by Sean Lynch
He went to the car’s trunk. Inside, along with the spare tire, were the contents of his desk when he’d been a burglary inspector. He’d yet to unpack the heavy boxes and lug them up the three flights of stairs to his apartment.
He rummaged through the boxes. He smiled when he found a silver flask full of bourbon. With the flask were several cylinders of breath mints and a pocket-sized bottle of Listerine. After tossing away his cigarette, he helped himself to a snort of the flask’s contents to ensure they hadn’t evaporated.
“Beats the hell out of Geritol,” he said aloud, wiping his lips on his sleeve.
He put the flask and breath mints into the pockets of his coat and continued rummaging.
In a moment he found what he was after. It was on the bottom of a stack of heavy boxes, and it took him a bit of grunting to wrench it free. With a final tug he came up with a battered shoebox.
Inside the shoebox was one of his most invaluable investigative tools: business cards. Hundreds of them. He’d made a habit over the years of collecting business cards from every person he made contact with: crook, victim, witness, or John Doe. He’d even taken them from the desks of his fellow cops.
He grabbed a handful of cards and put them into his pocket. Tossing the shoebox into the trunk, he closed the lid and got into the car.
Within minutes he was out of the city and on the Bay Bridge, looking over Treasure Island. The morning mist hadn’t lifted yet and the fog left him with only a few car-lengths visibility.
He had the radio tuned to KDFC-FM, a classical music station broadcasting from San Francisco, and before he knew, it was eastbound on Highway 580 in the Oakland hills. Exiting the freeway in San Leandro, he drove into the parking lot of the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital.
Leaving the comfort of the Oldsmobile, he entered the hospital lobby. Once inside he straightened his tie and popped a breath mint into his mouth. He approached the receptionist at the main desk.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes,” said Farrell coughing, “I’m Lieutenant Donovan, OPD, and I’d like to examine some of your records.”
When Farrell said this he snapped open his badge case and briefly flashed his seven-point San Francisco star. The only difference between it and the Oakland Police Department’s badge were the small letters denoting the name of the city engraved over the number. He handed the receptionist a business card that read, Lieutenant Paul Donovan – Criminal Investigation Division. The card was handsomely engraved with the OPD crest and Chief Hart’s name.
The receptionist took the card and went into an office. In a moment she returned with a tall African-American man wearing eagle’s wings on his white uniform. The captain was holding the business card Farrell had given the receptionist.
“I’m Captain Pracon. How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure. I need some information.”
“What kind of information?”
“Well,” Farrell said, “I’m trying to track the whereabouts of a Marine who left the service from Vietnam about twenty years ago. He was wounded, and would possibly have come to this facility for medical treatment.”
Pracon seemed puzzled. “Have you tried the Veterans’ Information Center in San Francisco? I believe they would be better suited to provide information regarding Vietnam-era vets.”
“I already tried that facility,” Farrell lied smoothly. “They referred me here.”
He didn’t tell the captain the reason he hadn’t contacted the Veterans’ Administration was because that organization was accustomed to fraudulent attempts to access veterans’ personal information. Subsequently, the VA had safeguards preventing inquiries from anyone but sanctioned US Government personnel.
The navy captain rubbed his chin. “Let’s see what we can dig up. Follow me.”
Farrell knew the naval hospital was a long shot, and wasn’t convinced he was on anything but a wild-goose hunt. Slocum could have been routed through Japan, and then stateside, after medical treatment, or could have returned to any of a number of hospitals from Vietnam. But then again, many Marines came through Oak Knoll for treatment, especially after tours in Vietnam. And even if Slocum hadn’t been routed through Oak Knoll, he was betting on the navy having a system by which they could track his records, regardless of where he’d been treated.
He followed Pracon to an elevator and the two rode down to the basement. When the door opened Farrell found himself in a damp, cold, and musty storage facility. In one corner a clerk sat at a cluttered desk, the glow of a computer terminal illuminating his face.
“AJ, this is Lieutenant Donovan, OPD.”
The two men shook hands. Captain Pracon said, “Do what you can for him, and let me know what you find.” Pracon said. “Goodbye,” and disappeared into the elevator.
“OK, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”
Farrell wasted no time. “Last name Slocum, S-L-O–”
“I can spell real good,” interrupted the clerk. “Give me the rest.”
“Anything you say. First name: Vernon, middle name: Emil. He was in the Marines, and would have gotten out in ’67 or ’68.” He read Slocum’s birth date and serial number from the yellowed arrest sheet.
The clerk turned to Farrell with a smirk on his face. “Do you have any idea how many Marines came through this facility since the war? And you want me to track one who might have been here over twenty years ago?”
Farrell took out his pack of Camels and lit one. The clerk said, “There’s no smoking in this wing, sir.”
He offered the pack and the clerk took one. He lit the clerk’s smoke with a match. Farrell then took out two twenty-dollar bills and tossed them on the desk. The clerk grinned broadly, saying nothing. He tossed another twenty on the desk, then returned the clerk’s look of bored disinterest.
The stalemate lasted until the clerk was convinced Farrell would put no more money down. Finally he stood up, scooping the three bills into his hand.
“C’mon,” he said, motioning for Farrell to follow. “Records that old are put on microfiche. If we’re going to find your boy, it’ll be there.”
Farrell followed the clerk, an acne-faced kid in his late twenties. He was led to a dusty microfiche terminal across the room. The clerk took a stack of microfiche folders from a shelf and began shuffling through them. Over his shoulder he said, “Get comfortable, this could take a while.”
Farrell took his flask from his pocket and had a gulp, timing it carefully so the act was beyond the range of the clerk’s vision. He had a lot of practice, and if the clerk noticed he didn’t show it. Farrell pulled up a chair and sat down.
More than an hour, and half a pack of Camels later, Farrell was nearly asleep. He squinted through barely open eyes, his chin resting on his chest.
“Got him,” blurted the clerk, jolting Farrell from his near-nap. “Here’s your man. Slocum was the name, right Lieutenant Donovan?”
Farrell had forgotten the name on the business card, and it took him a moment to realize he was Lieutenant Donovan. “You found him?”
“Right here; Slocum, Vernon Emil, Lance Corporal, 1st Battalion, 6th Marine Regiment. Admitted here in July of 1968. Transferred to the veterans’ hospital in Des Moines, Iowa, a month later. Doesn’t say what he was here for. Got his admittance and release dates, and some personal shit. You want to take a look?”
Farrell moved his chair to a position enabling him to see the dim microfiche screen. Taking Slocum’s arrest sheet from his breast pocket, he compared the social security number and birth date to the data on the microfiche terminal. They matched.
When Farrell had gotten all he could from the machine, he reached into his pocket and handed the clerk another twenty-dollar bill.
“Thanks, kid. I’ll see myself out. You didn’t find anything, if your captain asks.”
The clerk accepted the bill and smiled. “Find what?”
Farrell drove back to his apartment in silence, the melancholy sounds of classical music wafting fr
om his car stereo. His stomach was bothering him, and he knew he had to eat something soon or his breakfast of cigarettes and bourbon would have his ulcer bleeding in no time.
He was beginning to remember things he’d forgotten long ago. Things he’d hoped were put to rest. He thought he’d exorcised Slocum from his nightmares, but seeing the name again reminded him he was wrong.
Sometimes he’d see Slocum’s eyes watching him in his dreams. He felt those eyes on him today when wide awake. When he read the newspaper.
Farrell tried to convince himself his trip to the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital was sparked by little more than morbid curiosity and fueled by boredom. But somewhere in the corner of his mind, a corner dark for two decades, a voice was calling. A voice he tried to convince himself he couldn’t hear.
The voice howled in frustration over a career toiling in a justice system that couldn’t stop criminals like Vernon Slocum. The voice shrieked in concert with the cries of tortured, dying children. The voice moaned in shame for failing to deal with a monster when it had the chance. The voice wailed in self-pity over a life spent watching loved-ones drift away. It was a voice Farrell tried to drown in a sea of bourbon, yet could still be heard.
It was a voice Bob Farrell could ignore no longer.
When he got home he poured himself a stiff shot of bourbon. He again stared at the picture in the morning’s paper. He was grateful the picture didn’t show the girl’s eyes.
CHAPTER 13
Buddy Cuszack burrowed deeper into the dirty quilt covering his bed and tried to ignore the barking of his two hounds, tied to a post outside. It had snowed another six inches during the night, and the snow had come with sub-zero temperatures and high winds. It wasn’t even December yet. His dogs usually didn’t bark unless someone was approaching. Who could be coming up the driveway at this hour of the morning?
Buddy was what Inspector Robert Farrell, had he known him, would have called a “lowlife.” He lived in a trailer on a remote piece of acreage on the outskirts of the bustling metropolis of Audubon, Iowa; population 8559. He stood under six feet tall, and weighed under one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. He had a full beard and a penchant for bathing when it suited him. It didn’t suit him often.
Buddy worked only occasionally, doing farm labor and odd mechanic jobs here and there. He spent most of his time consuming tequila, smoking the local marijuana, known as “Iowajuana,” and snorting methamphetamine when he could get it.
Cuszack was known to associate with a local motorcycle club known as the Sons of Silence, and dreamed of promotion to full membership. His only known companions beyond the renegade biker’s club was a three-hundred pound throwback named Sunshine, who visited him for sex on occasion, and two large, unhealthy hound-dogs affectionately named “Douche” and “Bag.” These two dogs were responsible for rousing him from his alcoholic slumber.
The dogs continued to howl, barking with a ferocity usually reserved for the bi-annual visit from the sheriff’s department. Buddy put a worn pillow over his head, but the high-pitched barking penetrated easily. His headache was a grim reminder of how much tequila he’d consumed last night.
Buddy heard a car door slam, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps crunching in the fresh snow. He sat up in bed, wondering if all those traffic tickets he’d yet to pay had turned into warrants, and if the footsteps came from a deputy with a writ for his arrest.
Someone pounded on the trailer door.
“Shit, fuck, piss!” Buddy hauled his bony body out of the squalor of his bed. Wrapping a worn blanket around his waist, he waddled to the trailer door, which was still vibrating with the pounding of a fist.
“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m coming! Ease up, will ya?”
Cuszack opened the door and squinted into the blowing snow.
Standing on the doorstep, like an apparition, was a huge and vaguely familiar silhouette. Buddy peered through his alcohol-blurred eyes to make out the face.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“It’s me,” said a voice surprisingly soft for the size of its owner. “Vern.” It took a moment for Cuszack’s booze-impeded brain to recognize the man standing before him.
“Vern! Vernon fucking Slocum! C’mon in, man. It’s freezing, you know? Damn!”
Cuszack stepped aside and let the tall man into the trailer, closing the door after him. “Sit down, man. I’ll get some clothes on.”
Slocum brushed aside a stack of magazines from a battered sofa. Most depicted naked girls or motorcycles on their covers. He swept snow from his worn fatigue-jacket and sat down.
Buddy returned a moment later wearing a sweater and buttoning the suspenders of his bib-overalls. It was cold enough in the trailer to see breath. Buddy switched on a portable heater and sat down opposite Slocum on another battered sofa.
“Well, hey, Vern, it’s good to see you. I mean, it’s been what, twelve, thirteen years? What you been doing with yourself? How you been?”
“Buddy,” he said, “I need your help.”
Buddy’s eyes finally adjusted to being awake and semi-sober, and for the first time since his visitor arrived he got a good look at him. It made his eyes widen.
Slocum wore his hair in a crewcut, the unshaven stubble on his chin almost as long. His nose was puffed and bruised, and both eyes were swollen and ringed in black. Dried, crusted blood seeped from both nostrils, and there was matted blood on his chin. Beneath the swollen eyelids, in the depth of his eyes, a fire burned fiercely.
“Uh, OK Vern,” stammered Cuszack, biting his lip, “whatever I can do, I’ll do. I mean, you need a place to stay, or whatever, you can count on your old pal Buddy. What are friends for, right?”
Slocum said nothing, simply stared at Cuszack with his burning eyes. He reached into his jacket and came out with a pack of Pall Malls. He stuck one into a corner of his tight lips and lit it, the momentary flash of the lighter in his face casting a demonic glow on his already frightening countenance.
Tossing the cigarettes to Cuszack, Slocum said, “I need some weapons and some crank. I’ve got money. You can put me in touch with people who can outfit me. I need to lay low for a few days.”
Buddy Cuszack gulped and blinked. He didn’t know what Slocum wanted weapons for, and by his appearance it didn’t look like target practice. The dope was no problem, if Slocum really did have money. He lit one of Slocum’s cigarettes nervously.
“Vern, I can get you the dope. No problem. You got the cash I got the stash, right? But I don’t know nothing about no weapons. I stay clear of that kind of bad news, you know?”
“You owe me, Buddy,” Slocum said, “and you’ll get me what I want.”
Buddy almost choked on his cigarette. Slocum’s words were not a request. And Cuszack knew he must deliver.
Buddy Cuszack met Vernon Emil Slocum in the autumn of 1968, at the Veterans’ Hospital in Des Moines. Buddy had been captured by the Viet Cong in February of ’66, when his helicopter was shot down. He’d spent nineteen months as a prisoner of the Viet Cong before being rescued when the POW camp was liberated by Australian troops. In those nineteen months, Buddy Cuszack experienced every form of degrading humiliation that could be devised by his brutal captors.
By the time Buddy was physically healed, his mind still had a long way to go. He was shipped to the psychiatric observation ward of the veterans’ hospital in the capital of his home state, Iowa, and spent several long years fending off his demons before being released.
During those years, the years from 1968 to 1974, Buddy Cuszack made the acquaintance of a lumbering Marine named Vernon Slocum, who was housed in the psych ward as well. Slocum was there when Buddy arrived, and remained when he left. Slocum seldom spoke, but didn’t seem to mind Buddy’s incessant babbling.
The reason Buddy Cuszack developed an affinity for the stoic Marine was out of necessity. Like many of the veterans’ hospital’s residents, he’d developed a severe drug dependency. The lithium, Valium, Thorazine, and countless othe
r pills that were dispensed like candy at the facility soon became his reason for living.
It was like being back in the VC prison camp. Cuszack found himself groveling at first, and then performing sex acts with hospital staff members and less-dependent residents for the drugs he craved. It was another nightmare to add to his burgeoning collection.
It was Slocum who broke the cycle and freed him from his servitude. One day the big Marine started giving his medications to Cuszack for no apparent reason. He would feign swallowing his own prescribed pills, and hide them under his tongue. He’d later give them to Cuszack without demanding the sex others who offered the same service demanded.
Then, for some inexplicable reason, Slocum put a stop to others using Cuszack. He began shaking down patients for their medications and giving them to Buddy. Slocum took no payment for this; he simply handed the meds over to the depraved addict without a word. Slocum’s reward was the pleasure of extorting the other residents.
Some of the incidents were notable. A huge African-American former Marine at the psych ward was one of the more serious offenders in the game of brutalizing Cuszack. Not only would the Marine, named Jackson, force blowjobs from the sniveling Cuszack, but he would take the pills Cuszack already had in his possession.
Slocum faced off Jackson in the residents’ lounge, where both shared clean-up duty. Jackson’s response to Slocum’s demand to leave Cuszack alone was to break a mop handle to a sharp point and lunge at him.
When the other patients and staff heard the screams, they went running into the lounge. They found Jackson on the floor, shrieking hysterically and bleeding profusely from an empty socket that was once his left eye. Slocum was conveniently gone, and they never found the missing eye.
Another time, one of the residents who’d been abusing Cuszack loudly remarked that Slocum was keeping all of Cuszack’s ass for himself. The next day that same resident leaned over to drink from one of the water fountains and a powerful hand materialized and slammed his head down savagely onto the spout of the fountain. Nothing was heard from that resident for some time because his shattered jaw was wired shut for several months.
