P. J. Grondin
A Lifetime of Deception
Copyright © 2007 by P. J. Grondin
First Edition – Revision 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by
P. J. Grondin
4704 Venice Road, Suite 201
Sandusky, Ohio 44870
Smashwords Edition
Library of Congress Control Number: 2008902413
Dedication
This book is dedicated to our brave servicemen and servicewomen. Their job is always dangerous regardless of circumstances. The job becomes more difficult when personal problems at home distract them from their mission. It is criminal when their own countrymen take advantage of these heroes while deployed and unable to defend themselves. God Bless all of our fighting men and women in the Navy, Marine Corps, Army, Air Force, Coast Guard, and the National Guard. Without you, freedom is just a dream.
Acknowledgements
Thanks go to my brother, Patrick and my wife, Debbie for their critique of the manuscript, both technical and creative. Their input and feedback were a tremendous help in keeping the story real-to-life.
Other McKinney Brothers Murder Mystery Novels available at Smashwords
A Lifetime of Vengeance
A Lifetime of Exposure
Reviews
The story line pulled me in right away and the characters were well developed and likable. I am thinking you can quit your day job.
Don Crouch, Michigan
Fast paced and intelligent, adult readers should enjoy A Lifetime of Deception.
Sabrina Sumsion, Premier Reviews
It's a fast-paced thriller and the characters are so well-drawn, we find ourselves becoming sympathetic with the main perpetrator because of her mean upbringing. You are in for one heck of a ride and a surprise ending that you never see coming! This is the book for readers who love edge-of-your-seat suspense thrillers. Highly recommended.
Lila Pinord. Washington State
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue
1971
Abbie Glover was on her back with her legs high in the air and her feet in stirrups. She was used to being in this position, but this time she was in pain. Sweat poured from her face and neck as the nurses monitored her vital signs and those of her unborn baby. Her gown was soaked, clinging to her shoulders, breasts, and back. The air in the room was cool but, Abbie was immune to the chill as her body tensed with each pain. Her contractions were very close now and the obstetrician was coaching her through her next moves.
She didn’t trust the doctor or the nurses. They were all here at the request of the United States Air Force, she was sure of it. They were supposedly staff of Penrose-St. Francis Medical Center, but she knew better. She knew the Air Force set up the delivery team. She hated the military. She hated anyone associated with the military. She hated that her baby was going to be born with military doctors and nurses attending. But there was no turning back now. She was here on her back and her baby was going to be born any time now.
“Okay, when you have this next pain, push as hard as you can. I can see the top of the baby’s head now.” The doctor’s instructions went in one ear and out the other. Abbie wasn’t thinking about pushing. She was thinking about the bastards that had put her in this position; fifteen years old and pregnant. Her own mother disowned her when she found out Abbie was pregnant. Her father was long gone. He’d bugged out on Abbie’s mom fifteen years before, as soon as he found out that she was pregnant. He didn’t want to be strapped with a kid. He had a future and he didn’t need that sort of baggage holding him back. So she raised Abbie alone as best as she could but she was far too young for that responsibility. Throughout her youth, Abbie was passed from relative to relative until none of them wanted her any longer. She was always in trouble and never did what she was told.
She wound up in foster care in Colorado Springs, Colorado near the Air Force Academy. That’s where she learned how to turn on the charm and make a living as the party girl. She made some good cash servicing the young cadets at the academy. She managed to keep from getting pregnant until now. But here she was, legs in the air, pains coming faster than she could handle them. She started to scream as the next contraction hit. “Holy shit! Oh God, this hurts!”
“Push harder, Abbie. You need to push as hard as you can.” The doctor was trying his best to be supportive but Abbie was having none of it.
“I’m pushing, you fucking moron! God I hate you Air Force pricks!” She groaned loud then squealed as the contraction started to subside. A nurse took a cloth and wiped sweat from her face and neck. Abbie jerked her head towards the attending nurse and shouted, “Get that away from me you bitch!” The nurse rolled her eyes when she turned her back to Abbie. She got another dry cloth from the stack on the table by one wall of the delivery room and prepared to wipe her face down again when the next contraction started. Abbie let out another scream, this one more intense than the last.
Patiently, the doctor continued to coach in a calm voice, “Abbie, you need to push as hard as you can one more time.”
She swore at the doctor again. Less patient people would have walked out of the delivery room and let her deliver her own baby, but they were professional medical staff. They’d heard much of this before. Foul language like this was usually hurled at the father of the newborn during delivery. But there was no father to target today, so the staff took the brunt of the abuse.
Only the man in the far side of the birthing room was actually military. He was there to observe the delivery. His orders were to report back to the Superintendent of the Air Force Academy, Lieutenant General Wilson Chester, as soon as the child was born. Specifically, he was to listen to everything the mother said during and after the birth. The delivery room staff was a bit uncomfortable with the guest but they had no choice. The military, or someone within the military, was paying the bill.
The baby’s head was beginning to make its way out of the birth canal and the doctor told Abbie to relax as best she could until the next contraction. “This may be the push that does it so save your strength and try to really push this next time.”
Abbie angrily shouted, “Look you motherfucker, there ain’t no resting and I’m pushing as hard as I can. If you think you can push this kid out, have at it. AHHH!” The next contraction started. “Ahh! God this hurts. God I hate you bastards! I’ll kill every one of you Air Force pricks for this!”
The staff was so stunned at this outburst that they didn’t hear the doctor say, “Here it comes.” The doctor had to yell to his staff to get moving and take the baby so he could get the umbilical cord clamped and cut. A nurse wiped the baby girl clean. She took the baby’s weight and recorded the APGAR score. Seven. Not too bad for the baby of such a young girl.
The doctor said, “Record date and time of birth, February 2, 1971, 1632 hours. Oh, that’s 4:32 PM for her civilian records.”
Abbie turned her head away from the child when the nurse presented her with her new baby girl. She said, “She doesn’t stand a chance with me. Take her away. I don’t want to see her.”
The nurse protested, “You’ll change your mind when you’ve had some rest. This has been very traumatic.”
“What the fuck do you know about me? I said take her away. I want to give her to someone who can love her. I can’t. Now get her out of here and get me out of here.”
The nurse gave her a sad look and turned with the newborn and headed towards the nursery. Before she left the delivery room she turned and asked Abbie, “Do you have a name for your baby girl?”
Abbie spat, “Bastard.”
The entire staff stopped what they were doing for a moment and stared at Abbie. Then one by one, they returned to their tasks. This would be a delivery they would never forget. The nurses decided to call the baby Rebecca because they had just been talking about books they’d recently read. One of the books was Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. They all agreed that it was a beautiful name and this baby was a beautiful baby. If Abbie came to her senses she could choose whatever name she wanted but for now she was Baby Rebecca.
* * *
Major Harold Trent reported to General Chester that the birth went well and the baby, a girl, was in fine condition and care. He also reported that the woman who gave birth to the infant did not want the child. He was certain that the child would be given up for adoption.
The General’s response was, “You make certain that takes place. If that baby can be sent out of state so much the better. When the mother is healthy enough to be discharged, you be there and give her this package. Make sure she goes to the opposite side of the country from that baby. This woman is to have no contact with the baby or the adoptive parents. Is that understood, Major?”
“Yes sir,” was his answer, but he did not understand. He figured that the General had his reasons and did not question his orders but he left the office with many unanswered questions.
* * *
On May 15, 1971 at a smoke-filled Colorado Springs pub, four young graduates, now United States Air Force Lieutenants smoked cigars and hoisted a round of shots to their success. They’d completed the tough requirements of the Air Force Academy. They’d also dodged a bullet.
“Hey Milt, we made it.” He took a puff on his cigar then held his second shot of Jack Daniels high in the air. His three companions raised their shot glasses as well.
“Hell yeah. Salute!” The four drank their shots and put the glasses down hard on the table.
“We need to drink a round to your old man. He saved our asses.”
The other three frowned at their fellow graduate. Milton Chester in a quiet, but firm tone said, “Shut the fuck up, man. What if someone overhears you talking about that shit? Our asses could be right back in the sling.” The others nodded in agreement. Milton continued, “We have to vow to each other that we’ll never talk about this to anyone. Ever! Understood?” He looked hard at each man. They each nodded agreement. “Good.” He paused then said, “Fill ‘em up.”
His old man may have saved their asses but it wasn’t before he’d cold-cocked his son for nearly ruining both their careers. Milton put down the shot glass and rubbed his jaw at the memory.
But their little problem was gone. One half left the state heading east, the other heading west. It was time to forget about that little lapse in judgment and move on. There were Air Force careers to be made. The four had their orders. Their bright futures awaited them.
For Abbie, the future looked bleak. She’d been given enough money to get out of town and a little extra to keep her mouth shut.
For baby Rebecca, the future was unknown.
Chapter 1
1987
Randy Divert and Earl Glavin shared a two bedroom apartment with their girlfriends in Summerville, South Carolina. Randy wasn’t too keen about the arrangement. He wasn’t close friends with Earl. They’d gone through the Navy’s Nuclear Power School together in Orlando, Florida and had been transferred to West Milton, New York for the final stages of their training before being permanently assigned to a submarine. In West Milton they’d shared a house with three other sailors who were in the Navy at the training facility in upstate New York. Even then, Randy wasn’t pleased to be sharing housing with other sailors, friends or not. There always seemed to be a conflict. Someone was always slack in their duties, most of which were simple chores. But when the trash was overflowing, or the dishes were stacking up, the excuses started flying. They were all busy with studying, working long hours on rotating shifts; all of which were part of the training routine at the Navy’s nuclear reactor training facility. But the chores still had to be done, like it or not. When Randy left New York for duty aboard his first real submarine, the last thing on his mind was to share an off base apartment with anyone, much less Earl Glavin.
Randy was a third class Machinist Mate aboard the USS Stonewall Jackson. He was short at 5 feet 7 inches, with sandy brown hair and gray eyes. His slim face didn’t seem to be a good fit for his muscular body. He walked with purpose wherever he went. He always turned with quick, abrupt movements which irritated his division officers. They thought he was being insubordinate, trying to be cute by his receiving an order and quickly running off to carry it out. But they soon learned that it was just his nature to not procrastinate. Randy wanted to get the job done with as little fanfare and interruption as possible. He got his orders and did the job. Everyone liked Randy. They especially liked Randy’s ingenuity. He had a knack for making special tools to make jobs easier. When the standard tool didn’t work exactly right, he would make a slight modification to the tool and the job would take less than half the time it normally did. His fellow Machinist Mates told him that he should patent his tools but Randy said he just did it to make his life easier. He didn’t want any rewards for something so simple. It was what he was told that the Navy was all about. It was what his training told him that he should do.
The Navy was in his blood. His father had been a Machinist Mate as had his uncle. When they’d heard that Randy had joined the Navy to follow in their footsteps, they sat Randy down and told him story after story about their off crew escapades. Many of the stories were hilarious and many were frightening. One story was about one of their buddies who’d been shacked up with a chick and two of her friends. When he came back from a 3 month patrol, all of his belongings were gone from his apartment. His bank account had been cleaned out and his car was gone. He was wiped out. His dad and uncle told him to never let a woman get that close. They’d said, “Always protect yourself and your stuff. Somebody’s always trying to take your stuff when you’re out to sea.” Great advice, Randy thought.
Less than a week after Randy reported to the USS Stonewall Jackson at the Naval Weapons Station in Goose Creek, South Carolina, Earl Glavin showed up and started to hang out with Randy, even when he wasn’t invited. Randy didn’t think too much of it. Earl was a pretty decent guy though he didn’t have much of a personality. He was taller than Randy at 5’11” but weighed much less at only 164 pounds. He had a light complexion and dark brown eyes. His eyes were shaped such that he looked almost oriental. His dark hair was curly but he kept it close cropped. His accent was western Pennsylvania or eastern Ohio. Everything was ‘yuns want to go to the mall’ or ‘yuns want to get a beer?’ Almost from the moment he met up with Randy at the off crew office, he started to talk about splitting an apartment with him. Randy wasn’t too keen on the idea.
Shelly Mercer was the reason for Randy’s reluctance. Shelly was Randy’s girlfriend. She already had plans for her and Randy to share an apartment together when she moved out of her parent’s home in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She was trying real hard to get her hooks into Randy. She wanted a husband real bad and Randy was her target.
But Earl was being very persistent. Finally, Randy gave in and the deal was made. He and Earl would split a place for six months until Shelly moved down. They’d move out and find a place of their own and Earl would have to find someone else to share the expenses. That was the plan.
Then the plan changed.
Earl met Colleen Clarkson at a nightclub in North Charleston and immediately fell in love with her. Colleen was a pretty girl at 5’3”, 108 pounds, shoulder length strawberry-blond hair and a slender body. She was real pleasing to the eyes. She said that she was 19 but she looked younger. She had nicely shaped breasts, shapely hips, and pouty lips that she used to her advantage. She had a southern belle accent that just blew Earl away. She’d talk sweet to him; tell him what a gentleman he was and how she ‘just loved how he treated her.’ Whenever Earl would say something that she didn’t like, she would put on a sad little face, lips turned down slightly, and plead with him to change his mind. It worked every time. Earl was hooked and Colleen was reeling him in.
Randy sensed problems right off the bat and tried to tell Earl to slow down. She was always making decisions for Earl even on relatively important matters, like where to spend his money, what to buy for the apartment, what kind of car he should buy. She even recommended that they start a joint checking account. The words of Randy’s dad and uncle rang in his ears. “Always protect yourself and your stuff. Somebody’s always trying to take your stuff when you’re out to sea.” Randy tried to talk with Earl about the errors of his ways, but he might as well have been talking to a wall. Earl was in love with Colleen and the hook was set . . . deep. They’d only known each other for three weeks but love conquers all, especially a young sailor who’d previously never been out of Beaver County, Pennsylvania. So after a day or so of pleading about a joint checking account, Earl caved and they were off to the bank. Randy didn’t even have time to pull him aside and warn him of the danger of such a move.
Randy didn’t know Colleen at all when she moved in with them. All he knew was that she had a job as a waitress at Ruby Tuesdays in the Northwoods Mall. She contributed to the rent and the bills and that’s what counted as far as Randy was concerned. That made paying the bills easy. Randy was able to save more money. He was going to need all the money he could save to pay for a different apartment, furniture and all the things that a new, young couple needs to get off to a good start in a relationship. He was pleased that he could sock away a good part of his paycheck to help with that goal. It had only been seven weeks in the shared apartment with Earl and Colleen and Randy had saved almost a thousand dollars. He was feeling pretty good.
About this time, Randy’s girlfriend, Shelly Mercer, decided that she needed to move in with her man. She couldn’t wait another five months. She’d been having problems at home, arguing with her mom so she decided that she was old enough to make her own decisions. She hopped on a bus, headed for South Carolina and moved in with Randy, Earl, and Colleen.
Shelly was a pretty, 18 year old girl. She was shorter than Randy, at 5’2”. She had a body that turned heads. She weighed only 112 pounds and a good part of that was on her chest. She also had beautiful blue eyes and platinum blond hair. She was the kind of girl that people used for blond jokes. She was a bit air headed and didn’t catch on to things too quickly. When she moved in with her fiancé and his friends she had only a suitcase of clothes and her cosmetics bag, which was almost as large as her suitcase. She didn’t wear too much makeup, she just wanted to be sure she had makeup for any occasion.
Shelly and Colleen hit it off right away, which seemed odd to Randy since they were from completely different backgrounds. They had two things in common; they were hot looking and they’d snagged themselves a couple of sailors. That made them both very happy indeed.
Things were going well for the two couples initially. The four of them got along well and didn’t annoy each other like many co-habitat situations. Everyone was pulling their weight and doing the things that were necessary to get along. They went out on the town together a few nights each week and generally had a good time. Since Shelly’s arrival, Randy was saving less money due to all of the party nights, but he wasn’t too concerned since he and Earl were going to be back on the submarine in a few weeks. He’d already coached Shelly about how to budget their money and how much to save out of each paycheck. He had her go over the plan with him several times each day to make sure that she understood what she had to do and how important it was that she follow his instructions as closely as possible.
Randy also told Shelly to be careful with Colleen. She was not to let Colleen know any of the details of their finances. They were all getting along well, but he still had a nagging feeling that Colleen was hiding something. He couldn’t put his finger on it but it was always there, lingering just out of reach. She was just a bit too nice; almost phony. Many of his shipmates left their girlfriends in charge of the household when they left for sea. As the day came closer to turn the keys over to Shelly and Colleen, Randy’s anxiety level jumped for no apparent reason. He wished he’d never agreed to share the apartment with Earl. His father’s advice kept repeating itself in his brain; Always protect yourself and your stuff.
Then came the day that most ballistic missile submarine sailors dread; reporting day. Randy, Earl, and the rest of the blue crew reported to the USS Stonewall Jackson at 0530 hours (5:30 am to civilians) on a Tuesday to start turnover with their gold crew counterparts. They spent two more days loading their equipment, manuals, food, spare parts, cleaning supplies and other necessary items to keep a submarine at sea and self sufficient for at least 90 days. Then they spent the next two weeks preparing the submarine for sea. Finally, the crew started up the ship’s reactor, main turbines and main engine, lit off and tested all the radar, sonar, communications equipment and weapons systems and headed for the open sea. They would not be heard from for at least 72 days. The only communications from home for the crew of the ship came in the form of a ‘family gram’. This little trickle of information from home was limited to 40 words and could contain information only of a general nature. If the message was too specific, containing such things as dates of family picnics that they would be expected to attend upon their return, the family gram would not be sent. The fear was that too much information could pinpoint the date and time of the ships return to port and help the enemy learn the schedules of the United States Nuclear Submarine fleet. So the messages were limited. Most family grams were watered down to ‘I love you and miss you’ and ‘I can’t wait until you get home.’ Most sailors looked forward to receiving their messages. Randy received all eight of his family grams, each spaced about 1 week apart as he’d instructed Shelly. Each was pretty bland with very little detail, only the bare minimum of information, ending with ‘I love you and miss you. I can’t wait until you get home. I have lots to tell you.’
Earl, on the other hand, received his first six as scheduled, then didn’t receive his last two. He wasn’t worried, he’d told Randy. She probably put too much detail in her family gram so the Fleet Communications Center probably wouldn’t send them through. Randy agreed with Earl, mostly to try not to worry him about it. The patrol was nearing its end and they had plenty on their minds without the worry of whatever was happening at home. There was nothing they could do about it anyway. They were locked in a big steel tube. They could be twelve miles from the coast of South Carolina or they could be thousands of miles from the nearest land. Only a handful of radiomen and the senior officers of the ship knew for certain. Besides, it would be over soon enough.
* * *
The USS Stonewall Jackson pulled into the Naval Weapons Station, Goose Creek, South Carolina, pier Charlie on Saturday. The weather was hot and muggy, but the sailors on board were just glad to see land. The crowd of wives and children on the pier was as excited as ever as the giant submarine was tied to the pier. When Randy and Earl were finally allowed to leave the ship, they scanned the crowd for Shelly and Colleen. They could see the joy on the faces of their shipmate’s wives and children as they looked at the crowd. Many joyous hugs and kisses were almost too passionate in front of children, but who could fault a young couple who hadn’t seen each other in nearly three months. For the sailor’s part, they hadn’t seen a live woman throughout the cruise. The two continued to look around the crowd, then down the pier to see if the ladies had just arrived late and couldn’t find a spot to park at the end of the pier. But Colleen and Shelly were nowhere to be seen. Randy asked several of their shipmate’s wives if they’d seen the two. Nobody could remember if they’d been seen on the pier or in the parking lot. The two sailors picked up their sea bags and headed to the pay phone near the parking lot. Earl called the apartment phone number but there was no answer, only a continuous ring. He was starting to become annoyed. Earl told Colleen how important it was to him that she be there to meet him. He stepped out of the booth to tell Randy but Randy was already headed to the parking lot.
Earl shouted, “Randy, where are you going? There’s no answer at the apartment.”
“I heard you. Well, I saw that nobody answered. Maybe they’re still in the parking lot. Let’s go look. They could have gotten held up in traffic or something.” From the look on Randy’s face Earl could tell that he didn’t believe it. He knew that Randy was upset. His pace was quick like it always was as he headed towards the sea of cars to look for his green Mercury Sable, but it was not in the parking lot. When the two were tired of looking, they spotted Petty Officer Dan Shannon heading for his car. Dan was a Missile Technician on the Jackson. He was alone as he headed to his car. They flagged him down and asked if he could drive them to their apartment in Summerville. It was about a twenty minute drive from the weapons station and in the wrong direction from where Dan wanted to go, but he wasn’t in a hurry because he had no family living in the area. He was single and his only thought was to find his first beer.
“Sure guys. Hop in. How about we stop for a beer on the way?” All three were in their working blue dungaree uniforms so they really couldn’t stop in a public bar. They would stand out in the bar as if they were in prison dungarees. They weren’t supposed to wear their working uniforms off of the base except directly to or from their homes, but a quick run into a store was generally tolerated, especially for sailors coming back from a long deployment.
“How about we go through the Convenient Market Drive-thru and grab a six-pack,” Randy suggested. “We can toss ‘em back on the way to the apartment.” They all agreed.
When they arrived at the apartment complex, Randy saw that his car was not in the lot. The curtains to their apartment were closed. He was starting to get real worried. His facial expression told the story and both Earl and Dan read the message. Something wasn’t right.
“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this, guys.” Randy said.
“Me too.” Earl looked as though he’d lost his best friend in the world. “Maybe they just forgot. Maybe Shelly’s gone shopping and Colleen’s just asleep.”
“Well, we’re about to find out.”
The three went up to the door of the ground floor apartment, Earl and Randy carrying their seabags. Dan went along for moral support. Randy tried his key and the door opened in front of them. They walked into the apartment. Their faces turned to shock. The apartment was completely empty. No furniture, no Colleen, no Shelly. Earl and Randy dropped their seabags in the living room just inside the door.
Randy quickly moved through the empty living room into the kitchen and in rapid succession, opening and closing every cabinet door and all of the drawers. There was nothing in the kitchen cupboards or drawers. The dishes, silverware, pots and pans, small appliances, everything was gone. Randy turned abruptly and headed for the bedrooms. The bedrooms were bare as well. All of the closets were empty. The only thing on the carpet was dust balls and lint and the indentations where furniture used to sit. Randy moved back out into the hall and looked at Earl and Dan, still standing at the door. Randy glared at Earl. All he could think of was that Colleen had ripped them off for everything that they owned. His dad’s and uncle’s advice raced through his mind as he tried to calm himself enough to think of what he should do next. His first thought was to punch Earl but then he figured that wouldn’t accomplish much except hurt his hand. He again began to survey the rooms. There were only two things left in the apartment; the curtains on the windows and a telephone. The phone hung from the kitchen wall. He grabbed the receiver and started dialing.
“Hey, man, who’re you calling?” Earl asked.
Randy just stared back at Earl. He was still angry. He couldn’t help thinking that Colleen had something to do with this. His mind was racing as the phone rang in his ear. After the third ring, a sweet, young female voice answered, “Hello?”
“Shelly, what the hell are you doing in Michigan?”
“Randy, please don’t yell at me. Colleen told me that my mom called and needed me at home. Colleen said that Daddy was sick and Mom couldn’t handle everything without me up here.”
“Well, is your dad alright?”
“That’s the stupid part. Mom said she never called the apartment. When I got up here, Daddy was fine. I’ve been trying to call Colleen for a week and there’s been no answer at the apartment. Have you been there yet?”
“I’m calling from the apartment now. It’s empty. Everything is gone.” Randy could hardly contain his anger. He wanted to blast her but he didn’t have the heart. He was silent for a moment while he thought about what he should say to his very blond, air-headed fiancé. He spoke his next question in measured words. “Shelly, how did you get home?”
“I took a bus.”
“Didn’t you call your mom before you got on the bus?”
“Well . . . no. Colleen had the ticket purchased already. She gave it to me and she gave me a ride to the station. She said that I wouldn’t be able to reach Mom because she was at the hospital with Daddy. She acted like it was an emergency, like she was really concerned that something bad was wrong with Daddy.” Shelly’s voice started to crack as she lost her composure. Randy could tell that she was starting to cry. “I’m so sorry, I know I screwed up.”
“Look Shelly, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Did Colleen say anything that would tell you where she might go? Did she say anything about family or where she’d like to visit, or any boyfriends?” He stopped short and looked over at Earl. The pained look on Earl’s face made Randy wince slightly.
“No. She didn’t say anything.” Then Shelly remembered that Colleen had talked about moving to Florida. She mentioned the Florida Keys several times. But she wasn’t sure of herself so she just let it go. Instead she started to cry as her emotions washed over her. Her sobs were so loud that Earl and Dan could hear them half way across the apartment. Randy tried to calm her but without success. Finally, Randy told Shelly that he would call back and hung up.
* * *
Colleen Clarkson, the run-away girlfriend of Earl Glavin, was laid out on Higgs Beach in Key West, Florida in her new bikini. She had suntan oil with a #4 sun protection factor because she already had a great tan. Colleen wasn’t her real name. The reason she looked young for 19 was that she was really 16. Her fake Florida driver’s license would get her into any bar in the south with no questions asked. She’d get plenty of smiles though. Her face appeared 16, but her body said a whole lot more. As she lay on the beach she spent a few minutes assessing her financial situation. She figured that she had enough money to last for another 7 weeks, then she’d have to get a job or find another sucker. But there are loads of suckers everywhere I go. She wasn’t worried. Seven more weeks in the Keys would take her well into summer. There was plenty of time to plan her next move. She closed her eyes and soaked up more rays. Just as she was finally getting situated on her blanket, a shadow came over part of her body. She opened her eyes to see a tall, slender man standing over her. He was about 6’5”, dark hair and somewhat pale skin for the Florida Keys. She figured that he probably didn’t tan real well. He couldn’t have been in the Keys long with that pale white skin.
“Hi. My name’s Bobby. Can I buy you a drink?”
Colleen gave this stranger a broad smile. She looked him over for a moment then said, “Sure.”
Chapter 2
1997
Major Francis ‘Frank’ Hartnett reviewed the order from the office of the Judge Advocate General dated February 19, 1997. He was to assemble a team of military investigative personnel. Their task was to stop a rash of fraudulent acts being committed against deployed members of the armed forces. Well, this should be as easy as stopping the floodwaters of the Mississippi River. I wonder what desk-jock-genius thought this up? With his right forefinger, he pushed his reading glasses back on the bridge of his nose. With a sweep of his hand, he brushed the bristles of his close cropped salt and pepper hair. His facial lines showed the stress of prior battles as the wrinkles in his forehead tightened. He was a veteran of several conflicts that took him to several battlefields during his career. He’d faced battlefield conditions that were, at times, unbearable. Now he sat hunched over his large, mahogany desk and read the new battle facing his fellow soldiers and sailors. This battle would take place on the domestic front. It was against an enemy that was far worse than the soldiers from countries that didn’t believe in the ideals of the United States. At least you could see those enemies coming, usually by jets or ships. More recently, the terrorists were more difficult to detect but intelligence reports provided enough information about those religious fanatics who were out to destroy our way of life.
Those enemies were not to blame for the horrible acts being perpetrated against our brave men and women. This new enemy wasn’t made up of armies with the most modern assault weapons purchased from arms dealers. This new enemy came from within the borders of the United States of America; they were U.S. citizens. They were the lowest of the low life scum that enjoyed the freedoms that so many of our courageous men and women fought and died for over the years. They preyed on the very fighting men and women that continue to guarantee our freedom, and their freedom, from tyranny and from attack by foreign enemies. Major Hartnett received orders to figure out a way to stop this enemy from attacking our young soldiers, sailors, and airmen where they least expected it; from their fellow countrymen.
As Frank Hartnett reviewed the case files on his desk, he couldn’t help but wonder how a citizen of the United States of America could take advantage of these brave young men and women. What kind of a mind purposely targets military personnel? Being a ‘lifer’, Major Hartnett couldn’t imagine that these people existed. As he read the file of Randall Divert and Earl Glavin, he had to wonder if this perpetrator had ever been caught. He picked up the next file and read the first three pages. It had a familiar theme. He reread the previous file and compared the details. He finished reading through the case file, leaned back in his high back, overstuffed office chair, removed his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.
He’d finished reading several files. All of them were spread out across his desk. The majority of the cases involved young couples who were thrust into military life at a young age. Many of the personnel involved were 18 or 19 years old, just fresh out of high school or jail. Some of these young men and women had just made some bad decisions and were caught by local police. In years gone by, they were given the option of going to jail or going into the military. Many opted for the military and the majority of those grew up quickly. Military training in boot camp was an in-your-face kind of experience. No more mommy and daddy to protect you. You learned very quickly to be self sufficient. You also learned how to work closely with others on your team, even those that you didn’t necessarily like. You learned how to become a team player.
Major Hartnett took a deep breath and opened the next case file and read on. Once again, this case had a similar theme as the last that he’d read. This one was about a submariner deployed on a ballistic missile sub out of King’s Bay, Georgia. The new bride took off with everything. Similar build, age, eyes, and accent. Hell, it could be the same girl. He read on but he didn’t need to read another word. The young woman had the same physical characteristics and the same pattern of behavior. There was little doubt that this was the same person. There was definitely enough evidence indicating that at least a percentage of these crimes were performed by a young woman, probably in her twenties who was able to persuade these poor young men to let her into their lives. There wasn’t a lot that they could do to defend themselves since they were overseas or out to sea on a ship, far away from the scene of the crime.
But Frank Hartnett was formulating a plan. He had to get a gut check from his long time buddy, Major Augustine Griggs. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for Griggs’ office.
A young female voice answered, “Major Griggs’ office.”
“Good afternoon, Sergeant. Is the Major in?”
“Yes sir. I’ll pass you right through.”
The wait was only seconds as the administrative sergeant informed Major Griggs that his long time buddy was on the line. In a deep, gruff voice, Gus Griggs said, “Frank, what can I do for you?”
Frank’s voice was serious and he skipped any pleasantries. “Gus, I need your help. When can you drop by my office?”
“You sound like this is serious. I’m free in about half an hour. Can you tell me what’s up?”
Frank thought about it for a second then replied, “I’d rather we talk in person but to give you a flavor, I’ve been tasked with some police work. You’ll want to be sure to bring your reading glasses.”
Gus raised one eyebrow thinking what this could possibly be. He replied, “I’ll be there as soon as I’m free.”
“Thanks Gus.”
* * *
When Gus Griggs finished reading the case files, he sat back in the chair across from Frank Hartnett’s desk and drew in a deep breath. He took off his glasses and looked at his friend. “We’ve got one hell of a problem here. What exactly are your orders?”
“I’m supposed to assemble a team to track down this woman, assuming it is the same woman, and stop her from taking advantage of our boys.” He paused. “This isn’t going to be easy. It’s not like we can send out a squad and nail her with a sniper bullet. At least with the Royal Guard in Iraq you knew where to look for them. But this woman could be anywhere.”
Gus nodded his head in agreement. He looked around the office at all the war memorabilia. Over the years Frank Hartnett had assembled an impressive collection of weapons and swords that were once used against U.S. Forces in various conflicts. They were now being used to decorate the walls and tables in his office. He had artifacts that dated back to World War I. He’d purchased a collection from the widow of a retired Marine Corps Colonel. That acquisition pushed the value of his collection to about $75,000. He wanted to collect more from Iraq but he’d been warned that our government now frowned on taking battlefield spoils. Political bullshit. If you fight and win, you deserve some rewards. But rather than face charges of disobeying a lawful order, he decided to get his latest round of goods through legitimate purchases. Even so, his collection always drew stares from anyone who entered his office.
Gus’ attention returned to Frank. “You know, this really sounds like FBI work. Since the lady obviously crossed state lines to commit these crimes, the feds will say it’s their cases. How will you handle that?”
“I don’t know. But for now, it’s ours. I need to assemble a team. You need to tell me if the team is good.”
“I can do that. In the mean time, how about let’s grab a beer. We can chat while we drink.”
“Relax. We can toss a few bourbons back while we talk.” Frank reached into a cabinet behind his desk and pulled out two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey. He poured a double shot in each and handed one to Gus. They raised their glasses towards each other and said in unison, “Semper Fi!”
Chapter 3
“It’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Denny Wilson found him laying here in the bedroom with the gun in his hand,” Detective Reid Hansen said in his slight Nordic accent. “We got a call from a lady next door, a Mrs. Julie Dornside. She lives in the house to the east. Said she heard a loud noise from the house but said that the lady that lived here moved out several weeks ago. The story was that her husband was killed in Europe.” Detective Hansen looked around the small bedroom, being careful not to step in any evidence. The ‘evidence’ consisted of blood, brain matter and bone fragments. He continued, “Said she didn’t know her real well. It must have been the shot that she heard. You can see that it was suicide, but why did this guy kill himself in this empty house? We haven’t had a chance to question any of the neighbors yet. He’s probably stationed at the Air Force base. He’s got the military haircut. The guy looks pretty squared away.”
Detective William Banks’ face was tight, jaw clenched so that the cleft in his chin was exaggerated. He looked around the bedroom. It was small, about nine feet by eight feet, painted institutional green, like the halls in a hospital or military barracks. The floor was asphalt tile, cream color with light colored streaks running through each tile. A section of tiles near the bedroom were stained grey, nearly white, apparently from a puddle of hot water that had sat until it evaporated, ruining the wax finish. In the hall next to the bedroom was a closet with a slatted door that looked like it housed the furnace or maybe the hot water heater. Across the hall from the closet was the single bathroom. Further down the hall were the other two bedrooms, each nearly the same size as the one in which they stood. The tiles at the perimeter of the room were cracked from where carpet strips had been nailed through them into the concrete slab. Besides the smell given off by the pool of blood and brain matter from the victim’s head, the room had the faint, but distinctive, musty smell of dogs. It was a good thing that the carpeting had been removed or the whole house would wreak from the smell. He could almost see three or four dogs lounging around the house, eating scraps of food thrown to them by well meaning owners. Since the call came into the department within an hour of the loud noise that the neighbors had heard, and the police were on the scene within 10 minutes after the call, there was no decomposition of the body. In this temperature, the body could have laid for days without any noticeable decomposition. It was like a meat locker in the house. He asked Reid, “How long have you been out of the Marines; thirty years?”
“Twenty-seven. Why do you ask?”
“I thought only active duty military said squared away.” Banks stood with his arms at his side and directed his gaze to the body on the floor before him. The pool of blood had stopped expanding and was starting to dry at the outer edges of the flow to the right of the victims head. Significant brain matter and skull fragments were scattered across the room where the exit wound had given way to the explosion inside the young man’s head. He was apparently on his knees when the shot was fired and he fell at an angle to the ‘V’ shaped debris field of human tissue. “Anybody check his ID?”
“Nope. Body hasn’t been moved at all yet. We’re just getting to that. The crime lab guy just took about a million pictures. He’s waiting for us to turn the body over so they can take a million more of him turned right side up.” Detective Hansen stood at the victim’s feet, hovering over everyone in the room. At 6’5” and 235 pounds of muscle, he looked like he could still be a marine. His blond, but graying hair wasn’t cut military close but it was neatly trimmed. He didn’t wear a hat. He was dressed in a heavy, thigh-length, black leather, winter coat that was unzipped exposing the shoulder harness that he wore for his Glock 9mm semi-automatic. His heavy gloves were shoved in his coat pockets. From his blue jean pants, he pulled a set of latex gloves and put them on with a snap. He appeared more relaxed than Banks. His casual demeanor around dead bodies used to annoy Banks. At automobile accidents where victims were bloody beyond recognition, Hansen was almost jovial. He would be the one to help pull the bodies from wreckage and assist the coroner or paramedics with getting bodies on gurneys. Banks was going to confront Hansen on this until he found out that Hansen had seen a lot of death in Vietnam. He was in Quang Tri during the Tet offensive and nearly his whole company was killed. He was shot in the left leg and left torso. He only survived because the bullet hit and broke a rib but was deflected away from any major organs. Hansen didn’t react to death the way normal people do. Banks still thought that he was too comfortable with it. Death should evoke emotions. Hansen’s expressions didn’t change in the presence of death, regardless of how grizzly the scene.
The air in the house was nearly as cold as the air outside, another reason why the dog smell that hung in the room was held to a minimum. The temperature had barely reached 30 degrees and the wind chill was brutal. This was typical for North Dakota in early spring. It was Saturday, March 24. Federal taxes were due to be mailed in less than a month. That thought gave William Banks more of a chill than the weather conditions. He still hadn’t started his taxes. His plan had been to finish them this weekend and be ready to mail them Monday morning on the way to the police station. His weekend plans had just changed.
Detective William Randolph Banks was dressed in a light-blue, button up shirt and black pants, a black and blue striped tie, and a dark, knee length overcoat, untied and unbuttoned. He wore a navy blue ambassador hat with ear flaps. The hat covered his close cropped blond hair completely. He kept his hair short since leaving the Army 20 years ago. It was habit more than necessity. The Grand Forks Police Department had standards for haircuts but Banks never had to worry about that. His hair would still meet military specs. His shoes were also shined to a high gloss and he always looked like he starched his clothes. No matter how long he worked each day, he looked as neat and pressed at the end of the day as he did at the start.
While pulling on his own latex gloves, Detective Banks looked around the room, but there wasn’t much to see. Two walls were blank, nothing on them but paint. A third wall had the only window to the room which faced north. It looked out to the front lawn and the nearly identical houses across the street. The fourth wall had a double closet with bi-fold doors and the door to the room. The room, like the rest of the house, was empty. He looked down at the young man lying sprawled out before him in an unnatural position, his right arm under his body, his left out to his side above his head. He wore a thin coat, a light tee shirt, blue jeans and sneakers; not exactly the right gear for North Dakota this time of year. His skin was tanned, another indication that he hadn’t been in town long. The only way to get a tan this dark in North Dakota this time of year was at a tanning booth. This tan looked natural, with white skin behind the left ear, not like the dark, more even tans from an artificial baking.
The gun was a Beretta 92F 9mm, the sidearm issued to military police and combat units. Banks knelt down, cautiously pulled the Beretta from his hand, flipped on the safety with a fingertip and placed it in an evidence bag. He rolled the body on its left side so that he could get into the victim’s right rear jeans pocket. He pulled out a black, tri-fold wallet and looked at its contents; $239 cash, a Visa Card, a picture of an older couple, probably his mom and dad, and one military ID, enlisted. Staff Sergeant Kevin R. Reardon, US Air Force. He’d been in since January, 1992.
Banks looked up at Hansen, still standing above the body. “You were right, Air Force, active duty. He was probably stationed at Grand Forks. Is there anything at all in the house?”
“We just started looking, but you can see for yourself, it’s pretty well cleaned out. I mean, even the cupboards are bare. Mother Hubbard would’ve been proud. There’s just you, Denny Wilson, and Sven Larson to work the house. Charlie Sams and I will start with the neighbors.”
Banks looked around the room again. It was definitely empty, except for the contents of Kevin Reardon’s head all over the one side of the room. “Okay. Anything else before we get started?”
“Nope. Just real creepy. Maybe we’ll find out he was depressed or something and we can finish this by dinner time. I’m starved.”
Banks gave Hansen a sideways look with a raised eyebrow. “I’m worried about you. You should get some help with your emotional outbursts.” Banks looked back down at the body of Kevin Reardon and shook his head. “You know, people are supposed to be getting happier now. Hell winter’s over. It’s all the way up into the teens at night.”
They both chuckled.
Hansen and his Senior Patrol Officer headed out the front door of the one story ranch in the western section of Grand Forks. Reid didn’t like the look, smell, or feel of the scene. He knew people got depressed in the cold north but the empty house was an odd twist. The look that was etched on Reardon’s face was one of despair. The traces along his cheeks appeared to be the path of dried tears. Folks who were depressed for long periods had wrinkles etched into their faces. Their eyes were sunken and baggy. Reardon’s face looked young and tight. Except for the missing half of his head, he looked healthy. He was a lean, muscular young man, not like a body builder, but more like a runner. He apparently worked out and dressed neatly. Depression didn’t appear to be a factor, though they should find out more from the neighbors. “Charlie, let’s head for the neighbors. You head east, I’ll head west. Hit the first 5 houses and then cross the street and head back this way. We’ll meet and compare notes.”
“Ok. Is there anything in particular that we should be asking besides if they knew these folks or heard anything unusual?”
“Yeah. Ask everyone if they knew anything about him supposedly being killed overseas and how long ago that was.” He thought for a moment. “Ask them if they had dogs. That place stinks in there.”
* * *
The neighbors on the quiet block on 7th Avenue North were surprised to hear that a young man fitting Kevin Reardon’s description had committed suicide back in the house. He was already supposed to be dead. The story goes that he was on a training mission in Europe where they were making practice in-air refueling runs. Reardon was a Flight Engineer for a refueling tanker. He had been in Europe for about three and a half weeks. He was supposedly killed when a fueling truck ran over him while he was inspecting the tanker. Apparently someone was lying.
The neighbors to the west of the Reardon home, a Mrs. McFarland, said that Mrs. Reardon packed up and was headed to Pensacola, Florida. She said Mrs. Reardon told her that her parents lived down there. In fact, her brother came up to help her pack. She said she was a military brat. Her dad was supposedly in the Air Force. That seemed odd to her husband, Master Sergeant Daniel McFarland, because she seemed a bit spoiled for a military kid and she didn’t know the Air Force lingo at all. But not all military kids fit the standard mold.
Mrs. McFarland said one other strange thing was that Mrs. Reardon was selling several of Kevin’s power tools before she supposedly learned of her husband’s death. Her explanation was that Kevin wanted to sell the tools because he no longer had the time to do any hobby woodworking. She sold several expensive power tools for real cheap. Her husband remarked that he thought Mrs. Reardon was getting ready to leave her husband. He’d seen it many times before where a young military bride gets tired of the separation from a spouse who’s been deployed for long periods of time. It puts a real strain on any marriage particularly a new marriage when the bride is young and not used to being away from her husband.