by Gordon Ryan
Mike went to the public pay telephone in the aluminum and glass box and dialed McHugh’s telephone number at the National Security Agency.
The familiar gruff voice answered. “McHugh here.”
“Commander, this is Mike Liu. I’m calling to check in.”
“Well, bust my balls, if it isn’t our wandering man in the desert. I didn’t know you worked here anymore, it’s been over three weeks, you know. Have you found out anything?”
“Well — actually no, sir. However, Johnny Thapaha did invite me to a special ceremony this morning.”
“I can’t keep you out there forever. I’ll give you another week. Then you’ll have to come home to reality.”
“Yes, sir.”
2200 Hours: Sunday, August 3, 1970: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico
Mike stirred the glowing embers of the campfire with an old branch and then put in two small logs to keep the fire going. Sparks flew out as Mike stirred the fire. The two new logs quickly caught fire and the campfire crackled with renewed energy. Tiny gnats and moths flew around the fire flirting with conflagration every second. Mike and Johnny Thapaha were on Red Mesa in the dead of a moonless night. The night sky was filled with millions of stars shining steadily on the two men sitting by the small fire. A city boy, Mike had never seen so many stars. He leaned back and just soaked in the energy from so many light years away.
Once again through his son-in-law, Richard, Johnny Thapaha had invited Mike to the top of this desolate mesa, this time to spend a night under a brilliant canopy of stars. Johnny Thapaha sat with his back to the fire, looking over the valley below. There, the utter darkness was broken by the occasional light from Navajo homes preparing for the night.
Mike had prepared for this outing, wearing a wool sweater under his blue windbreaker. Even with the layered clothes, Mike felt the biting cold of the night air. He boiled some water in a metal coffee pot on the fire. He put a few jasmine tea leaves into two metal mugs, splashed hot boiling water on them, and offered one to Johnny Thapaha, who silently accepted the mug. Johnny Thapaha put the fragrant brew to his lips, blowing over the mug to cool the tea before taking a sip. Mike, sitting off to the side, did likewise.
In the darkness, by the flickering fire and occasional sparks that shot into the air, Mike had talked about his childhood. How he was born in China and how he grew up in Washington, D.C. He spoke about the lessons that he had learned these past few weeks and about the sense of community that he felt on the Navajo reservation. Through all of this, Johnny sat quietly neither replying nor even suggesting that he was paying attention.
The two men sat on the stark mesa and pondered each other, the cosmos, and why they were there.
“Michael. He was young — like you. And like you he had traveled over great distances to come to this place. He was Cha-le-gai, as you are. But his voyage was through the cosmos; yours across the ocean.”
The words snapped Mike out of his reverie. “Was he alive? Is he still alive?”
“No. I found him in the wreckage of a great ship. It was the fourth ship from far away. He was gasping for breath. His three companions had passed on before him. He was the fourth, the promised one. The traveler.”
“What do you mean the promised one?”
“All of nature is divided into four. There are four colors, four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west, four sacred mountains, and the four visitors. The traveler has been spoken of for many generations, through many voices.”
“What did you do?”
“I brought him to this mesa, on the ledge below. I tried to bring him back to walk with us, but his injuries were too great.”
“Did he say anything?”
“It was not talk as we know it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw wondrous things. I saw horrible things.”
“What things?”
“Things I cannot say.”
“What were they doing here?”
“To discover and to learn.”
“How long did he live?”
“Not long. Four days and four nights.”
“Where is he now?”
“His travels were many and of long duration. Now he walks with the spirits of his fathers. After his spirit left, I committed his mortal remains to the earth. His clothing I burned.”
With that Johnny Thapaha lapsed into the silence that Mike had come to know so well. The rest of the evening was spent in solitude. Johnny Thapaha meditated; Mike marveled at the brilliance of the night sky and pondered the meaning of Johnny Thapaha’s message and his fourth traveler.
1000 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.
“Mike? I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Smith, as he reentered the small conference room where Mike stood quietly, hand still on the receiver. “Is there anything wrong?”
“Oh, hi, George. I just got word that a good friend of mine passed away. Sorry, I was distracted,” said Mike as his thoughts once again focused on the present.
Although Mike visited the gentle mystic many times over the years, Johnny Thapaha never again spoke of the traveler. Mike did, however, learn much from the Navajo and, in the course of that relationship, developed a strong sense of belonging. Over time, Mike was accepted into Johnny Thapaha’s extended family.
The news of Johnny Thapaha’s death had a profound effect on Mike. It was more than losing a friend. After all, people do get old and pass on. That wasn’t it. It was the mystery, the unresolved questions that would now remain unanswered forever.
In his hands, Smith held a lightweight summer tan poplin suit, blue cotton buttoned down long sleeve shirt, brown leather belt and tie shoes, brown socks, and, wonders of wonders, a navy blue silk tie with orange diagonal stripes — the University of Virginia school tie. The normally reserved Mike was pleasantly surprised by Smith’s resourceful nature.
“I thought the tie would be a nice touch,” said Smith.
1993: Identification
1300 Hours: Sunday, June 13, 1993: Severna Park, Maryland
Mike and Adams decided to take Adams’ government issued sedan for the trip to Severna Park, Maryland, to interview Jerry Mitchell, the owner of the panel truck involved in the attack on Huntersville Road. It was late afternoon before the two of them were able to get going.
About 6:30 p.m., they pulled into the driveway of the neatly kept clapboard frame house, with the black wrought iron sign spelling out “Mitchell” at the corner of the driveway. Adams and Mike walked up to the door and rang the doorbell. A middle aged woman answered the bell.
“Hello, Ma’am. I’m Herbert Adams, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Is Mr. Mitchell available?”
“Jerry isn’t here. I’m Mary Lou Mitchell, his wife. Is he in trouble?” said Mrs. Mitchell, a worried look on her face. “He hasn’t been home since yesterday morning when he left for work. I’ve called and called, no one knows where he is.”
Mike and Adams exchanged quick glances.
“Does he often not come home?” Adams asked.
“No, it’s not like him at all. God, I hope nothing’s happened to him,” said Mrs. Mitchell with tears starting to form in her eyes. “Do you know something? Is Jerry okay?”
“We don’t know,” said Adams. “Do you have any photographs of Mr. Mitchell?”
Getting suspicious, Mrs. Mitchell said, “Just why are you here? Is Jerry in some kind of trouble?”
“A black paneled truck registered to Mr. Mitchell was involved in a matter under investigation by the Bureau. We don’t know if Mr. Mitchell was involved.”
“Oh, my God!” screamed Mrs. Mitchell. She began to shake, tears pouring down her cheeks. Mike moved forward to hold her and she kept crying as he held her to him. After she was able to regain some composure, she asked between sobs, “Is he dead, injured? I’ve got to get to him. Where is he?”
“As I said, Mrs. Mitchell, we don’t know,” said Adams. “If you have some photographs of Mr. Mitch
ell, they would help a lot in our investigation. By the way, this is Mike Liu, an investigator with the Navy. Some Navy vehicles were involved in this matter.”
Mrs. Mitchell let Mike and Adams into her simply furnished living room, which was immaculate. The early American maple furniture had cushions in a green floral design. A braided oval rug covered the otherwise bare hardwood floor. The hangings on the wall were all prints of various scenes, Norman Rockwell, Grandma Moses and that vintage.
Mrs. Mitchell had been cooking when Adams and Mike came up to the house. The beefy fragrance of stew cooking on the stove made Mike think about dinner.
The two Mitchell children came into the room for a brief moment and were told by their mother to go into the kitchen and watch some television.
Mrs. Mitchell sat down on the couch and invited Mike and Adams to sit in two maple occasional chairs. Fumbling about out of nervousness, she brought out an imitation leather-bound photo album and started to leaf through the book for a recent photograph of Mitchell. Finally, she found one of Mitchell hugging his eight-year-old son, Tommy. Tommy was holding a baseball bat and Mitchell had a fielder’s glove and softball. As she handled the picture over, she wiped her tears on the cuff of her sleeve.
Both Adams and Mike carefully studied the picture and furtively glanced at one and another. Mitchell was definitely the man who drove the black paneled truck and fired the rocket at the first Suburban. Both were sure of this despite the fact that the corpse, now on a slab at CSAC, had a major portion of his head blown off. Adams asked Mrs. Mitchell if he and Mike could keep the photograph. She nodded.
“Mrs. Mitchell, could you tell us where your husband worked and if he had any close friends that we can talk to?”
“Is Jerry in trouble? I mean, should I get an attorney or something?” said Mrs. Mitchell.
“You can always get an attorney, if you wish, Mrs. Mitchell,” Adams said. “But what Mr. Liu and I want is some information concerning your husband; we’re not charging you or your husband with anything at this time. You can help us or not, it’s your choice.”
“Jerry worked at the Catonsville Lumber Yard in Catonsville, Maryland. He’s such a likable guy, I know he had lots of friends at work, although he hardly ever brought anyone home — said that home was where he could relax. He did, however, sometimes go with friends from work to a rod and gun club near Dickerson, Maryland.”
“How long have you been married?” said Mike.
“We’ve been married for ten years, about ten months after I met Jerry at a church social.”
“Does Mr. Mitchell have relatives?”
“No, he was an orphan. His parents died when Jerry was ten and he grew up in a series of foster homes. That’s why he loves kids so much.”
“Where and when was he born?” said Mike.
“He was born in Rosston, Illinois, on January 10, 1940.”
“What was the name of the rod and gun club near Dickerson?”
“I’m not sure, but Jerry would often go for a weekend with some of his friends. It might have been Dickerson Rod and Gun, something like that.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Mitchell. If you remember anything else please give me a call,” said Adams as he handed Mrs. Mitchell a card with his telephone number.
As Mike and Adams drove away from home of Mitchell, both of them were even more mystified. It was clear in their minds that one of the Huntersville attackers was Mitchell, but why?
“Maybe the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club has the answer,” said Mike.
Adams nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll have a background check run on Mitchell.”
0800 Hours, Monday, June 14, 1993: Washington, D.C.
Adams went to the FBI building in Washington, D.C., instead of the CSAC office so he could run a trace on Mitchell. As he was getting ready to leave his office, the telephone rang. It was Mike.
“Hi, Mike,” answered Adams. “So far, Jerry Mitchell is coming up clean. He doesn’t seem to have a record of any kind. No service, no crimes, not even a parking ticket. This guy seems to have lived a clean, straight life. Wait a minute.”
Adams put Mike on hold as Special Agent Martha Thomas barged into his office.
“Herb, I thought you should see this right away. You may be on to something.”
Adams took one look at the photocopies of Mitchell’s two documents, one a birth certificate and the other a death certificate. He gave out a long, low whistle.
“Thanks a lot, Martha. You’ve earned your pay for today.”
Martha smiled and left Adams’ office.
“Mike, are you sitting down?” said Adams, picking up his telephone.
“What’s up?”
“We just got some records on Mitchell. Special Agent Martha Thomas in our Management Information Systems section did a reverse check on Mr. Mitchell as well as a check of birth records from Rosston, Illinois. What she found is that Jerry Mitchell was born on January 10, 1940. However, Jerry Mitchell died that same year on March 20, from complications of birth. He lived barely more than three months.
“It seems that before 1970, Rosston kept separate birth and death records. Anyone wanting to establish a false identity can do so easily by searching the death records for an infant death and then separately requesting a birth certificate from the birth registry. The office usually issues them without question, if you have a driver’s license or something like that. Happens all the time, people get them for such things as school admissions, marriage certificates, passports, and even, driver’s licenses. Because the birth registration office is separate from the one for death records, they don’t do cross-checks. So with a little ingenuity, you can get a birth certificate for someone who died. This was used by student radicals in the sixties and 1970s to establish false identities for who knows what purpose.”
“That means the stiff we think is Mitchell is not really Jerry Mitchell.”
“You really are a rocket scientist, aren’t you?” said Adams, chuckling.
“That’s heavy,” said Mike.
“Yeah.”
“What do we do next?”
“Where are you?”
“Outside of our offices on Wisconsin Avenue, at a telephone booth.”
“I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes in front of the Sears store on Wisconsin Avenue near the office. Can you get some special weapons?”
“Already have. They’re in an aluminum briefcase next to me.”
Adams pulled up to Mike, who was waiting at the Metro signpost next to the Sears store. Mike quickly got into Adams’ car, carrying the aluminum briefcase. Once on the road again, Adams handed Mike the photocopied records of Jerry Mitchell’s birth and death.
Having lost his reading glasses during the fracas on Huntersville Road, Mike had to hold the photocopies close to his eye to read them clearly.
“Ever thought about reading glasses, Mike?”
“Had some, but I lost them on Huntersville Road, Herb.”
“Damn shame.”
Adams made a U-turn on Wisconsin Avenue by driving around Tenley Circle. He then headed north on Wisconsin Avenue, toward Route 495. At Interstate 495, Adams went west to Interstate 270 toward Rockville and beyond. After driving for about one hour, they reached the small western Maryland town of Dickerson.
After stopping for directions, they easily located the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club. Mike and Adams drove along the narrow blacktop road through heavily wooded land and came to the roughly painted sign that said, “Private — Dickerson Rod and Gun Club — Members Only.”
“What do you think, Herb?”
“Did you get the special weapons?”
“Two Uzi automatic pistols with double magazines.” He opened the aluminum briefcase and took out one of the pistols.
“Let’s put them under the seat just in case,” said Adams, as he turned down the dirt driveway leading to the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club. Adams and Mike traveled about a half mile to a clapboard farmhouse with peeling white paint. As they a
pproached the farmhouse, a man in soiled and torn denim coveralls and a dirty red flannel shirt limped out toward them.
The fellow, about sixty years in age, was unshaven and missing several front teeth. A toothpick hung precariously in the right corner of his mouth. He looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a long time. He wore a blue cap that said Latonsville Feed & Grain and carried a Remington double barrel shotgun. Adams stopped the car at the house and rolled down his window. As the man came up to the window, the unmistakable smell of body odor wafted into the car.
Mike cautiously reached under his seat for the Uzi pistol and held it by his side, safety off.
Adams smiled. “Hi. You the proprietor?”
“Yep. Didn’t you see the private sign?”
“Yes, we did. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Bout what?”
“I’m Herbert Adams, Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. With me is Mike Liu, an agent with the Naval Investigations Office. We’d like to ask you some questions concerning a possible client of yours.”
“Got a warrant?”
“No, we don’t. If you like, we can get one real quick and do a thorough search of your club. All we want to do is ask a few questions, that’s all.”
“As long as that’s all you want.”
“Can we get out of our car?”
“Okay, just don’t go snooping around.”
Mike slipped the Uzi under the seat and unconsciously felt for his Walther.
Adams and Mike got out of the government sedan, Adams locked the car, and the two walked up to the owner of the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club. Adams led the discussion.
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Johnnie Williamson. Look, I run a clean, decent, God fearing business here.”
“Mr. Williamson, we’re not here to look into your club. We have a photograph of someone we understand frequented your club and we just want to get some information.”