Tularosa - Michael McGarrity Read online

  "Check with his first sergeant. Good night, Lieutenant."

  "Good night." He watched her walk through the door to the club, thinking that Sara Brannon was one sharp lady.

  ***

  A visit to the NCO club, a more crowded, louder, and livelier establishment than the officers' club, with a honky-tonk atmosphere, yielded no information on Bull McVay. Kerney hung around asking questions until he ran out of people to quiz. He spent the next hour in the empty dayroom at the enlisted barracks waiting for PFC Alonzo Tony to get off duty. It was after midnight when, half asleep, he heard the barracks door open and footsteps on the tile floor. He called out PFC Tony's name, and a young man detached himself from a small group of soldiers who were quietly scattering down the hallway to their rooms. Kerney introduced himself and asked Tony to talk to him in the dayroom. Tony eyed Kerney uneasily and only agreed to join him after Kerney explained his purpose.

  "I don't believe Sammy went A.W.O.L.," Tony said, fishing out a cigarette. "No way, man." Tony had a full upper lip, prominent cheekbones, and a symmetrical nose. He was about five feet eight with a long trunk and no waist; just a straight line from chest to hips.

  "Not his style?"

  "You got that right," Tony agreed, lighting his smoke.

  "Do you think something bad happened to Sammy?" Kerney inquired.

  "That's the only thing that makes any sense. Sammy is just about my best friend. I know him pretty well. He's not the kind to go off half-cocked."

  "Do you have any ideas about what happened to him?" Tony shook his head.

  "Nope."

  "I understand he was spending some time in town after he stopped dating Carla."

  "He was, but I don't know if he was seeing anybody. We didn't talk about girls all that much. He'd bail out of here for Las Cruces, just like the rest of us, but I didn't get the feeling he was chasing some

  skirt."

  "Did you go with him?"

  "Sometimes. We'd hang together now and then, like if we had the same day off. He has wheels and I don't."

  "Did you hang at any particular place?"

  "Not really. We'd take in a movie or cruise--things like that."

  "Did he buy a new car?"

  "He was going to. The Chevy died on him. He's been saving money for a down payment. He doesn't like riding the shuttle bus to town. Can't say that I blame him; it's embarrassing."

  "Did he keep anything personal in his car?"

  "His art stuff. He likes to draw."

  "Did Sammy say anything about buying a Toyota?"

  "Nope."

  "Where does he work?"

  "Uprange. He's got a wacky schedule: pulls four days on and three off.

  He was trying to work a deal to change his duty so he could take some art courses at the university." Kerney cut off his questioning.

  "Thanks. I may want to talk to you again."

  "That's cool." Back in his room at the BOQ, Kerney checked the zipper on his carryall bag. He'd left it open a fraction of an inch and now it was completely closed. He undressed and got into bed, exhausted from the twenty-hour day. He reread Sammy's letters to Maria. She was absolutely right about his attitude. The letters were upbeat and filled with plans for the future. Kerney mulled over the information he'd gathered since his arrival. It was both inconclusive and unpromising.

  He was almost asleep when he started thinking about Sara Brannon and the muddle he'd made with her. He groaned at the memory, stuffed a pillow over his head, and went to sleep.

  ***

  PFC Bobby Jaeger drove his Camaro up the back road from Fort Bliss toward the missile range. He was a little drunk from all the beers that guy had bought him in a Juarez nightclub. What was his name? Greg, or something like that. Jesus, what a build! He looked like he could bench-press three hundred pounds easy, maybe more. A real nice guy. The Camaro started to weave. Bobby brought it to the center line and concentrated on the white stripe. He could ride the middle of the two-lane road straight to Orogrande. There weren't any other cars on the road. He gave the Camaro a nudge up to eighty-five and listened to the sound of the pipes. Sweet. Greg--that was his name. He knew Sammy. Couldn't believe Sammy went A.W.O.L.. Shit! Who could believe it? Asked a lot of questions about Sammy. Bobby's eyes started to close. He snapped his head up and shook off the cobwebs. No problem, he thought, blinking rapidly to get things in focus. He was still in the middle of the road. Pick up the pace a little bit, he counseled himself. Need to get home and get some rack time.

  PFC Bobby Jaeger was fast asleep as the Camaro sped toward the ninety-degree turn at the Orogrande curve. When the right tires left the pavement, Bobby woke up. He turned the wheel and stood on the brakes, and the Camaro slowed to a hundred miles an hour before crashing through the barrier. It flipped on the hood and ground a deep furrow through the desert. The phone rang at two-thirty in the morning, waking Kerney from a deep sleep.

  "Get dressed and meet me outside," Sara Brannon ordered when Kerney answered. Kerney grunted, got up, and dressed. Outside Captain Brannon waited in a marked patrol car.

  "What's up?" Kerney asked, as he climbed into the front seat. Sara hit the overhead emergency lights and pulled away from the curb before Kerney had the door closed.

  "PFC Jaeger is dead." Kerney was wide awake.

  "What happened?"

  "He rolled his car and put his face through the windshield." They drove through the main post to the Orogrande turnoff, where Sara floored the unit. In the distance Kerney could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles. There were four military police and a medical team at the scene when Sara and Kerney arrived. Two units blocked the road and two more were positioned to spotlight a length of the highway. The sergeant in charge approached at a run as Sara jumped out of the unit and slammed the door.

  "What have you got, Sergeant?" she demanded.

  "Skid marks and yaw marks, ma'am," the sergeant replied. He was an Asian-American about thirty, with the frame of a distance runner.

  "He went off the pavement with the right tires, tried to adjust, and hit the brakes. Looks like he fell asleep at the wheel. Probably alcohol-induced."

  "Walk me through it." Kerney watched Sara put the sergeant through his paces as he reviewed the skid marks and physical evidence on the roadway. She asked all the right questions. Then, with Kerney in tow, they walked to the Camaro, which was upside down a good hundred feet from the pavement. A portable generator and light illuminated the overturned vehicle. Bobby Jaeger's face, his expression frozen in surprise, features mangled and bloody, protruded halfway through the shattered glass.

  "No seat belt," the sergeant noted. Sara nodded.

  "I want a forensic team out here on the double. Nobody touches the body or the car until they're finished. I want to know the mechanical condition of that car before Jaeger rolled it. Arrange for an immediate autopsy when forensics releases the body. Understood?"

  "Yes, ma'am," the sergeant answered.

  "Also get me full background information on Jaeger before you go off duty. Everything you can dig up about him--drug-screening results, rap sheet, his personnel jacket. You know the drill." The sergeant nodded glumly. That meant a good three hours of extra work.

  "Yes, Captain."

  "Carry on," Sara said, turning to Kerney.

  "Are you ready, Lieutenant?"

  "Sure." Sara Brannon said little on the drive back to the base.

  "Mind telling me why you brought me along for the ride?" Kerney finally asked.

  "Two men room together. Within weeks one goes A.W.O.L. and the second dies in an auto accident." She glanced over at Kerney.

  "Are you good at math? What's the statistical probability?"

  "I understand that. What else?"

  "You wanted to meet Bobby Jaeger."

  "Paybacks are a bitch," Kerney commented.

  "Isn't that the truth," Sara replied, with a charming smile. Captain Brannon called again at six in the morning rousing Kerney out of a stupor. She gave h
im instructions on when and where to meet Sergeant Steiner, Sammy's NCOIC, and granted permission for Kerney to search Sammy's gear stored with the quartermaster.

  Groggy, he shaved in the bathroom mirror, trying not to look too closely at his haggard face. It wasn't a pretty sight. Finished, he strapped on the ankle weight, sat on the end of the bed, and exercised the knee, working the few remaining ligaments that held the leg together until the pain forced him to quit.

  He stretched and soaked the leg before getting dressed. The beefy sergeant in the supply room watched him carefully as he pawed through Sammy's belongings. There were some framed family snapshots, letters from Maria--but none from Terry--civilian clothing, uniforms, and standard-issue military equipment. Sammy had a small desktop stereo system, a fairly eclectic collection of cassette tapes and compact disks, and a small library of paperback novels and art books. There were several unused sketchbooks still wrapped in protective cellophane and an assortment of pens, acrylic paints, and watercolors, but not a single example of Sammy's art work.

  Kerney dumped all the clothing on the floor and went through each piece systematically, turning everything inside out. He took the case off the stereo, the covers off the speakers, and the pictures out of the frames. He shook each book by the binding and inspected each cassette tape. Each time he added something to the pile, the sergeant snorted with displeasure. Satisfied that there was nothing, Kerney thanked the sergeant, who grumbled openly about the mess on the floor and damn civilians. Kerney smiled benignly and left.

  Staff Sergeant Steiner was waiting for Kerney outside the eadquarters building, looking preoccupied. Steiner had a long, angular frame topped off by an owl-like, bookish face. He stiffened as Kerney

  approached, hands clasped behind his back in an at ease position. Kerney introduced himself.

  "How can I help you. Lieutenant?" Steiner's formal tone indicated he was not a happy volunteer.

  "I understand Specialist Yazzi worked for you."

  "That's correct."

  "What test facility do you work at?" Kerney added.

  "It's an up range site," Steiner replied brusquely.

  "Can you tell me about Sammy's work?"

  "Not specifically."

  "Can you give me a thumbnail sketch without revealing any secrets?"

  "In general terms, I can. We work with a new ordnance designed for armored units. We study the products under laboratory and simulated field conditions. I can't say any more than that."

  "That's good enough," Kerney said.

  "How large is your contingent at the test site?"

  "Thirty-two, including civilians. We operate twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The Gulf War bumped the project to the top of the priority list."

  "I was told that Yazzi wanted to change his schedule so he could take some art courses. Did he talk to you about it?"

  "He certainly did," Steiner replied emphatically.

  "I had no problem with the request if it added to his technical skills. I didn't think art courses qualified. I turned him down."

  "Was he disappointed?"

  "Maybe a little bit," Steiner responded, "but he knew that the job came first. Is that all. Lieutenant?"

  "Did you ever have any reason to informally discipline Sammy?"

  "Sammy never gave me any problems."

  "When did you notice him absent from duty?"

  "He failed to report back to work after his rest period."

  "He wasn't missed until then?"

  "The facility covers a lot of territory. Think of it like an outpost. We have full dining, sleeping, and recreational accommodations, supply and support buildings, plus a number of secure structures."

  "What did Sammy like to do on his downtime?"

  Steiner ran his finger over the brim of his fatigue cap and hesitated before answering.

  "He liked to draw."

  "And that was okay for him to do?" He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and didn't answer.

  "You liked Sammy, didn't you?" Kerney said with an understanding smile.

  Steiner relaxed a bit.

  "Sure I did. He was damn good at his job and easy to get along with."

  "And you couldn't change the schedule for one man," Kerney added sympathetically. "I understand that. I bet Sammy did, too. Police work is the same way. You just can't afford to play favorites."

  "That's right," Steiner agreed.

  "But somebody like Sammy," Kerney continued, "a good worker, a team player--if it was me, I'd try to keep him happy, keep him productive."

  Steiner nodded in agreement.

  "That's what being a good supervisor is all about. Is this conversation off the record?"

  "Absolutely. I don't work for the Army, Sergeant. I'll make sure it doesn't get back to anybody on the post."

  Steiner thought about that for a minute, removed his fatigue hat, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

  "Okay. Technically, any kind of drawing or photography isn't allowed up range He knew I wasn't going to change my mind about the duty roster, and I knew he wasn't going to draw pictures that jeopardized national security. Sometimes the regulations just don't match the individual circumstance. So when he asked if he could do his artwork on his free time, I said I would allow it, as long as he turned the drawings over to me when he returned."

  "Returned from where?"

  "I told him he could only sketch away from the compound. He'd hike into the desert and come back in a couple of hours with some drawings. It was all harmless stuff."

  "What did you do with pictures?"

  "I destroyed them. That was part of the deal." Steiner put his fatigue cap back on his head and looked at his wristwatch.

  "I've got a long drive ahead of me. Is that all. Lieutenant?"

  "Was Sammy on a hike the day he turned up missing?"

  "Yeah. He always checked in with me before he took off. He was real good about it."

  "Who went looking for him when he didn't return?"

  "Half the MPS on the post, plus myself and all the off-duty people at the facility."

  "How long was he gone before you started looking?"

  "Almost the full twelve hours." Kerney didn't hold Steiner back from leaving. He ran the information through his mind, his spirits sinking. From what Steiner told him, the probability that Sammy had gone

  A.W.O.L., no matter what the Army believed, was highly unlikely.

  ***

  Kerney cooled his heels in the company orderly room outside Captain James Meehan's office. Master Sergeant Roy Enloe was at his desk, reading reports and ignoring him. Finally, the phone on Enloe's desk rang. After answering it, Enloe sent Kerney into the captain's office. The captain, young and engaging, had a thin nose, a dimpled chin, and sandy hair cut short. His uniform was sharply tailored, with airborne jump wings pinned above two rows of service ribbons.

  Like Sara Brannon, he wore a West Point ring. Meehan leaned back in his chair and studied Kerney, his expression somewhat perplexed.

  "I'm a little confused here, Lieutenant. Is Specialist Yazzi wanted by the civilian authorities?"

  "No. Sammy's parents are worried about their son. They asked Sheriff Baca to make inquiries. He sent me." Meehan shook his head and smiled.

  "I don't see how I can help you. You've talked with my first sergeant. I share his opinion that Sammy was a good soldier. Right now he faces company punishment: loss of rank, confinement to barracks. He can still salvage an honorable discharge if he gets his butt back here soon and doesn't fuck up again." Meehan smiled.

  "Let the Army sort it out, Lieutenant."

  "That's good advice," Kerney replied. "Have you been informed that Sammy's roommate died in an auto accident early this morning?" Meehan nodded, a grave look crossing his face.

  "Yes, I have. Tragic."

  "Did Jaeger have a drinking problem?" Meehan bent forward, arms resting on the desk, his expression filled with candor.

  "Look, Lieutenant, I can bend the
rules a bit and talk to you about Specialist Yazzi, but I'm really in no position to talk about PFC Jaeger. I wish I could be more helpful, but you'll have to speak with

  Captain Brannon about the matter." Meehan's telephone rang, and Kerney used the interruption as his cue to leave.

  At the main gate he turned in his visitor's badge and headed for Las Cruces, hoping for better luck

  in the city. So far, he had fragments of information that added up to a big fat zero.

  ***

  James Meehan sat in Sara's office, looking at her eyes, which, at the moment, were filled with indignation. "I don't work for you, Jim," Sara said in response to his comment that letting a civilian cop conduct an investigation on the base wasn't very wise.

  "It was my call to make."

  "All I'm saying is I wish you had told me about it before he showed up in my office. Do you have any background on this Lieutenant Kerney?"

  Sara pushed a thin file to the far edge of her desk. Meehan collected it and started reading. Aside from his regular duties as a company commander, Meehan ran a covert intelligence operation that was completely separate from Army intelligence. Meehan and his people--whoever they were, Sara thought sullenly--watched everything and everybody, and reported directly to the Pentagon. Sara was one of a few officers at the missile range who knew what Meehan really did. When necessary, he used her resources. It might consist of detaining a suspect, conducting a search, or arranging for a traffic stop. Most of the time, Sara had no idea why, but she had standing orders from the highest authority to cooperate. With A.W.O.L. cases, however, the cooperation was supposed to be mutual, up to a point.

  Meehan laughed when he finished reading Kerney's biography.

  "This is ludicrous," he said, replacing the folder on the desk.

  "It serves no purpose to have him on the base. He's just a loose cannon."

  "He may well be," Sara replied, "but it was my decision to make."

  "I thought we were cooperating on the A.W.O.L. cases, Sara."

  "Are we? As far as I can tell, it's a pretty one-sided arrangement. My team does all the grunt work while you stonewall me with need-to-know bullshit. Is Yazzi a security risk or isn't he? Do you have anything to suggest he may have compromised national security?"