Song of Suzies

by Dave Balcom

  Hennessey winced, “Like every local cop in the country feels about them.” He turned to us, “How long before you have to make a decision on this?”

  Doug looked at me with a face that said, “Is there a time limit?”

  “I think you could have until Sunday. If we haven’t reported on it by then, we’re either not going to publish or we’re going to publish it right then.” I turned to Doug. “I’ll be back in town on Saturday, and we can figure out what to do then, okay?”

  He nodded and then smiled at the detective and technician. “Can you consult without inviting the FBI to take over? Will Chief Patterson let you even consult?”

  Hennessy shrugged. “I can’t guess.”

  Read nodded and smiled again. “If he has a problem with it, ask him to give me a call, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the Detective said. And with that the two officers and I left the office.

  “I’m not sure what good he thinks talking to my chief will do,” Hennessey said quietly.

  “You never can tell,” I said. “Police chiefs are political animals, and publishers buy newsprint by the ton and ink by the barrel. You just never can tell,” and as I said it, I looked back at the office door. “You just never...”

  12

  I got back to Lake City after dark on Saturday and went directly to the newspaper.

  Randy was running the news desk on this skeleton staff – most of the Sunday newspapers are in bed before the sun sets on Saturday – sports, pop and bang news, and obituaries being the only categories that require Saturday night reporting.

  “How was Maryland?”

  I shrugged. “Any discussion about the letter?”

  “I spoke with Doug about three this afternoon. He said Hennessey and an FBI behaviorist would be here Monday morning, and we could make an informed decision at that time.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “I can’t help but wonder what kind of fuse we will be lighting one way or another, but I’d bet the Feds have case history up the wazoo on stuff like this.”

  Randy looked at me with a smirk. “I’m pretty jazzed about this too. I plan on coming in to hear it firsthand even though I’m supposed to be off Monday.

  “So, tell me, what did Sandy’s mom say when she heard about the letter?”

  “Just what you’d expect. A: The baby’s never going back there; B: Sandy can stay too; C: You, mister newspaper editor, can come or go as you please.”

  “Just that, huh?”

  “Oh, and the usual, ‘Love ya loads.’”

  “How long will they stay there?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “That long, huh?”

  “Yup. I’m draggin’. I’m goin’ to bed. You might want to run spell check on that headline, Hoss.”

  “What? Oh, shit. I always ....” but I was out the door and didn’t hear the final words.

  13

  The FBI expert was a young guy sporting a goatee. Hennessey introduced him as Special Agent Joe Gregory.

  “Gentlemen,” he started, “first of all, I can’t tell you how refreshing it is to have a newspaper thinking about something other than selling newspapers. In my experience, that letter would have been photographed and splashed on the front page the day you got it.”

  There was a shuffling of feet in my office as Doug, Randy and I all felt a little uneasy. “Mr. Gregory,” I said, “after the safety of my family, selling newspapers is the reason for my every breath.”

  He looked a bit embarrassed, and then coughed gently into his hand, “I see, of course.”

  “So, what happens if we fail to publish this letter or even write about it?”

  “That’s not a cut-and-dried question and neither is the answer. This writer has a motive, and we cannot be sure what that might be.

  “First, we have to make an assumption that this writer is responsible for Suzanne’s disappearance. If that’s true, then the likelihood is that she died the night she was taken, but that’s not a certainty.

  “Next, we have to assume this writer is male; probably under the age of thirty-five but older than nineteen.”

  Doug couldn’t help himself, “Why would you say nineteen to thirty-five?”

  “Well, I should have put the next assumption first, and that is that this is his first escapade. If he’d done this before, we probably would have found a case with a history of self-aggrandizement such as these letters. If that assumption is correct, then we can be somewhat certain that most offenders have gone off before the age of thirty-five. Sociopaths who act out before they’re nineteen usually don’t choose victims who are eighteen. They go for younger victims as a rule.

  “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, the assumptions. This writer is Caucasian, reasonably well-educated, and possesses a very large ego. He wants to shout, ‘Look, ma, no hands’ to the world.

  “All these assumptions, then, bring us to the key question. How will he react if we publish or don’t publish?”

  Gregory reached into a brief case and brought out a water bottle.

  “Would anybody like coffee?” Randy asked.

  “If you’re going for yourself, you can bring black for me,” Hennessey said.

  I moved to the round conference table in my office, and invited everyone to sit. “Randy, take a seat.”

  I punched a number into the phone. “Louie? Can you bring a jug of coffee and all the makings to my office? Thanks.”

  I turned to the table, “So?”

  “Based on history with these kinds of people, the likelihood is that he’s going to transfer his anger to you and yours. I think it would be very smart to take whatever steps you can to protect yourself and your family. His reference to a child the same age as your daughter is very alarming to the people I work with.”

  I didn’t have anything to say to that, but I’m sure I didn’t look happy. “Is there any chance that our refusal to print a story about this letter could trigger another attack on a young girl in our area?”

  “Of course there’s that possibility, but you must realize that he’s going to do this again regardless of your actions. If it had been some random act that went totally bad, and he got away clean, he could have gone the rest of his life without harming another.

  “But writing that first letter told us all we need to know – he’s acted out, and he’s living on the memories of that night. He may have pictures of Suzanne, he may have taken a souvenir, and those will keep that night fresh for him for some time.”

  Hennessey chimed in, “We have documented this behavior in these creeps for decades. The cycle just gets shorter as the memory fades faster with time. These guys quit this stuff when they’re dead or locked in a deep, dark, hole.”

  Gregory pulled a pained look at the mention of “creeps,” but he nodded just the same, “There has been very limited psychiatric success in treating these people.”

  Doug turned to me, “So, what do you want to do?”

  I thought Randy’s look of amazement went a bit far, but he was behind Doug and out of the publisher’s view.

  “I want to hold the letter and all reference to the letter. I want to see if he writes another one, or maybe if he’ll call me.”

  Hennessey nodded, “And if that’s the paper’s decision, I’m going to assign a watcher team to you and your family. They’ll go where you go. They’ll be watching over you every minute.”

  “I can live with that, Max, but Sandy and Sara are in Maryland with her parents.”

  Hennessey looked at Gregory, “Sounds like an FBI issue, Joe.”

  “Crosses state lines; I’ll see what we can do.”

  Doug clapped his hands together, “Okay, we’ve made a decision. We’ll hold this until later and find out what the response might be. If there is none, we’ll have to find a .....”

  “News peg,” Randy interjected.

  “...right, a news peg to bring this story out in the open.”

  I picked up the thread, “I think, if that time comes wh
en we think publishing would serve us all better, I’ll handle it in my weekly column... something like an open letter to a pervert.”

  Gregory looked pained again, “You’ll want to think long and hard about jabbing this guy with a stick. Among my assumptions about this man is that he’s very, very smart and could come at you in ways you might never in a hundred years anticipate.”

  “Mr. Gregory, this story is way out of my field as a journalist, but I’m pretty confident of my ability to take care of myself if he comes calling.”

  Hennessey coughed gently into his fist. I threw him a look, but he chose not to acknowledge it but spoke instead, “Sounds like you’re taking the fitness idea seriously, then?”

  I changed my face to a self-deprecating smile, “I guess I am at that.”

  14

  The next morning, just as the sun was starting to color the sky, I was out of the house and taking a walk that took me more than a couple miles and a decade back in time.

  Gifted with a long, lean physique and a general quickness of hand and foot, I had been just another guy looking to the U.S. Navy to avoid going to Vietnam when I passed on college and enlisted.

  But at boot camp in San Diego, a couple of us guys read a notice about an endurance run and swim race that weekend, and we decided to sign up.

  Our drill instructor endorsed the idea, and teased us by mentioning how many Marines and UDT sailors would pass us by.

  “UDT?” I had asked.

  “Underwater Demolition Team – frogmen,” he explained.

  I still thought it sounded fun, and as we had been living very active lives marching around the compound and running up and down stairs, I just figured the fresh air, water, and the spirit of competition would be good for me. I had no serious expectations that I might win the race, but I had won races before in my life.

  No one could have been more surprised than I when I finished the first leg, a ten-kilometer run that ended at the beach, and I found I could still see the leaders who were already in the water. The icy water took my breath away, but I had always been a strong swimmer, and by the time we rounded the marker buoy I was just yards behind the leader.

  I had a ten-yard lead when I got out of the water, and after quickly toweling off my feet and putting socks and shoes on, I was running the 5-K final leg feeling pretty good about myself.

  I finished in the top ten, and my D.I. was at the finish line cheering me like a school kid. “I can’t believe it, Stanton. I just don’t fucking believe it.”

  My two friends, both from New Mexico, finished in the top hundred, but barely.

  As we waited for the final finishers, a very young master chief in his dress blues with a chestful of medals and ribbons approached me. My D.I., who was a chief gunner’s mate by trade, nodded to the young chief, and grabbed me by the sleeve, “Here’s your boy, Chief,” he said before walking away.

  I could see the dolphins on his collar, and the two chevrons on his sleeve that told me he’d gone from E-1 to E-8 in less than twelve years.

  “Stanton, that was a hell of an effort. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” I was uncomfortable in this man’s presence, and I didn’t know why... but my silent alarms were telling me that this guy was flat dangerous.

  “What do you hope to do in the Navy, Stanton?”

  “Four years, I think, Chief.”

  He nodded, and smiled. “Striking for what kind of job?”

  “I don’t know, really. I’ve taken a bunch of tests, but I haven’t had an evaluation yet. I think that comes in the final week, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does. But if you could do anything, what would it be?”

  “Something that lets me see the world, gives me a trade perhaps to fall back on in civilian life. Something I could be good at but challenged at the same time.”

  He nodded and concluded his visit, “Perfect. I’ll be seeing you before you go to the fleet.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I said, but I didn’t really mean it.

  When the petty officer from personnel presented my evaluation, he was looking at the kinds of jobs I’d listed, and was ticking them off the list one by one. “Radio operator; not going to happen. You don’t hear well enough... do a lot of bird hunting as a kid? It shows in your loss of hearing in your left ear, both really. Signalman? Not going to happen either; too tall.” And so it went until my list had been dumped.

  “So, what can I do?”

  “You want to work in the communications field; with your intelligence scores, I’d suggest air traffic control – the ATC-A School in Brunswick, Georgia is one of the finest schools in the Navy. And the ATCs get to talk to pilots who are officers without saying ‘sir’ all the time.” He chuckled as he said that.

  I had no idea what it meant to be an air traffic controller, but I had a love affair with aircraft, especially jets... I loved the way they looked as they came in for landings... like ducks sailing in on fixed wings.

  “Sign me up, then.”

  “You’re signed up. Good luck. You’ll get a thirty-day leave and orders to Navy Brunswick before you graduate next week.”

  And so I did, and after visiting home for a month, I found myself immersed in air traffic control (ATC) school. I liked it, and I was becoming proficient at it.

  The Navy trains ATCs to work visual aircraft landing or taking off from a land base, and at the end of the A School curriculum, each student must take and pass the Federal Aviation Administration’s “Junior Certificate” examination.

  The whole curriculum was designed to prepare the students for that exam. For those who passed, there would be an assignment to a Naval Air Station or Aircraft Carrier. Those billets were “selected” by class standing.

  Each of the students had been given four choices of where they’d prefer to go after school, including one overseas or sea duty billet. Those were presumably considered against where the Navy needed raw personnel, and on the day of assignment, really the graduation exercise, thirty of us sat in a classroom and there were thirty billet stations on the black board.

  The student who graduated with the highest score chose first, and so on until all the billets were assigned.

  I chose second behind a guy I hadn’t gotten to know. He was very quiet and shy. A crusty old chief offered the class valedictorian his choice, and the youngster never hesitated, “USS Enterprise.”

  A huge sigh of relief passed through the guys at the bottom of the list. They had looked at the board and realized they would be spending the first two years of active duty writing backwards on a Plexiglas partition in the flight center on a carrier, doing sixty-five day rotations at Yankee Station in the South China Sea between two-week stops at one of the two hellhole ports big enough for them in Japan and the Philippines.

  In one second, the Enterprise was out of their future, and they were relieved.

  “Mr. Stanton?” The chief had then asked.

  “Argentia, Newfoundland.” I hadn’t hesitated either.

  This time the sigh was even louder, and the chief put his hands on his hips as he stood before a blackboard full of normally desirable places such as Miramar in California, or Rota, Spain. With a disbelieving look on his face, he eyed the two of us. “Is there a history of mental disorder in your families?”

  “No chief,” the valedictorian responded. “My father and my uncle both served on the Enterprise... it’s a family tradition.”

  The chief was still gaping and then he looked at me, “And what’s with you and The Rock, Stanton?”

  “I’ve always dreamed of catching a five-pound brook trout, Chief. That’s the place most likely to dish one up.”

  “God love a fisherman.”

  That day I got orders to Newfoundland after a two-week leave. Friday, I was all alone in the barracks, packing my stuff for a bus ride to Michigan when I sensed someone standing behind me.

  I turned and there was the young submarine master chief, this time in pristine summer uniform with onl
y a few ribbons on his chest.

  “Congratulations on A School, Stanton.”

  “Thank you chief,” I answered warily. “What brings you here?”

  “You; I missed your last days at basic training, but it couldn’t be helped. I knew you’d do well here. He sat on the bunk across from mine. “I’ve been keeping track of you, and I’m wondering if you’d like to participate in a camp this week before you head home.”

  “What kind of camp?”

  “A very special camp for people like you who might want to find out how they measure up to the finest fighting men in the world.”

  “What’s involved?”

  “You say, ‘Sure,’ and finish packing. We put your gear in a van and about an hour later in the Okefenokee Swamp, you’ll meet a group of men recruited from all parts of the military – Marines, Army, Air Force and Navy. For six days and nights, you’ll train, compete and play together. Questions?”

  “What’s the purpose?”

  “Classified now, but in general, it’s to find out if you can fit into this organization, and then to find out if you want to.”

  “Why not? I don’t have anything special waiting for me at home.”

  When we arrived at the campsite, which was in a park that had been “closed for maintenance,” I was issued camouflage clothing without service or rank insignia. I was assigned to a bunk and a storage locker. I changed clothes, and found they fit as if tailored for me. The boots were light and flexible.

  While I was stowing my gear, a short, skinny, balding guy came in and looked me up and down. “Good to see you. Stanton, isn’t it? I’m your company commander and drill instructor. You call me Smitty. There are no sirs, no name plates or badges. Everyone here has one name, their last one.

  “It’s not intended for you to make any friends or enemies here. Everyone will treat everyone with due respect. If we don’t, we’ll probably get a quick lesson on why the other guy is here, and that could be painful.