The Bone Hunters

by Robert J. Mrazek

  “Please remove all metal objects from your clothing and place them in the tray,” said the first guard politely.

  “I have none on my person,” said June Corcoran.

  “Go on through the scanners,” he said.

  Tommy removed everything from pockets, including car keys, lip balm, spare change, fountain pen, cell phone, and wallet. After looking over the cache, the guard returned the glasses, lip balm, and wallet and said, “We’ll keep the rest secure here until you’re ready to leave.”

  The second guard noticed the ribbon on Tommy’s right lapel.

  “Distinguished Flying Cross?” he asked.

  Tommy nodded.

  “Thanks for your service, sir,” said the civilian guard.

  “Long time ago,” said Tommy, passing through the scanner, “but I’m proud of it.”

  Carrying a small flashlight, Alice Chen led them into a modern elevator and pressed the button for subbasement C. When the door opened, she took them down a brightly lit corridor with a polished linoleum floor. Tommy saw more video cameras mounted along the walls. Fifty feet farther along, she stopped at a red-painted metal door. Unlocking it, she stepped inside and they followed her in.

  They were standing on an iron catwalk that overlooked a vast darkened area below them. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Tommy could see distant library stacks that had to be a hundred yards away. He was reminded of the ending to Raiders of the Lost Ark, when the crate holding the ark was being trundled through a warehouse of artifacts that seemed to reach infinity.

  “It’s actually the size of three football fields laid end to end,” said Alice Chen, seeing their reaction. “We have approximately ten million documents in this repository. Although many of them have been declassified, the originals will always remain here.”

  Until they turn to dust, thought Tommy.

  They descended an iron staircase to the first set of stacks. When they reached floor level, a set of lights automatically came on, illuminating the passageway directly ahead of them. Alice Chen consulted her tablet screen and began walking down one of the parallel passageways.

  “If you need to reproduce any of the material in the folder, we can bring it back with us to the copying office,” she said. “It can be recorded on paper or as an electronic file.”

  The stacks were eight feet high and about fifty feet long. Each one had a set of four metal shelves filled with cardboard, tin, and accordion file boxes and holders. The upper shelves could be accessed by rolling metal ladders that were attached to runners along the length of each stack.

  Even with the constant breeze of the air circulation system, it was impossible to mask the musty smell of decomposing paper. Tommy imagined the millions of yellowing documents that were stored there and wondered how many of them deserved to be classified. Probably no more than ten percent, he decided, based on his own experience. Better safe than sorry had always been the mantra.

  Alice Chen checked her tablet screen again before proceeding down one of the perpendicular passageways. The lights from fluorescent bulbs above continued to come on automatically. Behind them, the lights dimmed a few seconds after they had left the previous stack.

  “I believe we’re about there,” said Alice Chen.

  As they headed into the next cone of light, Tommy lingered for a few moments, leaning on his cane. He was about to pull the smoke device out of his belt when June turned around and came back to him.

  “Don’t . . . Just pay attention,” she whispered.

  A few minutes later, Alice Chen stopped and pointed to the top shelf of the last passageway they had entered.

  “The accordion file should be up there,” she said.

  She retrieved the rolling ladder and slid it into position. Climbing nimbly to the top shelf, she used her flashlight to read the small numbers on the folders and removed one from the shelf. After descending, she led them to the end of the passageway.

  At the foot of each stack was a small alcove with an oak office desk recessed into the opening and illuminated by a hanging brass lamp fixture. Putting the file box down on the desk, she removed the cover and began to finger through the nonacidic archival folders inside. Tommy saw there were about ten files, some bulging with pages and others slender enough to hold only a few.

  “Here is the file on Sumner Welles,” she said, pulling it from the folder and laying it on the desk.

  She stepped back to allow Tommy access to the folder. It contained about an inch of documents. He began to scan the first page. It was a summary of the rest of the material in the folder, including Hoover’s FBI report on the train incident, original copies of the subsequent reports, interview transcripts, and correspondence.

  “This is going to be very valuable,” said Tommy. “I’ll need to have copies made of some of it.”

  Her back was to Tommy as he quickly scanned the reference numbers of the other files in the folder. He saw the one they had come for. It was very slim. He hoped it was worth all the risk.

  “I hope you will meet me for tea the next time you are in Washington,” said June.

  “I would be honored,” said Alice Chen.

  Tommy removed the slim file from the accordion file and spread it on the table over the Welles file. There were only two pages. He separated them faceup. Both pages were covered with names and numerals.

  “We can bring the entire file back to the copying room if you like,” said Alice Chen, turning to face Tommy again.

  At that moment June erupted in another fit of uncontrollable coughing and sank slowly to her knees. Alice Chen stooped to help her.

  Removing the Distinguished Flying Cross pin from his lapel, Tommy aimed its microcamera lens at the first document.

  “Thank you, my child,” said June, clutching the Chinese woman’s arm as she slowly regained her feet. Alice Chen patted her arm reassuringly as Tommy aimed the camera at the second page.

  When she turned to face him a few seconds later, the file was back in the accordion folder and Tommy was leaning on his cane.

  “That’s a good idea,” agreed Tommy. “Let’s review it in the copying room.”

  He and June were trailing behind Alice Chen on their way back across the stacks when Tommy leaned down and whispered to her, “Bette Davis in Dark Victory . . . nominated for best actress . . . lost to Vivien Leigh.”

  THIRTEEN

  19 May

  New York/Presbyterian Hospital

  East Sixty-eighth Street

  New York City

  Barnaby came awake in a private room inside the intensive-care unit. A computer monitor was hanging near the head of the bed and registering his vital signs. Lexy was sitting on a chair near the window looking down at her tablet. A blue-uniformed security guard stood in the open doorway.

  “Are we under siege?” he growled.

  “To the contrary,” she said. “I asked Ira Dusenberry to have someone assigned here to make sure you did not leave the hospital until you were medically cleared.”

  “I can always count on you to do the right thing,” he said.

  Lowering her voice, she said, “I have to meet Steve at Homeland Security. It sounds like something might have broken on what happened to that marine truck convoy.”

  He shook his massive head in frustration.

  “In the immortal words of Tony Curtis after nine months on the set of Spartacus with Stanley Kubrick,” he said, “who do I have to screw to get off this picture?”

  Lexy laughed.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” he said, watching the continual drip of sedative from a plastic IV bag into the vein of his left arm. “These people are obviously incompetent. I’m perfectly fine. All their tests have confirmed it.”

  “Dr. Nealon said you’ll be cleared for release after they get back the final test results tomorrow,” she said as an orderly came in bearin
g a plastic food tray. She saw the plate contained what looked like oatmeal or pablum topped by three prunes.

  “Just sit back and enjoy the cuisine,” she added, heading for the door. “You might want to guide them on the future menu.”

  The epithet he unleashed caused her to stop and turn around.

  “That is anatomically impossible,” she said.

  Thirty minutes later she was at the Homeland Security Office Building on 125th Street. Macaulay was waiting for her in one of the small, secure communications rooms on the eleventh floor. The telephone call came in from Langley ten minutes later. Macaulay put Tommy on the speakerphone.

  “I have something for you, dear boy,” he said. “It consists of two sheets of paper that June is sending to you now at the encrypted data address you gave her. The first page is a document dated December 9, 1941. It was typed by someone serving in the Fourth Marines Headquarters Company at Camp Holcomb shortly before the detachment surrendered to the Japanese. The document includes a brief account of the convoy mission from Peking by a corporal named Fabbricatore, who claimed to be the only survivor after they were ambushed by a Japanese patrol on the night of December eighth. He states that Captain Allen was killed in the firefight after sending one of the trucks on in an attempt to break out. He didn’t know what happened to the truck or to the two marines driving it. Aside from the typed account, there is a list of nine marines who were in the convoy aside from Fabbricatore, who died of his wounds. Seven are listed as killed in action. Two others, Sergeant James Donald Bradshaw, and Corporal Sean Patrick Morrissey, are listed as missing in action, presumed dead.”

  “And the second document?” asked Lexy.

  “That’s where it gets very strange indeed,” said Tommy. “The second one is the summary of a hospital record for one Marine Corporal Sean Patrick Morrissey. It states that Morrissey was admitted to the U.S. Naval Hospital in Key West, Florida, on March 2, 1942, suffering from second-degree burns, head trauma, hypothermia, malnutrition, and a vertebral compression fracture, which I would translate as a broken back.”

  “Wait,” said Lexy. “The first document says he was presumed dead. The second is his hospital record. How is that?”

  “As I said, it’s very strange.”

  “What is the last thing in the hospital record?” asked Macaulay.

  “It states that he was released as fit for active duty on October 12, 1942.”

  “More than seven months later,” said Lexy.

  “I have something else for you. June has found an obituary notice for a Sean Patrick Morrissey who died in 2011 in Detroit, Michigan. The birth date comports with that of our Morrissey, who had just turned eighteen years old at the time he was admitted to the hospital in Key West. According to the obituary notice, he left one family survivor, a younger brother named Daniel Morrissey, described as retired from General Motors. According to June, it would appear he is still alive and living in Detroit. I’ll send you his address with the other documents.”

  “Thanks, Tommy,” said Macaulay. “We’ll follow up from here.”

  Lexy leaned toward the speakerphone. “Please consider it a top priority to locate any other information you can on Sean Morrissey.”

  “Of course, dear girl,” said Tommy. “We wouldn’t be deprived of the fun.”

  “I’m heading for Detroit,” said Macaulay after briefly reviewing the documents and passing them to Lexy. “The brother is our only lead.”

  “I’m going with you,” said Lexy.

  “I thought you had to babysit the little prince.”

  “Little Big Man is in stir until tomorrow morning at the earliest,” she said, grabbing her purse. “Call for our plane, General.”

  • • •

  The Detroit neighborhood they drove through was an industrial city nightmare, a seemingly endless succession of abandoned freight yards, boarded factories, and empty, burned-out storefronts. The few businesses still operating were liquor stores, pizza parlors, and Chinese restaurants.

  After leaving the airport, they had exited the Jefferies Freeway, driving along Wyoming Street and turning onto Orangelawn. At one point, they passed a small group of homeless people who were clustered around a pup tent in one of the vacant lots. Lexy was gazing down at her smartphone.

  “According to Neighborhood Watch, this is one of the three most violent and dangerous neighborhoods in America,” she said.

  “You can’t call it a neighborhood anymore,” said Macaulay. “They should tear it down and start over.”

  “Tell that to the people who live here.”

  One of the side streets off Orangelawn led to the address they were looking for. The house stood intact among the abandoned homes along the street. The afternoon light was beginning to fade when Macaulay stopped behind one of the derelict cars and they got out. In the distance he could hear the whine of a truck’s air brakes as its driver downshifted to exit the Jefferies Freeway.

  There was an acrid stench in the air. One of the cars farther down the block was on fire. Macaulay saw children playing in a weed-strewn yard across the street from it. No one seemed to notice the flames.

  The house of Daniel Morrissey was constructed of redbrick and was three stories high with a wide front porch and large bay windows facing the street. At one time, it had probably been quite impressive. Now its bay windows were sealed with plywood and painted dark green.

  As they approached the porch, Macaulay saw that every ground-floor and basement window had been sealed with plywood as well. Looking up, he saw that the second – and third-floor windows were still intact and framed with white curtains.

  The house next door to the Morrissey home was identical to it, but the place had been gutted by fire. Through the charred downstairs window frames, Macaulay could see piles of ceiling debris rising from the living room floor. A small sign had been planted in the front yard. It read FOR SALE $2200.00. Someone had crossed out the original number with a Magic Marker and written $500.00.

  “Fort Apache,” said Macaulay as they climbed the steps to the porch.

  Lexy saw that the front door had been reinforced with a big slab of two-inch-thick oak planking. There was no knob or handle on it. A tiny peephole was notched in the middle of the door at Lexy’s eye level. From somewhere behind the door, she could hear the sound of laughter and applause from a television game show.

  Macaulay knocked on the door. They waited. Thirty seconds went by. He knocked again more loudly. Lexy could no longer hear the television. Nothing stirred inside the house.

  “Someone is in there,” said Lexy, “and probably thinks we’re from the City Tax Department or bill collectors.”

  “You definitely do not look like a bill collector,” he said, glancing up and seeing a small surveillance camera mounted on one of the porch roof rafters.

  Facing up at it, he said, “Mr. Morrissey, my name is Steven Macaulay and we are here to ask you about your late brother, Sean. It’s very important and it will only take a few minutes.”

  Ten seconds later, he heard a dead bolt being unlocked followed immediately by a second one. The massive door swung slowly inward, revealing an unshaven old man in a wheelchair. He was wearing jeans and a raggedy Detroit Lions sweatshirt. Behind him stretched a long, dark hallway. Macaulay could see a broad staircase leading up to the second floor.

  “Daniel Morrissey?” asked Lexy.

  The old man nodded. Motioning them inside, he rolled his chair away to allow them past. He rolled back and shut the door again, relocking the two heavy dead bolts before leading them down the hallway and into a brightly lit room.

  It had once been an elegant front parlor with ten-foot ceilings, crown molding, and oak wainscoting covering the white plaster walls. With the windows now sealed both inside and out with green-painted plywood, it seemed more like a modern burial chamber.

  The room was brightly l
it with wall-mounted lighting fixtures. Two couches, several easy chairs, and a walnut coffee table were spread around the room. A massive old television stood on a walnut credenza along one wall. Macaulay wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the room was clean and neat, everything in its place.

  “Sit down,” said the old man, waving them toward the couch. “Sorry I can’t offer you anything. I’m on short rations at the moment. Not used to having guests.”

  The old man had been strong in his youth, decided Macaulay, glancing at the thickness of the wrists extending from the cuffs of the sweatshirt. The once-powerful slabs of his shoulder muscles had shrunk to sinew and bone. Weather wrinkles creased his face, which was pasty white aside from ancient scars on his neck and his large hands. The brown eyes were sharp with intelligence.

  “I’ll tell you why we’re here,” said Lexy. “We’re trying to find out any information we can on your brother’s early service as a marine during the Second World War. We know that he was stationed in China at the beginning. Did he ever talk to you about it?”

  “What do you know about my brother?” asked Daniel Morrissey.

  “Very little,” she said, “just the fact that he was in China on December 8, 1941, and later was admitted to a military hospital in March 1942 after having incurred serious wounds or injuries. We know he was released to active duty that following October.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, ma’am,” said the old man. “We weren’t close. When he came back from the war, he was a lot different than when he left. . . . He didn’t want to work . . . didn’t want to do anything. The only thing he did do was drink scotch whiskey. He was damn good at that. After a few months of it, my mother threw him out and he rode the rails out to the Northwest. We heard he went logging for a while and then he disappeared. He wasted his life.”

  Morrissey cleared his phlegmy throat and spat with perfect precision into the Mason jar that was nestled between his legs.

  “My mother died in 2001,” he went on. “Sean came back here around six years after that. He was a broken man, the worse for being an alcoholic. He was trying desperately to stay sober and to find work. My wife was dead from cancer by then. I took pity on him. We lived here together until he died in 2011. It was on the tenth anniversary of that Trade Center attack. He’s buried next to our mother.”