M-9

by Marvin J. Wolf

  “What about bedding, First Sergeant?”

  The topkick paused to consider the question, irked that he hadn’t thought of it himself.

  “Leave it. I’ll get you a hand receipt for it.”

  “May I ask a question, First Sergeant?”

  “If it’s quick.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “You’re TDY—that’s temporary duty—to the Provost Marshal’s Office until further notice.”

  Spaulding looked blank.

  “You’re gonna be an MP. Now get out of here.”

  §

  Chelmin watched the MP Humvee pull into a reserved space in front of his office. He opened the window a few inches as Will climbed out of the front seat.

  “Spaulding!” he called. “Tell the driver to stay with the vehicle. Leave your gear and come in here.”

  A minute later, his face flushed from the cold, Spaulding knocked on the door to Chelmin’s private office and was waved inside.

  “Sit down, Spaulding. We’re going to have a little meeting, and then you’re going to get back in that Humvee and go over to the MP barracks, where someone will find you a room. You’ll secure your gear and put on civilian clothes. Do you have a suit, a tie, and a dress shirt?”

  Spaulding shook his head. “I’ve got a sports jacket and a pair of slacks. No tie, a couple of shirts.”

  “That will have to do for now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re going to work for me, Spaulding. I need a good investigator, and right now I’ve got a murder that needs investigating. Colonel Baker, the Provost Marshal, agrees. Effective immediately, you’re TDY to his office and detailed to work with me.”

  “But I haven’t been through basic training yet!”

  “I don’t need a soldier. I need a detective.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I just had a very interesting chat with your uncle,” Chelmin said, watching Spaulding’s face for a reaction. There was none.

  “Chief Spaulding says that you’re his best detective.”

  “There were only four of us. Anyway, he’d say that because he’s my adoptive father. I call him Dad.”

  “He told me that. He said that, as badly as the U.S. Army might need you, the people of Barstow need you more. But then you arrested the wrong man.”

  Spaulding nodded, his face grave. “Had no choice. He ran over a ten-year-old kid, stuffed her in his car trunk and was gonna bury her in the desert, I’m pretty sure.”

  “How did you make that case?”

  “I was headed north on Barstow Road, coming home from a burglary investigation. About two miles south of town, near the college, I saw a car parked half on the road and half on the shoulder. I stopped to warn the driver that it was dangerous, get him to move the car.”

  “So, it was just luck on your part?”

  “Exactly. But then I saw a bloody handprint on the trunk, so I walked around the car and saw the right fender was bashed in. And more blood. I asked him to get out of the car, and he pulled a gun on me.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Oh, no. It was one of those James Bond automatics, a Walther, but he was totally wasted and couldn’t get the safety off. I grabbed the gun, handcuffed him, and checked the trunk. I saw a pick and a shovel, both brand new, and a little girl. She was still breathing, but she died before the ambulance got there. “

  “Did you know who the doer was before you brought him in?”

  “Everybody in Barstow knows Taylor Prinze. His father owns the Desert Chronicle. And KBDC, Channel 18, the Barstow TV station. And a bank. And a whole bunch of real estate.”

  “And his mother is a judge?”

  “Probate Court. Every lawyer in San Bernardino County kisses her ass to get estate cases.”

  “And you took him in, anyway.”

  “Goddamn right. Got no business carrying a badge if I let myself worry about shit like that.”

  “And now here you are, wearing the uniform of your country, and making $1,500 a month, before taxes.”

  “Yes, sir. Plus, three hots and a cot. On most days.”

  “What happened to Prinze? He go to prison?”

  “His trial starts tomorrow.”

  Chelmin made a deep, rasping sound that might have been a laugh, a snort, or a cough. “So, his trial will start without the arresting officer present to testify,” he said.

  “It won’t make any difference. In fact, it might be better for the prosecution. The Chronicle and Channel 18 News have been all over me for the last six months. Hear them tell it, I’m on the take from the meth labs and motorcycle gangs. They say I’ve covered up drug thefts, arrested innocent people, tortured suspects, took payoffs—anything and everything that a crooked cop might do. Then, whatever they print gets picked up and repeated by the Victorville paper, and the San Bernardino paper, and by all the county TV stations.”

  “And is any of that true?”

  “Not a word. And now they’re after my dad.”

  “You could sue for libel.”

  “The best libel attorney in California is a guy named Jeremy Kent. He told me that he’d need a $200,000 retainer to file a lawsuit. In cash. And because the Chronicle and TV 18 have been very careful about never directly accusing me of anything—they just print what they say they’ve heard from an ‘unnamed source close to the investigation,’ or a ‘confidential informant’—we’d probably lose in court but maybe win on appeal.

  “The worst thing is, they’ve muddied my name so that anyone I arrest is likely to walk.”

  Chelmin studied Spaulding’s face.

  “You said that you caught this Taylor guy red-handed with a dying girl in his trunk,” Chelmin said. “How does he get out of that?”

  “If I testify, they’ll bring up all those lies and rumors in cross-examination. Try to make it seem that I framed Taylor because I had some kind of personal vendetta against him.”

  “Taylor’s defense is that none of it happened? That somebody else hit the girl?”

  “Taylor hasn’t said word one to anyone except his lawyer. But that’s what the DA thinks. And that Taylor will produce a witness who’ll testify that he saw somebody else hit the girl and flee the scene and that Taylor then stopped to help, put the kid in his trunk to take her to a hospital, and then I pulled him over for speeding or something.”

  “The pick and the shovel?”

  “They’ll say I planted them. They came from the Wal-Mart, still had price tags, but the girl on the register who sold 'em, moved out of state, maybe. Can’t be found.”

  “What about the car? With all that blood and damage to the front end?”

  “It was a brand-new Mercedes, and it disappeared from the impound lot the night I had it towed there. The Chronicle claims that somebody told their reporter that I sold it to a chop shop in San Bernardino. The tow operator has no record of the tow, and the tow driver moved to Idaho and refuses to talk about it.”

  “Sorry, Spaulding, but this is all hard to believe.”

  “That it is. And yet it’s God’s truth. Call the Sheriff’s office in San Bernardino. Ask if there’s an open investigation on me. Call the CHP, the FBI, the DEA, anybody you want.”

  “So, that’s why you enlisted at the ripe age of almost twenty-seven? To get out of Barstow?”

  “That’s part of it. The rest is personal.”

  “So, Taylor gets a walk?”

  Spaulding shrugged. “The prosecutor has my arrest report and statement.”

  “Which can’t be cross-examined. A good defense lawyer will get most of it thrown out. The incriminating parts.”

  “It’s maybe better if I don’t testify. They won’t be able to introduce anything to discredit me as a witness. And I’m done with Barstow PD, except for my dad. Most of the force doesn’t want any of my dirt on their shiny badges. The other detectives don’t want to talk to me. I’m a leper—no PD or sheriff’s department in California will even give me an interview
.”

  “So, you’re finished with police work?”

  “Far as I can see. And the longer I stay in Barstow, the more dirt they’ll throw on my dad. I don’t think I’ll ever go back there, except to visit my family.”

  “Sorry, but that just isn’t going to happen, Mr. Spaulding.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your dad told me that the Marine Supply Depot has a missing person who might be our boxcar lady. I spoke with Special Agent Malone, the NCIS agent at the base. He’s expecting us. Wait. I forgot something.”

  Chelmin went to a small safe on the floor behind his desk, twirled the dial until the door opened, then removed something from within. He straightened up and handed a badge in a leather case to Spaulding.

  “You’re now a probationary Special Agent of the Army Criminal Investigation Division.”

  “You have the authority to do that?”

  “I’ll get it. Not your worry. Got an Army ID card yet?”

  Spaulding nodded. “About two hours ago.”

  “I can’t give you a sidearm until you’ve qualified on an Army range. But you probably won’t need one for a while.”

  “So, you believe my story?”

  “It’s just crazy enough to be true.”

  Will opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.

  A gurgling sound came from his stomach area.

  Chelmin said, “When did you last eat, son?”

  “Yesterday, on the train. A box lunch. And we had coffee this morning.”

  Chelmin frowned. “All that folderol at the warehouse, and you missed noon chow?”

  “The detail had to be fingerprinted. And our train arrived too late for breakfast.”

  “Get back in the Humvee, secure your gear in your room, change into civvies, and bring a toothbrush and a razor. I’ll pick you up. One hour. We’ll stop at the snack bar.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Barstow. We’ve got a murder to solve, and you’re gonna put that child killer away.”

  Six

  Munching a hamburger from a paper bag, Spaulding waited in the Humvee while Chelmin filled out paperwork in the operations office at Crandall Army Air Field. After a few minutes, the older man emerged from the office and beckoned to Spaulding.

  Carrying his shaving kit and the remnants of his meal, Spaulding hurried into the small brick building to find Chelmin bundled into a heavy overcoat. A rolled olive-drab watch cap perched on his head. A long-barreled .357 revolver wrapped in a gun belt and protected by a big plastic bag sat on the counter before him.

  “That’s a lot of gun for a detective,” Will said.

  “Get many shootings in Barstow?”

  “Two or three a month. Usually on a Saturday night.”

  Chelmin smiled, a wolf eyeing a lamb. “That’s what your uncle said. I don’t plan to get into a gunfight, but if I have to shoot someone, I want him down or dead. This one has been to a gunsmith and modified for shooting competition level accuracy.”

  “A ‘racegun?’”

  “Exactly.”

  The older man reached into his overcoat and came out with a sheaf of paper, which he handed to Will.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Two things. One is a set of orders promoting you to acting sergeant. The second confirms your appointment as a probationary CID Special Agent.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Chelmin, but what’s an ‘acting sergeant’?”

  “It gives you the authority of that rank, but without a sergeant’s pay. You remain a recruit, pay grade E-1.”

  Will nodded, amazed at how fast his life had changed.

  Chelmin’s phone rang. He pulled it from an inside chest pocket.

  “Chelmin,” he said. “Hello?”

  He held up the phone for Will to listen.

  “That’s just static,” Will said.

  “Third today,” Chelmin said and put the phone away.

  “Spaulding—ever been in a helicopter?”

  “Once or twice. We had one on loan from San Bernardino Sheriffs for a while.”

  “This is strictly no-frills. It’s gonna be damn cold. I’ll see if I can borrow a coat for you.”

  “I have a field jacket and a liner in my room.”

  “No time. The pilot will be here any minute.”

  Fifteen minutes later, swathed in a pair of woolen blankets, Spaulding buckled himself into the back of a UH-72 Lakota utility helicopter. Chelmin claimed the co-pilot’s chair.

  The 285-mile flight to Barstow’s Daggett Airport took two hours at 8,500 feet and was uneventful. Despite the cold, Will slept the whole way.

  Seven

  An unmarked black GMC Yukon SUV, its roof bristling with antennas, idled near an olive drab Marine Corps sedan just off the flight line in front of a small terminal building. As the helicopter hovered toward them, men climbed out of both vehicles. A wiry man in early middle age and clad in a wrinkled suit left the Marine car and approached the tall, bald man who had arrived in the Yukon. NCIS Special Agent Marcus Malone shook hands with Chief Arthur Spaulding of the Barstow PD.

  “Chief, what’s your interest in this?” Malone asked.

  “My son is on that bird,” the police chief replied. “What are you doing here?”

  “Remember the missing person who I called about? Army CID maybe found her body.”

  §

  “I see the Army travels in style,” Malone said as he shook Chelmin’s hand.

  “Not much for creature comfort but faster than driving or flying commercial via Burbank or Los Angeles. Tell me about your missing person.”

  “Kendra Farrell, age thirty-two, five feet, six inches, 130 pounds. Peroxide blonde. Divorced, one child. Missing about a week or ten days—her co-workers say she punched in on Friday morning, went for a smoke break before lunch, and never punched out. Hasn’t been seen since. Her car is missing.”

  “Civilian employee or military dependent?”

  “Data entry supervisor in the logistics center. Eight years government service, no problems.”

  “Could be her. I’ll have fingerprints and an autopsy report tomorrow sometime.”

  Chelmin turned to Spaulding. “Let me talk to your uncle a moment,” he said and shook the elder Spaulding’s hand. “That missing person might be our victim. I’ll bunk tonight with the Marines. If Will can go home with you, I’ll meet you both at your office first thing in the morning, and we can start fresh then. Does that work for you?”

  “Good enough. See you in the morning.”

  Eight

  Will climbed into the Yukon, pulled the door shut, then glanced at Chief Arthur Spaulding. “Hi, Dad,” he said. “Sorry about all this. Wasn’t my idea.”

  “Not your fault,” the elder Spaulding replied. “Your mother has a late supper waiting if you’re hungry.”

  “I could eat.”

  In silence, Arthur Spaulding backed the big car out of the parking lot and took the access road leading to US 66, which paralleled the Interstate. He pulled onto the highway and headed west before turning his head to peer at Will.

  “Tell me what happened, Will. Start at the beginning.”

  In a few sentences, Will sketched the events following his boarding a train in Los Angeles with two hundred other recruits, until the moment in the boxcar when Chelmin handed him a pair of gloves.

  “So, you telegraphed to this CID fellow that you were a police detective?” the elder Spaulding said.

  “You could put it that way. But really, I was just answering his questions to the best of my ability.”

  “What happens now, son?”

  “I guess Mr. Chelmin will tell us tomorrow.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’m in the Army. I’ll do whatever he tells me.”

  “Supposing you nail this guy, the one who killed the woman on the train. Then what? Back to Fort Fremont?”

  “I would assume so, Dad.”

  “Is that what you want to happen?”

>   “I enlisted, Dad. I didn’t have any idea that all this was going to happen.”

  “Chelmin seems to have a lot of authority. Pulled you right out of a basic training outfit and slapped a badge on you. What if I asked him to find a way to get you out of your enlistment?”

  “Please, don’t. I thought you understood why I left?”

  “Of course I understand. Your best friend stole your fiancée, and the newspapers have tarred and feathered you. And you were getting cabin fever in our little desert town.”

  “It was more than that, Dad. And nobody stole Nancy. She decided that I wasn’t the right guy for her, that’s all. Better I found out before we got married.”

  “What more was it then? Why did you enlist?”

  “Well, for starters, there’s the fact that every single girl in my high school class, and three years after it, is married or has left town. It’s not likely that I’ll find a wife in Barstow, at least no time soon.”

  “Get an apartment in Victorville and commute to work. Plenty of single young women up there.”

  “Not so many. And all of them read the newspapers or watch TV.”

  Arthur Spaulding turned his head to look again at his son. “That will blow over, and you know it. What’s really eating you?”

  “I told you. And I’ve been reading my father—your brother’s—diary.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you know why he decided to be an Army pilot?”

  “Sure I do. Because our grandfather flew fighters in World War II, and our father was a hotshot helicopter pilot in Vietnam.”

  “He won the Silver Star, the Distinguished Flying Cross, two Bronze Stars, and three Purple Hearts.”

  “So, William wanted to be a hero and got himself killed. Is that what you want, too?”

  Will sighed. He’d known that it would come to this. “No, Dad. Read the diary. Your brother was not a suicidal glory hound. He looked up to his father, just as I look up to you. William went to the trouble of learning about Vietnam helicopter pilots: what they did, how they lived and died. It’s all there in his diary. He came to the conclusion that few men had the physical skills to qualify for flight training, and fewer still were smart enough and dedicated enough to finish that training. But the few who became combat aviators had an extraordinary impact on the others in the fight: the infantry, the artillery, the tanks, and the medics. Everybody depended on those pilots. So, that’s where he wanted to be. He wanted to be someone that others depended on to do the hardest and most dangerous things. Just like you chose to become a police officer—to serve and to protect. And just like I did.”