Discovery

by Maurice Barkley

  M1 shook his head and M2 said, “What the heck is a Kilroy?”

  “It’s a fictitious character,” I replied. “During World War II, our soldiers often left a written message as they moved from place to place. They usually just scrawled it on a wall, sometimes with a cartoon. Now, if you reverse the first name you get Kilroy. And now I might be reaching, but Wazer sure sounds like ‘was here’ to me. Put them together and you have the famous World War II message 'Kilroy Was Here'.” I shrugged. “I guess this doesn't tell us much.”

  I paused as a coffee pot appeared to top off our cups.

  “Every little bit helps though,” M1 said, “when our knowledge of Carl is so skimpy. Anyway, the motel room was devoid of useful fingerprints or DNA material, but we did find the paper with the rubber-stamping. It's a scrap torn off the bottom of a piece of stationery where normally you would expect to see a signature. We found it caught on the inner rim of a wastebasket.

  “We also found one other item we'd like you to examine.” He extracted a small slip of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and handed it to me. “There was a blank note pad on the night stand near the telephone. Apparently he made some doodles on a page, which he tore off and removed, but there were faint impressions on the next blank sheet. We were able to partially reconstruct what he drew. You have it there.” M1 tapped the small sheet with his index finger. “See what you can make of it.”

  As I looked at the fragmented lines, a memory percolated up from my military past. “This is another lucky day, guys,” I said, with a 'go figure' shrug. “The note pad doodles are a military reference as is the fake name and rubber stamp. I think the person who wrote and drew this stuff feels superior, safe in his cleverness and is having fun. It's almost as if he's playing Catch-Me-If-You-Can.”

  M2 tapped the counter with his knuckles and said, “Come on man, tell us, I'm about to pee my pants.”

  I took a sip of coffee and continued, “I'm fairly certain the four star configuration on the left is a Twenty-third Division shoulder patch. The image on the right is the crest of the Puerto Rican Sixty-fifth Regimental Combat Team. The Sixty-fifth belonged to the Twenty-third. I also know that the military deactivated the regiment and transferred the personnel to the Panama Canal Zone. I don’t recall the date.

  “This man you're looking for may well have been a member of that regiment. The marks on the bottom could be the letter C and CS which could stand for sign and counter sign.”

  M2 took out his phone and turned to the wall. M1 retrieved his sketch and tore off the Kilroy page in my note pad.

  “Don't make notes unless you absolutely have to,” he said. “If your name is Yorlik Wazer, you can see that little pieces of paper left here and there are a bad idea.” He drained his cup and then said, “Based on his rather limited description, I have the impression that Yorlik is European rather than Spanish or Puerto Rican. Maybe he was an officer.”

  I shrugged. “The military scuttlebutt, at that time, said that the troop replacements all came from the States—many right out of basic training at Fort Knox. The speculation was that the brass wanted to dilute the all Puerto Rican unit to reduce any bad publicity when they deactivated the outfit.”

  By then M2 had finished his phone call and the two made ready to leave.

  M1 picked up my check and said, “Hopefully we'll be wrapping up here today. How about following us back to the motel and taking a look at his room? You may spot something we've missed. We've had it sealed, but we'll be releasing it when we leave.”

  I nodded and drained the last of my coffee. My red-topped stool gave its grateful wheeze as I got up to leave. I tucked one more of my ten-dollar bills under my empty cup and she who moves fast gave me a smile and a wave as I walked out. Miss Magic didn't know that as I returned her wave, I was waving goodbye for the last time. I should have known better than to have left an overly generous tip after my first visit, but I thought I wouldn't be back. When one does that sort of thing it creates an expectation on the part of the receiver that every time the giver shows up, here comes the big tip. I liked the little diner, but my military pension did not allow for such extravagance. I said a mental farewell and walked out to my car.

  Five minutes later I pulled in beside the plain gray auto. There were plenty of empty spaces. That fact did not surprise me when I saw The Sleep Tight Wad. The overall impression was of something old and worn, badly in need of a fix up.

  There was one young man on desk duty, hunched over a laptop as we entered the office. I took note of his lank hair and semi-clean, much wrinkled shirt with the name GARY embroidered on the pocket. The instant he saw M1 and M2 a look of guilt and caution blossomed on his face. He closed the laptop and froze. The guy seemed ready to dash off in an instant. M1 requested the keys to the Wazer suite. Gary complied quickly while looking somewhat relieved.

  As we walked through the courtyard, I asked M1 about the clerk's behavior. “You know,” I said, “that guy acted in a rather suspicious manner. Think he's up to something?”

  “He knows we are FBI and he probably is up to something. Maybe he has some weed stashed under the counter. We often get that reaction. Show the badge—get the look.”

  “Could be,” M2 added, “he was wandering through the fields of porn on that laptop.”

  “It was a Mac,” I said, “and those things aren't cheap.”

  “Yeah,” M2 replied, “but just about every teenager today has a phone that you and I can barely afford.”

  Once inside, the room was a depressing sight. It was as old and worn as the outside. I poked around for a bit, but saw nothing that resembled a clue.

  When I finished, I shrugged. “I give up, but I give you two credit for putting up with a dump like this.”

  “We've stayed in worse,” M2 said. “Still, it was worth a shot.”

  “Am I dismissed, then?” I asked.

  M1 headed for the door. “Sure, we're finished here. Go on home, but stay close to your telephone just in case. Okay?”

  Two handshakes and I went to my car in a reflective and apprehensive mood. Here we are, looking for a man who committed a crime just days ago and at a place just minutes from where I was. Fine, but to pick up his trail we must go back in time about half a century. Talk about a cold case, someone buried this one in permafrost.

  On the drive home, since it was Friday, I began to think about the pasta treat, cooked by Batts and served by the beautiful Angie that would be waiting for me at the old hotel this evening. I tried to chew on my new adventure, but like cotton candy, every bite dissolved to nothing. I knew the boys were leaving town and this may well be the end of the investigation for me. I’d had a whiff of adventure, but the fact was, this old soldier was out to pasture.

  I glanced at Molly Watson’s house as I pulled in my driveway, but ambivalence is my middle name. The phone was ringing when I opened my back door. I had to dodge around Jesus as I hurried to answer before the machine picked up.

  “Hello.”

  It was M1. “We're going on a fishing trip—several days. Pack your toothbrush, socks and some decent clothes. We'll pick you up in the morning.” I stood there with my mouth open as M1 continued, “Do you have someone to take care of your cat and bring in the mail? How about your wife? She lives reasonably close, or perhaps the Watson widow, next door.”

  These guys knew everything.

  I finally found my voice. “Don’t I wish? Have you seen a picture of Molly Watson? I’d ask her, but I’m chicken. I'm sure my wife will agree to do this, but what do I tell her? I've never gone fishing.”

  “We know that, but we've got you covered. You've received an invitation from one of your old military pals, to fly in his private plane to his lodge on a lake in Canada. When we pick you up tomorrow we'll leave a printed schedule with phone numbers and everything. Your cover will be solid. The name of your benefactor, by the way, will be Arnold Schwartz.”

  “Wow! I feel a little guilty telling Jean such a whopper.”
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br />   “Oh, please, telling lies is what we do. You'll get over it real fast.”

  “Look,” I said, “If you and M2 would like a really great dinner, why don't you join me at my favorite haunt. If you like Italian, you won't regret it.”

  “Sure thing. Time and address, please?”

  I gave him the location of Batts and told them to be there by six for cocktails.

  As soon as M1 hung up, I tapped the cradle of my telephone and called Jean. She answered on the second ring.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi,” I said, knowing she would recognize my voice, “I need a favor.”

  “Don't we all?”

  “I just got a call from Arnold Schwartz—remember Arnie?”

  “Sorry, not a clue.”

  “He was one of my superior officers, way back when. Any-hoo, he must have done quite well because I have an invitation, along with a couple of other guys to join him—all expenses paid, on a fishing trip to his lodge at some lake in Canada. Pretty neat, huh?”

  “A fishing trip?” I could imagine her eyebrows rising. “As in fish? Going to kill you a bear while you're up there? What next, a safari?”

  “Did I say that I would actually fish?” I countered. “I get a free plane ride to a lakeside lodge where there will be beer, excellent food, beer, campfires, beer, cigars and no girls.”

  “Sounds like the ingredients for a gigantic hangover,” she said, “but let me guess, you want me to take care of Jesus.”

  “Yes please.”

  “Uhhhh… There's something in your voice,” she said. “Is anything else going on?”

  I heard the cracking of thin ice under my feet.

  “No dancing girls,” I said, trying not to force the jocularity. “Nothing but unshaven and unwashed males. Perhaps I could bring you a fish?”

  “Don't you dare,” she said. “I'll pick up Jesus tomorrow afternoon. It'll be easier to keep him here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “We're leaving in the morning, but you have your key.”

  “All set,” she said. “Have a good time. Call me when you get back.”

  After I hung up, I sat there for a while trying to sort out my emotions. I had just told a big lie to her and maybe she knew it. Jean chafed at retirement, she called it waiting for the hearse. I think that was the basic reason she left. Eventually I realized this, which reduced the sting, but I still didn’t know how to fix it.

  It took me about an hour to pack my bags. I spent most of the time discarding items until the remainder fit into a gym bag and one garment bag. I did not want raised eyebrows when the boys saw my luggage.

  It was getting late so I changed into my Friday night red checked flannel shirt that did not show the multitude of pasta stains. I slapped on some Old Spice and went down stairs. On my way out the door, I gave the cat an extra sardine. After all, old pal, if I can lay a ten spot on Miss Magic, surely I can lay an extra fin on you.

  Five minutes later I pulled into a semi-legal spot in front of the old, brick hotel. The place had no sign, but everyone knew what was waiting behind the heavy green door. Even with the new spring in my step, my guests were there ahead of me, parked on bar stools near the stove and in conversation with Batts. Both were working on glasses of house red, drawn from a large cask behind the bar. All of the usual crowd was in attendance, beginning our Friday evening routine of talk, food and fine wine. The fabulous smell of Batts' pasta sauce saturated the air so thick it instantly activated my drool glands.

  Batts spied me as soon as I cleared the door. “You dirty rat, you!” he sang out, over the ripple of voices.

  M1 and M2 turned my way as I responded with a lewd Italian gesture that requires the use of both arms. Thanks to Angie, busy behind the bar, my glass was waiting for me as I slid onto a stool next to my buddies. They raised their glasses to me. As I raised my own glass in return, Batts leaned over the bar, his big wooden spoon mere inches from my nose. It was so close I almost licked it.

  “Goin' fishin', huh?”

  Not knowing what they had said before my arrival, I was cautious in my reply. “That's right. I deserve it, don't you think?”

  “I don't know about you, but these guys, yes.” He stood up straight and waved his spoon/baton over my companions. “Marines!” he sang out. “My brothers.”

  “You, a Marine?” I silently berated myself for not noticing for these many years. “How come you never said?”

  “Ah…” he shrugged. “Not so good to brag about the past. How come you never told me about these guys?”

  “Gimmie a break,” I replied. “This is the first time they've been here.”

  “Yeah, but you been here before and you never said about you being an Airborne Ranger and that's almost as good as a Marine.” At that point he took a sip of his cocktail and turned to the bubbling cauldron. “Okay, since we got two more for dinner, I'll just throw in a glass of water and two more chicken heads.”

  Fortunately, the specifics of the fishing trip became lost somewhere in the wine and we settled in for what was indeed a very pleasant evening.

  At one point I broke out in song: “I Wouldn't Give A Bean, to Be A Fancy Pants Marine, I'd rather be A Dogface Soldier Like I Am.”

  Everyone applauded, except Batts who threw his bar towel at me. Eventually, Angie evicted us and closed for the night. On arriving home, Jesus displayed extreme delight when I gave him the small chunk of bar cheese I had pocketed.

  Sleep did not arrive on schedule. It wasn't the food or drink—it was nerves. I was leaving soon for the great unknown and I was as restless as a greyhound dreaming about rabbits. Jesus knew something was out of the ordinary. I think he sat the entire night at the foot of my bed, looking at me with that wide-eyed feline stare.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dawn found me taking a long shower that dispelled some of the fog. Once dried down, I put on my fuzzy bathrobe, brewed a small pot of coffee and fixed my usual whole wheat toast with raspberry jam. I stopped at a single cup that I finished while I dressed. A second cup would have been nice, but I was facing a drive of unknown duration and I thought it wise to consider my bladder. First impressions are important. What would my traveling companions think if the old guy had to make extra pit stops?

  Not wanting to appear overly anxious, I went to putter around my neglected garden until I heard a car in my driveway. M1 handed me the travel schedule. I left it on the kitchen table, gave Jesus a goodbye rub, picked up my luggage and went to the car.

  Just before we turned onto the road heading out of town, M1 pulled into our local McDonald's and ordered three large coffees—dang! Fifteen minutes later we were up to speed on the big highway heading south. We removed the little plastic tabs on the cup lids and settled in for the long drive. The boys sat up front while I had the back seat to myself.

  “You know,” M1 said, over his shoulder, “other than the business at hand, there's not much to do on an assignment like this, but Batts was a real treat. You're lucky to have a place like that.”

  “Don't I know it,” I nodded. “I haven't missed a Friday dinner there in years. Everyone should have a place like Batts. It's good for what ails you.”

  “Is it true,” M2 said, turning halfway around in his seat, “you didn't know he was a Marine?”

  “True enough,” I replied. “Thanks to him, I know a lot about Italian history, but next to nothing about that particular Italian.”

  “But what's the deal with Angie?” he asked. “I talked to her a lot, asked her where she's from and all that, but she danced right around all of my questions. All I know for sure is her name is Angie and she is one good looking woman.”

  “Well,” I said, “now that you know her first name, you know as much as I do. Both she and Batts don't talk about their past.”

  “Are she and Batts an item?” M1 asked.

  I shrugged as I looked at M1’s eyes in the rear view mirror. “No evidence one way or the other.”

  “Would you like us to find out?”


  I gave it a moment’s thought. “I don't think so. I wouldn't want to upset that apple cart, or rather pasta cart.”

  “Yeah,” M2 said. “If it ain't broke, don't mess with the recipe.”

  “You know,” M1 said, “your life is not exactly an open book either. We know about your active duty exploits and things like your current political registration, but your actual political leanings are obscure. Apparently, you don't talk much about that topic.”

  I answered the question he didn't directly ask. “Making sense of politics is like trying to fill a bucket with no bottom. My policy is simple. If I am at a gathering and the conversation turns religious or political, I will not participate in the argument. I have been very rude about it at times.”

  “I like your attitude,” M1 said. “It's a desirable trait in our business. Another desirable trait is your ability to withhold the avalanche of questions you'd like to ask. We appreciate your self-control. You have much to learn, but it's best to take it as it comes.”

  It occurred to me that these boys would have no qualms about unloading an avalanche of questions whenever necessary, but I said nothing. The coffee talk then became desultory and uninformative, but I had resolved to keep my own counsel, secure in the belief that answers would come in time. What a ride I was on. Here I was, going to an unknown destination. Why do I feel like I'm escaping to freedom?

  I could almost hear the other James Cagney’s voice saying, “You know you are doing the right thing, so do it. Always stand up straight, look them in the eye and tell the truth, unless you have good reason to lie.”

  Good advice, James, I thought.

  The day began to get cloudy. We drove in and out of sunshine for a time then the clouds took over in the hills of Pennsylvania and with them came the promise of rain. I had nothing to do other than watch the rolling landscape slide past my side window. At some point the rolling hills faded out and I went soundly to sleep. My restless night finally caught up to me and I remained unconscious for the rest of the trip. I assume there was a pit stop, but if so, I missed it.