Land of the Brave

by Tom Fowler

  Any newspaper still being operational in this day and age surprised me. The volume of people I saw when we walked in doubled my surprise. I expected a disenchanted skeleton crew trudging around amid dusty shelves and ancient computers. Instead, a receptionist smiled at Rich and me as we walked in, the people moving around behind her looked happy to be at work, and the open floor plan looked modern. I couldn't see any computers—I still guessed them to be antiques—but everything else screamed modernity. The receptionist directed us to the second floor after Rich mentioned who we'd come to see.

  On the upper level, the building showed its age. The open-concept seating of the first floor didn't make it up here. Instead, people sat in a drab cubicle farm, the faded green fabric walls a poor callback to the building's exterior paint job. Offices were situated on the outsides of the cube area, and half of them sat empty, not even nameplates gracing their doors. The Republican put on a good show with the first floor, but the second floor drove home the reality of the modern newspaper business.

  We found our quarry on the left side of the floor. Luke Thompson was lucky enough to have a window seat, but unlucky to have a view of the parking lot. He was young, probably just a few years out of college, though his black hair was already thinning on top. He looked short and compact, built more like a fire hydrant than a news reporter. Maybe getting the scoop in Garrett County often involved fisticuffs. Rich and I each showed the reporter our IDs.

  "Long way from Baltimore," he said with a hint of a southern accent.

  "Just running down some leads," Rich said.

  "You usually bring a private investigator with you?"

  I liked this reporter. "I'm here to lend my unique expertise," I said before Rich could respond with something less impressive.

  "What are you looking into?" he said. When Rich told him, Luke leaned back in his chair and let out a long, slow sigh. "That's not an easy one. You guys want some coffee?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "No," said Rich.

  "I'll have the intern get us some from Sheetz."

  "You have an intern?" I said.

  "Surprised?"

  "I'm surprised you have a newspaper. Everything else compounds it."

  Luke smiled. "People still like getting a paper out here. We're not all office drones glued to our phones and tablets."

  The intern appeared when summoned, putting away his phone and appearing eager for work. He was tall and thin, with red hair and a young face. He was probably in college but looked like he started shaving only yesterday. I could see the disappointment at getting coffee darken his features, even when Luke offered to let him keep the change. After he left, Rich and I sat in extra chairs Luke found.

  "Speaking of office drones glued to their phones," I said.

  "Quincy is studying journalism at Frostburg," said Luke.

  A name like Quincy would not help anyone, but I kept my thoughts to myself. There was a reason I went by my initials, after all. Rich filled in the brief conversational gap by saying, "Jim Shelton."

  "Like I said, it's not an easy one."

  "Meaning what?" I said.

  "A decorated soldier kills himself. Always hard."

  "You're convinced it was a suicide?" said Rich.

  "Haven't seen anything to tell me otherwise," Luke said. "Gunshot wound looked self-inflicted, and he had residue on his hand."

  "Doesn't mean it was a suicide."

  "You know him?"

  Rich nodded. "We served together."

  "I'm sure it's tough to think he could kill himself."

  "It's not tough," Rich said. "It's impossible. He wouldn't do it."

  "Lot of guys in his place do," Luke said. "It's sad. And this county isn't overflowing with jobs."

  "He's not a statistic." I heard anger creeping into Rich's voice. "Even without a job, he found a purpose. He found a reason to keep going."

  To try and defuse any mounting tension, I broke in. "Land of the Brave."

  "I've heard good things about them," Luke said. "They've made a difference."

  "They made a difference for Jim Shelton, too," Rich said.

  Quincy the intern returned with three cups of coffee. He set the drink tray on Luke's desk. A small bag held sugar and fake sugar packets, a few plastic stirrers, and a pint of half-and-half. I took a cup and added a packet of sugar and enough creamer to turn the coffee a pleasing medium brown. Rich surprised me by using a packet of the yellow stuff. Under normal circumstances, I would have given him grief for it. Today, though, I didn't want to add to his tension. If anything, I hoped he had a cup of decaf.

  "You going to talk to them?"

  "At some point, yes."

  "Well, if you need some notes on them, I could pass them along."

  I sensed an ulterior motive here. "In exchange for what?" I said.

  Luke grinned. "I can't just be a good guy?"

  "You can. Maybe you are. But you're a reporter, and I don't think you're volunteering a pile of information out of the goodness of your heart."

  "Fine," he said. "I want the exclusive on whatever you discover.

  "What if we discover it was just a suicide?" I said. Rich glanced sidelong at me.

  "Then I guess I'll have the scoop on the confirmation."

  "Fine," said Rich.

  We sipped some coffee and chatted about a few local things with Luke. He recommended some places to eat--and others to avoid--and said he would send his notes along within a day. Rich and I walked out and got back in his car. "What's the plan now?" I said.

  "Let's check in to a hotel," Rich said. "Then I want to talk to the sheriff."

  I noticed his singular pronoun usage. "It sounds like you don't want me to come along."

  "Probably best if you don't."

  "What if I promise to just sit there and look handsome?"

  Rich smirked. "Can't have the sheriff threatened by your good looks," he said.

  "Always a risk," I said.

  ***

  Hotel options in Oakland were scarce. They were so scarce, in fact, as to be nonexistent. Rich and I chose the Oakland Motel. It was on the right side of the road if we had to leave town in a hurry. The hospital and a few restaurants were short walks away. The motel had brick exterior walls, dark blue doors, and a fridge and microwave in every room. Rich did not want to share a room with me--a sentiment I cosigned--so we ended up side-by-side. We paid the weekly rate in case the trip out here took a while.

  "No wi-fi," Rich said as I put my bag on the bed.

  "Doesn't matter," I said. "I brought a mobile hotspot."

  "Couldn't someone figure out it's yours?"

  I did my best to look insulted. "Rich. Really? Do you think I would set it up so there's any way to trace it back to me?"

  "I suppose not."

  "Go talk to the cops. I'll be here."

  Rich left and closed the door. As I engaged the lock, I heard his Camaro rumble to life. Within a few minutes, I had the hotspot up and running, and a fresh virtual machine on my laptop using it to talk to the outside world. I wondered how easy breaching the cyber defenses of the Republican would be. How much could a small-town newspaper put into keeping people like me at bay? It would also mean Rich and I could access Luke's notes even if he changed his mind and decided not to provide them. For now, I would leave them alone. Mostly. I poked and prodded their network, mapping out relevant devices and making notes.

  From here, I could access the BPD's network. I wondered if they shared any info with the Garrett County Sheriff's Office and vice versa. A connection like that would be easy to exploit. Then I envisioned Rich with steam coming out his ears because I went and messed up the investigation. As amusing as I found the image of my strait-laced cousin as an angry cartoon character, I would respect his wishes. For now.

  I passed the time doing research on Land of the Brave. They were a new organization, in operation for about five years. The goal was to have veterans do productive work on farmland earmarked for the group to use. Th
e most common work was beekeeping, and the organization sold and delivered the honey across the region, into West Virginia. In other cases, veterans grew other important crops for the area. Land of the Brave claimed to pay the veterans a stipend. They admitted it wasn't a living wage, but they hoped it would get there as more land became available. I always take charitable organizations with a grain of salt--my parents' foundation has encountered some charlatans over the years--but Land of the Brave seemed to be doing good, important work. And if it saved veterans like Jim Shelton, it was even more important.

  Why, then, had Jim killed himself? Or did someone murder him instead? I wondered if Rich learned anything during his chat with the sheriff. Think of the devil, and he shall arrive; the growl of Rich's Camaro announced his return. A minute later, he knocked on the door, and I let him in.

  "What'd you learn?" I said.

  "Some," said Rich. "Not enough for my tastes."

  "You still think someone killed him?"

  "We'll see. Put your shoes on."

  "Why?"

  "The mayor wants to talk to us," Rich said.

  "Us?" I said.

  "Yes. You, too, this time."

  "Clearly my celebrity has spread."

  Rich grinned and shook his head. "Yes, sir," he said. "Very good, sir. I have the car ready, sir."

  "Well, it's about time," I said.

  ***

  We met the mayor in an office in the circuit court building. He was tall and slender, with blond hair and a goatee, and there was visible gray taking up about half the latter. He wore charcoal pants and a black sportcoat over a white button-down open at the collar. Small-town mayors could relax the dress code. He introduced himself as Ken Dennehy. His hands were large and his handshake grip strong. Rich and I sat across the desk from him. The mayor immediately insisted we call him Ken over anything more formal.

  The office was small and sparse, with the desk and three chairs being most of it. A small bookshelf sat against the wall opposite the desk. It contained only a few law books, and they were as dusty as the shelves. Ken, as he wanted to be called, looked to be in his late forties. Based on the strength of his grip and the callouses I could feel on his hands, I pegged him as someone new to politics.

  "Terrible what happened to Jim," he said.

  "You knew him?" Rich said.

  "Oh, yes. Not terribly well, I confess, but this isn't a big city. I know most people."

  "How well did you know him?" I said.

  "Enough to know he was a good guy in a bad spot. I thought he was going to pull through."

  "You think he killed himself?" said Rich.

  "Sheriff does," Ken said. "I don't see any reason to argue with him."

  "Jim wouldn't kill himself."

  "You friends?"

  Rich nodded. "We served together."

  "I had a feeling," the mayor said. "We need to do a better job for veterans coming home."

  "Yes, you do," Rich said.

  Ken frowned for an instant, as if he took it personally but wanted to hide the fact. "Land of the Brave does good work," he said. "I made sure they got a grant to give them enough funding to keep going."

  "And dead veterans look bad for the city?" I said.

  "That's an indelicate question."

  "But a valid one."

  Ken smiled, but I didn't see any humor in it. "I guess this isn't Baltimore," he said. "Of course it would look bad, but I'm a lot more concerned for Jim's family than I am for the city. The organization does good work. I'd give them the grant again." He paused. "Have you talked to his family yet?"

  "No," Rich said. "Probably tomorrow."

  "Why did you want to see us, Ken?" I said.

  "To let you know I want you to succeed," he said. "Maybe there's a chance Jim didn't kill himself. I don't know. If there is, I hope you're able to work with our sheriff to figure out what happened."

  "And if we need some wheels greased along the way?"

  "Then I'll try to be ready with the oil."

  "Sounds good," Rich said. "Thanks."

  The mayor shook our hands again. "Please keep me posted," he said, "and good luck."

  We left. In the car, Rich said, "You hungry?"

  "Definitely."

  "Let's find some food, then."

  "And talk about what just happened," I said.

  "You think something is weird?"

  "I'm not sure," I said, "but I think better on a full stomach."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tomanetti's Pizza was an oddly-shaped building. Long rather than wide, its front door jutted out and the brown roof didn't really go with the light red stone exterior. Inside, it had an old-time pizzeria feel, with round brown tables and matching chair molding. Rich and I each ordered a pizza—pepperoni for him, mushroom and onion for me—and sat at a table with our sodas. About half the tables were occupied, and a few people flittered in to pick up carry-out orders.

  "You think something's up with the mayor?" Rich said. No one sat immediately around us, but Rich still had the good sense to talk in a quieter voice.

  "I don't know," I said, shaking my head.

  "He seems helpful."

  "Yeah."

  "And you think that's weird?"

  "It's a small city. He might know a lot of people. But he said he wasn't too close to Jim. Why talk to us, then?"

  "Like you rather crassly said, dead veterans look bad for the city."

  A sheriff's department car pulled up. A young deputy came in and looked around the restaurant. He picked up a pizza and went back to his car. "He's the mayor of Oakland," I said.

  Rich shrugged. "And?"

  "And he's basically committing police resources to us. He's not the sheriff, and he's not the county executive."

  "Do you know how many people live in the county?"

  "I checked. Around thirty thousand."

  "Right," said Rich. "More than that live in certain areas of Baltimore. You have a sparse population, not a lot of crime, and not a lot of out-of-towners asking questions."

  "What's your point?" I said when he stopped talking without elaborating.

  "I think, in this kind of scenario, the mayor of the county seat could pull some strings. It's not like the deputies have a huge murder backlog."

  "Maybe. I guess I'm just not used to people being helpful. Especially government people."

  "Perhaps it's your typical charming approach," Rich said with a smirk.

  Before I could fire off a clever retort, our pizzas arrived. They were cooked beautifully, as cooking shows would extol, with golden-brown cheese and the right amount of char on the crust. Tomanetti's didn't skimp on the toppings, either, and the amount of grease was just right. Rich and I put the conversation on hold as we each devoured three slices of pizza. We each got refills on our sodas and worked on fourth pieces.

  "I think we're OK with the mayor," Rich said. "He just wants to help."

  "I hope so," I said. "Let's see if we need the hand at some point."

  "The sheriff already said his deputies would cooperate."

  "You big-city cops and your fancy badges," I said.

  "I'm sure that's part of it. Remember, though, thirty thousand people in the whole county. The sheriff wants to help, too."

  "Let me guess: he knew Jim."

  Rich nodded. "Said he did, but like the mayor, not too well."

  "I know thirty thousand is a small population, but there's no way one man knows so many people. The president doesn't."

  "I'm surprised you're so skeptical," Rich said.

  "And I'm surprised you're not."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm here helping you out," I said. "But for you, this is personal. You knew Jim well. He was your friend. People wanting to lend a hand is a good thing, but doesn't it all seem a little too easy?"

  "I think you've watched too many movies. Different law enforcement agencies aren't always adversarial."

  Rich certainly had the edge on me in experience. Plus, he wor
ked in law enforcement, while I tried my damnedest not to get closer than the fringes. Maybe he was right. Dealing with unhelpful people in a city like Baltimore could have colored my perception. "OK," I said. "I'll follow your lead."

  "But?"

  "But if the mayor hires some slobbering goon to whack us over the head, I'm going to say I told you so."

  "So noted," Rich said.

  We both finished our sodas and got boxes to take the other halves of our pizzas back to the motel. Might as well take advantage of the limited amenities. "I want to stop and see Jim's family," Rich said after we were in the car. "At least talk to his wife."

  "You want me to come in with you?"

  "As long as you can turn off your conspiracy brain."

  Rich pulled the Camaro back onto Route 219. He turned left before our hotel and ended up on some twisty county road. Houses were infrequent, and the ones I saw were a mix of nice Victorians and ramshackle ramblers. "Used to be nicer here," Rich said.

  "Unemployment?"

  "Big part of it. I think the rest is opioids."

  "Even up here?" I said.

  "You have a lot of people who worked hard jobs. A bunch of them needed painkillers. When they lost their jobs and insurance, they still wanted the pills."

  "I guess it's everywhere."

  "Yeah," Rich said. "It's even worse in West Virginia. We're not too far from it here." He paused. "See that house?" Rich pointed to a rundown small two-story building. Its current state of disrepair belied the fact it had once been a house. If a stiff breeze came along, I expected the structure to collapse. The roof had patches missing and beams exposed. What siding there was had grown worn and discolored. Most of the windows were gone, replaced with plastic sheets. The door was a large piece of ill-fitting plywood with a large X painted on it.

  "What's the X mean?"