Tales from Stool 17; Finding Port St. Joe: The Nigel Logan Stories (Vol. 1) (Volume 1)

by Kirk Jockell

  I riffled through the stack of cards, dealing them out on the bar as I reviewed each one: insurance card, my Navy Federal account card, a Freedom Bonds and Bails card, one of Red’s driving school cards, my Navy Shellback card, and business cards from other various nautical photographers I’ve met along the way. It’s no wonder my wallet is so damn fat.

  Then I came across a card that made me pause. I hadn’t thought of or seen that card in a very long time. I flipped it over and stared at the back. The phone number was there, just as I remembered it.

  I’m not sure how long I sat there staring at the card, but Red said, “Hey! Earth to Logan. Did you forget what you were doing? You’re getting the man a business card for crying out loud.”

  I looked up half startled, “Huh? Oh ... Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  I zipped through the other cards until I found one of my own. There were three. I took out two and handed them to Mr. Cain. “Here ya go. Sorry ‘bout that. Got a tad bit distracted.”

  I collected my cards and sorted them into two stacks, one for keeping and one for the shit can. I placed the others back in my wallet but left the one card out. It brought back vivid memories: stress, anxiety, and consequences, mainly my premature retirement from the World’s most powerful Navy.

  I stared at the card as it took me back to the day it was handed to me. I heard her words as if it were yesterday. When you’re ready.

  It was a little after 1500 when my cell phone rang. It woke me up. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, maybe three, three and a half hours. The TV was on. The last thing I remembered was filtering through the noon news, keeping an ear out for anything of interest.

  The local television stations were following things pretty close. It even got some mild attention from some of the national news outlets. The circumstances surrounding the case were emotionally charged and created great conflict and debate amongst all the local legal analysts. If anything new developed, they would interrupt normal broadcasting to announce the latest. All of Norfolk, VA wanted to know, but no one more than me.

  I picked up the cell phone, “This is Logan.”

  I remained on my back, looking at the ceiling as I listened. The caller didn’t take long. The message was short.

  “Thank you,” I said and ended the call, tossing the phone to the foot of the bed.

  I laced my fingers together, placed my hands behind my head, and settled back into my pillow. My eyes found a small spider crawling across the ceiling. I followed it towards the wall and watched as it fell, a fine thread of silk controlling its decent. It landed on the lamp shade. It was free, self-reliant, bothering nobody.

  I rolled over, grabbed the remote, and turned up the TV. I threw my legs over the side and put my feet on the floor. I stretched. Then I walked into the full kitchen, a nice amenity to the hotel suite where I had been holed up for the past three days.

  I pulled a Coors Light out of the fridge. From the TV I heard the excited voice of anchorman Wes Howser, Channel 7, The News Voice of Tidewater. I walked back and sat down on the foot of the bed, twisted the top off the beer and tossed it in the corner with the others. As I listened, I took out my knife and cut a generous slice of lime, squeezed it into my beer. A Coorsona.

  Wes Howser was sitting behind his news desk. The words “Breaking News” flashed across the bottom of the screen as he spoke, “We hate to interrupt your normally scheduled programming, but we have just learned the grand jury hearing evidence in the Terrance Lundsford murder case has come to a conclusion. Chief Petty Officer Nigel Logan, the main suspect, is believed by the prosecution to have been responsible for the violent, execution style murder of local rapper Terrance “T-Daddy” Lundsford. Sherry Stone is outside the Virginia Beach Courthouse waiting for the official word. Let’s go to Sherry now.”

  The screen switched to a head shot of an attractive blond. She stood on the steps of the courthouse and she wasn’t alone. Reporters from other news stations were on location too. They were all awaiting a press conference expected at any moment. She was attentive, listening to Wes Howser, waiting for her lead-in.

  “So Sherry, what can you share with us? What is the latest?” asked the anchorman.

  Nodding her head in acknowledgement before speaking she said, “Wes, these courthouse steps behind me will soon set the stage for what is sure to be a dramatic press conference with Virginia Beach District Attorney, Blair Westhoven. Our sources tell us the grand jury hearing reviewing evidence in the high-profile Lundsford case has concluded. And now we await the decision on whether the state’s evidence is strong enough to indict Chief Petty Officer Nigel Logan for the murder of Terry Lundsford.”

  Wes Howser asked, “Is there any indication, or have you heard word on what the decision might be?”

  Before she had a chance to answer, the courthouse doors flew open with DA Westhoven stepping out towards the podium. The news crews ran up the steps, cameras were flashing, and the reporters were all screaming the same question fourteen different ways. Westhoven held out his open palms towards the eager reporters to quiet them. He wouldn’t be taking any questions, but making a prepared statement. He stood there trying to portray firm confidence, but I could see the truth. His eyes revealed the hidden expression of a broken man, disappointed, even embarrassed.

  I took another drink of beer and reached over to grab the remote control. As DA Westhoven began to speak, I hit the red button. The TV screen went dark with a crackling spark of static. The room became excessively quiet. I took another pull from my beer, set it down on the dresser and crawled back on top of the bed. I found myself staring at the ceiling again, deep in thought. There were so many things to think about, so many decisions to make.

  I turned my head towards the lamp shade looking for my spider. It was gone, nowhere to be found. It had managed to slip away unnoticed. I smiled and closed my eyes.

  I felt well rested when I rose from my short nap. It had been a long ordeal. With the grand jury news behind me, it was time to get the hell out of there. I had had enough of hotel living. I grabbed my bag, collected the few things I had brought with me and slammed the door leaving the keycard on the dresser. There was still the better part of a twelve pack in the fridge. I figured the cleaning staff could make good use of them.

  As I stepped out into the Tidewater sun, I noticed a clean, black Crown Vic with tinted windows parked next to my truck, an older model Ford F-150. As I got closer, the driver’s door on the Vic opened and Detective Larry Anderson stepped out. He closed the door and leaned against the hood, arms crossed giving him a non-wavering defiant air. It was an attempt to intimidate. I wasn’t impressed.

  My attorney, the local police, and the prosecution all knew I was at the hotel. Nobody else did though. It was actually my Skipper’s idea to get off the ship for a few days, especially while the case was being heard. He didn’t want or need the distraction for the ship’s company. It was already difficult enough, and he felt my presence would only make things worse. And while he never said it, I knew it was to protect me. If things hadn’t worked out as they had, he wanted to spare me the embarrassment of being escorted off the ship in handcuffs.

  “Where do you think you are going?” the detective asked.

  “Larry, I fail to see where that remains to be any of your damn business,” I replied. “But if you have to know, I am returning to my ship.”

  “We’re not on a first name basis, Chief.”

  “Where I come from, Chief is my first name, Larry.”

  “You’re a cocky, smug bastard aren’t you?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I proceeded to my truck and stopped at the door, thought for a second then turned, “Let me ask you something. What is it you guys feel worse about? That you couldn’t get an indictment on me for the killing of T-Daddy, or that you uniform types completely fucked up the arrest and prosecution of Lundsford in the carjacking and rape of that young lady? Huh? Come on. Have an honest moment with me here.”

  He stare
d at me, speechless. Then he found something cheap to say.

  “Go to Hell, Logan.”

  Climbing up into my truck I said, “That’s what I thought. And you have the nerve to call me a smug bastard. You’re a piece of work, detective. At least I sleep at night with a clear conscience.”

  I started my truck and let it idle for a bit. I sat behind the wheel and rolled down my window for one last question. I already knew the answer, but wanted to strike a nerve.

  “So detective, when can I have my weapon back? It’s mine you know, and I want it returned.”

  Part of the evidence against me was the weapon used in the killing. It was mine, a 9mm Beretta. There was no denying that. The gun was found at the crime scene, ballistics showed the single fatal bullet was fired from its chamber, and the gun’s registration led the police straight to me.

  “You’re not getting the weapon back, asshole. It remains evidence in the case and tied up in the continuing investigation.”

  I smiled.

  The detective continued, “You may think this is funny and that it’s all over, but it’s not. We’re going to keep digging. I know you killed him, and I will nail you for it.”

  “I don’t know detective. Sometimes … things have a funny way of working themselves out. It seems to me justice has already been served. So go ahead, keep looking. Perhaps one day you will find your killer. If you do, if that day comes, if I were you, I’d shake his hand. See ya around, Larry.”

  I rolled up my window and backed out of the parking space. The detective remained leaning up against his car as I drove out of the lot painfully slow. I wanted to burn this memory in his brain. A day and an encounter he would never forget.

  I drove down the waterfront towards the pier where my ship was moored. It was tied up out on the end, behind another destroyer. I shook my head as I counted three news crews setup outside the gate. They were damned and determined to get the follow-up story to today’s news. Not today folks, not today.

  Amongst them was Sherry Stone of Channel 7. She had wasted no time in packing up from the courthouse and bustling here to relocate. Hard worker, dedicated, I liked that. Plus, she was more beautiful in person than on the tube. I liked that too.

  I cruised by nice and slow to assess the situation, too slow I guess. Miss Stone turned her head and our eyes met. She immediately recognized me. She flashed a welcoming smile, but that was it, nothing more. She never drew attention to the fact I was there. I found that odd.

  I drove on down and found a place to park. I picked up my cell phone and called the quarter deck. Petty Office Sterling answered the phone. I recognized his voice.

  “Good afternoon, USS Davenport, this is an unsecured line. How may I help you Sir or Ma’am?”

  “Good afternoon, shipmate. This is Chief Logan. Who is on watch with you?”

  “Hello, Chief. This is Petty Officer Sterling. We’re all so happy with the news. Congratulations.”

  Sterling is a Boatswain Mate Second Class, a BM2, works in Deck Department, 1st Division. First Division is one of the toughest departments on a ship, the meat and potatoes of the Navy. The care and maintenance of the ship is their responsibility. It isn’t glamorous work, but it’s necessary to keep any war vessel shipshape and in fighting condition.

  Sterling is exceptional and all Navy. Salt runs through his veins. I like him. He is results-driven and more squared away in his uniform than most others with much cleaner jobs. The level of responsibility and the number of people for which he is accountable exceeds most of the commissioned officers on the boat. He is going to make a great Chief.

  “Thank you, Sterling. So who is the OOD?” Officer of the Day.

  “That would be Mr. Gray, Chief.”

  “Perfect.” Mr. Gray is a Lieutenant Junior Grade from Supply Department, nice guy, easy to work with. “I need to come aboard, but I don’t want to deal with the media at the gate. Clear it with the OOD, but get the duty driver to bring the van over so I can get past these vultures. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

  I gave Sterling my location and sat back. My eyes were closed, head back against the head rest. I was about to doze off when a tap on the driver’s side window startled me. Man, I got to get some real rest. I opened my eyes and saw Sterling, a big grin on his face, the right side of his lower lip slightly swollen with a dip of Copenhagen.

  I rolled down my window.

  Sterling said, “I figured I’d come get you myself. Jonesie, the duty driver, is covering for me on the quarterdeck.”

  “Good plan. Is the Skipper still on board?”

  “Yes, Chief. And he knows you’re about to come aboard. Mr. Gray told him. I’m also to pass the word that he would like to see you in the morning, in his stateroom, right after quarters.”

  “Thanks, BM2,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Sterling never said another word on the short drive back. He was smart enough to know that if I wanted to talk, I would say something. I appreciated that. Again, he’s a real pro. Had they let young Seaman Apprentice Jones come pick me up, he would have talked my ear off. He hadn’t yet learned the valuable lesson that sometimes, less is more.

  As we approached the pier we stopped and flashed our ID cards, protocol, no one gets in without proper credentials. As we waited for the gate to open, it didn’t take the media long to figure out I was in the van. The reporters and cameramen swarmed around the van. With all the commotion and the windows rolled up, their calls were, for the most part, unintelligible. They were all yelling their questions. All but one.

  Sherry Stone was off to the side, not engaging the van. She and her crew remained away from the others. She was standing by the fence. She was watching from afar, same smile as before. BM2 pulled the van onto the pier towards the ship as the guards closed the gate. I looked into the side mirror and there she was, still standing by the fence. I thought about it for a second or two then said, “BM2. Stop the van.”

  I opened the door and got out. Stood by the door for a few seconds then proceeded towards her position at the fence. The other media hounds closed in around her, screaming their questions, cameras rolling. She was surrounded and protected by her crew giving her plenty of space. I got to the fence and we exchanged glances, communicating through our eyes. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a business card, stuck it through the fence. I took it and looked it over.

  Through the calls and comments of the other reporters I heard her say, “When you’re ready.”

  I looked up. “Thank you.”

  She smiled and turned towards her crew. “We’re out of here, boys. No story here. Not today anyway.”

  I stood at the fence and watched as she and her crew crawled back in the news van. She never looked back at me. I took that as a professional courtesy. In a way, I didn’t want her to leave, but I stood there and watched as she rode away.

  I turned and walked back to the van. Sterling was patient. “Are we ready, Chief?”

  I flipped the card over to find another number there, handwritten. A personal cell phone, perhaps.

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  Through the fog of my thoughts I heard, “Well … Are you or aren’t you?”

  The words bounced off my ears, but didn’t register. I heard them again, this time with the mention of my name which prompted me to creep out of my daydream. “Dammit, Nigel. Are you or aren’t you?”

  My head cleared and I looked up. It was Red. I asked, “Huh? Are you? Are you what?”

  Red said, “Brother, you are acting like one spaced-out crazy bastard. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was thinking about something. That’s all.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  I thought about it for a minute, and the words of Sherry Stone came back to me again. When you’re ready. I looked up at Red and said, “No, not today. Another day maybe.”

  I shook my head to clear my noggin and put the card back in my wallet. I took a sip from my beer. It
wasn’t as cold as I remembered, but it helped to flush the memories.

  “Now,” I said. “What is it you were asking me? Am I or am I not, what?”

  Red pointed at the tray of oysters and said, “Eating that last one.”

  I looked down and my dozen oysters were gone, all but one. They only thing that remained were some cracker crumbs and residual splashes of Crystal hot sauce in empty shells. I looked up at Red in amazement. “Really, you ate my oysters. You left me one, and now you want my permission to down it too?”

  Red chuckled, “You didn’t seem too interested and they were getting cold.”

  “They’re fucking raw, Red. They’re supposed to be cold.”

  Red chuckled as he said, “You’re a grumpy bastard, too.”

  I soaked the remaining oyster with Crystal and slurped it right out of the shell. I slapped the bar to get the shuckers attention and threw a ten dollar bill in the tip jar. They smiled as I twirled my finger around in the air. Another round boys!

  The Question

  The second I stepped back aboard the ship I knew my life there could never be the same. Memories would fade over time, but they would never erase, never disappear. The crew could never treat me as they had before. The cloud of curiosity and suspicion that had befallen me was too great. It’s natural. The question would always be there, and folks would want to ask, most would never dare.

  After all the hand shaking and congratulatory greetings on the quarterdeck, Petty Officer Sterling asked, “Where to, Chief? I’ll usher you through the ship so nobody disturbs you.”

  I turned and faced Sterling, reached out with both hands and took hold of his muscular biceps, shook them gently and said, “No thanks, shipmate. I think I can manage from here. I appreciate you though. Thanks for coming to get me.”

  Sterling nodded back with a grin. Then he caught me pass a subtle, non-verbal message. I took my tongue and poked out the right side of my lower lip. He smiled as he reached down and retrieved a can of Copenhagen from his left sock and handed it to me. I winked as I took a dip. I handed him the can back and slapped him on the arm. “Thanks again, for everything.”