Upon emerging from the hole, Jake returned the evidence bag, camera, and radio to the fire captain he had been in contact with during the operation. Several more firefighters greeted him with a pat on the back for his efforts. The captain and a South Seneca Ambulance paramedic checked Jake for injuries and then, shaking his hand, thanked him for a job well done. Jake assured the medic he was fine and was left with a gray wool blanket which he wrapped around his shoulders.
The captain asked Jake to stand back before giving the order for the recovery team to haul the body up. The captain then walked the evidence bag over to a woman in a dark blue baseball cap squatting down at a mound of earth. Three law enforcement personnel flanked her. Long auburn hair swayed through the back clasp of her hat. Jake read the words State Police on the back of her blue field jacket. She spun around, caught his gaze, slowly looked him up and down, and frowned. Jake turned back to the recovery.
Four firefighters in yellow bunker gear and helmets pulled for several minutes on a utility rope to extract the victim. The body, with a skewed racing cap on his bashed-in head, finally made it out. The rope team set down their line as the basket surfaced next to the hole. The captain announced on his radio that the body had been recovered. A static-filled voice of a woman on the radio affirmed his message.
One of the volunteers on the team, an overweight, sweat-soaked young man with a scruffy goatee, looked toward Jake, eyeing him with genuine disgust. Jake stared back until the volunteer glanced away, fumbling with his equipment. A large, red circular sticker decorated the side of the volunteer’s helmet. Don’t Sell Our Lands it blared, a red slash through an Indian head profile.
In a barely audible sarcastic tone, Jake heard the young man say to his fellow firefighter, “Another noble savage to the rescue. Low life red faces are popping up everywhere these days.” He then chuckled. The other firefighter walked away telling the kid to grow up.
Many a quick judgment had been made about Jake before. He had heard the whispers of lower ranked soldiers denounce his warrior ancestry or his intimidating zeal to lead from the front. He had heard the nicknames but had not been bothered. The nicknames actually were a form of flattery. But when it came down to an outright racist provocation he confronted each individual head-on and never backed down. This pudgy volunteer was certainly no exception.
With a pulsating jaw, Jake walked up on the lone volunteer and stepped into the kid’s personal space. “You all pissed off that some red face got here first and stole your glory, eh hero?”
“What the f—!” The volunteer jumped back in surprise. He then angrily folded his arms across his chest. “I didn’t say a thing, man. You must be hearing shit. Besides what your kind doing out here anyway?”
Jake’s blood went hot. “My kind?” he questioned loudly. He stood nose to nose with the young man. Several heads turned their way. Jake pointed over to the body basket. “My kind was trying to saving that guy’s damn life.”
“We don’t need no Indians out here, trying to take things from us.”
“Take things from you?” spat Jake. He advanced a step forward, forcing the volunteer back. “You got a screw loose in that so-called brain of yours?”
The volunteer recoiled. “I mean threatening to steal our rightful county property over at the Depot. What did your tribe do, call you in since you’re with the Army or something? Them lands belong to taxpaying people of this county. Not some so-called sovereign Indian nation that’s going to put up another casino, another gas station, and another cigarette store and not pay taxes on any of it!”
Jake tossed his head back and mockingly laughed. Now he got it — the pending sale of the abandoned Seneca Army Depot lands, a sprawling weapons storage facility not a mile to the west. He should have known this was coming out of left field. The volunteer’s anti-Indian helmet sticker said it all.
“Listen,” replied Jake, with a wry grin and tepid tone. “You seriously must be on meth or something to make a leap like that. I just happened to be driving through, heard the radio call, and acted. So next time, before you soil my race and my uniform, you better think twice about wagging that little tongue of yours.”
The volunteer’s upper lip curled. His jaw muscles twitched. He was just about to spit something back when the captain walked up.
“Get your ass back to the truck now!” barked the fire officer. He wore a stone cold expression on his face. The volunteer immediately huffed off into the swamp without saying a word.
The captain turned to Jake, hiding his eyes under the rim of his red helmet. In a low voice of utter embarrassment, he said, “I apologize about firefighter Owens, sir. He does not represent the views of our department.”
Jake shook his head. “Captain, all I have to say is good timing because his jaw was as good as broken with one more piece of bullshit coming out of his mouth.”
The captain looked up. “Sir, I wish you would have. I wouldn’t have stopped you. None of the cops would have either. Tommy Owens is our resident no-brains jackass. Every department has one. Problem is we need all the vollies we can get because of manpower shortages. And sometimes they aren’t the brightest crayon in the box.”
“Listen, I hear you,” replied Jake. He cooled his tone with a light chuckle. “You should see some of the loose nuts we recruit in the Army. Believe me, a high school diploma is a terrible thing to waste.” He smiled and shook hands with the captain indicating no harm was done.
“Thanks Major. I appreciate your understanding. Listen, the state police investigator said to not to leave the scene until she gets your statement.”
“Figured that.”
The captain walked off, wishing Jake good luck with everything. But inside Jake still simmered at the volunteer’s ignorance. He knew the broken treaty land claims, in reference to property the Iroquois lost after the American Revolution, had been a hot button issue in New York State for decades, but he had never come face to face with the emotions it had brewed. Tempers on both sides of the fight had always been high, especially on the issues of sovereignty, tax collection, and gambling. At one boiling point years ago, riots even had to be suppressed by the State Police on the Onondaga Nation south of Syracuse. And eventually, lives were lost during a Mohawk tribal stand off up in the Adirondacks. Finally, cooler heads had prevailed, and in 2006 all land claim lawsuits were put to rest with a Supreme Court ruling against the Indians. But now the pending sale of the interior of the abandoned Seneca Army Depot raised the slumbering political beast back to the surface once again. It was a story Jake had been following off and on simply because of the military history attached to the famous Army facility.
Constructed in the 1940s between the two largest Finger Lakes, the sprawling 10,000-acre base had served the important role as a storage installation for every piece of weaponry and ammunition in the U.S. Army’s arsenal since World War II. The Depot, as locals named it, later became the transshipment point for nuclear bombs and missiles servicing the entire eastern theater of military operations. The Department of Defense, however, never officially confirmed nor denied the existence of nuclear weapons at the installation. Unofficially, investigators had shown beyond a reasonable doubt that weapons were there.
But after fifty years of distinguished service, the Depot’s mission shifted and Congress shut it down in the mid-nineties. It was then turned over to county officials for re-development. The Seneca County Industrial Development Agency immediately solicited new investors to take over the land and pre-existing structures in order to reinvent the base into something beneficial to the local and state economy. In just a few short years, private corporations bought up most of the main structures on the eastern side near the hamlet of Romulus. There, a state prison and a county jail were constructed while on the far western side, near Seneca Lake along the southwest perimeter adjacent to the defunct airfield, a new State Trooper sub station and a fire-training facility had been added.
But it was the huge, fenced-in, 8,000-acre parcel of the in
terior of the base that had remained abandoned for years. It had served as an ecology-tourism attraction and wildlife habitat and had thus become overgrown with weeds and cracked pavement as it aged. This inner area contained all 519 weapons and ammunition storage bunkers, some operations buildings, unique wetlands, and in the middle of it all the world’s largest herd of white deer. Just the sheer magnitude alone of managing the famous deer herd and repairing the twenty-four miles of chain-link perimeter fencing that contained them was sucking the county coffers dry. The county had needed to sell the unused land and when an anonymous individual offered to buy it all their prayers seemed answered.
Apparently, what was getting the locals all fired up again wasn’t the fact that the land was being sold at all, but instead to whom. A media leak just a week ago revealed the anonymous buyer as a very wealthy Iroquois Indian philanthropist. As a result, a majority of local residents immediately speculated worse case scenarios. Some feared if the Indians started buying Depot lands then next on the list would be laying claim to their own homes and private property and rekindling the old lawsuits again as the Cayuga tribe did years back. Others concluded that an Indian-owned casino would immediately be built on the base, disrupting their tranquil, rural way of life by adding traffic and crime to the area. Small business owners added to the fracas by noting that several of their tax-paying, American-owned gas marts recently had to shut their doors because of the tribal competition spreading in the area. They figured an Indian-owned Depot would spur even more tribal-owned businesses directly stealing away customers, especially with the incentives of tax-free Indian gasoline and tobacco products. In fact, when driving through the hamlet of Romulus earlier Jake had even recalled a sign in front of a boarded up convenience store that read Another Business Lost to the Indians.
The dramatic leap of racist judgment from the volunteer was a result of legitimate arguments and fears, Jake now realized. On the other hand, he also knew the continued transition of the government-owned Depot to the private sector was already an economic success story that had benefited taxpayers by adding more jobs and expanded economic growth for the area. If this Indian philanthropist, whoever he or she was, could provide that same entrepreneurial leadership, the situation could be a win-win for both sides.
Not only had Jake taken an interest in the Depot from its historical role in the Army, but he also had an interest in that unique white deer herd from an ancestral point of view. The deer had been fenced in, managed, and protected by the U.S. Army since 1941. What would be their fate now should a private owner come in? What tribe did this owner represent? Was he or she from an estranged out-of-state tribe or a New York based tribe? The problem was that Jake’s own Seneca Indian ancestors and their neighboring Cayuga tribe had held the white deer herd sacred as far back as the founding of the Iroquois Confederacy. From the legends he learned as a child, he knew a white deer was a symbol of protecting the peace between the original five tribal nations that formed the confederacy. On several occasions when he was much older and driving past the Depot with his beloved Uncle Joe, Jake had even caught a rare glimpse of the white deer — behind the perimeter fencing on Route 96A along the west side of the base. Their natural beauty was simply astounding. But because of their stature, they were also considered an elite trophy in the world of sport hunting.
What Jake was hearing about their fate disturbed him. Speculation held that if the land was sold, the new owner could charge an admission fee to hunt the white deer on his private 8,000-acre wildlife preserve. The owner could market it as containing the best stock in the world regardless of the herd’s historical significance or its sacred roots.
Jake shook his head. He didn’t know the answer. There were too many variables. Ultimately, these local political issues were out of his control. He was just an outside observer. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t solve all of the world’s problems. Heck, serving as the world’s police force in the U.S. Army taught him that. Trying to save a fringe deer herd in a remote rural county was best left to someone else.
It wasn’t his mission.
He looked down at his watch. “7:20. Good.” This side escapade he had gotten himself into still allowed him time to issue his police statement, get his uniform cleaned, and not miss his appointment in Rochester for his afternoon lecture at the Army’s 98th Division Headquarters. But first he wanted to check out something most interesting to him before packing up — the Indian gravesite. He salivated at what contents might be inside.
Walking toward the mound, he noticed a group of emergency officials already huddled together. They included an African-American State Trooper in his gray uniform and ten-gallon Stetson hat, and two Seneca County sheriff’s deputies — one older and bigger, one obviously a young rookie and much skinnier — both in their dark blue uniforms and matching caps. The female state police investigator stood there too, speaking and pointing to the opening of the grave. Jake quietly approached the group from behind and leaned against a tree to listen in. The older deputy sheriff, a large-boned, pot-bellied, rat-faced man smoking a cigarette, turned as Jake’s presence was felt. He wore a scowl on his face. Pulling the butt from his lips, he exhaled and folded his arms across his chest, nodding Jake a greeting. Jake returned the gesture noticing the deputy’s nametag as Wyzinski.
What Jake overheard from the group of cops was that the victim had apparently stepped into the Indian grave by mere accident as he had claimed over 9-1-1, but then proceeded to ransack it — as evident by the silver broach Jake had found on his body. The investigator concluded, based on footprints, that after the theft occurred when the victim was backing out, he had fallen right through some loose shale and into the limestone shaft. He held on long enough to call 9-1-1 and for them to get his GPS coordinates, but then lost his grip and plunged in. To his death. Or as the investigator put it, blunt force trauma to the head.
Deputy Wyzinski immediately spoke up. “Good riddance. The guy was a piece of dogshit anyway.” He tossed his butt on the ground and stomped it out. Jake noticed the investigator flinch, her eyes glaring at the cigarette butt.
The big black State Trooper added a remark. “Chalk this one up as a praiseworthy accidental death.” He smiled with bleached teeth.
The other deputy, the pencil thin mustached young man, chimed in too. “What was he drinking? Old Milwaukee? What’d they say in that commercial? It doesn’t get any better than this!”
The three male cops snorted with laughter.
The female investigator ignored them and peered into the grave mound. She rubbed her chin, still not realizing Jake was behind her. She then glanced over at the hole in the ground. “I’m not sending anyone back down there. Too dangerous. Our would-be rescuer did a good enough job already. I have enough to go on.”
Jake grinned.
The cops grunted their agreement, then as a group, trudged away toward the body basket for some more derogatory comments. The female investigator split off, picked up the extinguished cigarette butt discarded by the veteran cop, and headed over to the on-scene emergency commander — the fire chief — as denoted by his white helmet ranking. Jake was left alone near the Indian grave. It was obvious the victim and local law enforcement had several run-ins. To blatantly show such lack of respect for a dead person, the victim must have committed some major crime.
Wrapping the wool blanket around him a bit tighter, Jake bent down to peer inside the grave mound. Under a partially collapsed ceiling of weeds, mud, and a framework of rotted wood, there sat an upright skeleton wrapped in deteriorating green and blue cloth. The Indian’s skull, still with strands of long gray hair attached, was cocked sideways and sticking out from under its shroud. The bottom jaw was missing. The jawbone, cracked in half but still having some teeth rooted, lay on the ground near several pottery items, beads, and flint arrowheads. How ironic, Jake thought. Here might have been an important chief or even a clan mother from his own Seneca tribe or possibly from the Cayuga tribe that once shared this land
. And he was now the one getting crapped on for even setting foot back on his ancestor’s old grounds.
On the far side of the skeleton lay a dirty deerskin wrapping. Upon closer inspection he found the fur wasn’t the typical brown but actually white. He scratched his temple, his mind spinning. A link to the sacred white deer herd, maybe to the symbol on the broach? But why bury the body in the middle of a marsh on a tiny remote island? Was there even a marsh here way back then? Did the white deer herd once roam this area too? Was this some sacred or spiritual location? Was there a connection to the well? Was it really a well or just some type of natural ground fissure, say from an ancient earthquake?
Replaying what he saw in the hole, Jake remembered the pile of rocks at the back wall of the cave. It seemed out of place, as if someone had deliberately stacked them there — again wild speculation. And also when the shaft became properly lit with rescue lights from above, he couldn’t help but notice there were several rock ledges or steps that made climbing back out much easier. The ledges almost acted as a natural staircase. Were they carved that way? And the crosshatched rotted wood that had fallen in from the surface seemed strange too. Could it have been a concealed trapdoor on the surface at one point? It was definitely man-made. Or maybe the well was just some sort of ancient salt mine. He did know that Indians at one time had gathered salt in the area, especially around marshes.
Jake sighed. He could ponder the possibilities for days. He wanted to investigate more, but realized, after checking his watch again, time was growing short. He needed to get washed up and back on the road. He definitely planned on returning on his time off though, maybe hooking up with an excavation team to find out more. He stood up and sauntered toward the group around the body basket as two new firefighters emerged from the swamp. They carried a piece of plywood over to the ground hole and covered it up. Their captain barked an order, and the other firefighters picked up the body basket. He instructed them to carry it out through the marsh to the Seneca County Coroner’s van parked at their staging area. Several of men griped about the notoriously lazy old coroner who had refused to walk through the swamp to officially pronounce the victim dead. Grunting their disapproval, they stepped off the island and struggled to get their footing in the murky waters.
Crown of Serpents Page 3
