Victim

by Gary Kinder

  The trash Dumpster for Barracks 351 at Hill Air Force Base squatted on an island in the parking lot, approximately thirty feet from the north entrance to the barracks. It was a large metal receptacle, where airmen assigned to bay orderly duty in the barracks dumped the trash after they had finished their duty each day. It was also a favorite target of twelve-year-old Charlie Marshall and eleven-year-old Walter Grissom, partners in a “bottle picking” enterprise that netted each of them almost five dollars a day, three or four days a week. The two boys lived next door to each other on the base, where their fathers were sergeants in the Air Force. In an afternoon after school they hit an average of nine Dumpsters in two or three hours, wading waist deep among the trash and rifling the large brown bags for the pop bottles discarded by the airmen. The bottles netted five cents, sometimes ten cents, apiece at the Pantry Pride across the street from the base exchange. Bottle picking was hard work, but the way Charlie and Walter looked at it, once they cashed in for the day, the hamburgers and movies and pinball machines at the BX were free.

  That Tuesday afternoon Charlie and Walter started work about three thirty, and after a half hour in two of the Dumpsters, the cardboard box and the canvas bag they were lugging were already half-full. With two of the four Dumpsters in the area emptied of their bottles, the boys proceeded to the third, the white, eight-foot metal cube sitting in front of Barracks 351. It was filled to a man’s waist, but the two boys climbed in, one on each side, and began to pick through the trash. Before they could snatch up their first bottle, Walter spied something sitting on top of the pile.

  “Hey, Charlie, look here,” he said, “somebody’s lost a purse.”

  The two boys turned the purse inside out, but it was empty. Walter flipped it back into the pile, and as he did so, he spotted another purse on top of the trash. This one held eleven cents plus a credit card. Walter slipped the card into his pocket to give to his mother, “in case somebody lost it.” The bottle picking temporarily abandoned, the boys began sifting through the trash looking for more wallets. A fistful of credit cards was scattered like leaves across the top of the pile, and the boys flicked them aside in the search. Charlie’s hand suddenly darted into the pile and plucked another purse from just beneath the surface of trash. It was a lady’s clutch purse made of rough-cut cowhide with a rectangle of purple in the center. As Charlie lifted the purse, a checkbook fluttered into the trash and Walter retrieved it. With the purse in his hand Charlie climbed out of the Dumpster and Walter followed. In the brighter light they could read the name Michelle Ansley written across the top of each check. Walter replaced the checkbook in the purse and found the purse filled with credit cards, pictures, and a driver’s license.

  “Let’s keep everything in this lady’s purse,” Walter told Charlie, “and give it to my mother so she can turn it in.” Then Walter climbed back into the mouth of the Dumpster. “I’m gonna see if there’s any more stuff in here.”

  He eased himself down into the trash, but before he had got halfway in, his eyes focused on a small triangle of leather poking up out of the trash pile. Spreading the trash aside, he picked up the wallet and looked at it. It was a man’s wallet made of hand-tooled bound leather, and there were dark wet stains on it. Walter flipped through the wallet’s thin, clear plastic pockets and found a driver’s license in the name of Cortney Naisbitt. In the next pocket, made out to the same Cortney Naisbitt was a card labeled “Student Pilot License.” Charlie was still holding the clutch purse when Walter hopped out of the Dumpster and showed him the fourth wallet.

  “Maybe there’s been a robbery,” said Charlie. “There’s so much stuff here.”

  “Yeah,” said Walter, “we’ll give all this stuff to my mom and she can tell us what to do with it. Let’s see if there’s anything else.”

  Once more the two boys hoisted themselves into the Dumpster to rummage through the trash, but there were no more wallets to be found, only small bottles of cosmetics and a set of keys, all of which they left in the pile. But there were pop bottles still to be collected, and the boys searched the Dumpster until they were satisfied they had found them all and put them in the cardboard box and the canvas bag. Then they climbed out of the Dumpster for the last time, and Walter stuffed Cortney Naisbitt’s wallet into his pocket and threw the clutch purse in with the bottles in the cardboard box. Charlie grabbed hold of the canvas bag and began dragging it toward the next Dumpster in front of the bowling alley across the street. Walter tried to follow, but was struggling with the heavy box. After carrying it a little way, he set it down to rest. As he was preparing to lift the box again, a young airman returning from work on the flight line saw him tugging with the heavy box. Airman Robert Paul Weldon, blond, eighteen years old, lived in Barracks 351. About to enter the barracks, he had seen the boys trying to lug their bottles across the street and wondered how anyone so small could hope to lift something so heavy. Weldon walked over to Walter and picked up the box filled with bottles.

  “Where do you want it?” he asked.

  Walter pointed to the Dumpster by the bowling alley.

  “Over there, that’s where we’re going.”

  With Weldon now toting the box, Walter ran ahead to Charlie.

  “Hey, some guy’s carrying my box for me,” he told his friend.

  Charlie set his bag down just as Weldon caught up with the two of them.

  “Geez, we found all sorts of things in that last Dumpster,” Walter told the airman.

  “Yeah?” smiled Weldon. “Like what?”

  “Bunch of purses and a wallet and some credit cards, some little things of lady’s eye-paint… .”

  “Where’d you put the purse?” Charlie interrupted.

  “I got it in my box,” said Walter.

  Weldon set the box down next to Walter. “Well, lemme see.”

  Walter reached in and yanked the purse out of the box.

  “This is it,” he said, “and here’s the other one.” He pulled the wallet from his pocket.

  Weldon examined the wallet and the purse while the boys watched. Both of the billfolds still held identification with addresses and phone numbers.

  “I tell you what,” said Weldon, “if you guys want to give them to me, I’ll make sure they get back to their owners.”

  “No way,” said Walter, “we can do that ourselves.”

  “How do I know you’ll do it?” asked Weldon.

  “How do we know you will?”

  “I promise I’ll call them,” said Weldon, “and I can take the wallets by when I’m in town.”

  “My dad can drop ‘em by the base police on his way to work,” said Walter.

  Weldon said again that he thought it would be better if he tried to locate the rightful owners of the two wallets, and finally Walter agreed to give him the clutch purse, but the man’s billfold Walter was keeping for himself to show to his parents.

  “You sure you don’t want me to call on that one, too?” asked Weldon.

  “Yeah,” said Walter, “I’m sure.”

  The two boys got ready to scour their fourth Dumpster for the day, and Weldon started back across the street toward the barracks, looking through the purse for the owner’s phone number as he walked. He found the girl’s number imprinted on the checks, and without thinking he would be drawing attention to himself as a suspect if the purse had been stolen, he borrowed a dime and from the phone booth on the first floor of the barracks called the number printed on the checkbook. A girl answered the phone.

  “Hello,” Weldon said politely, “this is Airman Weldon out to Hill Air Force Base. I’ve found a billfold and a checkbook belonging to a Miss or Mrs. Michelle Ansley. Could I speak to her, please?”

  “Michelle was murdered last night,” said the girl.

  Weldon was so stunned, for a moment he couldn’t talk.

  “I ... I didn’t know about that. All I was trying to do was find the correct owner.”

  But the girl was gone now and a woman had grabbed the phone a
nd was interrogating him.

  “Who are you?” asked the woman, “and how did you get this number? Where are you calling from?”

  “Ma’am, my name is Robert P. Weldon. I am stationed at Hill Air Force Base. I found the billfold here by the barracks just a few minutes ago.”

  “Hold on,” said the woman, “Michelle’s brother wants to talk to you.”

  A young man about Weldon’s age took the woman’s place and continued the interrogation. By now, Weldon was so frightened he began repeating his name, rank, and serial number.

  “My name is Robert P. Weldon,” he said. “I am assigned to the Fifteen-fiftieth Organizational Maintenance Squadron at Hill Air Force Base. I am a helicopter mechanic. My duty phone is three-four-seven-oh. I live in Barracks Three fifty-one. My room number is three seventeen.”

  The other man kept asking questions, but Weldon was too frightened to say anything else. Finally, he asked the man a question.

  “Are you going to call the cops?”

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “Okay,” Weldon swallowed, “I’ll call the air police.”

  Corporal Cecil Fisher, a member of the Ogden Tac Squad, had just completed an assignment and had reported back to Greenwood’s command post at the station about three thirty. He was standing next to the dispatcher when another citizen called in response to the appeal aired by the police on the radio.

  “Fisher,” said the dispatcher, “you’re wanted on the phone.”

  From the telephones on Greenwood’s command desk, Fisher picked up a receiver.

  “This is Corporal Fisher.”

  “I think I know who did this Hi-Fi job,” said the voice on the other end.

  Fisher waited for the man to continue.

  “I’m not a rat or anything,” he said, “and if somebody’d just robbed a place or done something else that wasn’t so bad, I probably wouldn’t even call, but on this I want to help if I can.”

  “It’s good that you called,” Fisher reassured him. “What can you tell me?”

  “I heard on the radio you’re looking for two black guys driving a van.”

  “That’s right,” said Fisher.

  “I know who these guys are, they drive a light-blue van, a Chevy with mag wheels. One’s name is Dale Pierre, he’s the short one. The other one is William Andrews. Andrews has the van.”

  “How do you know it’s them we’re looking for?” asked Fisher.

  “I know for a fact,” said the man. “I heard them talking about it. They said they weren’t going to leave any witnesses.”

  The caller stopped talking, waiting for Fisher to say something. Though at that time he went into no further detail about what he had heard the men say, some time later he explained how he had known that Pierre and Andrews were the killers.

  “A couple months before this thing happened, Andrews and I were on barracks cleanup duty. We were both being punished for something. While we were working in the barracks there, he’d come down to my room sometimes and I’d go up to his. Kinda got to be friendly. So, I don’t know, I guess one night he needed a ride into town, and he was tripping on some speed and other drugs. He was a pretty heavy doper. Anyway, I had my girl friend with me. You know, you’re not allowed to take girls into the barracks, but we both went up and stopped in and had some joints, right? And he showed me his stereo he had, and he said, ‘Pierre got that for me.’ So apparently Pierre stole it. And he showed me a lot of clothes and stuff Pierre had gotten for him. He thought Pierre was a real neat guy. Then he showed me a couple toy cars he kept his drugs in. I didn’t even know he kept his stuff right there. He was just bragging up everything. And I guess we were talking about how it’d be nice to have money, and he told me about a bank that him and Pierre and somebody else had planned to rob. They had it all planned out, then they went and reneged on it. Then after that, we somehow got to talking about stereos and for some reason he said, ‘One of these days I’m going to rob a hi-fi shop and if anybody gets in my way I’m going to kill ‘em.’ I really don’t think Andrews would shoot anybody or make ‘em do anything. I don’t think he was smart enough. He was just kind of a screw-up. I didn’t really know Pierre and I’m glad I didn’t. I think everybody did what they could to stay away from him.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Fisher was saying, “let me get these names down.” After a moment he said, “Okay, do you know where we can find these guys?”

  “They live in the same barracks,” said the caller. “Three fifty-one, out at Hill Field. Andrews’s room is two eighteen, and Pierre lives on the same floor, but I don’t know his number.”

  “Okay,” said Fisher again. “I have to give the information to my sergeant and see how he wants me to handle it. Is there a number where I can reach you?”

  “I’m calling from a pay phone at the K mart, but you can reach me at my girl friend’s number in a few minutes.” He gave Fisher the number. “If you need me, call me there and we’ll talk.”

  Fisher notified Greenwood immediately. Greenwood then contacted the prosecutor, Robert Newey, and told him they had the names of two suspects. Could they arrest the two men on the information provided by the informant? Newey advised Greenwood that the information would not support an arrest warrant unless the informant would agree to testify in court. Ten minutes after he had hung up, Fisher called the informant back at the number he had given.

  The same man answered.

  “The DA says we can’t arrest this Pierre and Andrews,” said Fisher, “unless you’ll agree to testify in court.”

  It seemed that the man had already considered this possibility, for right away he said, “Okay, you got it.”

  “Kelly, I want to prepare you for what you’re going to see when we go up to the hospital.”

  Claire, sitting with Gary in the living room of the Naisbitt home, was speaking to sixteen-year-old Kelly McKenna. School had just let out and Kelly had gone straight to the Naisbitt’s.

  “Cortney doesn’t look the way you remember him,” said Claire. “I don’t know what you’ve heard at school, but Cortney’s been shot in the head, and they made him drink some stuff that’s burned his mouth. And he’s got tubes running everywhere. It’ll be a shock for you to see him. So I want you to be ready for it when we get up there.”

  Claire went no further with her description of her younger brother, but Kelly had heard little she had said after the first sentence, anyway. He was already preparing himself for the sight. Gary and Claire both were talking to him calmly, but their faces looked raw. Once or twice their eyes filled with tears and spilled down their cheeks. Kelly, too, was crying. For the next few minutes there was some small talk, and Kelly remembered the word “sorry” being used a lot. Then Claire stood up and wiped at her eyes.

  “Why don’t we go on up there to see him,” she said.

  Gary shook Kelly’s hand and thanked him again for coming by. “I think I’ll stay here,” he added. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  On the way to the hospital Kelly felt light-headed. He wanted to say something to Claire, something appropriate and something from his heart, but he didn’t know how to express his feelings. He was afraid he would say something wrong, so he said nothing at all. Claire drove in silence, as Kelly tried to imagine what his childhood friend now looked like. He saw pieces of Cortney’s body scattered over a white room. He thought part of Cortney’s head would be gone, blown away by the gunshot, and that his mouth would be nothing but a large, wide cavity. Kelly was preparing himself to see something not human.

  Though Kelly was more gregarious and socially inclined than Cortney, the two boys had been closest friends since before they had started elementary school together ten years earlier. Kelly, six feet tall since the eighth grade, had thick, dark red hair, hazel eyes, and perfectly straight, white teeth lined by a thin silver retainer. When he smiled, a dimple sank deeply into each cheek.

  “I’ve known Cort all through elementary school, ever since I can remember, since I’ve
been a young, young kid,” Kelly once said of his relationship with Cortney. “For a while we kinda split up because we had different interests. Cort’s always been into math and stuff, and I could never really delve into it like he could. You know, he always liked to read books on electronics and planes and aeronautics and stuff like that. That’s how he was. I was more the goof-around type, I guess. And that’s why I think we split up for that while. Then I started getting back together with him kinda. I like the outdoors, which he does too, he likes to go sailing and stuff like that. We were taking hikes and went up to their cabin a couple times and messed around. Then I started going with him out to the airport for his flying lessons. I didn’t mind listening to him talk about flying because that was interesting stuff. He’d tell me about all the controls and explain everything to me. Then I’d watch him and Wolf take off and fly around. He was always in a really good mood when he landed, and he’d talk about everything they’d been doing up there. He’d talk about it all the way home.”

  Cortney had called Kelly the previous afternoon just before leaving for the airport. He thought he might be soloing for the first time, and he wanted Kelly to come along. But Kelly was at the library studying for a history test. When Kelly returned home, having passed up dinner to continue studying, his mother gave him the message that Cortney had called a little after three. She added that a few hours later, about six thirty or seven, Mrs. Naisbitt had also called wanting to know if Cortney was with Kelly. Kelly told his mother he hadn’t even seen Cortney in school that day. When his parents left for a late dinner out, Kelly went into the kitchen and fixed himself a sandwich. The kitchen radio was on and while he was eating, a news bulletin announced that there had been a murder downtown in the vicinity of the Hi-Fi Shop, and that the station would have more details on the eleven o’clock news. Kelly was only half listening. It occurred to him that someone had probably been knifed on Twenty-fifth Street. Before the next newscast was aired, he was in bed and almost asleep.