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

by Kirk Jockell

  “See ya in the morning, Chief.”

  My first line of business was to run down Marcus Towers. He’s a Chief Personnelman and a workaholic. I knew he would be in his office, and that’s where I found him. He was still in his khaki uniform sitting behind his desk, fresh cup of hot steaming coffee in front of him. He looked up and stood as I came through the door.

  “Nigel! Good to see you, buddy. Welcome back. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” A bit presumptuous, he started towards the coffee maker before I had a chance to decline. I love coffee, but I can’t drink it that late in the day. I’d be up pacing the floor at three in the morning.

  “No. No, Marcus. Thanks, but I can’t drink the stuff like you.”

  I don’t know how anyone can drink coffee like Marcus. He has a cup with him from the time he gets up through taps, always drinking. It’s like his nervous system is numb to the effects of caffeine. The son of a bitch has no problem sleeping though, and he’s difficult to wake up in the morning. All of which is remedied by a fresh cup of steaming black Joe, to restart the vicious cycle.

  He’s not alone. The Navy is full of squids like him. On every ship you will find more than a handful of these coffee addicts. The Command Master Chief from my first ship was like that, drank coffee from dawn till dusk. In my young career, I admired and looked up to his crusty, salty ways. Early on I tried to emulate his coffee routine. After about three weeks, when I finally went to sleep, it dawned on me that it probably wasn’t in my best interest. Now days, I try not to touch the stuff after 1000.

  Since Marcus was already up, I did allow him to get me a bottle of water from the fridge. He handed me a Dasani and sat back down. I grabbed a chair and pulled it up to his desk. He made small talk about the ship and crew in an attempt to make me feel comfortable, like things were perfectly normal. But they weren’t. Our minds were on other things, probably the same thing ... or damn near. The conversation faded to an awkward silence and I broke it saying, “Marcus, there is something I need for you to do for me. And not just do, but make a priority and keep it under wraps. That means I need for you to handle everything, not get your personnel involved at all.”

  Marcus put his coffee cup down and leaned forward on his desk as I explained my desire to retire quietly and as soon as possible. He gave a halfhearted attempt to talk me out of it, but knew he was wasting his time. He saw it in my eyes. Plus, I think he understood the practicality in the decision.

  We talked about the details, a possible effective date, and what could be expected. I stood up, shook his hand, and told him I would have my official written request to him in the morning. He remained seated and returned a smile of acknowledgement, disappointment in his face. Then he asked, “So I guess this means no retirement ceremony, huh?”

  I smiled back and said, “No. No ceremony. But don’t worry; I’ll plan something with the mess, but until then, not a word. Okay?”

  Marcus nodded again and I headed out of his spaces. Stepping through the door, he stopped me and said, “Nigel. Can I ask you something? Just between me and you.”

  “What is it Marcus?”

  I knew the question. I saw it written on his face. It was the one question everybody wanted to ask. He could tell by the look on my face I knew what he wanted to know. It created an uncomfortable moment for him. He shook his head and said, “Nothing Nigel. I’m sorry. It’s nothing. No big deal.”

  I nodded my head with a smile and stepped out into the passageway.

  Officer’s Call and morning muster is a daily ritual. The entire crew gathers on the flight deck to get their morning marching orders and to review the POD, the Plan of the Day. There was nothing of great significance published, but that didn’t mean my guys wouldn’t have plenty to do. The latest Notice to Mariners had just been published and there were plenty of changes that would require the charts to be updated, a tedious but necessary task for safe, effective navigation. Even in port, a Quartermaster’s job is never done.

  I knew Skip’s routine like clockwork. He would be having breakfast in his stateroom at 0800. It would be a light morning meal: Black coffee, English muffin with peanut butter, and some flavor of Greek yogurt, maybe some fresh fruit. I could have knocked and entered. I have an open door policy with Skip, but I decided I would give him plenty of time to enjoy his chow.

  At 0830 I banged on the door with my signature knock, two quick knuckle raps, a pause and a final single rap. From the other side of the door I heard, “Chief! Come on in.”

  The shipboard living quarters of a commanding officer are quite cozy and roomy compared to the rest of the crew. A well-deserved perk from years of dedication and service. The Skipper’s quarters were like a small one-room efficiency apartment, not huge, but spacious enough to serve as the perfect retreat from the daily stresses associated with the care and maintenance of a naval vessel and the 427 souls that worked her.

  He was still sitting at his dining room table, finishing his breakfast. As I was stepping through the door, I saw him waving me in. His steward was picking up dirty dishes from the table. “Come in. Please, come in. Have a seat. Coffee?”

  “That would be nice, thanks.”

  “Petty Officer Bailes, bring Chief Logan a cup of coffee. Make it one of the big mugs, heavy cream, and no sugar.”

  The coffee was exceptional, not the normal kettle-brewed stuff found on the mess decks, or the chief’s mess for that matter. It was fresh ground and aromatic. For Skip, even the best is barely good enough. But again, he deserves it.

  “You sent word, Captain. You wanted to see me?”

  He was nodding his head as he sipped his own coffee. “Yes, Chief, but wait.”

  The steward, Bailes, was hanging around doing some tiding up, or at least that was the appearance he was trying to give. I knew better. He was hanging around with attentive ears. There wasn’t anyone that wouldn’t have wanted to be a fly on the wall during my visit with Skip. And if Petty Officer Bailes could collect some detail of interest for the rest of the crew, he would be a rumor-mill hero.

  “That is all Bailes. Please come back and finish your cleaning later. Leave me with Chief Logan so we can chat in private, if you please.”

  “Aye, Aye, sir.” And Bailes left the space. We watched as he departed.

  Skip turned to me and said, “Good kid. Damn good cook. But he’s as fucking nosy as they come.”

  “Aren’t they all?” I said.

  He said nothing for a while and finally asked, “How are you, Nigel?”

  “I’m doing okay, Skipper. As good as anyone that just escaped a murder indictment. I guess.”

  “Drop the formalities. No more Skipper shit, got it?”

  “Sure, Charlie. Thanks.”

  Captain Charlie Matthews is my commanding officer. I have had the honor and privilege of serving with him on several occasions. By sheer luck, or by divine intervention, we’ve spent a good part of both of our careers together under three different commands, so we’ve both had a chance to watch each other grow and blossom. When he made lieutenant commander, we celebrated over a bottle of single malt scotch and waited for the sun to show itself across an Italian horizon. When I made Chief, it was he that pinned on my anchors.

  We were more than friends, we were family. I was at the hospital during the birth of two of his three children. He and his sweet wife Caroline have two sons, Max and Andy, and the eldest, a beautiful daughter, Grace.

  “Charlie. I’m so sorry if this entire ordeal has brought you and Caroline renewed pain and sorrow. I’m sure it has had to unwind some of the healing that time brings.”

  Charlie looked at his coffee cup. Said nothing.

  “Charlie. How is Grace?”

  Charlie looked up, eyes slightly misted over and took a sip of coffee and said, “She’s doing alright it seems, except for the nightmares. They’ve returned. She is back in counseling. That was her own idea. She is so damn mature for a twenty year old.”

  I said nothing letting him talk.


  “I spoke with her last night. She called after hearing the news. She called to talk about you, Nigel. She’s more worried about you than herself. Damn kid is amazing. Keeping her grades up too. We’re so proud of her.”

  “We all are,” I said. “Like you said, she’s amazing. A hell of a lot stronger than you or me.”

  It had been almost nineteen months since Grace and a girlfriend were driving home from a party. Grace consumed way too much alcohol and was passed out in the back seat. Casey, the girlfriend, decided to take what she thought was a short cut. She was wrong and found herself lost in an unfamiliar, undesirable part of Norfolk. A bad part of town.

  Totally confused, Casey stopped and put the car in park at an intersection to get her bearings. She had her face in her smart phone pulling up a map when the driver side door flung open and Casey was pulled from the car and slung into the street. It was a car jacking, and while Casey lay in the street, she watched in horror as her car raced away. It took a right turn at the next intersection and disappeared. The car was gone, so was Grace.

  The car was found the next morning on a road outside of town. Grace was still in the car, badly beaten and raped. It was a parent’s greatest nightmare come true. Charlie and his wife Caroline were devastated and their hearts torn as they watched their little girl cope with the difficulties such horror brings.

  The difficulties didn’t stop there. Justice served can make things better, but it will never reverse the clock and put things back to how it used to be. It’s not like a stolen car where the thief is caught, sent to jail, and the car is recovered and returned undamaged. No. What happened to Grace is permanent, and what was taken away from her can never be replaced. But when no justice is served, that is the greatest insult.

  Casey was sure it was local rapper T-Daddy Lundsford that had pulled her from the car and drove away. She had never seen T-Daddy in person, but she had seen many of his promotional posters for local shows he had done. Plus, Terrance “T-Daddy” Lundsford was no stranger to trouble. It was common knowledge that “T-Daddy” was your typical gangster thug and regular person of interest in several past crimes. He had a reputation and made the news quite often.

  As it came time to testify in the car jacking charge, Casey got scared. Her level of certainty that sent police immediately to Lundsford’s home, began to wane. Charlie and I sat in the courtroom and felt our veins turn to ice as we heard her say, “I think it was him. It sort of looked like him. To be honest, I can’t be totally sure.” At that point the case was blown. Even though his fingerprints were found in the car, her testimony was enough to hang the jury and he was allowed to walk back to his cell where he awaited his trial for the crimes against Grace Matthews.

  One week later I was on my sailboat, MisChief, relaxing after a long exhausting day. I was enjoying a second long pour of neat bourbon when my cell phone rang. I looked at my phone, the name Charlie Matthews lit up the middle of the screen. I pressed talk. “Yes, sir. Chief Logan here.”

  “Nigel. It’s Charlie.” I could sense urgency in his voice. The line went quite for a moment then he said, “They are going to let the little fucker go. The piece of shit is going to walk.”

  “Release him? Release who, Charlie?”

  Then I heard the name Lundsford and went numb. Charlie continued talking, trying to explain what happened, but I couldn’t hear him. I had tuned everything out with my own dazed sickness. I came back to the conversation when I heard Charlie call my name. “Nigel. Nigel, are you there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry. This is awful news. Now please, I’m sorry. Tell me again what this is all about?”

  Turns out Lundsford’s defense attorney, James Milford, was reviewing the case against his client when he noticed a serious flaw with the handling of the prosecution’s cornerstone evidence. The DNA collected from Grace, Lundsford’s DNA, had been mishandled. The chain of custody of the specimen could not be properly accounted for from the time it was taken to the time of its receipt at the lab. A huge mistake.

  Milford and the prosecution team met with the judge to review and argue for and against the evidence’s admissibility in court. Milford prevailed and the evidence was thrown out. The case became unhinged. Grace was unable to clearly identify her attacker, and the prosecution’s entire case hinged on the DNA connecting him with the victim.

  The district attorney was sickened by the findings, but wasn’t willing to go to court with only paper-thin evidence. The DA wasn’t willing to risk a not-guilty verdict that would prevent them from ever going after Lundsford at some later time. Plus, to lose such a case wouldn’t look good on his resume. The charges were dropped.

  I listened to the pain and anger in Charlie’s voice. I was angry too, mad as hell. How could they have screwed this up? How? What little satisfaction a guilty verdict could have brought to Grace and her family was suddenly gone. It vanished. And the likelihood police would unveil additional evidence suitable enough to bring another arrest and the case back to court was questionable. And worst of all, he would be back on the streets, free to do this again and probably would.

  I paced the salon of my boat, back and forth, back and forth, listening. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. Sometimes the best part of a true friend is their ears; I gave him mine for as long as he needed them. I finally asked if he wanted me to come over and he told me no, that he and Caroline needed some time. And the line went quiet.

  I stopped pacing in front of my navigation station and reached down and opened the bottom drawer and said, “Love you, brother. You know that, right? If you or Caroline need anything, I’m a phone call away. Don’t hesitate to call.”

  Charlie said, “I know Nigel. It’s that we’ve all been through so much, not to mention Grace. Now to have this happen. What in the world are we going to do?”

  Anger seeped from my pores in the form of a cold sweat. I stood looking down into the drawer and reached down and said, “You’re not going to do anything but take care of Grace, your family, and yourself. Do you hear me?”

  Charlie said nothing. All I heard was breathing.

  Inside the drawer I gently folded back the black oiled cloth that covered my 9mm Beretta. I picked it up. The blue steel was cold to my skin, but the pistol grip felt good in the palm of my hand, comfortable. It was like wearing a favorite hat that knows every contour of your head, fitting perfectly. I stood staring at it and finally said, “Charlie, I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but everything is going to be alright. I promise. Kiss Caroline and Grace for me and try to get some rest.”

  I took a long draw of coffee and realized I was hungrier than I thought. I looked back towards the door to Charlie’s galley and asked, “Can I grab an English muffin or something?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You can have whatever you want. Let me get Petty Officer Bailes back in here and I’ll have him heat one up for you.”

  “That’s okay. I think I can manage.” I got up, went into the galley, found the English muffins, halved one, and put it in the toaster. “Can I get you anything while I’m up?”

  He declined. Then I said, “Charlie, you know it’s time for me to leave, right. My time’s up. I can’t stay any longer.”

  I walked back to the table when Charlie said, “What are you talking about? You just got here a few minutes ago.”

  I sat back down and said, “Not leave, as in, leave here now. I mean leave, as in, leave for good. I can’t stay in this town right now. I’ve got to go.”

  Charlie asked, “You putting in for a transfer?”

  I reached in my back pocket and handed him a copy of the paperwork I had already given to Marcus. He unfolded it and studied its contents. A look of shock and concern flew across his face, and then he collected himself and returned to his normal professional deportment. He folded it back up and handed it back to me. “Is this what you want, to retire?”

  “Hell no it’s not what I want, but I don’t feel like I have any other choice. It doesn’t
matter where I go in the Navy, this Lundsford thing will always loom over my head and career. I think it is best for all concerned.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’m not sure. Away from Norfolk, for a while anyway. That’s for damn sure.”

  The room got quiet and we left each other to our own thoughts. He finished his coffee while I polished off mine and the English muffin. Little was said. I stood up and walked around to Charlie’s side of the table and patted my dear friend on the back, a parting gesture. And at that moment, we both transitioned back to our normal naval presence, commanding officer and Navy chief petty officer.

  “If that will be all, sir, I should check on the guys in my division.”

  “That will be all, Chief.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I headed back to the door and before I could get there, the captain got my attention, “Chief?”

  I slowly turned, but didn’t say anything. I looked at the skipper and much like with Chief Towers, I could see the question brewing in his eyes. It was there plain as day. The captain didn’t say a thing, so I said, “Captain, sir. There is one thing that will never change in this Navy of ours. And it’s that a ship’s captain doesn’t always need to know how his chiefs get things accomplished. How things get done. They accept it. Some questions are better left unasked. It’s the way it’s always been, and it’s the way it will always be.”

  He closed his eyes and returned a slow nod. When he opened his eyes, I was gone.

  ###

  Read more episodes in the life of Nigel Logan. Volume Two of Tales from Stool 17, Trouble in Tate’s Hell is available now!

  Thank You!

  Kirk Jockell would like to thank you for reading this book. He loves stories. Growing up with ADD--nobody knew what it was way back then--his imagination ran wild. Little stories constantly danced through his head. His Mom would say, “He lives in his own little world.” Fifty-three years later, he still does. The only exception is, now he puts his little world on paper. He wishes he had done so sooner.