by Dave Balcom
“Are you in that photo, Mr. Stanton?” I heard Norma ask, the tee-hee suddenly absent.
“I am,” I responded, turning to her. “Do you remember when or where that was taken?”
She reached out her hand, and I placed the small frame in it. She pulled the back off the frame and inspected the back of the picture. “I put this in the frame in July of 1974. It came in the mail with a note from Art saying that he was fine but busy in the war.”
“Did you keep the letter by any chance?”
“It’s in a scrapbook in a box of scrapbooks in the attic. I quit saving stuff like that years and years ago.”
“When was the last time you saw Art?”
“A couple weeks ago. He stops for a cup of coffee when he drives up the Gorge for whatever reason...
She cocked her head at us for a moment, and then her voice changed just slightly, “What do you remember of him from those days, Mr. Stanton?” The giggle was gone.
I sat beside Jan, sipped at my coffee, and then allowed my memory to fully form before answering. A part of me admired her willingness to wait for an answer, and I was on the verge of asking a question when she prodded me with her chuckle.
“He was a fine soldier in a unit full of well-trained, dedicated warriors just like him. I didn’t fit into that group very well. I hated the work; they loved it. They tolerated me. I was dedicated to doing the job well; to making sure I didn’t fail them when they counted on me.”
“But what do you remember of Art?”
“He was enthusiastic for combat.”
“They had a nickname for him, didn’t they?”
I hesitated, and she lashed out with that tiny chuckle again. “Psycho. We called him Psycho,” I admitted.
“That’s why you and none of the others ever came around during his convalescence, isn’t it?”
I hadn’t expected this turn of events, my mind went into a flood of flash-back memories of the wariness I’d seen in our group and had figured it was because of me...
“He came home all shot up,” she was reminiscing; her chuckle on hold, her voice dreamy. “I was so excited to have him here with me... I never fully recovered from losing Fred in that war. We were supposed to be married, but he was drafted, said it’d have to wait... Then mom and dad died, one right after another while I was at OSU. I came home, to a job teaching, and waited for Art to come home.
“When I first saw him my heart broke. He was so scrawny – like a rawhide thong with a beard. Despite the wounds to his flesh, the real damage had been done inside.”
“Post traumatic stress?” Jan asked.
“It wasn’t like that, really. He didn’t have nightmares, depression, or any of those normal PTSD symptoms. No, Art was just angry and embarrassed. His hatred for those “pajama gooks” as he called them was festering inside him. He worked hard at the physical therapy – hiked to the hospital down the mountain and back everyday, but there wasn’t any therapy for the hate that filled him.
“He just couldn’t accept that his army had been defeated by a bunch of ‘low-life gooks’ .... again those were his words. He spit those words like they tasted bad or they could rid him of the sourness that festered inside him...”
She bounced out of her chair as if summoned, and made a show of refilling coffee cups despite our protests.
“Sorry, don’t want to push, but don’t want to have company going without because I’m too busy talking... I don’t have much in the way of visitors any more... my hospitality needs a brush up...”
“Miss Truman...” Jan started.
“Norma, please.”
“Norma, where did Art go after he healed up?”
“Portland. Enrolled in Portland State, worked his tail off and earned a bachelor’s degree in Social Science. Went to work with the Oregon Department of Social Service, started out working with foster children, but then moved onto investigating welfare fraud.”
“How did that work for him?” I asked.
She was shaking her head, “It started real well, but eventually, it seemed like every time I saw him, he’d stop by to have dinner – always called ahead, you know? But every time it ended up with some kind of tirade on how his time was being wasted tending to inferior people – gooks again, or ... he never called them African Americans, you know?
“Finally it was in 1980, I just told him he’d have to leave that white supremacy BS at the door, you know? He became really quiet, and left without another word... I didn’t see him again or hear from him for more than 20 years... like he’d fallen off the world.”
“That must have been awful,” Jan said sympathetically.
“Not any worse than hearing him spout that racist dogma that seemed to have taken him away...”
We sat silent for a time, then she seemed to rally, “But, then, he showed up one day in 2008, he was quiet again, like he’d been before. Told me he’d had a ‘Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus’ moment, and was putting his life on a different orbit.
“I could see the old Art in his eyes; hear it in his voice. It was as if he’d truly been born again – back-from-the-brink kind of change, you know?”
“What’s he doing for a living now?”
“I’m not really sure. He’s doing well from the looks of it. He has a nice home near Troutdale, overlooks the river; a nice place. I visit there a couple times a year. He’s still never married, but he seems to enjoy women. Has had several girlfriends, but they come and go. I know he travels from time to time on his work, and that it has something to do with social service work, but the details are not something we’ve ever discussed.
“He always says, ‘Norm? I lived today; I don’t want to relive it with you.’” The chuckle was back. “He’s the witty, quiet, thoughtful man I had always known my baby brother would grow into, it just took longer than I had expected.”
We thanked her for her time, she gave me a note with Art’s phone number on it, and promised to call him to tell him about our visit.
As we settled into the truck for the drive home, Jan stretched out with her seat tilted back and her arms behind her head, “What a fascinating woman. What do you take from all that?”
“I want to hear the whole story from the horse’s mouth; don’t you?”
“Absolutely... I think.”
“What’s your hesitation?”
“A horse is a horse, of course... except when it isn’t?”
I drove; she napped.
Chapter 13
I updated Wild Bill Chance on what I’d gleaned from Norma Truman, and in his reply, he said he wanted to talk rather than share any more information online. I told him to call when it worked for him as my time was much more flexible than his.
He called five minutes later and started the conversation, “We’re not using names on this call, right?”
His tone was conversational but the meaning was clear, he doubted the security of the conversation.
“You been making friends and influencing people again lately?”
“I blame you, but you know how I am...”
I knew from my experience with him during that Missouri episode just how he was: Cautious, capable, and reliable. I figured something or someone had gotten his wind up a bit, and that meant we needed to be careful.
“Whatcha have?”
“Your friends from back then have been real busy later in life, and the two from the deep south have come to the attention of your uncle. He has actually met with them from time to time, asking their advice on how to handle friends of theirs.”
My mind was spinning trying to decipher his code, “I hope they did themselves proud where my uncle is concerned.”
“Jury’s pretty much still out on that, as far as I can tell. I asked your uncle a question a couple of weeks ago, and he was curious enough as to why that he’s sent a couple of your cousins around to speak with me and my folks, asking interesting questions.”
“A history tour?”
“Nope, more like current event
s or at least recent history.”
“Should I expect a visit from the cousins?”
“No reason for that, I wouldn’t think. Your name never came up, at least with me.”
“So what have those two Rebels been up to?”
“They both cashed out after 20, hale and hearty fellas. The Brick Layer opened his own store and is now retired on a boat in the Keys. The Flower Child went off to college and then law school. Practiced his profession with a firm up your way in Idaho. Pretty well-connected to some of the Bright Boys who have been making noise recently over immigration and stuff. He’s apparently retired, too; but your uncle is keen on keeping tabs on him...”
I changed the subject, “What’s new with you? You thinking about retirement?”
“Mandatory in another year, but I’m still walking every day and feeling younger than my years. You?”
“I just become curiouser and curiouser, but otherwise I’m feeling pretty good, too.”
“Well, maybe you and that lovely bride of yours can come down for some decent barbecue one of these days...”
“Maybe you should take a break and come have a tussle with some wild brook trout up here?”
“Don’t count me out, I’ve some vacation time to burn up this summer. I’ll be touch, and if you need me, just holler, y’all hear?”
We disconnected at the same moment. I pondered the call for five minutes and then went looking for Jan.
“What do you mean he spoke in code? You two have a code?” Jan was mocking me, and I let her go on, “I have always wanted to be in a club that had its own vocabulary and could talk like pig-Latin and not be understood by outsiders, and, to think, you had that all the time and I never knew...”
I didn’t respond and after a few seconds she sobered up, “Jim?”
“He called Gardner the Flower Child; he called Mason the Brick Layer. He made a call about records to an old friend who must have reported/mentioned it, and the Feds paid a visit to Bill and wanted to know why.”
“Oh! That’s not much of a code, but it raises some immediate questions. Are we going to receive a visit from the Feds this week?”
“Perhaps; time will tell.”
“So, what do you think the rest of that message meant?”
“I’m not sure, but I thought “Bright Boys” making noise about immigration could be a reference to Breitbart News which appears to be pretty much an organ of the Alt Right which seems like pretty much an extension of Aryan Nations which is pretty much the White supremacist movement in this country that many believe is headquartered in Idaho...”
I let that thought settle for a moment, and then Jan’s head snapped around to stare at me, “You mean... Here in Eastern Oregon?”
“I mean ‘who knows’ but that’s what I gathered from Bill’s message. I won’t know until his letter arrives.”
“He said he was going to write you a letter?” Jan asked incredulously as I shook my head. “Who writes letters anymore?” Then, with a quick pause, “Of course. That’s what you’d do in his place, right?”
“Far as I know the U.S. mail is still secure, but I’ll bet he mails it to someone else before that person sends it to me.”
“You guys are spooky, you know it?”
“You’ve never minded before.”
She headed for the stairs and bed, but over her shoulder she gave me that nasty smile she could wield like a club, “Spooks have their time and place, Stanton. You do know what time it is, don’t you?”
I watched her disappear up the stairs and thought for just a second, then hurried to give Judy a quick pee while I buttoned up the house. Even an old spook knows his place.
Chapter 14
Pete Boyd rang our front doorbell just after 8 the next morning. Jan was still in bed; Judy and I were several thousand feet up the mountain as was our habit at that hour almost every day.
His arrival at our front door triggered our home security program on my phone, and I watched as he left his card in the door. I saw him hit a number on his phone just as my phone purred. I answered it somewhat out of breath.
“Jim Stanton here.”
“Jim, it’s Pete Boyd. Where are you?”
“Up on the mountain for my daily walk. What’s up?”
“How long you gonna be up there?”
“I don’t know; I’m about half way through. Where are you? What’s happening?”
“I’m off duty, sitting on your steps begging coffee.”
“I’m turning back, and if Judy doesn’t hold me up, I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
He was laughing at the idea of Judy slowing me down as I cut the connection.
Pete was sitting at our kitchen island with a steaming cup when I arrived. Jan had also seen the security message on her phone.
“Glad I didn’t keep you waiting without coffee,” I mumbled as I pulled a bottle of water out of the fridge. “So, what’s going on?”
“Ray Jensen is coming over later today and wondered if I could somehow finesse an impromptu meeting between you two later. I assured him I could, and then came looking for you to ask you the same thing, ‘What’s going on?’”
I sat straddling another stool at the counter, pulled on my water and tried to figure out some way a Ray Jensen visit wasn’t connected to Bill Chance’s inquiries on my behalf. I came up empty. Ray Jensen was retired Agent in Charge of the Portland FBI bureau; I’d met him years ago, and we’d forged a grudging respect and friendship over years as my endeavors had at times involved his agency’s purposes.
“Jim?”
I struggled to maintain an aura of unconcerned nonchalance, “This have anything to do with those thugs we nailed earlier this spring?” I asked.
“Don’t know, but can you come down this afternoon, say 4?”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
I was led into the OSP post conference room and found Ray Jensen and another agent I had met before, but I couldn’t place his name. Ray and I met in a man-hug, and then he introduced me, “You should remember Mike Rhodes. He was with me in Bellingham when we first met.”
“Of course, Mike; I wasn’t making the connection,” I said as we shook hands.
“No problem, that was some years ago.”
“You still up in Washington?”
“Nope, I’ve been transferred to Portland.”
Jensen piped up with a note of pride in his voice, “Mike’s the assistant AIC.”
“What about you?” I said, “I thought you’d retired; were going to fleece anglers on your big boat?”
“I did retire; and I do skipper a bit; but with all the turmoil in the Justice Department these days, I’ve been contracted by Homeland Security to help the bureau with a specific line of inquiry.”
“And you wanted to visit me in conjunction with that specific line?”
“I thought this would be preferable to kicking down your door in the middle of the night.”
“I guess it pays to know people, right?”
He was chuckling as he ushered me to a chair at the head of the table. “Just a few questions.”
Rhodes had a folder in front of him, and he started the conversation, “Before we begin, Jim, we must tell you this discussion is being recorded for sound. You also need to know that while you are not personally a subject of this investigation, you have become a person of interest. You are not under oath, but you must know that it is a felony under federal law to lie or mislead federal agents during such an interview. If you have legal questions about this interview, we can wait while you consult your lawyer; and, if you have no lawyer, we’ll provide you with one. Do you understand all this?”
“No. Why don’t you explain the circumstances by which I have become a person of interest in an investigation dealing with national security.”
Jensen broke in with a smile. “You still keeping in touch with Bill Chance? I know you met him a couple of years ago when you and Jan had all that trouble down in Missouri, didn’t you?”
&
nbsp; I just smiled at him.
“You asked him to look up a few of your former shipmates, didn’t you? Guys you served with when you were on special assignment?”
I just smiled.
“Jim, just what do you know about Bill Chance’s politics?”
“He’s been elected Sheriff four times and counting; but I know nothing of where he stands on any other political issue.”
“What if I told you that he had hosted a fund-raising event for a Democratic Party Congressional Candidate?”
“I’d say I hope he had it catered; he’s not much of a cook. Thinks barbecue is ‘haute cuisine.’”
“You’re a funny guy, Jim,” Rhodes broke back in. “We know you asked Chance to look up personnel records on former special forces warriors you served with; and we know he took that request to a retired Commander of personnel at the records repository and that Chance forwarded to you the hometowns of record for those three men.”
I just smiled and sat.
“What’s up, Jim?” Jensen said, his hands open, palms up.
“What do you think is up, Ray?” I asked, mimicking his hands gesture.
“I’m trying to figure out why Jim Stanton is trying to make contact with three known white supremacists, all of whom are on federal terrorist watch lists. You growing tired of being retired?”
I couldn’t contain a nervous chuckle, and that didn’t sit well with Rhodes, but as he was about to explode, Jensen put a restraining hand on his arm. “I know you don’t think that’s funny, Jim; I’m guessing you’re embarrassed and surprised at their names being on a watch list.”
I sobered up quickly. “I had no idea.” I then told them all about Jeremy’s DNA experience and the surprising existence of a woman claiming to share genetic markers with my son or me.
“And you’re certain that connection couldn’t be ...” Rhodes didn’t know how to finish the question.
“I don’t know about you when you were 20,” I said with an arched eyebrow, “but I can remember ALL of my sexual encounters at that age – both of them.”
