Final Answers

by Greg Dinallo

  “Dad, you there?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Just doing a little maneuvering here. Let’s see? Oh, yeah, how many credits is it?”

  “Four.”

  “A biggie,” I say, running the final computations as traffic starts moving again.

  “Which means I’ll have to work a lot harder if I take it for a grade, which leaves less time for music.”

  I glance at the data on the screen. “Odds are still six to one you’ll get another A minus.”

  “That sure wouldn’t do my GPA any harm.”

  “Yeah, and I could face my friends again.”

  She laughs; then, doing her best to make it sound like an afterthought, she says, “By the way, Mom and I were talking about the Memorial. You doing okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I say, glancing at the mirror again. The metallic blue car is still there. Now I can see that it sort of resembles the one that was outside the house; but I’m not sure. The driver doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me. “I guess I got a little compulsive there for a while. But it’s under control now.”

  “Well, if you ever want to talk—”

  “Thanks, princess. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Daddy.”

  I hang up and check all three mirrors. Nothing. The car is gone. If it isn’t, I can’t see it. I decide I’m letting my imagination get the best of me. Something like ten percent of all cars in Los Angeles are probably some shade of blue, perhaps half of them sedans, which means there could be hundreds of them on this section of freeway right now. Besides, why would someone be following me? It’s amazing how paranoid we get. Of course, the dozen or so drive-by killings that L.A. averages each week doesn’t help.

  Traffic finally starts moving. I look to the mirror again. Is that a patch of blue hood peeking through the windshield of the car behind mine? Come on, Morgan, I say to myself, you’re being ridiculous. Get your mind back on business. If you’re looking for something to worry about, try the woman in the next lane who’s using the rearview mirror to put on her eye makeup at fifty miles an hour.

  About a half hour later, I pull into the parking garage beneath a downtown highrise. The meeting with my client lasts through lunch. I’m not sure why, but I’m relieved that throughout the drive back to Century City my rearview mirror remains free of blue sedans. My secretary greets me with a stack of phone messages. I’m prioritizing the return order when she retrieves her steno pad.

  “There’s one more,” she says, finding the page she wants. “A Captain Sullivan.”

  “Captain Sullivan?”

  “He said he’s with the Central Identification Lab at Fort Shafter in Hawaii.”

  “Oh, that’s important. Get him back right away.”

  “No can do. He called a couple of hours ago. He said he was en route and couldn’t be reached. He wanted to come by and review his findings with you.”

  “He say when?”

  “Today. I told him you’d be out of the office until after lunch. I made it for two-thirty.”

  “Great.” I walk to my office elated. I sensed Mrs. Ackerman had clout, I just didn’t realize how much. Why else would the captain come all this way just to give me a name?

  9

  I’m on the phone with a client when my secretary announces over the intercom the captain has arrived. I cut the conversation short, and moments later, their silhouettes are moving across the frosted glass partition that separates my office from the corridor. “Captain Sullivan,” she says as she shows him through the door.

  He’s of average height, deeply tanned, with the wiry build of a track-and-field athlete, and appears to be in his late thirties. Gleaming captain’s bars perch on the epaulets of his finely tailored uniform; the slacks have knife-edge creases that break slightly above mirror-polished oxfords. A thin briefcase hangs from his fist. Aviator-style sunglasses bridge his distinctively Irish nose.

  We shake hands, then cross toward a sitting area at the far end of the office.

  “I didn’t expect you’d be coming to L.A.”

  “Sorry for the short notice.”

  “No problem. I meant I thought you’d call or write.”

  “Well, normally I would, but I had business at our port mortuary at Travis.”

  “Northeast of San Francisco, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I was planning to call you today to set something up for Thursday or Friday; but my schedule cleared and—”

  “I’m glad it did. You have a name for me?”

  “Well, Mr. Morgan, before I get to that,” he replies evasively, which worries me, “Colonel Webster asked me to tell you that your logic’s very sound. If a body was identified as yours by mistake, that individual would be listed as unaccounted for.”

  “Process of elimination,” I say, trying to conceal my impatience.

  “Yes, we find it indispensable. Unfortunately in this case, it eliminated all the possibilities.”

  “All of them,” I repeat with a sinking feeling.

  “I’m afraid so. None matched your time/place parameters.”

  “Bolikhamsai Province, 12 May, ‘68,” I say slowly, purposely confirming them.

  “Right.” He opens his briefcase and removes copies of the data I’d faxed to Kate Ackerman. “I have it all right here. We refer to it as a loss scenario. Mrs. Ackerman made sure we knew just how—I think she used the word obsessed—you are with resolving it.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” I say, forcing a smile. “There’s nothing even close?”

  “What do you mean by close?”

  “Within a few days one way or the other. I mean, someone might’ve recorded the wrong date.”

  “Oh, we always take that into account. The first thing we did was give your ‘parameters’ to a casualty data analyst. She plotted a circle search. That means she marked the location on a map and drew a circle with a ten-mile radius around it; then she screened every man whose last known location fell within the circle. When she came up empty, she increased the radius, and kept increasing it until she ran out of names.”

  “So she screened every man missing in Laos?”

  “Correct.”

  “What about guys who went AWOL?”

  “Them too. Actually, this was a relatively easy one. We spend months, sometimes years, on identification of remains cases. It’s a painful and, often, very emotional process; and we do it under a lot of pressure. As a matter of fact, we’ve had to develop procedures to make sure we don’t just give in to the pleas of a wife or family who’ve been waiting decades for a final answer. The bottom line is, we never release a finding until we’re absolutely certain. That’s policy; and it’s strictly enforced.”

  “You know, Captain Sullivan, reading in between the lines, I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me this man doesn’t exist.”

  He nods gravely. “That’s our conclusion.”

  I let out a long breath and tilt back in my chair, feeling as if I’ve been punched in the gut; then for whatever reason I notice his sunglass lenses are now perfectly clear. Corning, Photograys. I have a pair. Then I notice his eyes. Not their color but their shape, which is narrow, sloped, distinctly Asian.

  He catches me staring. “Everyone has that reaction, Mr. Morgan,” he says with a good-natured smile. “My mom’s from the Philippines; Dad was a GI.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying not to appear embarrassed.

  “By the way,” the captain says, “with regard to your name being on the Memorial, though your theory’s plausible, it assumes a body was recovered and ID’d as yours by mistake.”

  I nod glumly, knowing exactly where he’s headed.

  “But a body wasn’t recovered. All the records confirm it.”

  “I know; and so does the Memorial,” I hear myself admitting as my mind suddenly starts zooming in on the wall from different angles in a series of instant replays. Over and over, from the black granite, to my name, to an extreme close-up of the little cross that has become the symbol f
or a perplexing riddle that defies explanation. “This body/no body snafu’s been gnawing at me for weeks.”

  “Are you aware that there are as many as fourteen ‘snafus’ on the wall?”

  ‘Yes, I am.”

  “Well, out of fifty-eight thousand plus chances that’s a low percentage of error.”

  “Point zero zero zero two four one three.”

  “Let’s get back to the body. The lack of one goes a long way to explaining why we didn’t come up with a match to your scenario.”

  “Okay,” I say, getting a little heated as I push up from the chair and circle behind it. “Where did that scenario come from? I didn’t make it up. I didn’t die either, did I? And I’ve never set foot in Bolikhamsai Province, let alone weeks after my legs were damn near blown off.”

  “It’s probably due to a data entry error. You’ve heard of people being declared dead by a computer; their bank accounts, social security, credit cards all canceled by a single keystroke. Besides, even if there was a body with your ID, every KIA—regardless of military ID, dog tags, or statements of recognition from buddies—was held in BTB status. In other words, believed-to-be so and so, until a positive ID was made at the mortuary. Even with your tags there’s no way he could have been finally ID’d as you.”

  I spin the chair with frustration and cross toward the window; then, though I sense it will be futile, I decide to make one last challenge. “Even if there were no head or hands or other identifying marks?”

  “Mr. Morgan,” the captain replies with the patient dismay one normally uses when dealing with a stubborn child, “maybe this will satisfy you. The scientists at our lab are often given commingled bone fragments found at crash sites. Not only do they separate them into individuals but they also identify them. The level of technology in this area is truly amazing; believe me. I urge you to accept this finding. These things have a way of eating at you if you don’t.”

  “With good reason.”

  “No offense, but if you were an MIA wife, coping with her husband’s fate, I’d understand.” He pauses and holds my eyes with his for a long moment, then more firmly says, “The man doesn’t exist, Mr. Morgan. For your own good, let it go.”

  His words sound a little too much like a warning, though a sincere one; and despite his military bearing there’s a clinical detachment in his tone and absence of compassion in his eyes that is troubling. At first I attribute it to an earlier remark. Perhaps like a doctor dealing with the terminally ill, he’s protecting himself against emotional overload; but another thought occurs to me. “You know, Captain, I was just thinking that for someone as close to this issue as you are, you seem awfully distant.”

  “Well, I didn’t mean to appear—”

  “You haven’t seen men die in combat, have you?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  “That makes a difference.”

  “Not to me. I assure you my stomach turns just like yours when somebody burns the flag.”

  “Really? Well, if you’re lucky maybe they’ll call you the next time one of those liberal pukes has to be taken out.”

  He flinches and stands, stung by the remark as I intended. We’re face-to-face when he says, “I think that was uncalled for. My business here is finished.”

  “You’re right, Captain, it was uncalled for. I was purposely being offensive to make a point. I’ve seen a lot of men die. They were protecting our rights—freedom of expression included.”

  He nods, seeming to accept my explanation. “Your point’s well taken, Mr. Morgan.” His eyes come alive with an idea, and he asks, “You into country/western?”

  “No. Not really,” I reply, unable to imagine why he’s asking.

  “Well, a couple of weeks ago I was watching a Johnny Cash concert on HBO. “Ragged Old Flag” is one of his tunes. You know what he said before he sang it?”

  I shrug, still baffled.

  “Well it was something like, I thank God we live in a country where we have the right to burn the flag. And I thank God we live in a country where we have the right to keep and bear arms—so I can shoot the son of a bitch who tries to burn mine.”

  I can’t help but laugh. The captain seems pleased at having the last word and shakes my hand.

  “I hope you’ll take my advice, Mr. Morgan. We see families torn, tortured. Even when faced with clear evidence, some won’t accept our findings.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to learn from others.”

  “I think it’d be in your best interests to try.”

  I accompany him to the reception area, where my secretary validates his parking stub. I don’t know why; maybe because of the way he just showed up; maybe because his shrewd confidence made me feel as if I was being tested; maybe because prejudice born of combat is never fully exorcised; but as he leaves, I imagine the captain’s glasses gradually darkening over his Asian eyes and picture him in the underground garage getting into a metallic blue sedan. A weird compulsion takes hold of me and I decide to do something I know I’ll be sorry for. I return to my office, pull up the phone directory on my laptop, and dial.

  “Capitol Real Estate,” a woman answers.

  “Yes, it’s Cal Morgan calling for Kate Ackerman.”

  “Please hold.”

  “Hi! I’ve just listed a super condo in Georgetown: View, terrace, fireplace, modern kitchen,” she says rapid-fire when she comes on. “It’d be a great corporate write-off. What do you say?”

  “Sold. Now that we’ve covered your next car payment, I’m going to be meeting with someone from the CIL shortly, and—”

  “They’ve got something for you?”

  “I don’t know; but it dawned on me I’ve never met the guy. His name’s Captain Sullivan. Tall/short? Fat/skinny? What’s he look like?”

  “Captain Sullivan?” she repeats in a puzzled tone. “I don’t know him. He must be new. By the way,” she runs on, her pitch rising, “I got some good news too. It’s about my husband.”

  “He’s being repatriated?”

  “We’re waiting for the names to be released. It’s a unilateral action by the Laotian government. The remains they’re turning over were found at crash sites in the area where John was lost.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Yes, I’m trying not to get my hopes up. Hold on a sec, will you? I’m sorry. I’ve got to drop off, I’ve got a client on the other line. Let me know how you make out, okay?”

  “Sure. Good luck.”

  I hang up slowly, thoughtfully. I was wrong. She’s more than fanned my suspicions. Now, I’m going to confirm them. I find the number and dial.

  “Central Identification Lab,” a woman with what sounds like a Filipino accent answers.

  “Yes, I’m going to be meeting your Captain Sullivan shortly, but I’ve no idea what he looks like. Would you describe him to me so I can—”

  “Well, he’ll be in uniform, and his name’ll be above the right-hand pocket.”

  I expected her, wanted her, to say she’d never heard of him. I’m caught a little off guard. I want to be certain. “What if he’s in civvies? I mean, is there something distinctive that—”

  “Oh, you’ll have no trouble picking him out of a crowd. Believe it or not, Captain Sullivan’s Asian, but he has the finest Irish nose. We tease him about it all the time.”

  I stand at the window staring down at the people hurrying between the office towers. Had I made it all up? Given in to some sort of in-country fever or guilt because I’d put it all away? It doesn’t really matter. Nothing could soften this blow. I’m at a complete dead end, and I feel empty.

  I spend the next few days going through the motions at the office and at home. Early Saturday morning, Nancy lectures me about moping around and reminds me I promised to plant a jacaranda outside the dining room for her.

  I grumble in protest, then halfheartedly haul a pick and shovel from the garage and get to work. The lack of rain has made the ground like concrete. The first several swings of the
pick bounce off it harmlessly. Now, it becomes a challenge. I’d dug a foxhole once with nothing but a jungle knife. Of course, I was more highly motivated then. The next swing buries the pick deep in the soil. I work it loose, breaking up the surface. A few more swings like that and I’m really into it. Soon, oblivious to all else, I’m drenched with sweat, hands and face grimy, Reeboks caked with reddish soil. Before I know it, there’s a huge mound of fresh earth next to the house, and I’m standing in a hole that comes up to my kneecaps. It’s far deeper and wider than it needs to be for the jacaranda. The only things missing are my M-16 and the enemy. I’m flashing back to a fire fight when I hear a vehicle at the end of the long driveway that leads to our house. I toss the shovel aside and scramble out of the hole.

  A blue streak zips between the rock formations.

  I run to a vantage point from where I can see the road. The mailman’s delivery jeep is chugging up the hill. I continue to the end of the driveway and retrieve the usual bundle of magazines, bills, and junk from the box. I’m returning to the house, thumbing through them, when my eyes dart to a return address, to the distinctive black military-style lettering that is sticking out between the edges of the other envelopes. I pull it free. It reads U.S. Army Mortuary Affairs. Almost a month has passed since I sent my letter. I’ve forgotten about it completely. The envelope contains a single sheet of paper that I imagine will state, in typically convoluted military syntax, that no records were filed under my name or serial number; but what I see makes my jaw drop and my adrenaline surge. I run toward the house, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “Nance?!” I shout. “Nancy, look at this!”

  She comes running through one of the floor-to-ceiling glass doors onto the deck, expecting some disaster has befallen me or the jacaranda.

  “There was a body,” I exclaim, pushing the copy of the field casualty report into her hands. “Look, they recovered a body. My name, my serial number.”

  10

  The identification block on the copy of the report I’m holding reads A. Calvert Morgan. This document is responsible, beyond any doubt, for my name being on the Vietnam Memorial. I put it on my desk in the den and spend the weekend thinking about it, going back to it again and again, deducing whatever I can from the wealth of information it contains.