So she did.
* * * *
On his lunch break Mike Darcy hopped in his truck and took the short ride to the park maintenance office where he found Frank Staltaro helping one of his mechanics wrestle a lug nut off a tractor tire.
“Coach Darcy!” he said, quickly wiping his grimy hands on a shop rag. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
They shook hands and Mike said, “Got a minute?”
“For you? I got all the time you need. Come into the office where there’s some air-conditioning.” Darcy followed the stocky, barrel-chested sixtyish boss into his office, which was cluttered with work orders and maps.
“Sorry about the mess,” apologized Frank. “We never have a dull moment except maybe in the dead of winter.”
“How’s Pat doing?” asked Mike.
“I gotta tell you, Coach,” said Staltaro, “I had my doubts about him making it in college, especially juggling football and the books. But he lettered all four years and got his diploma on time! Married a nice girl he met up there and he’s working for a marketing firm in Jersey City. And you had a lot to do with getting him into Rutgers. So, what do you need? Name it.”
“Okay, Frank. But what we say here has to stay here.”
“Done.”
“Alright. When you guys are re-setting walls or clearing land, do you ever find remains?”
“Well, more artifacts than remains. Bullets, shrapnel, even a live shell every so often, which just ends up in the Visitor Center Museum. But, yes, we have turned up bones. See, there were a lot of soldiers who just got dumped into mass graves in the days after the battle. You can’t believe what a mess this place was, and the stench that hung over the whole area.
“They tried to leave markers, thinking the bodies would be dug up and transferred later on, which most of them were. But some were missed. It’s amazing that all these years later, we’re still finding bones.”
“What happens to them?”
“Well, we call in the National Park Service archeologists after we’ve discreetly sealed off the area and, unless there’s any ID, which is almost never, the bones are quietly interred in the cemetery.”
“Find any recently?”
“How recently?”
“Let’s say, early May?”
Staltaro pondered a moment, holding Darcy’s icy stare, probably conflicted. “Yeah, Coach,” he said finally. “Near the Emmitsburg Road we were doing some roadwork to reset a drainpipe when we found a skeleton which they later determined was a male in his thirties who died of a gunshot wound in the back. There was a huge fracture in the spinal column or something. I don’t know how they can tell all that so many years later, but that’s what they came up with.”
“Could they determine if it was Union or Confederate?”
“Nope. Big guy, though, for that time anyway. Six-one or six-two.”
“Huh. Where’d they rebury him?”
“That’s just it. They didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Once the forensic archaeologists were done, see, they put the remains in a box. The next day they go open the box and—poof! Gone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. They questioned everybody involved, but all they got is an empty box. Say, I been hearing there’s some monkey business going on in the park after dark. This got anything to do with that?”
“I doubt it. I was just curious, you know. I lead all these tours around the battlefield and I’ve often wondered if there were any bodies they just... missed.”
“Well, Coach, I’m here to tell ya that they’ll still be finding stuff here and there long after you n’ me are gone. There were thousands of men unaccounted for at the end of the battle. True, some just got blown to bits, but others ended up in hastily dug graves or pits. Tell your lovely wife not to dig too deep when she’s gardening. You never know!”
“Thanks, Frank, you’ve been a help,” Mike said, rising.
“Anytime, Coach. My door’s always open,” answered Staltaro as the two men shook hands.
* * * *
With Tiffany’s inside information dancing in his head, Al Warren drove back to the station where he found two of his officers lounging by the dispatcher’s desk, needling Rudy Herzog, who had been placed there indefinitely until his nerves settled down. Upon seeing the Chief the patrolmen vanished in a hurry, leaving Herzog to his duties.
“Those guys giving you a hard time, Rudy?” Warren asked gently, removing his Smokey hat.
“Not that bad, Chief,” he answered with a reddening face. “It’s just that I seem to be in the wrong place every time this cavalry character shows up or does something. Bad karma, maybe. I really need to get off this desk, though. I’m going crazy here.”
“Okay, I read you. Why don’t we return you to active patrols day after tomorrow?”
“That’d be great.”
Warren sat on the edge of the desk. “Rudy, you’re one of the best guys I have, maybe the best. But you’ve seen a lot these past few weeks that would test anybody. I just want you to know that you can talk to me anytime if it gets to you. There’s no need for you to feel embarrassed if you feel overwhelmed.”
“It’s just tough, Chief,” complained Rudy. “I mean, I come from this town and people know me, and I don’t want them looking at me funny.”
“I understand,” said Warren. Then he paused. “Rudy,” he began, “you went to the high school, right? I recall you were a pretty good athlete.”
“Yeah. I lettered in football and wrestling all four years.”
“Really? What position in football?”
“Safety. I was all-conference my senior year.”
“So you played for Mike Darcy?”
A brief look of consternation passed over Herzog’s face, and then it was gone. “Yeah, sure. He was our defensive coordinator.”
“You two still close?”
“We talk.”
“Uh-huh. Well, Darcy’s a good ranger, from what I’m told. Just remember, though, if you need to discuss departmental matters with anyone, don’t hesitate to come to me.”
“I won’t, Chief,” said Herzog, though the look on his face made Al wonder if he’d spilled something to Mike Darcy already.
* * * *
That night over a magnificent meatloaf wrapped in bacon and accompanied by mashed potatoes and peas, the Darcy clan compared the notes of the day, Aunt Terri listening intently as she replenished empty plates.
“So,” said T.J., “there is a chance that it was Hilliard’s remains that were accidently unearthed just before he materialized.”
“Seems that way,” said Mike, sopping up some brown gravy with a homemade biscuit.
“What’s weird,” mused Bortnicker, the light glinting off his glasses, “is that here we had this guy who was thought to be some kind of hell-bent swashbuckler in battle, but they were left wondering if he deserted. Then you get this corpse whose cause of death was a gunshot to the back. If you’re leading a charge you don’t get shot in the back.”
“I’m sorry,” chimed in LouAnne, “but there’s no way of getting around it. We have to go find Hilliard again. Or rather, if you remember, he said he’d find us. I’m thinking Pitzer’s Woods might be too close to civilization. Remember, we almost got caught by that police car.”
“What do you have in mind, then?” asked Mike.
“Daddy, how about this? You drop us near an entrance behind Little Round Top and we make our way to Devil’s Den, where Hilliard found Mike Weinstein. It’s secluded and if we’re inside those rocks we could probably spend a good long time with him and get to the bottom of this.”
Mike Darcy marveled at the chutzpah of his daughter. “And where am I going to be while he’s maybe blowing your heads off? Having a drink at the Battle Flag Tavern?”
“No, Daddy. Listen, I’ll have my cell phone, and you could be there in a flash if there’s a problem. I’m sure you know an out-of-the-way place near that park entrance where y
ou can hang out in the truck.”
“And when will this happen?”
“I’m off again tomorrow night,” she said decisively. “What do you guys think?”
“Sounds good to me,” said T.J.
“Same here,” agreed Bortnicker.
“I think you’ve all gone mad,” was Terri’s take.
“It’s settled then,” said LouAnne, brushing back a wisp of blonde hair from her eyes and smiling sweetly. “Hey, why don’t you two join me tonight in town? Then we can all walk home together.”
Mike raised his hand in protest. “LouAnne –”
“Daddy,” she said, cutting him off, “I swear we’ll come straight home, right through town. No side trips.”
“Promise?”
“Daddy,” she said with a mock pout, “have I ever lied to you?”
* * * *
After dropping the kids off at the Charney House Mike drove around for a while, first scouting out areas where he could lay low and fly to the rescue if they got in trouble. He couldn’t believe he’d let them talk him into such an audacious plan. Even more incredible was the fact that Terri was going along with all this.
As he wove his way through the downtown area, he realized that Gettysburg was taking on its yearly lead-up to Reenactment feel. Excitement was in the air, from the tourists to the shopkeepers. The town’s economy hinged on a successful summer season, and Reenactment Week was its pinnacle.
Unbeknownst to the teens, he’d already agreed to join his friends in uniform for their 2010 Reenactment. He knew Matty and the others were always thrilled to have him along, though Bruce Morrison only gave tacit approval. But what else could he say? One of his own rangers was proudly displaying his love of history over and above his daily workload.
Suddenly Mike’s truck jerked to a halt as a ghost tour group jaywalked in his path. He realized he’d been so lost in thought that he hardly noticed the hordes of pedestrians on the streets. The only thing close was when he and a bunch of his friends drove up to Cooperstown for the Hall of Fame induction of the Phillies’ Mike Schmidt a few years back. Talk about a small town bursting at the seams! There was not a motel room, table at a restaurant or parking space to be had. They’d ended up driving home the same day, getting in well after midnight. The difference was, of course, that there was no huge battle reenactment involved in the day’s festivities, just a sedate, if crowded, ceremony near the Hall of Fame.
Reenactment Week, though it was only four days, would feature a daily schedule of events from roughly 8:30 A.M. to as late as 8:00 P.M. There would be lectures, displays, seminars and weapons demonstrations, hour after hour. The highlight of each day, however, would be the “battle.” His unit would be taking part in two of them, Saturday the Third’s “Wheatfield-Harvest of Death” and the Fourth of July’s “Pickett’s Charge” which was scheduled for 3:00 P.M. to 5:00 P.M. He fully expected that it would be blazing hot and hoped it wouldn’t rain, which would seriously screw things up, both for the reenactors who waited all year for this event and the thousands of spectators who would pay a pretty penny for the opportunity to sit or stand in the broiling summer sun and watch the men in blue and gray recreate the desperate and pivotal moments that changed the course of the Civil War.
The 72nd Pennsylvania regiment had its own commander and officer. Mike and his buddies were common infantrymen and preferred it that way. The officers, they felt, sometimes got too much into character and became overly bossy, and the guys were not especially pleased with some CPA by day ordering them around to the point where it ruined the rush they got from just participating in the spectacle. Mike likened it to covering kickoffs back in his football days, but he’d gotten a little tired of having to “stay in character” the whole time and rough it in the tented camps. His daughter was right. He was kind of a wussy reenactor when you came right down to it.
Anyway, Reenactment Week was bearing down on them, and this whole ghost mess just added to his anxiety. He again hoped he was doing the right thing with the kids.
After stopping off to pick up a pint of Terri’s favorite black cherry ice cream, he slowly navigated back to Seminary Ridge. It was dark now and the evening fireflies had been extinguished. There was the smell of rain in the air, and he noted he might have to pick up the kids anyway at the Inn. His poor daughter would be exhausted, but at least she had her buddies to keep her spirits up.
Mike was parking the truck in the driveway when he saw the outline of a figure sitting on the porch swing in the shadows. The light over his front door was out, or had it been unscrewed? Never one to flinch, Darcy approached the porch calmly.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he said firmly. He nearly jumped when his guest briefly flicked on a hand-held flashlight that illuminated his face. “It’s me, Coach,” said Rudy Herzog. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be doing this, but I’ve gotta talk to you.”
“Where’s your cruiser?”
“I’m off duty. My Toyota’s parked a couple blocks away.”
“Okay, come around back and we’ll talk in the garage after I put this ice cream in the fridge.”
That being done, he returned to the garage side door and let Herzog inside. With a flip of a switch they were in another world. A weight machine dominated the room whose walls were lined with photos from Darcy’s playing and coaching days, along with his framed Michigan State home jersey. Everything was tastefully done, from the color-coordinated rubber matting on the floor to the walls and drop ceiling.
“Wow,” was all Herzog could manage.
“Yeah, well, this garage was a former storage barn, so when I had it renovated Terri let me have a smaller room for myself. Its selling point was the money it would save me for not having to join a gym.”
Herzog made his way around the perimeter of the room, taking in the framed team photos going all the way back to Darcy’s high school days. His gaze found Mike’s senior photo from Michigan State, a posed shot with the linebacker on one knee, looking very serious. “Didn’t know you had that much hair, Coach,” he said, noting Mike’s practically shoulder-length locks which shot out in all directions.
“What can I say? It was the ‘70s,” was his somewhat embarrassed answer.
“Am I up on the wall?” said Rudy, fingering a dumbbell rack with pairs of weights from ten to fifty pounds.
“Other side of the room, on the left.”
“Yup. Here’s my senior year. We had a good team.”
“You guys were hard workers, the whole lot of you. And Rudy, you were a good captain. Now, let’s stop beating around the bush. What brings you here tonight?”
“Okay,” said the policeman, jamming his hands in his back pockets the way he used to in high school when he was caught doing something wrong. “The Chief came to see me today. You know, I’ve been on the desk since that incident I’ve told you about when I wrecked the car. Well, he’s taking me off.”
“That’s great. Listen, Rudy, if you’re having any doubts about your abilities as an officer, forget it. You’re this community’s last line of defense.”
“Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
“That’s bull. Let me tell you a story.
“When I was a sophomore at MSU, we had to go play Ohio State, who had this running back named Archie Griffin.”
“He won the Heisman two years in a row, right?”
“Yeah. Well, I’m playing middle linebacker, and Griffin started shredding our defensive line. Guys were bouncing off him like tennis balls. So during a time out our head coach grabbed me by my facemask and yelled, “Goldang it, Darcy, you’re supposed to be our last line of defense! It’s time for you to step it up, son!”
“So what happened?”
“Well, we still lost, but I ended up with like twenty-five tackles. Far and away my best performance. But what’s more important, when I walked off the field that day I could hold my head high because I knew I’d done my job. That’s all this community asks of you. So don’t worry ab
out what the Chief might say or think.”
“I appreciate the pep talk, Coach, but that’s not what’s really bothering me. See, in my conversation with Chief Warren, your name came up.”
“My name?”
“Yup. It was kind of an intentional throw-in when he was telling me I should go to him first with any issues regarding this case. You’re not in any trouble, are you, Coach?”
“Not that I know of. But my own boss, who I know is tight with the Chief, has been keeping tabs on me as well. And he questioned me about the guns I own and how and when I use them.”
“You have a .44 just like the one used in the murders, right?”
“Yeah, and those guys know they’re free to look at it if they have any suspicions, ‘cause I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Listen, Coach, I wasn’t suggesting—”
“I know you weren’t, Rudy. And I appreciate that you took a risk coming over here to give me a heads up.”
“You’d have done it for me.”
“Tell you what. If you hear anything from here on out just call me on my cell phone. You’d best not be seen around my house for a while.”
“Okay.”
Darcy clapped his former player on the shoulder, trying to lighten the mood. “So, you excited for Reenactment Week?”
“This year? I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’ve got an uneasy feeling about it. Like something’s gonna happen. You suiting up this year?”
“Yeah, my buddies talked me into it. Watch, it’ll probably be ninety-five degrees and humid and we’ll be dying out there.”
“Just like two-a-days?”
Darcy chuckled. “Let me tell you something. We coaches hated them as much as you guys. A necessary evil.”
“But they were good days, right?”
“The best.”
The two shook hands and Herzog slipped out the side door and made for his car. Mike was just locking up when Terri poked her head out the kitchen window. “Are we going to eat this black cherry ice cream or not?”
“Be right there,” he said, jogging up the back deck steps to the rear door. When he entered she was waiting for him, hands on hips.
Last Ghost at Gettysburg Page 17