by Dave Balcom
Again she searched the group with her eyes, and again, she received only shaken heads.
“Folks, this is going to become messy. I’m going to need statements from each of you. I’ll have to ask you to stay here tonight; I’ll have people come to interview you in the morning...” he could see those who understood his words becoming uneasy. “Look, if you won’t promise to remain here until we’re through with this investigation, I’ll have no choice but to call in buses and have you held in jail until we have the answers we need.”
The woman started speaking very slowly in Spanish. Her words evoked a moan from the group, like a tune of misery and broken hearts. She continued speaking, and the moaning dried up as if her explanation was convincing.
“They’ll be here in the morning,” she said to Brinks, “have your people come and ask. If anyone here knows anything that will help, they will share it. We just want to be left alone. Most of the young people here were born here; most of their parents have no papers and they don’t want to be separated from their children. If they cooperate will you guarantee they can go on unmolested?”
Brinks was shaking his head, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t guarantee anything other than my promise to vouch for your cooperation.”
“That’ll have to do,” Marianna said, “If they’re all herded into jail tonight, they’ll certainly come to the attention of the ICE people.”
“And while that’s certain; I can’t promise it won’t happen tomorrow anyway.”
She shrugged. “We’ll be here...”
Chapter 9
Our next leg took the better part of an hour as Ahmed directed me through repeated turns and switchbacks coming down out of the mountains. It was after ten when we pulled into a camp site on the upper reaches of McKay Creek. Our arrival created quite a stir as women with small children came out of their huts and tents to greet us.
Ahmed pulled his final two coolers to the tailgate, and we started distributing food while Brinks asked for an English speaker to help him. Ahmed put the return cooler into the back of the truck as Brinks came back, “Let’s head back to Pendleton, guys.”
“Nothing here to follow up?”
“No, I don’t believe the missing people from the first camp are here. These folks have all been together for years. They’re an extended family, like the folks up by Meacham.”
We dropped Brinks at the Post, and I took Ahmed back to the Table. He unloaded the coolers and put them inside the kitchen’s back door. “Thanks, Jim,” he began, but as he stopped I became aware that we weren’t alone.
“You don’t seem to get the message,” I heard from behind me. “You and your playmate been out slopping the pigs again?”
I found us confronted by three large men. I caught a whiff of them, a combination of stale sweat and beer; the odor reminded me of Old Spice deodorant. I spoke without taking my eyes off the three, “These the guys?”
“The same,” Ahmed said in a whisper.
I raised my voice, “You boys put a beat down on my friend here last night?”
“And we’re gonna do one better tonight; a ‘twofer,’ the biggest of them said in a tone and volume to match mine.
“So all three of you ganged up on this one guy, blackened his eye and cracked a rib?”
“And tonight we’re gonna do the same thing to you and leave this punk singing soprano.”
“Is that enough, Pete?” I asked in a quieter voice.
“Gentlemen,” Pete Boyd followed his voice out of the shadow created by the kitchen and a street light, “you’re all under arrest for assault with intent to do great bodily harm.” He appeared holding his badge wallet up for them to see. “I’m Sgt. Peter Boyd of the Oregon State Police.”
I caught movement behind the three giants, as Pete continued, “And these four men are all members of the Pendleton Police Department, and they’re going to insist that you put your hands on your heads as they cuff you up and read you your rights.”
The three hesitated as if they were contemplating their options, then the leader put his hands on his head, and the other two followed suit.
“Now, that’s more like it, Jim Stanton,” Pete said as he approached me, “civil, composed, and without guilt or collateral damage. That’s the way we roll, Jim; thank you.”
Ahmed reached out for my arm, “Wow! I can’t wait to tell Elmo and Grace how you handled this. They were both praying that you wouldn’t be violent on their behalf; they’ll be so happy to learn how you handled this.”
“I had help. Sgt. Boyd here promised to lock me up and toss the key if I didn’t use my head instead of losing it. The question remains, however, who are those guys and who sent them to dissuade you from your efforts.”
“We’ll know all there is to know before those boys are out on the street again,” Pete assured us. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m beat, and it’s late.”
Chapter 10
I made the decision during my morning walk, and filled Jan in on it while waiting for the coffee to make its journey from grounds to cup.
“You’re going to what?”
“I’ve been thinking about 1973, and this name keeps turning over in my mind. It was during a rehab tour and some R and R in Lauderdale. I met a young woman on the beach, and for some reason I keep thinking I need to find out what happened to her after I left her on the beach.”
“What makes you think something happened to her?”
“I have no idea. I hadn’t thought of Karen O’Connor once since the last time I saw her, and now I can’t help but think she might be Maggie Lennon’s grandmother.”
“Is that possible?”
“Not by me, it isn’t.”
“But?”
“Exactly.”
“What’s our first step?”
“St. Louis.”
“Again?” Jan shuddered with vivid memories of her last visit there as she spoke, “Why?”
“Not going there, but that’s where military records are stored.”
“What are we looking for?”
“I met Karen while I was staying with some other guys who were in the unit. I didn’t know much about them. I’m just wondering where they might be today, and original hometowns are a place to start.”
“Can you recover that information on someone else?”
“I have to try; I know some folks...”
The phone interrupted us. “Pete,” I said.
“You want coffee?” Jan asked.
I nodded, “Peter, what’s new?”
“Just came out of the camp by Meacham. We have twelve people in there, translators and officers, and we’ve identified the dead woman, but her story isn’t connected to the food deliveries; it’s an old-fashioned triangle.”
“Somebody cheating with her or on her?”
“Jealous wife took exception; police in Baker City found the dead husband, and have the wife in custody. She confessed and everything.”
“All that fuss.”
“Yeah, it’s a mess; but it really leaves us concentrating on the thugs we arrested last night.”
“Any idea of who was behind that?”
“None so far. They lawyered up immediately. The lawyer is from Portland and won’t be on hand ’til tonight, but we have the conversation with you on tape. I discussed it with the prosecutor, and he agreed any plea deal will include the names of everyone involved...”
We chatted for just a few more minutes. When we were through, I opened the contact files on my hard drive.
Sheriff Bill Chance had been a member of the special forces team I had served with in my youth; he had been a newbie as I was rotating out. We last met in Missouri a couple years ago.
“Sheriff’s office,” a voice answered.
“Sheriff Chance, please.”
“One moment.”
“Bill Chance here,” his voice was the same, familiar gravelly growl.
“Jim Stanton, Bill.”
He didn’t waste time with small t
alk. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering who you might know that could hook me up with Naval records. I need to do some research...”
“Your records? No sweat; just...”
I interrupted, “Not mine; some of the boys I worked with back in the day.”
“Purpose?”
I told him about Jeremy’s call and Karen O’Connor.
“And your point is?”
“I left her on a beach. Years later a strange woman’s DNA is somehow tracked to me and Jeremy, but I never even kissed the girl...”
“But you think one of those other guys might have? How close were you to those boys?”
“Not close at all; you know how it was.”
“But you shared DNA?”
“To my knowledge, my DNA wouldn’t be on record; hell it was the 1970s, Bill. But I did share blood with two of them after that fiasco in Lac Sao. They were taking it straight from me into them on the medevac flight that flew us non-stop to Andrews.”
“The science was in its infancy, but I know the military was already collecting samples,” Bill replied. “I’m sure because I remember the first time my mouth was swabbed during a physical exam; and of course we all had blood records in case...”
“I never had my mouth swabbed in the service; I never have, but I know I was hospitalized and put on R and R after that flight, spent it in Florida, trying to build my blood counts back to normal. That’s where I met that girl.” I gave up, exasperated. “I just want some hometowns on three or four guys.”
“I don’t think even I could gain access without a solid story to take to NCIS or Homeland Security.”
“Could you try?”
Bill was silent so long I wondered if he was controlling his anger, then he spoke softly, “Send me an e-mail with as much info as you can on the guys; I know a retired Commander who might be able to convince a Fed... You slay me, Jim. Have you ever just left things lay?”
“Finding answers puts things to rest; I just can’t turn off the questions, Bill.”
“Hang tight; You’ll hear from me,” and I heard the click of disconnection.
Chapter 11
Spring had sprung. Morel mushrooms popped, and we enjoyed the resumption of our normal routines – walking, foraging, volunteering, and loving.
It was just before Memorial Day when Bill Chance’s email arrived.
I took it to Jan and watched her read it through, shaking her head at times. “Destroyed?”
“Keep reading. That’s what he says; only those three names. He said all the rest of the records of personnel pertaining to the unit were destroyed in a fire in St. Louis in 1973. Only the records of Art Truman, Mark Gardner, and Randy Mason out of the whole unit were under some kind of review and off site at the time of the fire – and those records were heavily and permanently edited.
“What about you?”
“My records were in another warehouse at the time, and they are pure fiction my cover story back then indicated. I joined, trained, worked traffic at three air stations, and was honorably discharged at the end of my enlistment.”
“DNA?”
“Keep reading.”
She read on, then smiled, “Your files don’t reference DNA, but Bill indicates it was probably typed back then... You’re in the system all right; wanna change your story?”
I ignored her obviously mischievous teasing.
“Truman – we called him Psycho – was raised in The Dalles; Gardner was raised in Tampa; Mason in Fort Lauderdale... I remember he really knew the area; helped the O’Connors plan their nightly dates. I always thought Gardner was someone I could trust; Mason somebody I could count on.”
“And Truman?”
“I didn’t think of him all that often. He was different. He had earned his nickname in action, but I knew no details...”
“The Dalles isn’t far away or too big; want to start there?”
Chapter 12
Google didn’t help looking for a guy named Truman who wasn’t a former president of the United States, or named after that president. But the online offering of The Dalles high school yearbook for the class of 1962 showed me Arthur Truman before he earned the moniker “Psycho.”
“He was a cute guy,” Jan said looking over my shoulder. I muttered, and she bent her lips to my ear, just lightly, enough to make chills down my spine. “What was that?”
“There was nothing cute about him, that’s all.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“Worse than that, I didn’t trust him. He was lethal, but it wasn’t all that healthy to be on his side, either.”
She checked another screen, “There’s no phone listing for an Art Truman in The Dalles.”
“I think we need to take a drive in the morning; somebody will remember him, and I have a hunch...”
“You inviting me, Sailor?”
“Of course, unless you don’t want to be involved...
We made the drive in just an hour, and my first stop was the local library.
“How can I help?” The elderly lady at the front desk asked, looking up from a stack of books in front of her.
“Hi!” I put on my most bashful smile, a move that has worked for me for years when dealing with women confronted by a shaggy man towering over them. “My name’s Jim Stanton, and this is Jan Stanton.”
“Hi, yourself,” she answered with an engaging smile. She put a book back on the stack in front of her, stood up and moved to the counter. Her look invited me to continue.
“We’re looking for a man who grew up here. I served with him in early ’70s, and now I’m hoping to look him up. I thought if he or any of his folks were still around, the local librarian might know them or know of them.”
She waited, the engaging smile still in place.
We were stalled, I thought, and wondered if I’d finally run into a library worker who wasn’t sharp as a tack.
Finally, she broke the silence, her eyebrow arced up into her forehead at my silence, and then, “His name?”
“Of course,” and my nervous laugh wasn’t anything else. “Truman, Art Truman.”
She typed the name as she spelled it into the computer on the counter. “We have three members named Truman. There isn’t any Art or Arthur, however.”
“Do you happen to personally know any of the Trumans in that list?”.
“Not really; you know a little bit about everybody in a small town, especially those who use the library. We have a Norma, Raymond, and a Carla. I’m most familiar with Norma. I remember her from school; she was a teacher. She’s older than you, maybe his sister? They’re all active; no overdue books, either.”
She waited, and I was starting to understand and appreciate her cadence of conversation, the unasked questions that filled each break.
“I live in Pendleton now. Art’s name came up in conjunction with something and I knew he’d grown up here, and started wondering... I haven’t seen him since ’73...”
“Well, you can call Norma, her phone’s listed.” She slid a Post-It note to me. “If you talk to her, tell her hi from Marjorie Jensen, okay?” Her smile was so unexpected I almost missed it.
Norma answered on the first ring. I explained who I was and what I was looking for, and she stopped me with a laugh. “Art? No, Art never came back to The Dalles. He lives near Portland.” She punctuated the sentence with a small “tee-hee” chuckle.
I waited, but she didn’t offer anything more.
“Miss Truman?”
“That’s right, Mr. Stanton; a spinster school teacher right out of a tired novel.” (tee-hee)
“I was wondering, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, if my wife and I could stop at your home and talk for a few minutes?”
“Of course!” (tee-hee) She rattled off her address. “Where are you now?”
“At the library...”
She gave me directions and repeated the address. “Just drive towards the river to 2nd Street, head west on Second to Cherr
y Hill Road, then head up the mountain until you hit my street, turn left and I’m the fourth house on left.” Again the chuckle.
I jotted it down and read it back to her. “That’s it,” and she laughed again, the tee-hee sound made me smile as if I could see it. I started to thank her but she hung up and I heard it.
It was only a matter of minutes until we found her address, parked on the street and approached the front door. Jan stopped twice on the front walk to turn and look down at the Columbia River sprawled out before us. “That’s breathtaking,” she said in awe.
We heard the door open behind us, and we found ourselves confronted by a heavy set woman with bright-blue eyes glittering in good humor above her florid cheeks and wagging jowls. She was simply beaming with good humor. “Are you the Stantons? Please, come in!”
The living room behind that front door was jammed with bric-a-brac and the memorabilia of generations of Trumans.
She offered coffee or tea, and then pointed us to the sofa as she bustled out of the room only to return seconds later with a tray full of coffee pot, cups and a formal creamer and sugar bowl. Of course, there were cookies, too. Little black and white things that melted on the tongue.
“I don’t see much of Art; it’s been like that for years,” she was saying as she placed the coffee on a table before us. “Not that we’re estranged or anything like that, just that he went off right after high school and then he was wounded and didn’t come back here... why would he, really... you understand that other than me and a couple of cousins, there was nobody to come home to by then...
“Is that coffee okay, dear?” She directed at Jan.
“Excellent, thank you.”
I had risen and was standing in front of a mantle over the fireplace that was swamped with photographs – graduations, weddings, vacations, the residue of a family’s life in frames of all sorts. One photo had caught my attention, and I picked it up to study. It was taken in the field in some far-off place. It was a black and white off-the-cuff shot of soldiers in camouflage battle dress like that worn in Vietnam. I recognized Art in the middle of the group, and saw a tall, lanky version of myself in the group and wondered how that had avoided unit security to find its way here...