Johnny’s phone rang. The number was unfamiliar, but he answered anyway. Shit, it was the flooring guy heading over to Daniel’s house. Johnny had forgotten all about him. He said he would meet him there in thirty minutes.

  As he started for the door, Johnny felt something crunch under his shoe. He stopped, looked down, and picked up a small piece of ceiling tile. Well, the police had been very thorough. They had pulled at least one of the ceiling tiles to have a peak up top. Johnny noticed the screws on the heating and cooling vent register were also freshly scratched. Then again, what if the investigators had not pulled the tile or opened the vent? What if Daniel had? No, if he had something to hide, he would pick a much less obvious place, or, he would pick a place he assumed you would look, placing the item right between your eyes so you never saw it. When he hid some of the Playboys they had stolen, he had removed the covers and replaced them with other magazine covers. After that, he had stacked them with other magazines right there in the living room basket. He placed them at the back of the pile where the old man would see them but assume they were issues he had already read. He only emptied the magazine basket a few times per year.

  Johnny dragged one of the file cabinets away from the wall, then tipped it sideways and walked it over to the ceiling tile in question. He used Daniel’s chair to mount the top of the file cabinet. He balanced himself like a broken down acrobat, ducking and extending his arms to catch his balance. He removed the tile then thrust his head into the opening. He fished out his smartphone, putting it in flashlight mode. A quick scan of the ten inch space between the concrete above and the tiles below produced nothing. The ductwork to his immediate right ran parallel with the tiles toward the far wall, where it turned up. As Johnny was about to lean down and replace the tile, he reached up and ran his fingers along the top of the duct. Sure, people hid things inside air ducts, but how often did they hide them on top of the conduit? That sounded like Daniel’s MO. Lo and behold, Johnny’s hand bumped into something that felt like cardboard. He groaned and reached farther into the ceiling, seizing the object and bringing it down. It was a small shipping box with the labels ripped off. There was no dust, suggesting it had not been there very long. Johnny set it near his feet, replaced the ceiling tile, then carefully climbed down.

  Once on the floor, he opened the box. The first thing he found was a note hand-written in Arabic:

  الذهاب إلى ريلاينس التكتيكي شركة التموين. التحدث إلى رجل يدعى لابورت. أقول له أنت تريد مفاتيح وبطاقة البوابة. عندما كنت على استعداد للتوزيع، اتصل ساعي المقبل.

  The second was a set of keys and a card with gate codes and instructions on it. The card was from a climate-controlled storage facility in Sneads Ferry called East Coast Storage.

  Finally, there was a small package wrapped in heavy white paper. When he turned it over, there was a label affixed to the top. The label depicted a scorpion, and Johnny knew exactly what this was—

  A block of Colombian cocaine.

  Chapter Nine

  “The Marine Corps brotherhood means we’re never alone, but sometimes we forget. I don’t blame Johnny for what he did. Those were the worst days of his life, and he was just trying to protect us.”

  —Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)

  Johnny left the university in a daze. Norm’s card, along with Jennifer Pattel’s, were in his pocket, and the shipping box he found lay on the front seat, staring back at him. He headed out of Wilmington, driving until he was on Ocean Highway, en route to Holly Ridge. Ten minutes later, he could not remember how he got there. His ringing phone startled him. Another unfamiliar number.

  “Johnny, hey, it’s Paul Lindquist. Where are you now?”

  It took a moment for the detective’s name to register. “Oh, hey, I’m out and about. Going to my brother’s house to meet the flooring guy.” Johnny stole another glance at the shipping box.

  “Reason I ask is I swung by the house and Elina said you weren’t there. She didn’t know where you were, and she didn’t want to call or text, but she was worried.”

  “That woman knows me very well.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to intrude, but I wanted to give you an update. We’ve been working very hard on this case, and to be honest, there’s not much here. Phone records don’t send up any red flags. I’m told forensics is still looking at the computers, but so far they’re clean. I mean your brother didn’t even surf porn or download pictures.”

  Johnny spied the package again. “Well, he was no saint.”

  “Who is? Anyway, we interviewed everyone at Reva’s office, and we heard nothing to suggest they had any enemies. No hints of adultery. Nothing.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Your brother’s colleagues are harder to pin down since the term ended. I spoke to a couple of professors on the phone, and we interviewed his assistant while we searched his office. The dean came over, and we got a chance to talk to her. She said your brother loved the university more than any faculty member she knew. He was Mr. School Spirit. And they all called him the nicest guy in the world.”

  “He was.”

  “He sure has a lot of books.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, rest assured we did a thorough search, top to bottom. I even pulled a ceiling tile and checked the air vent for you.”

  Johnny gasped. “I guess that’s all I can ask. You’re probably right. Whatever Dan
wanted to tell me... it doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “You know I agree, but that won’t affect this investigation. I keep my bias out of it—because every once in a while I get surprised.”

  A police car with flashing lights came roaring by in the opposite direction. Johnny reached over, grabbed the shipping box, and shoved it under his seat.

  “Johnny, you still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you hang on for a second?”

  “No problem.” Johnny checked his rear view mirror, half-expecting the police car that had passed to turn around and pursue. That made no sense, but the paranoia coursed through him like a 5-hour energy drink.

  “Sorry, Johnny, I just got a quick question. Were you just up at the university?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Johnny answered without hesitation. “I was going to tell you. I didn’t want you to think I was working behind you.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, sorry, just going through some of my brother’s things.”

  “Johnny, you can’t do that without telling us. We’re cutting you a lot a slack here, you being a twenty-three year veteran and all. The taxpayers pay me to be Mr. Suspicious, and most violent crimes circle right back to a family member. Now I’m not saying you did anything wrong, but you have to ask yourself how this looks to the police. If you’ve been upfront with us, and you’re not holding anything back, then you’ve got nothing to worry about. For now, I need you to let us do our jobs.”

  “Roger. I just needed to get out of the house. How did you know I was there?”

  “Your brother’s assistant has been helping us track down his buddies, and she mentioned that you stopped by.”

  “She was pretty upset. My brother had some good people around him.”

  “He sure did. Well, all right, Johnny, you relax and do like I said. We don’t need any help. Soon as I have more, I’ll be in touch.”