Chapter 4
With Preston temporarily gone from the gathering, the others seemed to relax, and I wondered about that. My private virtual secretary, the one in my head, was working overtime, taking notes, remembering phrases, making impressions. One of these days I’d buy a small tape recorder.
Josie came back with a tray of tall glasses of iced tea. I noted that Alvin had opted for something that looked suspiciously like a Bloody Mary. Tod took a long drink from his glass and said, “After our first trip to Yap we started to hear from the families of other MIAs, so we organized a group to help collect information and put some of the missing pieces together.”
“There are several vets organizations around that function as research and as historical record-keeping groups,” Josie said. “Thing is, the war recedes in our collective memories, and government records often don’t have the emotional flavor of the events.” She paused and her gaze seemed to travel once more into the distant past. “There are a lot of men still missing. I mean, we know they died in the war, but we don’t really know, if you get my meaning.”
I nodded. I understood, even though I had never been to war, or in the service. But I knew people who had gone to Vietnam. Iraq. Even Afghanistan. And not come back. They were killed in action, but their bodies weren’t recovered. So families had holes in the fabric of their lives. There were a lot of gaps, a lot of unsaid goodbyes among relatives of the men and women who went to fight in the Pacific during World War II. It would always be that way.
Josie said.” I never knew my granduncle, you know? I barely knew my grandfather. But once I started thinking about it, I wanted to know more. So I read a lot and my favorite husband,” she smiled and tapped Tod on the shoulder, “encouraged me.”
“We joined a group of relatives from Minnesota. There are chapters all over the country, trying to piece records together. We have a website, you know.”
“So I understand,” I said. I didn’t say I hadn’t been to it. Surfing the Web was definitely not my thing. I supposed I’d have to ask my neighbors, the Revulon cousins, to do some searching for me.
“Well, we’re raising money for more trips to try to find exactly where my relative’s plane went down. It was a Liberator, a B-24.”
“Tod told me a lot of planes were lost over Yap.”
“That’s right. U.S. forces bombed the facilities frequently. Because of its location, the Japanese built an important radio and command center there. For a long time the plan was to invade Yap in 1944. But plans changed and allied forces skipped to Leyte and Mindanao in the Philippines.
“When the war ended in forty-five, the garrison on Yap surrendered. It was still in Japanese hands.”
“All right, that’s the history and that’s how your relative, Amundson, came to be shot down there. Let’s talk about how I can help you, because I have to tell you, the whole business sounds way outside my areas of expertise.” I glanced up to see Preston, Josie’s father, returning to settle into the same chair he’d left a few minutes earlier.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Did I miss anything important?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it again. Important? Yes, you could say that, information important to me, anyway. I assumed Preston had already heard or read the history of the war itself, and his family involvement.
Tod picked up the narrative. “We think the air raid we’re studying was a kind of pickup group. Some of the aircraft appear to have come from a different bomber squadron. Records indicate one plane was loaned to the attacking squadron as a pathfinder. You know what that is?”
As it happened, I did, and I said so. “It’s a lone airplane that flies in and marks the target with flares or incendiaries for the bomber group following.”
Josie nodded. “That was the plane my granduncle was on. Thing is, he wasn’t part of the regular crew. Somebody on Los Negros, we think, arranged to get him aboard the pathfinder which was then to continue after Yap to another destination.
“The pilot radioed that they had successfully located the target. It was at night and there were some storms in the area. Anyway, the last radio transmission from the pilot said they’d turned away after marking the targets and were heading for their planned destination.”
“Was that common,” I wondered aloud, “using a plane with a different destination, essentially a non-combat mission, to lead a bombing raid?”
“Who knows,” Tod said. “What we do know is they did lots of non-regulation things during the war. Expediency. And face it, command and control or whatever they called it then probably wasn’t as tight as it should have been.”
“So, your granduncle was a non-combatant?”
Josie shook her head. “Oh, he was in combat all right. He flew co-pilot on many missions in the South Pacific. According to what I have found out, he was going to Hawaii to collect a new plane to bring to a forward base, and this was a way to get him to Hawaii. Since he was already ordered to go to Hawaii, somebody asked him to carry a dispatch case for the base commander instead of sending the report on a special flight.
“We know this because he wrote a letter home posted the same day his plane was shot down. In the letter he gripes a little about carrying a dispatch case and a package.”
“You have the letter?”
Josie nodded. “My grandmother gave it to me. Anyway, after we started talking to people by phone and letter and by email, it got kind of exciting and we actually went to Yap and dove over some of the known sites where wrecks were located. We planned another trip for later this summer but then things started to happen.
“A smaller but similar group on the East Coast started out very enthusiastic and promised to share some important documents they said they had. But then they disappeared.”
“Disappeared. As in vanished?”
“Exactly,” Tod said.
“The people in the East Coast group?” I said.
“No, no,” Josie jumped in. “Not them, the papers.”
“Oh, sorry,” Tod said. “Yes, I meant the documents. We got a phone call from someone who said he was the head of the group. I think his name was Charlie something. I’ve got notes about it somewhere.”
“What sort of documents or records are we talking about?” I said.
“Individual service records. Command records of plane disbursements, newspaper and magazine articles. All copies, of course. Most came from the VA or the Department of the Army,” Tod said.
“Okay.”
Tod took a sip of his drink. “Anyway, he said the documents had gone missing. He sounded upset but he didn’t tell me much, except that some records were gone.”
“What was in the missing documents?”
“We were told the missing stuff was documentation of a military investigation that happened after the war. Apparently the investigation turned up evidence of smuggling. The papers are supposed to reveal names and places and dates of the illegal activity.”
“If they got the report from the government it must have been a copy. The original may still exist somewhere,” I said.
Tod shrugged. “I guess so.”
“I take it there are links to Yap or the bomber groups that were active there during the war? Is that what this is all about?” I was beginning to feel the waters rising over my head. To say I was swimming out of my depth would be an understatement.
Tod stood up, then he sat again. “No. That isn’t it. At least, I don’t think so. See, I think the guy with the dispatch case might have been part of a group of GIs sending drugs and maybe other stuff home during the war.”
“And the military authorities said what? Did they accuse Amundson?”
“Wait,” said Tod. He held up a hand like he was trying to stop the inevitable. “This is getting too fragmented. The documents apparently say the dispatch case or the package the officer wa
s carrying may have contained contraband, but he might not have been aware of it. We think, but we aren’t sure, that the man with the dispatch case referred to in some documents was her granduncle.”
I stared at Tod and Josie. I got it. “You think some people in the military, because of this investigation, believe your granduncle might have been involved in a smuggling operation, and you want me to look into it? You’re thinking there’s no way your granduncle could have been involved in something illegal, right? He’s under suspicion because he was in the right place at the right time. Circumstances.”
“That’s right,” Josie said. “If there was smuggling of any kind, we think if you can find out where the U.S. end of the smuggling was, maybe we’ll be able to at least satisfy the family that my granduncle wasn’t involved.”
“Your family,” I said. Josie looked blank. She didn’t get it. Tod blinked and sort of flinched. Light flashed in my eyes. Sunlight reflected off the diamond in the pinky ring on Preston’s finger. I shifted slightly to the right.
“You know about the Freedom of Information Act?” I asked.
“Sure, we’re filing requests all the time. This guy who’s coming up here from St. Louis says he has more than the official version of the smuggling investigation. But he refused to tell me anything else until we meet face to face.”
“What does he have to say?” I was starting to have trouble keeping all the parts and players in my head. I wished I’d started a notebook when I first arrived.
“His name’s Stan Lewis. Stan Lewis from Saint Louis,” smiled Tod. “He’s arriving tonight by train. He said after he got out of the service he never wanted to fly in anything ever again and he hasn’t. He gets in around seven. I’d like you to be there with me to meet him, if you will. He’s acted kind of hinky on the phone. He claims people have been asking about him, people he doesn’t know. Mr. Lewis said he’d bring some of what he’s collected. If he decides everything’s jake, he’ll turn them over to us.”
Cloak and dagger stuff, I mused. “All right, I can do that this evening. What else?”
“What else,” said Preston Pederson, “is that we’ve invested a lot of time and effort and money in this project, and I want to be sure things work out for the best. Now we think somebody’s trying to interfere so we won’t find the plane that was carrying my dad’s brother.”
Tod and Josie, with occasional interruptions from Preston, spent another half-hour explaining to me that pieces of gear had gotten vandalized, adding to their expenses, that promises of support funds were reneged. A couple out-of-town individuals who had made plans to join the expedition to Yap that fall abruptly changed their minds. All this was happening without adequate explanations. Suddenly phone calls and emails weren’t returned. Letters were returned, unopened.
“It’s like there’s a quiet conspiracy out there to prevent us from making the trip in September.” Josie scowled. “I’d hate it if we have to abandon our trip.”
“I know, my dear,” murmured Preston, “but the money isn’t unlimited.”
Conspiracy to derail the search was exactly what it sounded like to me, but I wasn’t ready to agree with that theory. “All right,” I said. “You want me to be at the station when this Stan Lewis arrives this evening, and you want to know why and who, if anybody, is trying to get you to stop this search for your granduncle’s plane. And, I presume, you want to know why it’s happening.
“Let’s leave it there for now. Tod, I’ll meet you at the old Union Depot when the train arrives with Stan Lewis. We’ll talk to him and then see where we are. Agreed?”
Naturally, everybody agreed, at least they said so, so I departed White Bear. Left unsaid was the implication that learning the “why” of it could turn out to be deeply disrupting. Also left unsaid was the gorilla in the closet. That would be Uncle Amundsen maybe being revealed as a smuggler.
Chapter 5
The train from Chicago carrying Mr. Lewis was sheduled to arrive at seven. The sun was still pretty far up, daylight saving time and all, when I drove to the station in downtown Saint Paul. Tod was there ahead of me. There weren’t a lot of people in the cavernous waiting area. This was my first time into the old station, and I was impressed by the extensive renovations. Tod and I shook hands and sat down to wait. The train was running late. Something delayed it out of Winona, according to an announcement over the public address system.
The place was surprisingly crowded by the time the train finally slid into sight. A lot of people apparently wanted to get out of town early that night. We were prohibited from going onto the platform, so we waited by the double glass doors. Tod had brought a hand-painted sign that said Mr. Lewis on it. A tall black man walked up and stood in front of us. It was unnecessary. There was plenty of room. Tod looked distressed.
“Excuse me,” I tapped the big guy on his bicep. “You’re blocking the view.”
“Yeah?” He looked around, then down at me. I don’t know what he thought he saw in my face, but he shrugged and moved aside. Maybe he just hadn’t seen me at first.
Nineteen people got off the train at St. Paul. I counted them. After it was clear Mr. Stan Lewis wasn’t among those nineteen, I motioned to Tod and we went to the counter. “Excuse me,” I said to the bored-appearing man who eventually wandered out of the office behind the counter.
“Help you?”
“Do you have any word on why the train was delayed in Winona?”
He looked at me for a long moment. Finally he said, “I don’t know nothin’ ’cept the cops are involved. It’s a police matter.”
His emphasis on police matter made me wonder. It appeared he didn’t care much for me, the day, his job, or law enforcement, for that matter. “Thanks,” I said, smiling sweetly. I turned to Tod and we left the terminal. At his car, I suggested he try to reach Mr. Lewis as soon as possible and that I’d drive out to his place in White Bear Lake in the morning.
Tod agreed, saying, “It worries me Lewis didn’t show up. He seemed eager to show me the information he’s collected over the years.”
Late as it was, I went to my office and did some paperwork. One of the bad parts of being a sole proprietor is the routine crap you have to deal with constantly in order to stay on the right side of the law. It was harder to get a PI license than to become a dentist in this state and there was no such thing as malpractice insurance. I drafted answers to a query from my lawyer and wrote a check to my dental insurance company. Nothing dramatic or exciting, just boring routine.
Then I called my friend Ricardo at the Minneapolis cop shop. He had a job like mine, worked odd and fragmented hours, regardless of shift assignments. “I’m curious,” I said after the usual greetings.
“Of course you are,” he said. “Someday you’ll call just to shoot the shit, and I’ll be so surprised I’ll go into cardiac arrest.”
I ignored the remark and said, “I was at the Amtrak station this evening to meet a fella. The train was delayed in Winona because of a police matter.”
“And you are interested because . . . ?”
“Because my guy didn’t show and because I am nosy.”
“Who’s your guy?”
“Humor me. I’ll tell you later.”
Simon sighed into the phone. “Games. I’ll get back to you.”
I went back to paper shuffling. Fifteen minutes later Ricardo called me. “Here’s your unnamed source. We aim to serve. I’m telling or maybe warning you that your inquiry is now part of the official case file.”
“Really? Why would that be?”
Ricardo chuckled. “Sean, I suspect you already know the answer. Partly because I called Winona and guess what? The detective in charge was still in his office, late as it is.”
“So, enlighten me.”
“It’s a murder investigation. A man fell off the train at Winona when Amtrak stop
ped there this afternoon. He died.”
“Why is this murder?”
“Bullet hole in the back of the head. Train pulled in, people got on and off, train departed. Body was then discovered. Train was stopped and returned to the station. It hadn’t left the city limits, even.”
“I bet there’ll be some interesting jurisdictional problems, don’t you think?”
“I think. I’m also enjoined to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask away, but maybe we can short-circuit this if you’ll answer a couple first.”
“Go.” Ricardo and I went back years. I’d always tried to maintain reasonable relationships with cops in the places I was active. Why fight? They had resources I didn’t and sometimes I could go places they couldn’t without a complicated legal process. A symbiotic relationship, you might call it.
“Old guy?” I began.
“Yes, probably in his late eighties or even early nineties. But he appeared trim and in reasonable shape, according to the detective.”
“Any identification?”
“Not the usual, but he had a small World War Two campaign pin on his jacket collar. We don’t know yet what campaign. He could have been a vet. Right age. His wallet is missing.”
“Where was he coming from? Anything on that?”
“Yes, the train people know he got on in Chicago. He tripped getting into the car from the platform and a porter helped him. That porter didn’t know the dead guy’s name, but he has the impression the man was traveling from someplace else. Not a Chicagoan. By now of course the Amtrack people will have traced his ticket but if you know anything . . .”
I sighed. “Okay, chief. There’s a possibility your dead body was the guy I planned on meeting tonight. If so, his name is Stan Lewis.” I spelled it. “And he’s from St. Louis. He’s a veteran all right. The campaign button is from World War Two, the South Pacific Theater. I never met the guy so I can’t give you a description, but I can maybe get you an address or a phone number if you give me until morning.”
The Case of the Yellow Diamond Page 3
