by Tom Lowe
“We don’t know that either. It could have something to do with that mystery man who met the men from the submarine. Maybe it’s because they never caught the Japanese. Or maybe it’s because they did catch the Japanese.”
“I wonder what two Japanese men were doing riding in a German sub. Why didn’t they return to the sub?”
“Those are all good questions, Mr. O’Brien-”
“Please, call me Sean. What did the Germans and Japanese bury?”
“We don’t know that, either? Grandma, tell Sean what granddaddy told you.”
The old woman folded her hands, took a deep breath and said, “Billy told me they dug near the fort … you know … Matanzas.”
O’Brien nodded. “Yes, I fished there as a kid.”
She slightly smiled and continued. “He said it was when the light from the St. Augustine lighthouse comes across the fort’s tower, it shines through an opening, makes a line. Billy said they buried some cylinders in the path of that line of light.”
O’Brien said, “The lighthouse is about twenty miles from the old fort.”
Glenda Lawson smiled and said, “Yes sir, it is.”
“Today,” said O’Brien, “the area of Matanzas Pass is a national park. There hasn’t been development. Did the authorities find what was buried?”
Glenda Lawson’s eyes grew wide and she leaned forward. “If they did, nobody bothered to tell me! I asked and they said they’d dug up dozens of sea turtle nests and could never find the hole Billy said was covered up.” She reached in her purse, her hand trembling, blue veins visible under milky skin. She retrieved a folded piece of newspaper, faded yellow. She carefully unfolded it and handed the paper to O’Brien. “They printed this the day after Billy died. There were a few other stories, but they stopped writing when police found nothing.”
O’Brien scanned the story. The sound of a boat came from the river and mixed with the full throttle of a mockingbird in a live oak. “Glenda, the night your husband called you, when he was shot … how many gunshots did you hear?”
“Three.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ve heard those shots fire in my nightmares for many, many years, sir. It’s something I will never forget.”
“This story quotes a deputy sheriff saying Billy was shot once.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
O’Brien’s cell rang. “Excuse me,” he said to Glenda and Abby Lawson. It was Nick Cronus. “Sean, I got a call from some guy who said he’d give me a million dollars for the GPS numbers to the wreck. This is gettin’ more crazy by the minute-”
“Nick, I’ll call you in a minute. Keep the return number of the caller.”
“Can’t. Came in as an unknown number. Not traceable.”
O’Brien said nothing.
“Another guy called and said I looked like a towel head on TV, a terrorist.”
“I’ll get back with you in a few minutes, Nick.” O’Brien ended the call, looked at Glenda Lawson and, again, said, “The newspaper story indicates one bullet fired.”
“They were wrong.”
“Did they do an autopsy on your husband?”
“No, sir. I don’t know why.”
“Did your husband … did Billy have a gun?”
“He carried a pistol when he came back from the war. The war changed him.”
“Wars can do that. Do you know if his gun was fired that night? Did you hear him return fire, or did someone take his gun and use it to kill him?”
The old woman looked out the screen porch, her eyes falling on the river, her thoughts flowing through decades lost without the one she had loved. “All three gunshots sounded the same … and I’d heard Billy shooting lots of times at cans he’d set up in our backyard. His gun didn’t sound like the shots I heard that awful night.”
“Who investigated your husband’s death? And can you remember what was said?”
Glenda watched Max sleeping on a rocking chair. “I had a dachshund once,” she said softly. “She was such a fine little dog. Slept in my bed. Does your dog sleep in your bed?”
“She’s a bed hog,” O’Brien said, letting the old woman take her time.
“So was mine … you asked me who investigated Billy’s death, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let me see. The sheriff, at least his deputies did … then there was a fella from the FBI … and some men from the Navy, and one from the Army because Billy was still enlisted, but on disability ‘till his leg was properly healed.”
“And they told you Billy died in a robbery … a mugging?”
“That’s what I was told.”
“Did the sheriff tell you that?”
“Yes, at least the deputy assigned to the case. An FBI agent told me that, too. Even after I insisted it wasn’t a mugging … not after what Billy told me. But the police, especially the FBI fella, didn’t pay me any mind. Billy wasn’t mugged. He was murdered.”
“Your husband was fishing that night. How much money could a twenty-one-year-old fisherman have on him to get him killed?”
Abby said, “Exactly. My grandfather might have had a couple of dollars on him. Who would kill a man for that, steal his truck, and then abandon it?”
“Strange,” O’Brien said. “No one was ever arrested or even questioned, right?”
“Right,” said Glenda. “His killer, or killers, walked free.”
“Maybe not,” O’Brien said. “Not if your husband was killed by one of the Germans, and it was their submarine sunk that night.”
“Oh dear.”
Abby said, “Your finding the submarine proves it!”
“I didn’t say I found a sub.”
“If you did, it might be connected to my grandfather’s murder. Maybe whoever gunned down granddaddy was killed when that U-boat sank.”
O’Brien was silent. He stared down to the river, glanced at the yellowed newspaper story, and then said, “Look, Abby … Glenda … I think it was tragic that your grandfather-your husband-was killed. If he was murdered, it was more than sixty years ago, and whoever did it is probably dead. If it’s tied to German soldiers landing on the beach, the police, Navy, FBI and the Army, should have a record.”
Abby shook her head. “We couldn’t find it. FBI people in the Miami office told us they checked records, files stored in Washington and couldn’t find anything about my grandfather’s killing. Navy says they did get a report of a U-boat sighting that night, the call from my grandmother, and said they dispatched a gunboat and two planes but saw nothing suspicious. If you found a German sub, it’s the closest thing we have to bringing closure to an old wound. Not so much for me, I never knew granddaddy. He never got a chance to know the baby he’d fathered, my mother. When she was alive, we never had closure. But we might find it for an eighty-eight-year-old woman who never remarried, raised a daughter and granddaughter by herself, practiced the Ten Commandments better than anyone I’ve ever known, and still says goodnight to her dead husband’s picture by her bed. In that photo, he’s dressed in his Army uniform, and he was buried in it.”
“I’m not a homicide detective anymore. I’m trying a new career as a fishing guide. I think what happened to your grandfather is horrible. If it was connected to a sub on the bottom of the sea, it doesn’t mean you’d ever prove anything. No witnesses, or if there were, probably long dead. If the authorities covered up his death, it’s a shame. Without knowing why-a probable reason-it’s hard to prove it ever happened. I wish there was something I could do-”
“I said I’d pay you,” Abby said
“It has nothing to do with money.”
“Leslie told me you once said to her you felt an obligation to speak for the dead-the ones murdered because they had no one else. Sorry for wasting your time.” She stood and started to help her grandmother out of the chair.
Glenda Lawson took a small step toward O’Brien. “Sir, my husband gave his life for his country. He died on American soil trying to let us kn
ow we’d been invaded. My Billy was a hero, and they said he was killed in a robbery. The killers robbed him of his life, dignity … they robbed him of our unborn daughter. And they robbed Abby. I’ve often thought how the history books tell us about Paul Revere, the man who warned us that the British were coming. He saved Boston and became a hero. What about my husband, sir, what if he saved the nation?”
O’Brien was silent.
“They tell me my time left in this world’s short … I’ve lived a good life … sometimes a lonely life … but a good life. A free life. I’d like to think my husband calling that night had something to do with that. If you did find that submarine, it proves what Billy told me that night. Whatever those men buried was worth more to them than my husband’s life. Was his death in vain?” Her green eyes were alive, searching. Her nostrils flared, and she made a clicking sound with her mouth.
“Come on Grandma,” Abby said.
“I apologize, sir, for my show of temper. I just want to know who killed Billy. If he was shot by our enemy at a time of war, a war that had just ended, then why didn’t our military stand up for him when he stood for us and everything that is American?”
O’Brien listened for a half minute to the sound of her car as Abby drove away. He picked up his cell and called Dave Collins. “I have no idea if a murder mystery that happened sixty-seven years ago can be connected to the discovery Nick and I found. Maybe you can check your sources.”
“Sixty-seven years ago? What do you have?”
“You might want to take notes, Dave. This one begins May 19, 1945. It’s a war story that starts after the war officially ended.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The news director, assistant news director, executive producer, two reporters and Susan Schulman crowded around Nicole Bradley’s desk and watched her open the computer to her Facebook page. Nicole felt more excited than she had in a long time. She had the attention of the people who ran the number-one-rated newscast. She was going to be working on a big story with Susan Schulman.
“Here they are,” said Nicole, her eyes dancing with excitement, her fingers trembling as she pointed to each picture. “My boyfriend, Jason, said this is some kind of rocket … and these parts are from fighter jets.”
“Must be an enormous sub,” said the news director.
“Look at that … wow,” Susan’s said. “That’s the ID of the sub, U-235.”
“I don’t know,” said Nicole, “because there’s like another number, too.” She clicked to the image of the conning tower. “Jason said this is what’s on the outside of the sub. Looks kinda like a fat chimney, don’t you think?”
“Then what are the boxes labeled U-235?” asked Susan.
The portly news director crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Those boxes are labeled with the short, abbreviated name of enriched uranium, U-235.”
“What?” Susan asked. “As in the guts of a nuclear bomb?”
“Yes,” said the news director. “But only if it’s highly enriched uranium.”
“What a story!” Susan pounded her fists on the back of Nicole’s chair.
“Ohmygod!” squealed Nicole. “I told you it was big!”
“You did, girlfriend!” They slapped hands in a high-five.
The executive producer said, “Hold on. We don’t know what that U-235 means. However, if it’s the stuff of nuclear bombs … oh boy. This could be huge!”
The news director said, “Susan, you run with the lead piece. Bob, you find out everything you can on U-235. Todd, call some of the universities, talk to historians, physicists, whomever, see if you can find out how advanced we think the Germans were with this stuff. Karen, you get on the line to Homeland Security, work those ‘potential threat’ angles. Susan, pictures are good, but it’d be enormous to have video from the U-boat. Take Johnny, he’s a certified expert diver. See if you can find that boat captain, the one who lied to you, O’Brien, and get him to take you out there. Let’s move people!”
As they scattered, Nicole asked, “Mr. Brickman, what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing right now.” He disappeared beyond the cubicles and desks as he entered the control room.
Nicole stared at the pictures of the U-boat on her Facebook page and mumbled, “But I’m the one who told you about it.”
Susan grabbed her purse and was followed by a brawny cameraman. She stopped at Nicole’s desk. “Where can I find that cute boyfriend of yours?”
“Why?”
“I want to interview him.”
“You mean … like on camera?”
“That’s exactly want I mean.”
“Uhh … I don’t know where he is-”
“Does he have a cell?”
“Yes.”
“Call it. Tell him to meet you at the boat I saw him on, Jupiter.”
“Meet me? Why me?”
“Why not? He won’t show up if he knows he’s meeting me.”
“I … I don’t know about-”
“Listen-this is a huge story. Don’t blow your chance at jumpstarting a career by getting a little guilt complex now. One day you’ll thank me for it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
O’Brien had planned to spend most of the day at his river house replacing planks on his dock, which were protesting under his weight. But Dave had called and said it was urgent they talk, and he didn’t want to discuss it over cell phones. O’Brien thought about that as he drove his Jeep across the oyster shell parking lot of the Ponce Marina, Max’s small head poking out of the passenger window.
His cell rang: UNKNOWN CALLER
“Ponce Charters,” said O'Brien.
“Do I call you Captain Sean or Captain O'Brien? Hi, it's Maggie. I just wanted to tell you that I haven't seen Jason so excited in a long time. Thank you, Sean. Thank you for taking the time, taking Jason under your wing. I can already see a big change in him. It's going to be a good summer.”
"He's a great kid. You've raised him well.”
"I thank God I stumbled upon you after all this time. I remember years ago, during some of the long walks we used to take together, we debated destiny and fate, a bigger plan, the whole damn cosmos. I remember you saying we make our fate in the choices we make or those we choose not to make. I have to believe, though, that I didn't just stumble across your path, Sean. I was desperate to find help for Jason. Look, I never read those weekly community newspapers. But for some reason I did that day, and I saw your name in the first paragraph of a story about a new charter fishing business starting in the marina. What are the odds? And now Jason has a purpose this summer. I'm sorry, but I don't normally talk non-stop like this. But since Frank was killed … I … I've tried so hard with Jason.”
O'Brien remembered what Eric Hunter had said about knowing Frank Canfield, Maggie, and Jason. He started to ask her about it, but decided there would be a better time. "It's okay. Maggie. You’re a mom, and from what I can tell, a damn good one. Jason's lucky to have you. I always thought you'd be a great mother one day?”
"You did? I didn't know that.”
"Yeah, I did.”
Maggie was silent for a few seconds. "Sean, maybe we can go to dinner. I'd love to catch up with you. Although it's been more than twenty years, I feel like it was closer in time. You know?”
"I know. I'd like that.”
Max whined, staring out the car window at the sights, sounds and smells coming from the Tiki Bar.
"Is that little Max I hear?” Maggie asked.
"She smells blackened grouper sandwiches, her favorite on the menu.”
"Give her a doggie hug for me. Bye, Sean.” She disconnected. O'Brien looked across the marina, watching a white pelican sail over the boats, flapping its wings twice, and flying towards the sea. Max whined again.
“No stopping at the bar for a snack, Max.”
She followed him, picking up her pace as they got closer to the Tiki Bar. The smells from garlic crabs, fried fish and spilled beer filled the air.
O’Brien smiled. “I haven’t had 60 Minutes ask for an interview.”
“Good. With you trying to establish a business as a legit fishing guide, the last thing you need is people not booking you because they think they’re hiring a Discovery Channel crew rather that and fishing crew.”
“Maybe you can help me in the PR department.”
“I see you have Miss Max which means you don’t have a charter, right?”
“Right, why?”
“Eric Hunter, you met him the other day … he was friends with Jason’s father?”
“I remember him.”
“He was just here. He said he saw Jason walking down the pier toward your boat.”
“Maybe Jason left something on Jupiter.”
O’Brien walked by Nick’s boat. It was closed and appeared locked. Dave’s boat was wide open, the sound of a CNN news program on the television, the scrubbed smell of bleach off the transom. O’Brien spotted Jason at the very end of the dock, looking out toward the Intracoastal. “Come on, Max. Let’s go see if Jason is lost.”
Jason turned around when he heard O’Brien and Max approach. “I didn’t hear you, but I could hear Max’s claws on the wood.”
“She’d probably prefer you called them nails. Cats have claws. Dogs, especially one like Max, on second thought I can’t think of another dog like Max. See what I mean?” Max darted to the edge of the dock where a boater was hosing off his Morgan sailboat. Max barked at the splashing water. The boat owner looked up and O’Brien said, “You can squirt her. She loves playing in the water. Max thinks she’s a ten pound lab.” The man with the hose grinned and playfully squirted Max, who bit at the stream, barking, tail wagging, chasing the splashes across the dock.
“Jason, don’t tell me we have a charter that I forgot.”
“No, I just came down to meet my girlfriend Nicole. Said she wanted to see where I worked. You mind if I show her around Jupiter?”
