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| -rw-r--r-- | CH-1.txt | 18 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | CH-2.txt | 6 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | CH-3.txt | 16 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | _Cuts.txt | 2 |
4 files changed, 23 insertions, 19 deletions
@@ -12,22 +12,22 @@ Steven smiled and bit into a bearclaw. "DC loves its donuts." While most of her coworkers filled her with a kind of dread she had previously only felt when she stood in line at the DMV, she had come to like Steven. He wasn't cynical, didn't seem to care about punching clocks and in certain lights he was not unpleasant to look at. He had longish hair that made him seem perhaps younger than he was and though she still thought men with hair down to their shoulders generally looked ridiculous, Steven managed to pull it off somehow. She watched him now as a strand of the hair escaped from behind his ear and fell in front of his face becoming entangled with a bit of glaze from his bearclaw. He kept eating, seemingly unaware that the hair was now in danger of disappearing into his mouth. It wasn't in fact until an inch or two was in his mouth that he realized what had happened and leaned forward to deftly sweep the hair away as he swallowed the rest of the donut. She watched him, fascinated by the complexities of donut eating that she had not previously considered. -"Any luck with Sgt. Reese?" Steven used a napkin to pull a few bits of donut glaze out of his hair and tucked it back behind his ear. +"Any luck with Sgt. McCann?" Steven used a napkin to pull a few bits of donut glaze out of his hair and tucked it back behind his ear. -Chase turned around and pulled out a small basket of blueberries she kept in the break fridge. "I'm still waiting on the records from Annapolis to make sure it is in fact that my Sgt. Reese." +Chase turned around and pulled out a small basket of blueberries she kept in the break fridge. "I'm still waiting on the records from Annapolis to make sure it is in fact that my Sgt. McCann." -"Why don't you just hop a jet out to Annapolis?" sneered Dennis Burch he slid past her, out of the break room and back, she assumed, to the small, hellish hole in which Chase was sure he lived out his days. Chase glared at his back and watched Steven stifle a smile out of the corner of her eye. "Anyway, if the field tests in Hawaii match then I'm all set because the paperwork puts him there at the time." +"Why don't you just hop a jet out to Annapolis?" sneered Dennis Burch as he slid past her, out of the break room and back, she assumed, to the small, hellish hole in which Chase was sure he lived out his days. Chase glared at his back and watched Steven stifle a smile out of the corner of her eye. "Anyway, if the field tests in Hawaii match then I'm all set because the paperwork puts him there at the time." "Wow, so you're going to have the oldest closed case this year then." Steven raised his eyebrows at her. "Setting the bar kind of high for yourself aren't you? I mean, what are you going to do next year? Tackle Whitmore again?" Steven giggled and walked out of the break room. Assholes. All of them. Chase picked through the moldy blueberries to find the dozen or so ripe ones which she picked out and piled on a napkin. The rest of her fellow employees began to file out, heading off to start whatever it was they did all day. Chase dumped the moldy blueberries in the trash and threw the rest on her mouth. She leaned against the table and stared out over the low ceiling, florescent lighted basement room where she spent her days. -The Defense Prisoner of War Missing Personnel Office was ostensibly charged with identifying and recovering the remains of United States personnel lost in foreign wars and other actions abroad. It was the sort of agency that brought a misty tear to many a Senators' eye and many a snapped salute from Presidents, but very little in the way of funding. So little in fact that its predecessor had been disbanded entirely from 1951 to 1976, during which time missing soldiers effectively became persona non grata in the eyes of the government. Even now the diggers, as one of Chase's exes had called the agency, a name that, at least in Chase's mind, had stuck, consisted of fewer than sixty people. And that included the maids and janitors who cleaned the buildings at night. When Chase had arrived nearly a year ago the DPMO was backlogged with some 230,000 MIA cases, some dating from as far back as World War II, some newer, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Kurdistan, Bosnia, Mogadishu, Darfur. Just about any hell hole the United States had ever sent its soldiers into, a few had failed to come home. By the time the files reached this basement the MIA solider was dead. The same was likely true of most POWs. In the twenty years her boss had been working here, he told her, he had never once heard of anyone being found alive. Not even MIA/POW reports from more recent wars. If soldiers were alive their comrades rescued them. If there was no rescue then the paper work became part of a Kafkaian labyrinth that eventually led here, to a filing cabinet, somewhere in the long wall of metal filing cabinets that lined the entire bottom floor of the building -- case records, field reports, eyewitness testimonies and countless other pieces of paper that formed the story, from enlistment to disappearance, all packed into the cold metal cabinets surrounded all of them as they worked every day. Around the turn of the century the overlords at the DoD had seen fit to launch a plan to index the files into a database, something searchable, something they might be able to share with outside agencies. The effort had gotten as far the some 74,000 soldiers still missing from World War II. Thanks to budget shortfalls under the Bush administration there were currently only two temps entering data and only one programmer, Steven, trying the wrangle it all into something organized. +The Defense Prisoner of War Missing Personnel Office was ostensibly charged with identifying and recovering the remains of United States personnel lost in foreign wars and other actions abroad. It was the sort of agency that brought a misty tear to many a Senators' eye and many a snapped salute from Presidents, but very little in the way of funding. So little in fact that its predecessor had been disbanded entirely from 1951 to 1976, during which time missing soldiers effectively became persona non grata in the eyes of the government. Even now the diggers, as one of Chase's exes had called the agency, a name that, at least in Chase's mind, had stuck, consisted of fewer than sixty people. And that included the maids and janitors who cleaned the buildings at night. When Chase had arrived nearly a year ago the DPMO was backlogged with some 230,000 MIA cases, some dating from as far back as World War II, some newer, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Kurdistan, Bosnia, Mogadishu, Darfur. Just about any hell hole the United States had ever sent its soldiers into, a few had failed to come home. By the time the files reached the basement the MIA solider was dead. The same was likely true of most POWs. In the twenty years her boss had been working here, he told her, he had never once heard of anyone being found alive. Not even MIA/POW reports from more recent wars. If soldiers were alive their comrades rescued them. If there was no rescue then the paper work became part of a Kafkaian labyrinth that eventually led here, to a filing cabinet, somewhere in the long wall of metal filing cabinets that lined the entire bottom floor of the building -- case records, field reports, eyewitness testimonies and countless other pieces of paper that formed the story, from enlistment to disappearance, all packed into the cold metal cabinets surrounded all of them as they worked every day. Around the turn of the century the overlords at the DoD had seen fit to launch a plan to index the files into a database, something searchable, something they might be able to share with outside agencies. The effort had gotten as far the some 74,000 soldiers still missing from World War II. Thanks to budget shortfalls under the Bush administration there were currently only two temps entering data and only one programmer, Steven, trying the wrangle it all into something organized. Despite a promising career as an academic historian, Chase had shunned the cushy university posts offered to her by well wishing professors and administrations, opting instead to, as she blithely told Dr. Rosenbaum the morning she accepted the position at the DoD, "do some research that actually affects peoples lives." Rosenbaum had just shrugged, rubbed the white stubble of his sagging chin and hrumphed quietly, as was his nature. She knew that he, and rest of her professors thought she was crazy, that they all, like her mother, thought she was throwing something away, but she didn't care. She didn't want to spend her life just talking about the past, she wanted to touch it. She wanted to see it in front of her, to feel it between her fingers, to dig in the soil, to make it part of the present, the way it had always been to her, as far back as she could remember. So she shoved her PhD in a box, filled up the back of her old Volvo station wagon and drove from Massachusetts down to Washington DC where she had accepted a job as junior research fellow at the Defense Prisoner of War Missing Personnel Office. With Dr. Rosenbaum's half-hearted help she managed to get herself assigned to what everyone referred to as the skull and bones department, which specialized in field work and connecting, as the joke went, the skull with the bones. But despite a reputation for fieldwork, Chase had only, thus far, been out of the office once and that had been her own doing, not the DoD. -As the new girl Chase had been handed the worst job in skull and bones, trying to find Whitmore and Hume. It was a ritual, a kind of hazing for history nerds. The case had been handed, amid chuckles and snickers from old timers, to every new Skull and Bones employee for the last twenty years, none of whom had ever managed to find the skull, bones or even vague whereabouts of Lt. Whitmore or his gunner, Sgt. Hume. The two had simply disappeared into a cloud. Like most newcomers Chase had accepted the file as her first challenge, her opportunity to prove herself. She heard the snickers. She heard the chuckles. She knew the case was a dog even before Steven took pity on her and pulled her aside one day at lunch to say, "You know you can't solve Whitmore and Hume, right?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, "We've all had to dog it for a while. I had it three years ago when I started, before they found out I could write code. Fuckers think it's funny." He grimaced. "Just thought you should know." +As the new girl Chase had been handed the worst job in skull and bones, trying to find Whitmore and Hume. It was a ritual, hazing for history nerds. The case had been handed, amid chuckles and snickers from old timers, to every new Skull and Bones employee for the last twenty years, none of whom had ever managed to find the skull, bones or even vague whereabouts of Lt. Whitmore or his gunner, Sgt. Hume. The two had simply disappeared into a cloud. Like most newcomers Chase had accepted the file as her first challenge, her opportunity to prove herself. She heard the snickers. She heard the chuckles. She knew the case was a dog even before Steven took pity on her and pulled her aside one day at lunch to say, "You know you can't solve Whitmore and Hume, right?" He lowered his voice to a whisper, "We've all had to dog it for a while. I had it three years ago when I started, before they found out I could write code. Fuckers think it's funny." He grimaced. "Just thought you should know." Thank you Steven," Chase was twirling a pen through her fingers wondering if perhaps the case were solvable despite years of failure. She knew of half a dozen mathematical proofs that for years had been considered unsolvable and then one day, damn it all, someone solves it. And she wasn't even a mathematician, probably there were far more examples. Still, history was trickier, Amelia Earhart was still unsolved, Jesse James' gold was still missing, DB Cooper was never heard from again. @@ -53,7 +53,7 @@ Sometimes the past is truly gone, swallowed up by time. Other times it just look ----- -Chase had just finished typing up the last of her report on Sgt. Reese when Steven wandered into her office and sat down on the edge of her desk, one leg on the floor, one draped over a stack of files Chase need to send back to the Archives. +Chase had just finished typing up the last of her report on Sgt. McCann when Steven wandered into her office and sat down on the edge of her desk, one leg on the floor, one draped over a stack of files Chase need to send back to the Archives. "Steven," she said without glancing up from her laptop screen. "Something on your mind?" @@ -63,7 +63,7 @@ Chase smiled, but kept her head down. "A lady never tells Steven." She could see "Sorry, that didn't come out right did it?" He picked up the cheap nameplate from her desk and toyed with the edge where the fake gold laminate was already peeling after barely a year. At least they weren't wasting money on frivolous stuff he thought to himself. "It's just that, well... there are rumors see, rumors you're going to go back to the Whitmore case or something crazy like that." -She said nothing while she finished entering the last of the Reese report and then clicked save and closed the laptop. "Steven, you know as well as I do that Whitmore is unsolvable." +She said nothing while she finished entering the last of the McCann report and then clicked save and closed the laptop. "Steven, you know as well as I do that Whitmore is unsolvable." "Actually, I would've thought that you knew that even better than I do." Steven had set down the nameplate and pulled out a small package of nutter butters which he proceeded to eat, distractedly. "Chase, listen, you know how everyone here thinks that you're trying to make them look bad?" @@ -71,7 +71,7 @@ She said nothing while she finished entering the last of the Reese report and th "Well, see, the thing is, I'm starting to think that maybe they're right. You've been here just over a year, so this is technically your second year, but I'm going to keep calling it your first year, since it's your first full year, your first year in which anyone can really judge your case work and quite frankly it's really good. You didn't solve Whitmore. So far that's you're only smudge, if it can be called that. So that means you cleared what? fifteen cases? -"Reese makes eighteen actually." Chase leaned back in her chair. "What's your point Steven, just spit it out." +"McCann makes eighteen actually." Chase leaned back in her chair. "What's your point Steven, just spit it out." He stared at his shoes. "I don't know. It's just that, if the rumors are true they're going to start giving you even more old cases, cases they think the rest of us can't do. I mean, here's the thing, you know how I told you I ended up getting moved over to the tech department because I knew Python? Yeah, well, that's true, but it's also true that my last case was for a missing snipers in Afghanistan that turn out to be on loan to the CIA for things that are way the hell over my pay grade and quite frankly terrify me. In other words, I got fucked, a snafu that turned out to embarrass half a dozen very high ranking military officers, not to mention my own bosses who have to admit they assigned it to me.... But you, you just keep solving things. I used to be you, but ever since that stupid case I've been writing code, which is fine, but then you came along and it reminds me of how I fucked up, or how I got fucked." @@ -115,7 +115,7 @@ She's definitely crazy thought Chase, "can I help you?" Chase considered saying no, but she was curious. She glanced back inside. Steven's head was buried in the newspaper. Chase stepped back out to the street and let the door close behind here. "How do you know my name?" -"Well, there you go. I thought he might be crazy." She laughed nervously. "Man asked me to give you something. Actually," She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and grinned at Chase, "he promised me five hundred dollars if I gave you this." She reached into her purse and retrieved a small slip of pink paper folded in half. She thrust it out to Chase who took it from her fingers and without looking at it said, "Okay. Thank you," as if it were perfectly normal for a stranger to be handing her a slip of paper on behalf of another stranger. +"Well, there you go. I thought that boy might be crazy." She laughed nervously. "He asked me to give you something." She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and grinned at Chase who was too shocked to respond. The woman reached into her purse and retrieved a small slip of pink paper folded in half. She thrust it out to Chase who took it from her fingers and without looking at it said, "Okay. Thank you," as if it were perfectly normal for a stranger to be handing her a slip of paper on behalf of another stranger. The woman seemed to accept that it was in fact normal. She nodded. "Well, anyway. Have a good day." And she turned and walked back toward the corner. @@ -46,15 +46,15 @@ It surprised no one that she majored in history. It was even less surprising tha But it was a chance to reclaim stories. And for Chase it was always about the stories. Without the stories there was no point to history. Only statisticians cared who fought whom where and when. Only hindsight ever found a pattern to history, the truth was that history made no more linear sense than the present. Eliminate the illusions and misconceptions about what history is and eventually you discover the kernel of truth that Chase had always known: it is nothing but stories. Lose track of them and you lose everything. -Chase set down the pink slip of paper pulled up a search window on her laptop. She hesitated, staring at the screen. She had been putting off a web search all day because she didn't want to know, she didn't want to lose the mystery. At the same time she had vague sense of unease about the whole thing. The strange encounter with the prostitute had left her feeling strangely exposed. Anyone could walk into the DPMO and ask for her, but whomever had sent the note did not. Yet whomever had sent her the piece of paper obviously knew who she was. What creeped her out more than a little bit was that this person seemed to not only knew the what DPMO was, but apparently had the free time to followed her around. Or perhaps he had only followed her that day. Perhaps, thought Chase, suddenly feeling little sheepish for being paranoid, perhaps this person had in fact gone looking for her at her office and, discovering that she was playing hooky, had simply been pointed in her direction as she walked out of the building. But then why not approach her directly? And even if it wasn't direct for some reason, why employ an outlandish prostitute to deliver your rather simple message. That of couse assumed the woman who handed her the paper was telling the truth. Chase considered for a moment that perhaps the story of the man was simply a ruse, something along the lines of I have this friend... But that seemed preposterous given the circumstances. +Chase set down the pink slip of paper pulled up a search window on her laptop. She hesitated, staring at the screen. She had been putting off a web search all day because she didn't want to know, she didn't want to lose the mystery. At the same time she had vague sense of unease about the whole thing. The strange encounter with the prostitute had left her feeling strangely exposed. Anyone could walk into the DPMO and ask for her, but whomever had sent the note did not. Yet whomever had sent her the piece of paper obviously knew who she was. What creeped her out more than a little bit was that this person seemed to not only knew the what DPMO was, but apparently had the free time to followed her around. Or perhaps he had only followed her that day. Perhaps, thought Chase, suddenly feeling little sheepish for being paranoid, perhaps this person had in fact gone looking for her at her office and, discovering that she was playing hooky, had simply been pointed in her direction as she walked out of the building. But then why not approach her directly? And even if it wasn't direct for some reason, why employ an outlandish prostitute to deliver your rather simple message. That of couse assumed the woman who handed her the paper was telling the truth. Chase considered for a moment that perhaps the story of the man was simply a ruse, something along the lines of *I have this friend...* But that seemed preposterous given the circumstances. She went through her memory, trying to see the people on the street when they had walked out of the building, when they had been talking on their way to the dinner, was their anyone familiar? Anyone that had been there more than once, anyone that was familiar because they were following her? She simply didn't see the world in those terms so there was nothing. She closed her eyes and went through her morning in her mind as though she might suddenly notice lurking in the shadows someone she had never noticed before. Nothing came. You can't will yourself to notice things that you have already not noticed she thought. Or maybe you could, but she was pretty sure you would need a hypnotist. She sighed and poured another glass of wine. Did it really matter? She was interested in the name, not he reasoning behind whomever gave her the name. If she just wanted the story it didn't matter who give her the name or why. The story was there to be found either way, the why didn't really matter. -She shoved the thoughts from her head and focused on the far more interesting question, what did this person expect Chase to do with the name? After turning it over in her head for a while, she decided she would do whatever she would have done if the name had come from her boss rather than some cloak and dagger obsessed individual. She plugged Lt. Otto Lawrence into the search box and hit return. Two dozen hits blinked up instantly. She narrowed the search by date, wrapping it around the years of the war and found almost nothing, which was odd. There should have been an official notice, something posted in the papers by the family. And of course the old War Department's records were also available online, to say nothing of WWII memoires, the sheer volume of which generally meant that almost everyone had been mentioned at some point. In every case Chase had worked so far there had always been an MIA notice or a KIA notice somewhere on the web. She expanded the search to pull in a few years after the war, since she realized that the MIA notice in Lt. Lawrence's file didn't actually have a date. Perhaps Lt. Lawrence had survived World War II and disappeared later in Korea or Vietnam. She added in enough time to cover everything up through the first Gulf War and found a few hits on Lawrence, including a Lawrence foundation, but most of it seemed unrelated. She finished her glass of wine and sat down on the sofa. +She shoved the thoughts from her head and focused on the far more interesting question, what did this person expect Chase to do with the name? After turning it over in her head for a while, she decided she would do whatever she would have done if the name had come from her boss rather than some cloak and dagger obsessed individual. She plugged Lt. Otto Lawrence into the search box and hit return. Two dozen hits blinked up instantly. She narrowed the search by date, wrapping it around the years of the war and found almost nothing, which was odd. There should have been an official notice, something posted in the papers by the family. And of course the old War Department's records were also available online, to say nothing of WWII memoires, the sheer volume of which generally meant that almost everyone had been mentioned at some point. In every case Chase had worked so far there had always been an MIA notice or a KIA notice somewhere on the web. She expanded the search to pull in a few years after the war, since she realized that the MIA notice in Lt. Lawrence's file didn't actually have a date. Perhaps Lt. Lawrence had survived World War II and disappeared later in Korea or Vietnam. She added in enough time to cover everything up through the first Gulf War and found a few hits on Lawrence, including a Lawrence Foundation, but most of it seemed unrelated. She finished her glass of wine and sat down on the sofa. -With little to add to her notes on Lt. Reese Lawrence her mind swung back around to the question of who wanted her to find him. She tried to distract herself. She logged into her news stream, checked the latest weather, and replied to a message from her mother and wondered absently if whomever was, apparently, stalking her--the word made her glance up suddenly and look around the room as if an ax murderer might have suddenly slipped in--was also watching her public news feed. Her profile listed her job for all the world to see and she wasn't shy about posting questions when she needed outside help. If whomever it was knew enough about the DPMO to ask for her they must have also known that she didn't have the rank to charge off on her own whim, pursuing whatever she wanted. Her bosses, on the other hand, had that luxury, so why not ask them? Unless of course there was something about this Lt. Otto Lawrence or something about the nature of his disappearance that the mystery man didn't want revealed to higher ups. So, if the person wanted to know about Lt. Lawrence, but didn't want the military to know about him then why not go to an outsider? +With little to add to her notes on Lt. Reese Lawrence her mind swung back around to the question of who wanted her to find him. She tried to distract herself. She logged into her news stream, checked the latest weather, and replied to a message from her mother and wondered absently if whomever it was that was, apparently, stalking her--the word made her glance up suddenly and look around the room as if an ax murderer might have suddenly slipped in--was also watching her public news feed. Her profile listed her job for all the world to see and she wasn't shy about posting questions when she needed outside help. If whomever it was knew enough about the DPMO to ask for her they must have also known that she didn't have the rank to charge off on her own whim, pursuing whatever she wanted. Her bosses, on the other hand, had that luxury, so why not ask them? Unless of course there was something about this Lt. Otto Lawrence or something about the nature of his disappearance that the mystery man didn't want revealed to higher ups. So, if the person wanted to know about Lt. Lawrence, but didn't want the military to know about him then why not go to an outsider? She dug around the web, looking for freelancers that specialized in veteran affairs. The sort of investigators rich families used when they wanted to solve something quietly. Something off the books. There were a few, but judging by the client lists they were allowed to divulge most would have no trouble accessing the same records Chase could, and probably a lot more. No real reason to not use an outsider. But this person had not. This person was trying to use Chase Kovele. When she phrased it in those terms the whole affair suddenly sounded entirely crazy. Why in the world would anyone want Chase specifically? Chase wrote why at the bottom of an already full sheet of questions and notes about Lt. Lawrence. She drew a box around the question and stared at it while she listened to the rain lashing against the house. The wind was rattling the window boards, but so far everything had held just fine. @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ He found himself doing it now more than ever. Since Evelyn, his wife of forty ye The archive, such as it was, was really just the storeroom in the back of Ed Wald's local VFW. For reasons Norm could never track down, Wald had become the de facto keeper of the squadron's memorabilia and non-essential records ever since the 234th had been official retired at the end of the Vietnam War. In typical military fashion papers and photos had simply been thrown into boxes and unceremoniously dumped in Wald's lap. Busy with his day trading at the time, Wald had simply dumped them on to the store room. It was just a makeshift solution with a more long term plan to be forthcoming. But of course that plan never came forth and eventually the task seems too monumental to even discuss, let alone do anything about. Until that is, Wald had met Norm at the reunion. What Norm discovered, after he had already agreed to the task, was a singularly massive mountain of paper and files that stretched from floor to ceiling and spanned nearly 40 years of flying history. Paper and boxes completely consumed a desk that Norm didn't unearth until his third or fourth day of excavations. The first day Wald was trying to point out a stack of boxes near the back when Norm made the mistake of turning around too fast only to collide with a stack of paper that crashed to the floor and blocked his escape. "Well, see, there you go, somewhere to start," said Wald as he gingerly retreated out the the room. -It had been a monumental task, one that had kept him occupied for the better part of a year now and he still wasn't completely finished. But Norm had managed to dig up and digitally restore a series of the old photos from his own beginnings as navigator flying out of Panama. Norm had the photos framed and hung in a ramshackle, but Norm thought pleasingly so, manner behind the VFW bar. +It had been a monumental task, one that had kept him occupied for the better part of a year now and he still wasn't completely finished. The only way Norm could ever come up with the make it a more managable task was to make it personal. In its early days the archive was turned into the personal story of Norm Canton's career in the 234th, starting with some photos he found of himself at flight school in Pensacola Florida, circa 1955. Norm standing in front of a very dirty prop-driven plane, the eager young man following in his father's Navy footsteps. Norm had taken the image, along with a dozen others old photos of Norm and Wald and rest of the squardron just before they had shipped out for Korea down to Kinkos and had them digitally restored and enlarged. Norm had the photos framed and hung in a ramshackle, but Norm thought pleasingly so, manner behind the VFW bar. Norm was studying a photo of Wald's old plane, the Tigress, contemplating the scripted lettering that ran across the flared exhaust cowling and sloped back down under the nose art, a long thin-legged nurse straddling a bomb. Norm was wondering for the five hundredth time why the hell a nurse would straddle a bomb when he heard the screen door behind him slam shut. He slowly spun around on the barstool and was about to tell whomever it was to go away when he saw that there was a far more real long legged, though clearly not a nurse, woman silhouetted in the darkness of the VFW. @@ -34,7 +34,7 @@ She gave him her best disarming smile, "it seemed the polite way to begin. But y Norm snorted and turned back around. -She spun her barstool around and followed his gaze, taking in the jumble of photos, mean and airplanes, tents, racks of bombs. She caught the name Tigress on one of the planes. "Panama, right?" +She spun her barstool around and followed his gaze, taking in the jumble of photos, mean and airplanes, tents, racks of bombs. She caught the name Tigress on one of the planes. "The 234th, right?" He was startled and made no effort to hide it. "You seem to know an awful lot about me." @@ -52,15 +52,17 @@ She smiled. "We try." "Okay Norm, here's the thing. My bosses gave me a case, gave me a name that I'm supposed to track down, locate, recover and file away right?" She watched him nod politely and decided he wasn't buying her simpleton act, but she was too far in to stop now, she plowed ahead. "Well, I went to find the file that would give me a starting point and it turns out the be a very incomplete file. There's only some enlistment papers, an order sending the cadet to flight school and then a transfer notice to the 234th. Somewhere along the way he was apparently even promoted all the way to lieutenant, but there's no record of that at all in the main archive. Well I was working the case as best I could." She leaned in conspiratorially, "by which I mean I moved on to something that had papers." -Norm raised he eyebrows, but did not return her smile. "It's been several months, I'd put it out of my mind by this point, I mean, what could I do? Then, out of nowhere, just after that storm last week actually, I get a message to my inbox saying that I should come talk to you. Weird right?" +Norm raised he eyebrows, but did not return her smile. + +"It'd been several months, I'd put it out of my mind by this point, I mean, what could I do? Then, out of nowhere, just after that storm last week actually, I get a message to my inbox saying that I should come talk to you. Weird right?" "That is odd," said Norm though his voice said something else, more like that's irritating or that's boring, Chase wasn't entirely sure which. "What'd you say his name was?" Norm heaved himself off the stool and walked around behind the bar. He poured another bit of whiskey in his glass and then pulled up another and set it in front of Chase. She shrugged and he filled it for her. -"I'm looking for a Lt. Reese Lawrence who, last thing I know, was assigned to the 234th, which then shipped out to Panama." +"I'm looking for a Lt. Reese Lawrence who, last thing I know, was assigned to the 234th, which then shipped out to Panama in 1942." -Norm stared down at her glass. Chase wanted to pick it up and drink it down to help ease her nerves but she didn't want to break his lost in space spell in case he was tracking down the name somewhere deep the recess of memory. Finally he looked up, met her gaze for a moment and walked back around the bar, calling from near the end, "that name doesn't ring a bell." He sat down beside her and raised his glass, "to the fighting '34th." They toasted and she slugged back the whiskey in a single shot. She noticed Norm just sipped at his. "I was in Panama. I was there when we shipped out, flew down in a Dauntless, Blue Bessy was the nose art. Did fourteen months in that godforsaken jungle and then I got malaria and rotated back stateside. I was stateside for most of '43, training navigators at Crissy Field in San Francisco. Then they decided malaria or no they needed people in the Pacific. So off I went. Anyway, I don't remember anyone named Lawrence. Don't think I met anyone by that name in the whole war actually." +Norm stared down at her glass. Chase wanted to pick it up and drink it down to help ease her nerves but she didn't want to break his lost in space spell in case he was tracking down the name somewhere deep the recess of memory. Finally he looked up, met her gaze for a moment and walked back around the bar, calling from near the end, "The squadron did start out WWII in Panama, but that name doesn't ring a bell. Of course that was years before my time." He sat down beside her and raised his glass, "to the fighting '34th." They toasted and she slugged back the whiskey in a single shot. She noticed Norm just sipped at his. "I started with the 234th in Pensacola, right out of flight school, '53 I believe it was. Shipped out for Korea on the USS... we were still flying the Skyraiders back then," He gestured to an aerial photo of a squat, ungainly looking plane that Chase knew, from earlier cases, had been the workhorse of the Navy for nearly two decades. "Ugly thing isn't it? Love that plane though. Best thing I ever flew. 'Course the A6 was a good plane too, but by the then I wasn't flying much anymore, mostly sitting up in the flight deck plotting missions. Anyway, I don't remember anyone named Lawrence coming up in stories and lord knows the old guys, the WWII vets, they did love to tell some stories. -Chase nodded and was about to press her case when Norm got up off the stool. "Of course it's been a long time," he gestured toward the closet, "all the records we have are over are over here if you want to look." He walked over to the back room and unlocked the door. "Can't imagine this stuff will be too helpful though, none of it's official. Mostly just photos and old plaques and the like." Canton stood by the door looking inside as Chase made her way over. +Chase nodded and was about to press her case when Norm got up off the stool. "Of course it's been a long time, who knows what I've forgotten about." He gestured toward the closet, "all the records we have are over are over here if you want to look." He walked over to the back room and unlocked the door. "Can't imagine this stuff will be too helpful though, none of it's official. Mostly just photos and old plaques and the like." Canton stood by the door looking inside as Chase made her way over. "Photos are exactly what I'm after Mr. Canton, thank you." @@ -68,7 +70,7 @@ Chase spent over an hour digging through the files, most of which were letters a From time to time Norm poked his head in the door to see how she was doing, or answer a question, but mainly he let her have the run of the place, which struck her as odd because she had a nagging feeling there was something he wasn't telling her. After a while he retreated back out to his whiskey and photos and Chase started using her phone to scan some of the photographs still in the archive. Pictures of the planes and their crews, hardly more than boys, posing against a backdrop of palms and canvas tents. It looked hot, nearly everyone's t-shirts were ringed in sweat. -Sometimes she went back out to the bar and Norm pointed out the faces he remembered. Then she would go back into the archive and login into the DPMO site, uploading photos and tagging them with names, which could be used to find service numbers. For every man he pointed out, Norm had a story; Dory the mechanic who had dropped a thousand pound bomb on the runway causing the entire airfield to evacuate or the time Ed Wald, who figure prominently into a number of the tales, had snuck into the base hospital and made off with two tanks of nitrous oxide to liven up the new years party. Chase tagged Wald in a photo and made a note that she would interview him at some point. The most useful thing she found in the still quite disorganized closet was a pair of squadron christmas photos, one take in 1941 in San Diego and another from 1942 in Panama. It would be hard work, boring work she knew, but she had done it before and she knew she could go through and match service record photos with the faces in the christmas images and perhaps, by process of elimination, at least find out what Reese Lawrence had looked like. A picture was, after all, worth a thousand words. Especially when it came to jogging the world's memory about things it seemed to want to forget. +Sometimes she went back out to the bar and Norm pointed out the faces he remembered. Then she would go back into the archive and login into the DPMO site, uploading photos and tagging them with names, which could be used to find service numbers. The most useful thing she found in the still quite disorganized closet was a pair of squadron Christmas photos, one taken in 1941 in San Diego and another from 1942 in Panama. It would be hard work, boring work she knew, but she had done it before and she knew she could go through and match service record photos with the faces in the Christmas images and perhaps, by process of elimination, at least find out what Reese Lawrence had looked like. A picture was, after all, worth a thousand words. Especially when it came to jogging the world's memory about things it seemed to want to forget. The sun was setting by the time Norm walked her to her car. She thanked him, left a copy of her card and promised she'd let him know if she ever found her mystery man. She watched him in the rearview mirror, standing there in the parking lot, waving as she pulled out into the street. @@ -1,3 +1,5 @@ +For every man he pointed out, Norm had a story; Dory the mechanic who had dropped a thousand pound bomb on the runway causing the entire airfield to evacuate or the time Ed Wald, who figure prominently into a number of the tales, had snuck into the base hospital and made off with two tanks of nitrous oxide to liven up the new years party. Chase tagged Wald in a photo and made a note that she would interview him at some point. + Throughout the conversation Norm had been some gracious and friendly she began to feel bad for ever suspecting that he had lied to her. Perhaps he really didn't know that man standing five feet from him in the photo. It was, she though as she drove toward Annapolis, entirely possible. Still, she was worried about the results of her search. It seemed obvious to her now that Norm Canton had been lying. He was standing in the photo, a few feet from the blond haired man she suspected of being Lawrence, surely he as least knew the man. Yet Norm had been quite adamant, I'm sure *I never knew anyone named Reese, not the the whole war.* Most people lied to hide something. A few people lied just because it was easier than, for example, tell a sad story or revealing something awkward about themselves. Some people lied because they were pathologically insane, but Chase had never dated Norm so she was pretty sure he didn't fall in the later category. So why lie to her? She needed to go back. Awkward and uncomfortable though it would likely be, she need to confront Norm Canton about his lie. She needed to know why. |