Death at Gills Rock (26 page)

Giving the engine a steady stream of gas, he headed north. Land was never far from starboard, but he kept his eyes pinned on the open water and enjoyed the torrent of cool wind in his hair and the spray on his face. Would sailing be this exhilarating? he wondered.

W
est of Peninsula State Park, where Cubiak had briefly worked as a ranger, his target appeared: not a massive white whale breaking the surface but a dark smear of land disrupting the clear line of the horizon. As he drew near, Chambers Island transformed into a forest of pine, oak, and hemlock trees; the colorless ridge on its face turned from baleen to a rocky shoreline; and a half-dozen boathouses emerged from the afternoon shadows. A row of private docks extended into the water, and behind them narrow walkways trailed off into the woods. Besides a religious retreat center and decommissioned lighthouse, there were some four dozen cabins and houses on the island and only two were occupied year round. The modest yellow frame bungalow on the northeast corner had belonged to Ben Macklin, who had been the sole occupant for more than fifty years. After the old fisherman's unfortunate death, the landscape painter who bought the property converted the living room into a studio but left the front lawn hung with old fishing nets. A small motorboat bobbed in the water alongside his pier. No smoke rose from the chimney, but the curtains were open and Cubiak waved, in case someone was home.

A quarter mile farther, he circled toward the open waters of Green Bay and then into a narrow passage marked by two jetties. The channel led to a long metal pier. He maneuvered Marty Wilkins's boat behind a large power boat named the
Red, White, and Blue
and cut the engine.

In the heavy stillness, Cubiak surveyed the spectacle before him. Welcome to America, he thought, taking in the massive flag that fluttered at the end of the pier, the fierce American eagles painted on the sides and door of the boathouse, and the tall, spiked fence decorated with the insignias of the major armed services.

The fence surrounded a long, sloping lawn filled with restored World War II military vehicles and weapons—including an army jeep, a restored battlefield ambulance, and two howitzers—and overlooked by an impressive, two-story white colonial. The tricolored brick pathway that led to the house was flanked by a phalanx of flags. Cubiak recognized those of France, England, Poland, Canada, Greece, and Norway, all U.S. allies during the last big war.

On the colonnaded porch, the nation's motto, In God We Trust, was carved in a wooden plaque that hung above the entryway. As he reached for the bell, the front door swung open.

“Sheriff, this way, please.” A short, wiry man in a brown, three-piece suit stepped back to allow him in.

The greeter stood in a vaulted foyer blanketed with articles from
Stars and Stripes
and copies of wartime declarations and newspaper headlines declaring battle victories. To the left, a wide stairway and two closed doors were roped off and marked Private. “This way,” the man said again, pointing toward an arched doorway on the right.

The public portion of the house was as much museum as the yard. Glass-topped display cases crammed with regimental badges and medals lined the first two rooms. In the third, which, judging from the fireplace, had once been the parlor, dozens of handguns and rifles were displayed under the nations' flags whose armies had claimed them as their own: Walters, Lugers, Colts, Marlins, and Carbines. How many times had each been fired, Cubiak wondered, and how many were dead as a result? The fourth room, another smaller parlor, was decorated with bits and pieces of old uniforms—an Eisenhower army jacket, an American Red Cross nurse dress, a medic's helmet with the red cross painted in a white circle—hanging on racks or from hooks along the walls.

Finally they reached a long passageway at the rear of the house. The inside wall was papered with war posters—Uncle Sam Wants You, Are You a Star-Spangled Girl?, Loose Lips Sink Ships—but the windows opposite opened to the present and Cubiak happily took in the view of the peaceful and ordinary: a wooden pergola and large stone patio, a freshly turned garden patch, a small cedar toolshed, and a metal-cage dog run where a pair of black and brown Dobermans loped back and forth.

At the end of the hallway, the suited man rapped on a wide door and rolled the panel open without waiting for a response. He motioned Cubiak in and just as quickly stepped back and pulled the door shut, leaving Cubiak inside a glass-walled annex. The oppressive heat and bright light reminded him of school field trips to the desert room at the Garfield Park Conservatory on Chicago's west side. But there were no plants in the domed room. Instead of cacti, the private greenhouse held more display cases of military medals and small firearms. In the apex stood two mannequins, one in the full dress uniform of a four-star army general, the other in the fatigues of a private.

“I like to acknowledge both extremes of the military spectrum, those burdened with issuing orders and those charged with following them.” Cubiak turned toward the source of the sonorous announcement as a ghostly figure slowly emerged from the shadows. “Welcome. I must say I wondered when you'd come.”

“Charles Tweet?”

“I am.”

Cubiak approached. The old man held himself with military bearing despite the gray hair, parchment skin, the woolen throw covering his lap, and the wheelchair he occupied.

Tweet gave a sharp salute. “Reporting for duty, sir,” he said. Then he chuckled. “Always confounds visitors. They don't know whether to take me seriously.”

“Should they?”

“Depends what they want.”

Cubiak held out his badge but Tweet waved it away. “I know who you are. The question is what do
you
want?”

“The truth,” Cubiak said, clipping the emblem onto his belt.

Tweet patted the plaid throw on his lap as if to check on the solidity of the limbs beneath. “Whose truth?”

“Why don't we start with yours?”

Tweet dipped his head. “Permission to proceed,” he said.

“The
Herald
recently published an article about the three veterans who died in Gills Rock. They had served together during World War II. You are the former
Stars and Stripes
reporter mentioned in that story.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Can you explain how you were in Alaska during the Aleutian Campaign in 1943 when the Pacific edition of the paper didn't begin publication until two years later, in 1945?”

The one-time journalist cleared his throat. “You've done your homework. I was very clear with the young man who interviewed me about my assignment and rank during the campaign. At the time of the fight up north, I was an army private, working as a combat photographer. The military had guys like me in all the theaters, documenting the action. I didn't start working for
Stars and Stripes
until after the war. I'm sure the reporter got it right, probably was his editor who botched the facts. They often do, for the sake of brevity.”

“You knew the three men who died—Huntsman, Swenson, and Wilkins?”

“I knew a lot of the men stationed up there.”

“But those three specifically?”

“Yes, I knew them.”

“Shame about them dying.”

Tweet plucked at the hem of his blanket.

“You don't agree?” Cubiak said.

The former newsman looked up sharply. “I assumed it was a rhetorical statement. We all die in due course, and in my view they were old enough to die. They'd had their time and were spared the worst ravages of aging.” A coughing spell interrupted him. “I have Parkinson's, Sheriff. I'm entitled to be blunt.”

Cubiak waited for Tweet to settle. “There are indications that not everyone was saddened by the deaths of the three veterans,” he said and explained the graffiti at Huntsman's place.

Tweet seemed surprised. “Competitors, perhaps. As I understand it they were all very successful.”

“In your league, then.”

Tweet stretched his mouth into a tight smile.

“Did you ever get together with them?”

“Why would I want to do that? To reminisce over old times? Not my cup of tea, Sheriff.”

“It seems you might be inclined to do so, given your preoccupation with all things military,” Cubiak said.

“I'm not the sociable type. Not the kind to maintain friendly relations with old army buddies.”

“You were at the funeral.”

“As a show of respect.”

“But you had no contact with them after your service days.”

“I didn't say that.”

“No direct personal contact, perhaps. But I have reason to believe that sometime in the 1950s you sent Jasper Wilkins a photograph taken during the Aleutian Campaign, a photograph of the three veterans in a landing craft.”

Tweet tried to shrug. Cubiak had struck a nerve.

“I may have, Sheriff. I don't remember. That's a long time back. There were one or two times I culled my files; if I had a name, an address, maybe I'd send something along. Hard to keep track of all the men I met over the years. And what if I did?”

Cubiak ignored the question. “You said you were a combat photographer.”

“Yes.”

“The Aleutian Campaign was largely ignored both during and after the war. It was Iwo Jima…”

“Iwo Jima.” Tweet shuddered. “Nearly seven thousand Americans killed and another twenty thousand wounded. When it started, there were twenty-two thousand Japs on the island and when it was over, there were two hundred and sixteen left. I don't think any of those men who died there went to hell. They'd had a bellyful of hell already. Five weeks of it. Men die in war and to them it doesn't matter if they're on sand or ice when they breathe their last. But while our men were slogging through mud and snow up north, the brass hadn't decided yet which arena was more likely to capture the imagination of the American people and ordered extensive coverage of both. Turns out, the South Pacific islands provided a better photographic backdrop than the Aleutians. Difficult to focus in the fog or get glory shots of guys huddled in parkas, freezing their asses off.”

Cubiak wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Did you know Christian Nils?”

This time Tweet ignored the question. “Too warm in here for you, Sheriff ?” He hit a switch on the arm of his chair and rolled forward. “This way,” he said, steering toward the door. It opened automatically and Tweet headed down the hallway. “This all started as a hobby,” he said, indicating the posters on the wall. “After the war, I was in the unique position to come across war memorabilia before it became memorabilia and had the good sense to start picking it up early. A lot of men just wanted to forget. They didn't care to be reminded of what they'd seen or done. To many soldiers this stuff was nothing more than junk. I was collecting for years before I realized that I was a ‘collector' and before any of this had any real value.”

In the foyer, Tweet activated a side door and led Cubiak into one of the private rooms, a library outfitted with leather couches, fireplace, vaulted ceiling, and three walls of built-in bookcases. Tall bay windows faced west toward Green Bay and Tweet took up a position in front of them, his back to Cubiak. “Christian Nils,” he said finally. “Yeah, I knew him, too.”

“Was Nils a homosexual?”

As much as possible, Tweet jumped in his seat. “Nils? Not that one. Mr. Macho was he.”

“And the others?”

The retired reporter was silent for a long time. “You seem to be the one who should be telling the story, Sheriff,” he said finally.

“I have a general sense of it but I'd like for you to fill in the details. I assume you know the specifics because I suspect you of using that information to encourage Huntsman and his pals to supplement your expensive avocation and rather comfortable lifestyle.”

“I had nothing to do with their deaths.”

“I'm not implying that you did.”

“I never threatened to expose them.”

“No?”

“I simply allowed them to make use of my services as a business consultant.”

“For a hefty fee, and after letting them know that you possessed certain information unfavorable to them.”

“As you wish.”

“Did you ever do any actual work for them?”

Tweet spun his chair around. “In fact, yes. I handled several projects. Everything on the up-and-up.”

“From your perspective. The law might take a different view,” Cubiak said.

Tweet's face grew hard. “Let's get one thing straight. I did nothing wrong. They were the culprits. Huntsman, Swenson, and Wilkins. If anything, I protected them. Don't make me out to be a monster feeding on the trio of innocents. They were the guilty ones.”

“Guilty of what?”

“They were in the coast guard, and during the war their primary job was to get the soldiers onto land and then safely back to the ship. That was their responsibility. Only they didn't bring Nils back. Nils was wounded and they left him on some godforsaken pile of rock and ice to die. They claimed there wasn't room in the boat, that Christian insisted they take the others first and then come back for him. But there was room, and with the storm hitting they knew there was no chance in hell for them to go back. In their version, Christian was a hero, and so were they.”

“They must have had a reason for what they did.”

Tweet scrutinized the sheriff. “You're what? Forty-something?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you in the service?”

“Marines.”

“And you think you know what it's like for gays in the military?”

“I have some idea.”

“You have no idea. The world is much changed, Sheriff. We are talking 1943, when a homosexual was considered less than a normal human being. If you were outed, you were dishonorably discharged from the military. And then when you came back home you were ostracized. You had little chance of finding a decent job, and if you had one, you could be fired. You could be jailed for deviant behavior or tossed into a mental institution. You might even be on an FBI roster or a list maintained by the local police. The State Department considered homosexuals to be security risks and had its own file filled with names. If you were foolish enough to order a homosexual publication by mail, the U.S. Post Office would keep track of your address. And if the local thugs got word, they'd harass you, beat you up, maybe even cripple you or kill you.