When the Dead Speak

by Sandra Tooley

  The well-manicured lawn was beginning to blend into taller rye grass. Off to the right was a vegetable garden. Past a field of what looked like hay the lawn narrowed to just a few yards wide.

  Jake slowed to a walk and then stopped to take a few deep breaths. The air was filled with the sounds of nature. What lay ahead looked like it had been left to grow thick and natural. Creeping phlox meandered through the rye grass and over the rocks surrounding a sizable pond.

  It was there, sitting on the rocks by the side of the pond that Jake saw him. The mahogany-skinned face was stoic and weathered. A red and white bandanna was wrapped around his forehead and tied just above his gray ponytail. The body under the blue denim shirt seemed firm and muscular. His neck and wrists were adorned with coral and turquoise jewelry.

  Jake watched the Indian gently apply a salve and then wrap the foot of a squirrel while talking softly to it in a language Jake didn’t understand. In the back acres of Sam’s property Jake felt he had been thrown into another world.

  The squirrel saw Jake first. It fled for the safety of the tree by the vine-covered fence. The Indian and Jake locked eyes. Neither said anything. The Indian’s eyes contained a lifetime of distrust. He gazed briefly at the coral-handled knife that lay next to him.

  Jake saw the knife, too, and wondered with amusement how many other men were lured to the back acres and never made it out, their scalps left hanging out to dry in the tipi.

  “Nice morning, isn’t it, Alex?” Jake remembered Abby mentioning his name the first day he met her.

  Alex eyed him suspiciously but after a few seconds acknowledged his greeting with a nod. Jake quickly broke into a jog and then a run and never looked over his shoulder until he reached the patio.

  Chapter 22

  Sam watched as the printer spit out pages of background information on Preston Hilliard. She had skimmed through the sections about his pompous father and socialite mother, the boarding schools. Libraries went a little too in-depth about the family life.

  “Aren’t you going to the office today?” Abby asked.

  “I just needed to run some reports first.” She looked at the wool blankets Abby was carrying. “Are you going to the sweat lodge?”

  “Yes. We will be there tonight. I made some chicken and potato salad for your dinner.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Abby paused at the doorway and added, “I made more than enough in case you want to invite anyone to dinner.”

  Sam looked up from the printer but Abby had left. She shrugged off the comment and returned her attention to her computer. She scrolled through newspaper articles going back to Preston’s original campaign for state representative. She printed every article she saw about him, even the pictures of him kissing babies and attending church socials although he admitted that he had no particular religious affiliation.

  His campaign promises had been all rhetoric — housing for the homeless, jobs in the form of bringing large corporations to Illinois, revenue in the form of casinos.

  One paragraph caught her attention. It was Preston’s military record citing his various awards — Purple Heart, a Distinguished Service Cross, and a Congressional Medal of Honor. He had been a member of the U.S. 8th Infantry Division and had served two years in the Korean War.

  She scrolled to the beginning of the article. It had appeared in the April 26, 1977, issue of the Chasen Heights Post Tribune. The reporter’s name was Samuel Casey.

  Sam walked into her office to find Jake nestled comfortably in her chair, legs propped up on her desk, telephone to his ear. He was doing a superb job of trying her patience.

  “What would you suggest? You must have some Internet pen pals in South Korea.” Jake waved a hand at an attractive brunette seated at a desk just outside Mick’s office. Janet, the department secretary, appeared seconds later with a cup of coffee.

  Sam watched Janet’s rolling gait as the stiletto heels carried her diminutive frame back out to her desk. Sam leaned on her desk and glared at Jake, whose eyes were glued to Janet’s legs.

  “I’ll have a couple photos of Hap Wilson shipped overnight to you,” Jake spoke into the phone. “His sister has some pictures of him in his uniform.” Jake looked up at Sam and raised his coffee cup as if offering her some.

  Her eyes glazed over his peach-colored knit shirt that hugged his chest. She looked away quickly, opened her tote bag and pulled out a thermos and a foil-wrapped package.

  “Good, Elvis. Anything you can do, the Sixth would be entirely in your debt. Thanks.” Jake hung up, pulled his legs off the desk, and ripped off a piece of Sam’s fry bread.

  “By all means, help yourself.”

  “You’re late.” Jake motioned through the window to Frank, then moved to one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  “I didn’t know you were the keeper of the time clock.” She looked at the phone and as an afterthought asked, “Elvis?”

  “Hangor Pannabuth,” Jake replied. “He’s a homicide detective at the Second Precinct, which is in the heart of Little Korea. He has relatives in the police department in Seoul and in Korean communities across the U.S. He’s a big fan of Elvis.” He handed Sam several photos. “He’s going to put Hap Wilson’s picture in the Korean Today newspaper.”

  “Where did you get these?” The pictures showed a handsome black youth, a wide smile that displayed even white teeth.

  “Mattie, Hap’s sister. The D.C. police sent the pictures by courier.” Jake shoved the photos into a brown envelope.

  Frank appeared in the doorway. “Ummmm, I can smell that fry bread all the way out there.” He ripped off a piece and shoved it in his mouth. Inspecting Jake’s hair he said, “Nice haircut.”

  Jake patted the back of his head. “Abby does a nice job.” Sam jerked her gaze to Jake’s hair, opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Frank who handed her a list.

  “Here’s a copy of the depositions from the men who were in Hap’s division. These were taken over forty years ago when they were questioned after Hap went AWOL,” Frank explained.

  “More than half of them are marked as deceased,” Sam pointed out.

  “Twelve are considered MIAs or POWs. Not all of them died in the war, Sam,” Frank clarified. “After all, most of the men would be close to seventy by now.” He pointed to a section of the depositions. “There was one deposition they weren’t able to obtain — a house boy by the name of Ling Toy. The base commander was pretty fond of him. He went out with Hap’s unit but never returned.”

  “Do we have a picture of him you can give to Elvis?” Sam asked.

  Frank shook his head no. “Maybe Elvis can put some feelers out.”

  Jake scribbled a note to Elvis and placed it in the envelope with Hap’s pictures.

  Sam fanned the sheets of paper. “How did you get this information so quickly?”

  “Some of us start at the crack of dawn,” Jake remarked.

  “I was working at home, if you don’t mind,” Sam snapped back.

  “On what?”

  Sam handed them copies of newspaper articles on Preston Hilliard. “The top article is the one I found most interesting. It seems Preston served in Korea. Even earned himself some medals,” Sam said.

  “Mushima Valley?” Jake looked up from the page. “Isn’t that where ...”

  “Yes. That’s where Hap Wilson was last seen. Preston and some of his men supposedly risked life and limb to carry injured soldiers out of the valley. The injured were members of Task Force Kelly from the Fifth Regimental Combat Team.”

  Sam let them read the articles while she read the report Frank had given her.

  “Eight men were rescued, four died on the ride back to base,” Frank read from the first article. “I guess I have four more veterans to contact.”

  “Wait a minute.” Jake pointed at the byline. “Samuel Casey?”

  “My father was an investigative reporter. He followed Preston’s campaign,” Sam replied.

  “From the
sound of the articles, he wasn’t too fond of our esteemed state rep,” Frank pointed out.

  Glancing over the top of his copies, Jake said, “It seems his daughter inherited his distaste for politicians.”

  Frank thumbed through the copies of the articles. “What happened? There aren’t any more articles by your father?”

  “He died,” Sam replied simply. “Car accident.”

  There was a brief silence until the phone rang. It was Tim Miesner, the teen computer geek. He might have a way to make the device she had requested. She was smiling when she hung up.

  “Good joke?” Jake asked.

  “Just admiring talent.” As she spoke she drew shapes of lightning bolts on her pad of paper. She had to see Preston’s pin again. Posing as a reporter, she had called Juanita earlier and learned that Preston would be gone most of the night on Friday. So Sam knew Friday would have to be the night.

  Chapter 23

  The rocks had been on the fire for most of the day. Alex carefully carried them inside the square structure and set them in a pile on the ground. The sweat lodge was situated between Alex’s house and the tipi. The ground was bare except for the blankets they sat on.

  “We are ready,” Alex announced.

  Once he pulled the tarp down the entire lodge was sealed off. Alex proceeded to pour water onto the hot stones. Steam filled the air.

  Abby sat on her blanket across the hot stones from Alex. Her long hair was pulled around to the front, gathered in two thick ponytails adorned with beads and feathers. They hung strategically over her naked torso, concealing her firm breasts. Her thin skirt was hiked up to her thighs exposing muscular legs.

  Alex wore a traditional breechcloth, his bare chest exhibiting a sprinkling of gray hair. The glow from the rocks provided the only light.

  “Do you have the cannunpa wakan?” Abby asked, referring to the sacred pipe.

  “Hau,” Alex responded. “Where is the medicine bundle?”

  Abby touched the unwrapped bundle next to her. She lifted up a small glass jar and passed it to Alex. He stared at the contents and grumbled.

  “I know you are not enthused about this,” Abby said.

  “The purpose of a sweat lodge is to pray for the sick, to communicate with the spirits in helping someone in need. Not for this. You are trying to control fate.”

  “Fate has already been determined. I’m just trying to hurry it along. This is necessary for Samantha’s mental and emotional health. We are to pray for our loved ones and that is what I am doing. I call this laying the foundation for Sam’s future.”

  Alex moved around uncomfortably. “I call this sweating my ass off.”

  “Shhh,” Abby whispered. “You will anger the spirits.”

  “YOU will anger the spirits, foolish woman. Using the spirits to play Cupid.”

  “Go, then. I will pray on my own. I do not need a nonbeliever in my midst.”

  Abby took her rattles and bags of tobacco from the bundle.

  “You would probably mess things up; it’s been too long.” Alex tossed more water onto the rocks. Sweat trickled down his chest as he unscrewed the bottle cap. Abby handed him a lock of Sam’s hair. He carefully dropped it into the bottle where it lay haphazardly among the hair clippings Abby had saved when she cut Jake’s hair.

  They worked silently. Alex tied the bundles of tobacco to the sticks that surrounded the fire. Abby drew a circle in the dirt and placed the glass jar and a handful of medicine beads in the center. Alex picked up the horned rattle and shook it as he sang, “Ah Hey Yah.” Abby lit the pipe, and after pointing it to the four directions beginning with the east, she took a puff and passed it to Alex.

  Sam checked the clock on the stove. Seven-thirty at night. The house was uncomfortably quiet. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but for some reason the silence was deafening. She opened the refrigerator and studied the contents.

  Her uneasiness had a lot to do with Benny’s call. He had apologized for not calling her earlier but had wanted to wait until his visitor left — a forensics expert with the Bureau. She assumed a soldier missing since the Korean War was probably going to attract the Pentagon. But the Bureau?

  The cold from the refrigerator was chilling her legs, but she wasn’t even looking at the chicken or potato salad. Instead, her mind was wandering, thinking back to Hap, a line drawn from him to ... where? To Preston for one. And to many others whose faces were blank right now. Her father’s byline kept creeping into the picture. And the lightning bolt shapes. Lightning strike. The words again echoed in her head.

  The doorbell interrupted her thinking. She was surprised to see Frank and Jake. Frank carried a briefcase, Jake an accordion file folder.

  “I’ll just set it all down here.” Frank laid his briefcase on the dining room table and snapped it open.

  Sam removed the grapevine tree trunk arrangement from the center of the table. She heard the refrigerator being opened and walked into the kitchen to find Jake setting out plates and silverware. He knew exactly where everything was which made her wonder just how many visits he had made here to see Abby.

  “Let’s see, chicken, potato salad, kidney bean salad.” He looked up at her. “Anything else you’d like to eat?”

  She surveyed the buffet he had spread on the island counter. “Fruit salad.”

  Jake opened the refrigerator again and located the fruit salad. Sam brought out a pitcher of iced tea.

  “Benny called,” Sam announced. “Seems the FBI has sent a forensics expert from their Chicago office to examine Hap’s body.”

  “That’s not unusual,” Jake said.

  Frank loaded his plate and followed his colleagues into the dining room. “The guy was AWOL. I guess someone in Washington would be interested.” He found an empty spot between the papers strewn around the table.

  “So, why not the military instead of the Bureau?” Sam cranked open the bay windows to welcome the mild breeze. The sun was disappearing behind the trees, casting the last of its warmth on the west side of the house.

  The two men didn’t respond. They ate as though they hadn’t had a decent meal in months. Abby had a way of making even leftovers taste like a two-hundred-dollar meal in an upscale restaurant.

  “One thing that Benny discovered was that Hap had a bullet wound.” Sam read from a fax. “A bullet perforated the left clavicle, first rib, resulting in a depressed fracture.” She slid the printout across the table to Jake and Frank. “It’s Benny’s conclusion, and the FBI examiner was in agreement, that at one time in his life Hap had been shot in the back.”

  “Any idea how long ago?” Jake asked.

  “The FBI called D.C. and talked to Hap’s sister. She said he wasn’t in any gangs in his youth and never had any type of bullet wound before he went to Korea,” Sam said.

  “How about a cause of death?” Jake asked.

  Sam looked up from her notes. “Inconclusive. Benny said it’s difficult to determine if he died before being put into the concrete. There were ligature marks on the neck but not defined enough to point to strangulation. Neck wasn’t broken but there was a slight skull fracture. It’s possible he was hit first with a blunt instrument.”

  Jake smiled smugly and said, “So much for asphyxiation.”

  Chapter 24

  “Why was that left out of the report?” Preston sat behind the mahogany desk in his study, the picture on the wall was pulled away, the safe opened. Preston held the gold lightning bolt pin in his fingers. He had just placed a call to Captain Murphy.

  Murphy’s voice blared from the speaker phone. “It was the call of the primary on the case.”

  “And who’s that?” Preston snapped his fingers and pointed toward the bar. Like a lap dog, Cain obediently rose from his seat and lumbered over to the bar.

  “Jake Mitchell.”

  Cain returned with two glasses of Jack Daniels, handed one to Preston, and then sat down across from him.

  “He handled security for me last Saturday night, r
ight?”

  “Yes,” Murphy replied. After a few seconds, he added, “I understand from the medical examiner’s office that the FBI sent a forensics expert to examine the body.”

  Preston closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. He opened his eyes again, swallowed the contents of the glass, and waved it in front of Cain to signal he wanted a refill.

  “What’s the Bureau looking for?” Preston asked.

  “The deceased is an alleged deserter, not to mention an African American. We’ll be lucky we don’t have the NAACP, Jesse Jackson, and god knows who else looking into this case.”

  “Great, just fucking great,” said Preston. “I have to have another dead nigger screwing up my ...”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t need this grief right now. I’m leaving it up to you to play this down. He’s been identified. He was drunk, a victim of strange circumstances. Make sure the autopsy report shows a high level of alcohol, or ...” he snapped his fingers, “drugs, a high level of drugs. Then just let the story die. The headlines will be filled with something else in no time and people will forget.”

  “It may not be that easy.” Murphy’s voice sounded strained.

  Cain eyed the contents of his glass while keeping one eye on Preston. Cain always seemed to know how to respond based on Preston’s reactions. And right now, he didn’t like the sound of Preston’s voice.

  Preston’s voice softened, a sinister smile spread across his face. “Did I tell you we are creating a police commissioner post? This qualified person will be over the Board of Police and Fire Commissioners, even the Chief of Police.” Preston’s smile broadened. He had hit a hot button. “You know our city is just growing too fast and one police chief isn’t enough, yet it doesn’t make sense to have two.”