Trophies and Dead Things

by Marcia Muller

  Finally I replaced the photo in the drawer and left the tack room. The air had grown chill: high wisps of fog drifted in from the coastline. I looked toward the sea, along the path that Ross had taken. And saw them, on the edge of the lagoon.

  Ross sat on the pinto, and a denim-clad man with long black hair who surely was D.A. Taylor stood beside it. Ross leaned down toward him: Taylor had one hand on her shoulder. For a moment they spoke, their faces close, and then Taylor raised his other hand and pulled her head even closer. In spite of the distance, I could tell there was no resistance on Ross’s part when their lips met.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I bought a sandwich and a bottle of Calistoga water at a deli in Inverness, then drove down the road and parked by the salt-marsh wildlife refuge to eat a late lunch and think. The white cranes were there again—half a dozen this time—and the sight of them standing placid among the reeds soothed my anger at Ross’s deception and put me in a cooler frame of mind.

  Actually I wasn’t so much angry at Ross as I was with myself. In the course of my work people frequently lie to me—sometimes for no better reason than that they think they should lie to a detective. I should have been more on my guard with Ross, pressed harder about what now appeared to be her ongoing relationship with D.A. Taylor. But the interview had been valuable nonetheless: I now knew about the Port Chicago bombing attempt—a crime that would doubtless be well reported in back issues of area newspapers. And I also had a few ideas about the man called Andy Wrightman.

  When I arrived at KSTS-TV at about four-thirty, I spotted Goodhue driving into the parking lot in a little yellow Datsun. I beeped the MG’s horn and followed her, pulling up behind her rear bumper. She got out of the car and waved at me.

  “I know what you want,” she called, “but I don’t have it for you. I had a late night, then an early breakfast with some people from a charity benefit we’re cosponsoring, and then a luncheon speech for Women in Communications. I’m an hour late and running ragged and hoping I can make it through until it’s time to rest between broadcasts.”

  She did look tired—not totally exhausted, but red around the eyes and hollow in the face. Her staccato chatter made me wonder if she’d been taking uppers to keep going. I said, “Jess, I wouldn’t bother you if this wasn’t important.”

  Her mouth tightened, and I caught a hint of the testiness that she’d displayed with her co-workers Monday afternoon. “We all have our priorities,” she said, “and mine is to make it through the day without screwing up our newscasts.”

  “I thought you wanted to find out about your father, about Perry Hilderly’s reason for naming you in his will.”

  She shrugged and began walking toward the rear entrance to the studio. “Frankly, I’ve decided it’s not all that important. I was right when I burned the detective’s report; the past is dead, and I ought to be getting on with my future.”

  “Does that mean you won’t look for the investigator’s name?”

  “Jesus!” She turned toward me, her irritation plain now. “I said I would look for it when I have the time. I do not have the time today. Besides, there probably wasn’t anything valuable in his report; he was just some big Italian guy with a crummy two-man office on the edge of the Tenderloin. For all I know, he was incompetent.”

  Unwittingly she’d given me something to go on. Except for the “incompetent,” the man she described sounded suspiciously like an investigator friend I call Wolf. But it was strange that a newscaster wouldn’t have remembered his name right off; Wolf—a nickname I’d long ago derived from the press claim that he was “the last of the lone-wolf detectives”—has had more than his share of publicity, and fairly recently.

  It was for that reason—plus the fact that I’d been lied to by one of the other heirs earlier that afternoon—that I concealed my satisfaction with Goodhue’s revelation and merely said, “I’ll call you later.”

  Willie Whelan’s flagship jewelry store was situated on the south side of Market Street between Seventh and Eighth—an iffy location at best, and one that had reaped little benefit from what city planners are fond of calling “the Renaissance of Market Street.” The entire rebirth is going on further downtown, where high-rises have mushroomed and cautious shoppers now venture into what used to be a minefield in the war between the haves and the have-nots. Willie’s block remained largely unchanged: street people pushed grocery carts loaded with all their belongings; winos sprawled on the benches that were part of the beautification project; merchants hawked cut-rate wares from sidewalk bins; private security guards were stationed at most of the doorways.

  When I entered the store at a few minute after five, Willie was already there, extolling the merits of a ring with the world’s tiniest diamond to a young Asian couple. He’d point to it and then gesture expansively; the couple would look at one another and nod dubiously. Then he’d enthuse some more and they’d nod again, a little more firmly. When both nodded decisively, Willie flashed his most sincere smile of congratulation and whipped out a credit application from under the counter. As the couple began filling it out, he gave me a victory sign.

  “Is Hank here yet?” I asked, casting a sympathetic glance at the latest victims of Willie’s salesmanship.

  “He called, said he’d be a few minute late.”

  “Just as well. I need to make a couple of calls of my own.”

  “Use my office—you know where it its.”

  “Thanks.” I skirted the central counter where he stood and went through an opening in a smaller counter that ordered the showroom on three sides. Numerous customers—none of them terribly solvent-looking—leaned over its displays of watches and charm bracelets and pendants and birthstone rings. On the other side of the counter was a door; beyond it lay the stockroom and Willie’s office.

  My first call was to Wolf, but I reached only his machine. That was no surprise; he and his partner spent more time in the field than in the office. I left a brief message. Next I called All Souls and caught Rae just as she was on her way out.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “I’ve got the information you wanted on American Consolidated Services. They’re a government contractor that operates restaurants and cafeterias for the military bases all over the world.”

  “I thought it might be something like that. Were you able to find out anything about Bob Smith?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Personnel knew he was dead, and the person I talked to became suspicious when I asked.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I know enough now, and if the police want to make an official inquiry, it’ll only confirm what I suspect.”

  “Shar, what’s this about?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “You keep saying that, but I never get fully caught up.”

  “Have patience. Got to go now.” As I replaced the receiver, the door to the office opened and Willie and Hank entered.

  Hank looked around the cramped cubicle, then sat on a folding chair under the window. Willie perched on the edge of the desk, swinging one cowboy-booted foot. He said, “This’d better be important, McCone. I had to cut short my visit to my Oakland store to get back here in time.”

  “It is.” I opened my briefcase and took out the legal pad I’d made notes on while at the SFPD that morning.

  “Well, aren’t you going to enlighten us?” Hand asked. “I was planning to go home early, but your message kept me at All Souls just long enough for a client to call with an emergency, and now I’ve got to work through the evening, again.”

  I was trying to save their lives, and they were complaining about me wasting their time! I said, “Did I ever tell either of you what a pain in the ass you can be?” The words and their tone were unusually harsh for me; both Hank and Willie looked taken aback. They exchanged quick looks, but neither spoke.

  I said, “First I need to ask you some questions about Vietnam in nineteen seventy. Both of you were in Cam Ranh Bay at the same time as Perry Hilderly.”

  Hank
nodded.

  “And Hilderly hung out with a bunch of you from the base?”

  “Yes, at an off-base bar . . . What was it called, Willie?”

  “Something French.”

  “Moulin Rouge? Rouge et Noir?”

  “Rouge et Noir,” Willie said.

  “Good Memory.”

  I asked, “Who usually hung out with you?”

  Hank looked blank, then glanced at Willie. Willie shrugged. Hank said, “Well, people came and went a lot. In a place like Cam Ranh, the personnel fluctuated daily.”

  “A big base, was it?”

  “Cam Ranh itself was a port—built from the ground up by the U.S. in case Saigon fell. There was the army supply depot, where Willie and I were stationed, plus navy and air force bases, an airfield serving the area, a hospital. About twenty thousand military stationed there, and God know how many civilians.” He paused, smiling ironically. “Government sunk billions of the taxpayers’ dollars into Cam Ranh; then after the pullout it became a virtual ghost town. Now it’s a port of call for Soviet ships.

  “So what you’re saying is that it would be difficult to remember specific individuals whom you hung out with?”

  “Some I probably could, people who stayed around for a long time. But like I said, they came and went.”

  I leaned back in the desk chair, considering what I knew about the military. It was a fair amount; my father had been a chief petty officer in the navy, a thirty-year man. I said, “For a minute, let’s talk about the people who we know were there. You”—I motioned to Hank—“were politicized by the war, went over there a liberal and came back a radical. Hilderly was a war protestor, a reporter, and a civilian. And you”—I looked at Willie—“would by no means have been your ideal enlisted man. In addition, Hank was an officer. It’s fairly unusual for officers and enlisted men to socialize.”

  “Well,” Hank said, “in a combat zone it’s a little looser. But what you’re getting at is correct: we were a bunch of liberal misfits.”

  “Then I assume your group caused comment, might have been resented by the more hawkish element?”

  “Christ, yes,” Willie said. “Was like everybody in our corner of the bar had leprosy, except for when some asshole decided to pick a fight.” To Hank he added, “You remember that night I almost got into it with that fascist lieutenant? For sure I’d of ended up court-martialed if you hadn’t stepped in.”

  I sat up straighter. “Do you remember the lieutenant’s name?”

  “. . . I can’t remember. Hank?”

  Hank shook his head.

  “Do you recall anything about him?”

  “Nothing except the attitude.”

  “Besides him,” I said, “do you remember anyone else who tried to pick fights or otherwise antagonize you?”

  “There were plenty of them but after all this time the names and faces aren’t clear.”

  “Hank?”

  He shook his head. “Frankly, I’ve repressed a lot of things about those days.”

  “Try to think back to Rouge et Noir. Picture it, and yourselves there in your corner. Who else is with you?”

  Both of them closed their eyes. After a moment Willie said, “That radio operator, got killed in the patrol plane crash.”

  “Sorry. I should have told you I’m only interested in people who so far as you know are still living.”

  More silence. Then Hank said to Willie, “The guy from Atlanta—the one who’d met Martin Luther King.”

  “Bernie—nah, he bought it at Da Nang.”

  “Mike, the one who always had the terrific grass?”

  “Dead, too.”

  “What about Chris, from Philadelphia?”

  “Helicopter crash.”

  If I let them go on, it would begin to sound like a reading of the names from the Vietnam War Memorial. I said, “What about John Owens?”

  “Owens,” Hank said.

  Willie frowned, then snapped his fingers. “Johnny Owens. I should of remembered him. Was a crazy man, actually wanted to kill the fascist lieutenant. Probably would of, too, if he hadn’t transferred out and got sent up to Saigon. Wonder whatever happened to the crazy son of a bitch?”

  “He was the sniper’s third victim.”

  Willie’s mouth dropped open. Hank’s face went taut and still—the way I’ve seen it when something unexpected happens to him in court.

  I asked, “Were there any women in your group?”

  Hank said, “A few. Mostly nurses.”

  “What about a Red Cross nurse named Mary Johnson?”

  “ . . . It’s such a common name.”

  “I remember her,” Willie said. “She wasn’t there long. A blond with a fiancé in the marines. I lusted after her, but she wasn’t having any.”

  Hank looked at me. “Mary, too?”

  “The second victim.”

  “Why didn’t I realize it when I saw the story in the paper? And the one about Johnny?”

  “Mary Johnson had married and was going by the surname of Davis. And even if her name had been the same, or Owens’s more distinctive, there would have been no reason for you to connect them to people you’d known casually in a bar in Vietnam. That was a long time ago.”

  They were silent for a moment. Willie finally asked, “What about the sniper’s first victim?”

  “He’s the one who originally didn’t fit the pattern. Bob Smith. A drifter, worked in restaurants mainly. But I have an idea about him. Military food services are usually provided by civilian contractors. What was the name of the one at your base?”

  Hank shook his head. Willie said, “Damned if I can remember. Ought to, for all the bitching about the food that I did. What was it we nicknamed them?”

  Hank smiled faintly, “American Constipated.”

  “American Consolidated Services,” I said.

  “Right!”

  “Then there’s your link. You may not remember Bob Smith, but he worked for American Consolidated during that period, and I’m willing to bet he hung out with you at the Rouge et Noir, too.”

  “Okay,” Hank said, “I see where this is leading. Someone who didn’t like our political orientation and disregard for protocol is now—after close to twenty years—tracking down people from the group and killing them. But why, after all that time? And how does he find us?”

  “In Willie’s case, it’s obvious—the TV commercials. And you don’t keep that low a profile. The others he could have stumbled over by chance, or by less circumstantial means.”

  Willie shook his head. “McCone, this is fuckin’ crazy. The guy must be crazy.”

  “When did you hear of a sane person stalking others with a gun?”

  They were silent again. I was busy formulating an idea that I wanted to run past Greg. After a while I said, “The important thing right now is for both of you to stay safe. You’re going to have to be extra cautious, even during daylight. He’s missed once, and that might have made him impatient.”

  “Don’t you worry about me none,” Willie replied. “I’m gong home and locking myself in until this is all over.”

  “And you,” I said to Hank, “are going back to All Souls?”

  “I have to. As I said, an emergency came up.”

  “Why don’t you stay there tonight?”

  “Where? On the couch? I tried that last winter when Anne-Marie and I were broken up, and hardly slept for nights. The case I’m trying is winding up tomorrow; I have to get a decent rest.”

  “Okay—go to All Souls, then. But don’t leave until I get there.”

  “And then what do you intend to do?”

  “Act as your bodyguard on your way home.”

  “Shar, that’ll make me feel like an old man being helped across the street by a Girl Scout.”

  “Like it or not, that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  Hank merely nodded, once again cowed by my obvious irritation.

  I stood up and stuffed the legal pad into my briefcase. “Ther
e’s one other thing I want both of you to do: keep thinking about the hawkish elements in that bar. Try to recall confrontations, threats. Try to remember names. I’ll check with you later about it.”

  As I started out the door Hank asked, “Where’re you gong now?”