by Gordon Ryan
“Lemme see the photo.”
Adams handed Williamson the photograph of Mitchell and his son. Williamson looked at the photograph closely and then said, “He looks like one of them fellows that used to come up here from Washington for them survivalist games.”
“Did you keep any records of the group, names?”
“Maybe.”
“Look,” Mike said angrily. “The matter we’re investigating is of vital national security interest. We don’t have time for games. If you aren’t going to cooperate, we will have people here within minutes who will tear the hell out of your little club. Is that clear?”
Williamson’s sunken eyes darted back and forth from Adams to Mike and back. His demeanor softened ever so slightly.
Turning to Mike, Williamson said, “Where did you say you was from?”
“Naval Intelligence.”
“I’m a retired Navy man, myself. I really don’t want no trouble. It’s just that my clients all want some privacy, you know. Why don’t you come inside for a minute?”
Mike and Adams followed Williamson inside the small clapboard farmhouse. The house fit the character of Johnnie Williamson. The inside did not look as if it had been cleaned for years. The furniture, overstuffed chairs and a sofa, looked threadbare and worn. The wallpaper was dingy and had yellowed with age. The corners of some sections of wallpaper had detached from the wall and were hanging down. The braided rug in the living room was soiled and torn. The general atmosphere of the house was dank and musty, with the smell of curdled cooking grease and closed-in body odor.
On the table in the living room was a bowl of corn flakes, a carton of milk that was just beginning to curdle, a hot plate upon which sat a bubbling, glass pot of water, a package of white bread, an open jar of grape jelly, and a jar of instant coffee. Around the legs of the table slinked two gray and black-striped cats. They looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days.
In the corner of the room was a kitty litter tray that hadn’t been changed in weeks and the malodorous scent of cat urine wafted from the corner, adding to the generally foul atmosphere.
Williamson went to the table and started to put some of the food into a white 1950s Kelvinator refrigerator in the kitchen. The kitchen had not been cleaned in some time. A pile of dirty dishes sat unwashed in the sink. Williamson added his breakfast bowl to this pile of unwashed dishes with a clatter.
Coming back into the living room, Williamson invited Adams and Mike to sit down at the table. To get the two cats away from the table, Williamson picked up a newspaper, rolled it up and threw it at the cats, which scampered through the torn screening at the bottom of the front storm door.
Williamson then turned to Adams and Mike. “Care for a cup of coffee?”
Mike politely declined, but Adams, hoping that Williamson might be more cooperative if he accepted this small gesture of hospitality, said, “Sure, can I have it black?”
Mike stared at Adams as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. Adams purposefully ignored Mike’s stare.
Williamson went into the kitchen. Mike and Adams heard the running of water as Williamson took a coffee mug from the pile of unwashed dishes and rinsed it out. Drying the mug on a towel that probably undid any cleaning the rinsing might have effected, Williamson brought the stained and greasy mug to the table. Mike gave Adams a small smile, which was returned with a concerned gaze, first at the mug and then at Mike.
Seating himself at the table with a sigh after adjusting his stiff left leg, Williamson reached for the jar of instant coffee and the teaspoon sitting on the bare table. The spoon, having served this purpose many times before, had a thin crust of dried coffee on it. Williamson opened the jar of coffee, put the spoon in and scooped two spoonfuls of coffee crystals into each mug.
He then took the bubbling glass pot of water and poured boiling water into each mug, which he then stirred with the spoon. After licking the spoon, Williamson placed it back on the table. He then offered a mug of hot, black coffee to Adams. Adams’ eyes flitted back and forth at the offer. Mike just watched with a bemused smile.
Finally, Adams took the mug of coffee and said, “Thank you.”
Now in a more expansive mood, Williamson leaned back in his chair and took off his blue cap, hanging it on back of his chair. Nursing his mug of coffee, Williamson began to speak.
“That fellow used to come up here with about twelve or so other fellows for a weekend. They always paid cash and pretty much kept to themselves.”
“When was the last time the group used your club?” said Adams as he held the mug of hot coffee up to his lips and took a small obligatory sip.
“About a month ago.”
“Was there any one who seemed to be the leader?”
“There was a fellow; I think his name was Trent or something like that. Older fellow, gray hair and real nice looking.”
“Do you have any other information on these guys — drivers’ licenses, addresses, reservations, that sort of stuff?”
“Nope, don’t care for that kind of stuff. Wait a minute; that Trent fellow was sent here by an old friend of mine in Catonsville, George Bedford, owns the Catonsville Furniture & Bedding Company.”
Mike and Adams exchanged glances.
“Can I freshen up your cup, Agent Adams?”
“Oh, no thanks, Mr. Williamson. You’ve been more than hospitable. Mr. Liu and I have to get going. If you remember any more information about these guys, please give me a call,” said Adams as he handed a business card to Williamson.
As Adams and Mike drove back up the windy dirt road, Mike said, “Pretty iron stomach you got there.”
Adams grimaced. “Worked, didn’t it?”
“Where to now?”
“Catonsville.”
1200 Hours: Monday, June 14, 1993: Catonsville, Maryland
Adams and Mike pulled into the parking lot of the Catonsville Furniture & Bedding store on the outskirts of Catonsville on Frederick Avenue. The store was situated in what looked like a former supermarket and carried many inexpensive to moderately expensive lines of furniture.
“What do you think, Herb?”
“Don’t know; just keep on your toes.”
As Adams and Mike walked to the front door of the dingy store, Mike unbuttoned his suit jacket and unconsciously reached behind his back to check that the Walther was there and ready.
“Can I help you?” said the white male as Mike and Adams entered the store.
“Is George Bedford here?” said Adams.
“He’s in the back of the store. You sure I can’t help you?”
Adams and Mike brushed past and headed toward the back of the store where an older white male was barking orders at two young blacks.
“God-damn it, I told you that I wanted the brown-striped sofa, not the green one. God-damn it.”
The older white male was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar. He was a large man. His graying hair had not been cut in some time and was combed back over his head. His dark brown trousers hung under his well-developed stomach, which shook as he shouted at his workers.
The cuffs of his trousers dragged on the floor behind the scuffed brown wing tipped shoes he wore. In one hand he held a well worn clipboard, which strained under the weight of the papers clipped on to it. The papers themselves were dog-eared and stained. In his other hand he held a foul-smelling cigar, which he pointed as he emphasized his various commands.
The two young black men were dressed in clean forest green uniform shirts and trousers. Over the right pocket of the uniform shirts in white script was embroidered the name, “Catonsville Furniture and Bedding Company.” They had obviously been laboring under the tyrannical orders of the older man for some time.
“Mr. Bedford?” said Adams.
“God damn it, can’t you see that I’m busy.”
“Mr. Bedford, I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I would like to speak to you for a moment.” Adams
showed Bedford his identification card and gold badge.
The two young blacks stared with great admiration at the unfolding events.
Bedford, who had turned to face Adams and Mike, swung around toward his two workers. “I don’t pay you two fuckers to sit and gawk. Get to work and get me that brown-striped sofa. God damn it!” As the two workers wheeled away the offending sofa, Bedford glared at Mike and Adams. “Is this about my truck? I told them feds all I knowed already.”
“Actually, we’re here to see if you could help us identify someone. By the way, this is Mike Liu with the Department of Defense.”
Bedford glanced angrily at Mike.
“Come on; hurry up with your question. I’m trying to run a god damn business here.”
Adams maintained his passive presence. “Did you know anyone by the name of Trent?”
“Sure, I had a salesman by that name, but he left here over two months ago. Do you think he took my truck?”
“Do you have any records on Mr. Trent?” said Mike.
“Just the usual stuff — address, stuff like that.”
“Where does he live?” said Adams.
“He lived in a boarding house near here. Mrs. Brentwood.”
“Where can we find Mrs. Brentwood?” said Adams.
“I think Mrs. Brentwood lives at the corner of Towson and Greenwood Streets.”
Adams glanced at Mike, who nodded.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Bedford,” said Adams.
As Adams and Mike left the store, they could hear Bedford screaming at his helpers.
“Sure sounds like a happy place to work,” said Mike.
“Yeah, real happy.” Adams’ jaw was set with a hard edge.
Adams and Mike got into Adams’ sedan and drove the short distance to Mrs. Brentwood’s boarding house on Towson Street.
Adams knocked on the red front door of the neatly kept white frame house in an older residential neighborhood that was fighting quickly encroaching commercial use.
In a minute, a small, slender, white-haired woman answered. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Adams. “I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Mike Liu of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Could we ask you some questions?”
“Do you have some identification?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry,” said Adams as he took out his FBI identification card and gold badge. Mike also took out his DOD identification card on which he was listed as Special Investigator, Defense Intelligence Agency.
After carefully examining the proffered cards, Mrs. Brentwood said, “Please come in. You just can’t be too sure these days, with the neighborhood deteriorating the way it is.” Mrs. Brentwood’s right hand fluttered toward the strip mall of one-story stores that encroached on the view from her front porch.
Adams and Mike entered the house and stepped into the tastefully decorated living room. The heavy curtain on the front window served to drown out the traffic noise from the busy commercial street. The pieces of furniture in the living room were period reproductions of Queen Anne and Chippendale furniture. In the corner sat a massive Chippendale wing chair. The white bricked fireplace was accented with a highly polished brass spark screen and andirons. The walls were covered with colonial period wallpaper in a large floral pattern. The fireplace tools were all heavy brass, probably from Colonial Williamsburg, thought Mike.
The quiet refinement of the Brentwood home contrasted sharply with the sprawling urban decay occurring just outside her white-enameled door.
Over the mantel hung a Gainsborough print in a heavy gilt frame. Various color photographs in gold metal frames sat on the mantle, detailing a rich and happy life with plenty of children and grandchildren. On one side of the mantle sat a larger black and white photograph of an attractive brunette woman in a long white wedding gown and a ramrod straight young Navy ensign in white summer dress uniform. From the cut of the wedding gown, Mike guessed that the photograph was probably taken in the forties. A finely crafted wooden model of a square-rigged sailing ship sat on a heavily varnished stand.
Mrs. Brentwood noticed Mike’s interest in the model ship. “My dear departed Clarence made that model.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been staring,” said Mike. “It’s quite nice. You sure don’t find that kind of craftsmanship anymore.”
“Clarence would have been happy to hear you say that, Mr. Liu. Clarence served in the Navy, you know.”
“Really, where?” said Mike.
“Mostly in the Pacific during World War Two. He commanded several destroyer escorts. Retired right after the war and went into the retailing business. He’s been gone more than ten years. Would you two like some tea?”
“Please don’t make a fuss over us,” said Mike.
“Oh, it’s no fuss. I seldom get two handsome gentlemen callers these days.”
Mrs. Brentwood came back and poured tea from a bone china tea pot into equally delicate bone china cups and saucers. Then she sat down demurely in the wing chair.
“Now, Mr. Adams. How can I help you?” she said in a soft voice, as her light gray-blue eyes focused on Adams.
“We’re investigating a matter that may involve one of your house guests, John Trent. Does he live here?”
“Why, yes. That nice Mr. Trent stays in Clarence’s old study, which I remodeled into a bedroom. After Clarence died, I felt like a marble rolling around in an empty box. The kids suggested that I take in boarders and I usually have two. A nice young lady lives upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms. Are you married, Mr. Liu?” inquired Mrs. Brentwood as she noticed Mike’s bare ring finger.
“No, I’m not, Mrs. Brentwood. Is Mr. Trent here?”
“That’s the funny thing. He left for work several days ago and hasn’t returned. He sometimes leaves for short trips. This is the first time he hasn’t let me know when he planned to return.”
“Can we see his room?”
“I suppose it’s okay, as long as you don’t touch anything.”
Except for the high quality furniture in the small room, the room was devoid of personality. There were no photographs, books, or other artifacts of human existence. The closet contained one suit, several shirts and two pants — but nothing else. The bed was neatly made, but both Mike and Adams assumed that the efficient Mrs. Brentwood had probably taken care of that. The room looked as if Trent were camping out.
“Mrs. Brentwood, does Mr. Trent have any friends?” said Adams.
“Not that I know of.”
“How did he happen to come to you?”
“He answered an advertisement in our local community shopping newspaper. He said he was from Canada. He’s such a nice, quiet gentleman.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Brentwood. If you happen to hear from Mr. Trent, could you give me a call?” said Adams. He handed her a calling card.
Mike and Adams bade farewell to Mrs. Brentwood and got into Adams’ sedan. As they drove away, Adams asked Mike, “You were real quiet, what are you thinking?”
“I was thinking how sad that such a classy lady has to take in boarders like Trent. Damn Navy pensions are for shit.”
“That guy Trent sure travels light.”
“Yeah.”
1993: Des Moines
1000 Hours: Monday, June 14, 1993: Des Moines, Iowa
“Excuse me, Mr. Clark, but there’s a lady out here who wants to see you about Julie Davenport.”
“I’ll be right there, Mandy. Please have her wait.”
Steve Clark, manager of Reedy Securities’ branch office in Des Moines, was beginning to feel overburdened by the commotion caused by Davenport’s death. Julie Davenport had been hired about two years ago to fill a vacancy left by Clark’s long-time records clerk. Her credentials seemed to be good. She graduated from Grinnell College with excellent marks, after going back to school at a late age.
Although Julie never discussed her background and kept pretty much to herself, she had
been highly regarded by her fellow workers. As usual, he had submitted her personal information to National Association of Securities Dealers prior to offering her a permanent position. Julie had just taken her Series 7 examination, which qualified her to be a stockbroker, and Clark had been training her to take over some accounts.
The entire office was upset about Julie’s untimely death, but was puzzled why she had been in Washington, D.C. Clark had received an early morning telephone call from Julie saying that a personal problem had come up and could she have a couple of days off. The next thing Clark knew he was being interviewed by federal agents concerning Julie’s tragic death.
Clark put on his suit jacket and walked out to the reception area. As he approached the area, he saw the pleasant looking, older lady in the summer silk dress and blue linen blazer. She wore white cotton gloves and sat on the reception area sofa, reading a copy of Newsweek.
He let himself through the low wooden gate. “Hello, I’m Steven Clark, the branch manager. Can I help you?”
“You must be that nice Mr. Clark that Julie wrote about in her letters to her Uncle Lars and me. I’m Julie’s aunt, Mildred Lutsen, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin,” said Mildred, looking up at Clark and extending her hand. Mildred often used her maiden name as an alias.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Lutsen. Please excuse my surprise; it’s just that Julie never mentioned she had any relatives. But then she was very quiet and kept to herself. How can I help you?”
“Lars and I wanted to retrieve Julie’s personal things, if it’s okay with you,” said Mildred, tears glistening in the corners of her eyes. “We were all she had after her mother and father died in that tragic snowmobile accident. She grew up with us, then went to Waterville, Iowa, as a secretary to an insurance agency and then went to school at Grinnell College. She was such a pretty girl with those beautiful blue eyes.”
“Mrs. Lutsen, I’m so sorry about what happened to Julie. All of us were dumb-struck by her death, it was such a waste.”
Mildred took out a handkerchief and started to cry softly. After a moment, she regained her composure and dried her eyes. In a soft voice Mildred asked if it would be okay to see Julie’s personal belongings.