A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Eight

  Two vehicles crawled along the trail about ten miles out from Beckley in the mountain country. The first was a white and green-striped SUV with the star on the side, an Explorer, driven by the deputy and the second, a black Caprice, piloted by Tanaka. Next to him sat a nervous bureaucrat from the state department, a young female employee picked up that morning, there by official necessity.

  They slowly followed the frozen trail overlooked by endless rolling gray hills and bare trees which had by now succumbed to the onset of winter, giving the place a dead appearance. Open spaces or fields coated in a silvery crust of ice interrupted the endless woods. Decaying Halloween pumpkins remained by the unsealed trail. Passing by trailers decorated with chimneys, derelict auto bodies nearby while on other sections cabins and solid bungalows were dotted along the trail. At a junction the deputy’s cruiser paused. In the distance a one-way-bridge could be seen and the bluffs above. Three white crosses, poking through the fog on a ridge, overlooked the valley. A four hour drive had brought them light years away from the office.

  They were to meet up with the murdered guy’s father that day…JJ Hatfield, he was an icon in the valley…everybody knew him. Or, at least they knew of him, the father was a bit of a recluse.

  A muddy Polaris carrying two teenagers and a freshly killed animal approached the wooden bridge in the distance, first pausing briefly before pulling alongside the sheriff’s cruiser.

  Lt. Hernandez lowered his window a hand’s width and called out: “Howdy Sarah. Annie.” He nodded toward the Winchester rifle perched on the handlebars. “Take it the breech is clear ‘n’ free on that there, tell us I’m right?”

  “Mawnin’ Sheriff,” the teenagers replied cheerily, both nodding. “Ain’t no rounds in there, all out f’now. Jus’ headin’ in, sir.” They spoke in a distinctive Appalachian drawl.

  “How is it you two young ladies ain’t in school today? Thanksgiving’s long gone by now.”

  Silence besides the rhythmic thump from the ATV. The government vehicles idled softly, belching plumes of steam in the sub-zero morning. The two junior hunters glanced at one another then back at the sheriff who didn’t force the issue. “Don’t s’pose old man Hatfield’s up at his cabin now? Seen him about this morning?”

  “Purty sure’s in, sir. Y’awll go on by now, he’ll be on by.”

  “Be thankin’ you. Now be sure you two get yourselves back to classes, like pronto -- hear now? Otherwise I’ll be havin’ a word with your mom.”

  The two giggled. “Why yes siree. Be seein’ yer, sheriff,” replied the older one. With that they chugged off into the mist. Their mom knew, alright. Getting a meal meant more than school.

  Deputy Sheriff, Lt. Roy Hernandez had been in upstate West Virginia about fifteen years already. Many of the locals were poor folk who had settled in the hills since the days of Daniel Boone; mountaineers and miners. Been there forever; spoke in their own accent -- some would say language -- outsiders didn’t have a clue what they were saying half the time. Some families still trapped and hunted food to put on the table and times had been tough over recent years. Still bow hunting season and the deputy had seen the poached deer and said nothing; the teens were good kids from a poor and decent family who’d lost their pop to a mining accident.

  Roy Hernandez was respected and accepted by the locals despite being a newcomer, after fifteen whole years. He got out and about, knew nearly every single resident on a first name basis and he ruled this side of the Mountain State with an iron fist in a velvet glove. Despite the hard times the place was safe and clean and family friendly. The only significant incidents seemed to be automobile crashes, mining mishaps and the odd hunting injury.

  Jesse James Hatfield, on the other hand was descended from pioneers who’d moved in from near the Kentucky State line, his ancestors were part of the original Hatfield and McCoy story. The feud had come out of the Civil War. Both clans carried the memories to the present day…the pride and honor…only this particular Hatfield had put all his energy into serving Uncle Sam. Lt. Hernandez knew his background; he’d formed a close friendship with the old guy over the years, had a lot of respect for the man. Search and rescue, firefighting, lost trail-hikers…Hatfield was the best woodsman in the place. Some said the best shot in the county with a rifle over long-distance. Out here that was saying something.

  The procession crawled up out of the valley floor; as they got higher they could see snow drifts. The black cruiser was filthy; it scraped on every stone and washout trying to keep up with the SUV leading the way. Tanaka wrestled with the wheel. Passed a waterfall that was paused in time, frozen solid, icicles as long as the cliff itself. The first vehicle came to a halt at an entrance in a slip rail fence. An ancient milk churn, hanging on an angle, marked the property. Cleared pastures surrounding a distant cabin were covered with thick frost. Half a mile away, the terrain had leveled out.

  The sheriff stopped, walked back and mumbled through a crack in the window: “I’ll head on in. You follow on after I come out. I know JJ Hatfield, know him well. I’ll go in and break it to him. Now just to be sure, we’re absolutely certain we know who we’re dealing with?”

  “Got all the reports and files here, Lieutenant,” replied Tanaka.

  The State Department employee nodded in agreement. “Sorry to say, we’re sure.”

  “I’ll go in there first. When I say so we all go inside.” The sheriff looked at the two of them. “You just give the man his space, hear now?”

  Hernandez slowly returned to his cruiser, thinking about the reports he had read earlier along with the pictures the FBI had.

  “Terrible thing; terrible, terrible thing,” he muttered out loud, kicking a stone as he climbed back into his truck.

  They managed to negotiate the trail up to the cabin which was perched above a gully that disappeared to the valley below. Tanaka and the government official waited in the Chevy at least fifteen minutes, maybe more. It was a place that seemed to get colder and even quieter as the day progressed. Everywhere ice, black ice and the ever present mist cloaking the surrounding hills. At last the sheriff emerged; he stopped and looked at the ground for a moment before striding to Tanaka’s window. His expression was grave.

  “Old guy’s taken it pretty bad,” Hernandez whispered. “Pretty bad indeed and he’s not the best, his liver packing it in lately.”

  They watched the front door of the cabin, it opened and the father emerged. He stood momentarily before returning inside, leaving the door open, a signal they could enter.

  Retired Sergeant J J Hatfield sat silently, staring straight ahead. The shack they had entered was a pioneer’s hut, simple and Spartan. Warm, though. The remainder of a log fire smoldered away at one end of the room and a pot bellied stove warmed the rest of the dwelling. A gas lantern hissed quietly away on a central table, lighting the room.

  On the walls, black and white stills. Young marines, bare-chested and cradling a communist flag, perched on the side of a Willys Jeep with palm trees in the background. Two grunts holding a captured assault rifle; one of them was thrusting a beer bottle toward the sky like he was cheering. A portrait of JJ Hatfield in ceremonial garb next to his bride in a wedding gown with a sixties beehive ducking under a shower of rice and a line of swords. The young family camping somewhere; a toddler cradling a fish, presumably the son. Directly above the fireplace dangled an impressive rack of service decorations in a frame, shields and other paraphernalia. Trophy animals adorned the wall.

  A short and awkward silence lingered. It had been a long time since Tanaka had performed a ‘dead call’, that was stuff the city-hall guys did.

  “Mister Hatfield, sir, I’m Special Agent P. Kelvin Tanaka with the FBI.” Silence… “This is Ms Brady, State Department.” More silence. Tanaka gingerly retrieved his badge and held it at his side. “Mister Hatfield,” he continued, “we would only wish to express our d
eepest sympathies to you today.”

  Hatfield leaned forward and held his head in his hands. He still didn’t say a word. The sheriff suggested they all sit before closing the cabin door and fixing coffee from a pot which simmered on the iron stove. The only sound for some time was the bubbling from the coffee pot on the stove which was burning coal.

  Tanaka waited until the coffee was poured but did not touch the mug. “Sir,” he persisted, “would you be up to telling us anything about your son today or would you prefer it if-”

  “Billy-Bob was the smartest one in the family, you know that.” JJ Hatfield spoke in a slurred drawl. He rose to his feet and paced slowly. He was a striking figure and despite his years he a powerful fellow -- in his prime he could have dropped both the cops -- he just had that look about him which had come from a lifetime of hard work followed by years living in the woods. Press on nonetheless; professional courtesy demanded it and he realized the old guy would not take kindly otherwise. Either that or get tossed out the door.

  Hatfield did open up to discussion and as the day progressed he kept talking, about his son’s youth, education and his adventure into an offshore job with seemingly limitless opportunities, great pay; the world had been his oyster. Been sending checks back to help out. Nothing would have held him back. Other young men got as far as the mines if they were lucky.

  “A few more years, then the corporate world, Wall Street and maybe beyond, until now.” At one point the old guy narrowed his eyes. “Damn zipper heads killed my boy. What you intending to do about it?” He glared at Tanaka.

  The remark made the special agent jump; he turned away from the wall where he’d been studying a portrait. Tanaka ignored the slur; Hatfield wanted answers. At least he was upfront. He sympathized with the man.

  “Everything we can, sir,” he replied. “Just got to know what happened and the only way I can think is to start here.”

  The return journey was a time to reflect; this time the State Department bureaucrat drove, allowing him to plan his investigation, it became more complex with time. One piece of information Tanaka wanted was how the victim had gotten the Manila job in the first place. He had some trails to follow, the most crucial being a business card belonging to a marine underwriter on the east coast. There were other leads, friends and associates who could be tracked down. Letters, correspondence and personal things…JJ Hatfield didn’t have email; didn’t even own a computer.

  Get a report done up, send it back to Manila office; let them deal with it…poor kid. Not a pretty way to go.

  Things would change, and from an unexpected source.

  Two days later when Tanaka was at his work station he opened a memo telling him to contact the supervisor. As he arrived at her office the door was open, the clock was ticking -- somehow a newfound urgency.

  “Take a seat, Tanaka,” she snapped, motioning in front of her. “Both myself and the Deputy Director had the pleasure of a visit from none other than Senator Nathaniel Henry III yesterday afternoon.”

  Nathaniel Henry, career politician. A pioneer, one of the first black commanders to serve in Vietnam. Ultra-conservative, arch-hawk and distinguished war veteran. The darling of the establishment when he got elected. Would’ve been in the running for presidency except had way too many crazy ideas: invading Iran, drafting unemployed teenagers and executing drug convicts. Big interest in law and order, and that meant the bureau.

  Tanaka shrugged. “How was Senator Henry?” He wasn’t too interested. Knew the senator’s name and face, they all did, the senator was on all the committees.

  “Tanaka, I received your field report yesterday but haven’t read it. You only contacted the father, right? How did you find him?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “How did you find the father? Was he helpful, was he hostile; what?”

  “He was understandably upset, I guess you could say. He had no idea what the victim was up to over there. Seemed to think his son was on his way the corporate ladder. He opened up to us, though. There were family portraits in his place but I didn’t wish to pry. Maybe he’s divorced; maybe widowed.”

  “Anyhow I just wanted to know. Did he say anything about himself at all?”

  “Nothing much, ma’am. When I spoke with my contact in Sheriff’s Office he mentioned the old guy is in poor health. JJ Hatfield served in practically every conflict you can imagine. He only spoke about his son to us.”

  The station super was preoccupied with something. She continued: “Well, about our unexpected visitor. You’re aware the senator was a commissioned officer in the USMC. Apparently both the senator and the victim’s father served together in the early seventies, in the same unit. The deputy’s ears are still ringing and so are mine for that matter. The father seems to think you weren’t taking the matter seriously-“

  “Ma’am?” Tanaka was genuinely surprised. “Me?! I was the one who kicked it all off.”

  “Anyhow,” the super continued. “The old guy must have gotten in contact with the senator and for all I know the two of them are still close. Nice when you’ve got friends like that in high places.” She was distracted, gazing blankly at the wall and then back at Tanaka before catching her breath. “Get the picture?”

  “Indeed, ma’am. I can give you my word I am taking this very seriously.”

  The super moved closer. “Offload all the Nigerian stuff on to Harrison’s team, they can continue with that. Drop everything and get back up to the hills and have another talk with Hatfield. And I’ll requisition your official passport.”

  “Travel plans, ma’am?”

  She made a blank face. “Check Hatfield’s passport is up to date, if not I’ll have a word with State and rush one through for him.”

  “So it’ll be first class I take it, ma’am?” he smiled. She couldn’t be serious. “Mister Hatfield as well…mighty generous of you.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s what class you fly, PK. You can charter a damn Lear-Jet for all I care. I’ll get on to our embassy in the Philippines Islands and notify the legal attaché there. You get up there and have chat with the old guy. Offer to take him with you. Offer to assist with repatriating the victim. Hook up with our man in Manila, see what you can find out.”

  “You’re not joking, ma’am…”

  “Too right I’m not joking.”

  Tanaka had no time to think about the sudden change in heart, pretty obvious the bureau did not fancy a brawl with the senator. The challenge would be to get JJ Hatfield on an airplane and to do that he would need an assurance: justice done and the culprits located.

  The word: ‘Jump!’ and they all say ‘How high?’ Philippines…no idea, its somewhere out there, they speak English, we ran the place for years, should be okay. Civilized…and a week in the tropics, just like Hawaii. See where it all leads…don’t fancy our chances though; just try to give the father some closure. Looked like the old guy didn’t have a lot of time left.