Final Disposition (38 page)

      “Torches and pitchforks?”

      “That was all pretty much a direct quote too, sir, though I didn’t even begin to understand what the Captain was saying.”

      “I’m not sure I do either,” Cellars said, nodding.  “What else?”

      Harthburn looked down at the field notebook again.

      “A woman named Ann Tillman — who claims to be the special administrative assistant to Senator Mariott — says to tell you that she’s going to personally serve you with a ‘subpoena-to-testify’ before the Senator’s Subcommittee … and I guess she’s planning on doing that out at your crime scene too, sir.”

      “My crime scene?”

      “Yes, sir, everybody I’ve been talking to lately seems to think you’re going to be working one real soon.”

      “Ah.”

      “And, finally, a Mr. Ace Bellringer called to let you know that he’s going to be at your crime scene also, to get a personal, first-hand look at your evidence … which he fully intends to describe — in all of its glorious detail — to his world-wide listeners.”

      “My evidence?”

      “Uh, yes, sir,” Harthburn replied hesitantly.

“And just what evidence would that be, Sergeant?”

      “According to Mr. Bellringer, that would be your evidence of — uh — extraterrestrial contact, that he knows, for a fact, that you have on your person, sir,” Harthburn said, his eyes briefly flickering down to the bag in Cellars’ hand.

      Cellars hesitated.

      “Have you talked with Sergeant MacGregor yet?”

      “Uh, yes, sir, briefly, before he went to get you.”

      “And how would you say he’s … behaving, at the moment?”

      Harthburn blinked.

      “Are you asking for my personal opinion, sir?”

      “Yes, I am, sergeant.”

      “Sir, in my opinion, Sergeant MacGregor appears to be experiencing some kind of delayed hallucinatory after-effects … very possibly caused by the Taser® shocks and sedative drugs you, uh, administered to him, sir.  I mean, he was babbling some seriously strange shit, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.”

      “In your opinion, Sergeant Harthburn, should Sergeant MacGregor get immediate medical treatment for his symptoms?”

      “Roger that, sir,” Harthburn nodded, glancing down at the bag in Cellar’s hand again.  “I mean, I really wouldn’t want anyone else on base hearing him say some of the crazy things he was saying … because they’d probably just lock him up and loose the keys for a very long time.”

      “I couldn’t agree with you more, Sergeant,” Cellars said as he turned to Sutta and Marcini.

      “Dr. Sutta, would you and Professor Marcini go with Sergeant Harthburn, locate Sergeant MacGregor’, make an immediate assessment of his mental and physical condition … and then see to it that he gets whatever medical and counseling attention he needs, ASAP?”

      “You want me —?” Sutta started to sputter, but Marcini stepped in immediately.

      “We’ll be happy to, Major,” she said, her dark eyes crinkling with amusement.

      “Thank you,” Cellars said, and then quickly turned back to Harthburn while he could still maintain a straight face.

      “Okay, sergeant, if you’ll accompany Dr. Sutta and —”

      “Uh, there’s a couple more things, sir,” Harthburn interrupted.

      “Yes?”

      “Remember that set of prints you gave me for that dead and smelly Jeremiah Carter dude, the one who might or might not be a disabled vet?”

      “Of course.”

      “Well, he was definitely a disabled Army vet.  Man earned himself a Bronze star for gallantry in the Vietnam War, along with three Purple Hearts to remind himself not to be so goddamned gung-ho in the future.  Must have paid attention to them early ‘hearts’, though, ‘cause he made it through a bunch more of our world-wide skirmishes without picking up another scratch, and then retired with thirty-five years under his belt as a Command First Sergeant.”

      “Did any of those Purple Heart awards happen to involve shrapnel in his upper back and neck?”

      “Yes, sir, the last one: from a mortar round that bounced off the hood of his jeep before exploding, and gave him time to duck away.  Must have been one of them angel-perching-on-the-shoulder situations everybody in combat always wants to believe in; either that, or just a random bad fuse.”

      “Lucky man, in any case,” Cellars commented.

      “That he was … but he seems to have lived a pretty quiet life after he retired,” Harthburn went on.  “There are no records of him being arrested or sued for anything.  No listed dependents and no indication that he was ever married.  His retirement checks have been electronically deposited at a branch of the U.S. Bank in Portland every month since he received his discharge papers.  I don’t know if he’s been accessing that money — I won’t be able to check on his bank account activity until tomorrow morning — but the one thing I do know for sure is that his real name wasn’t Jeremiah Carter … it was William AKA ‘Willie’ Carpenter.”

      Cellars blinked and cocked his head.

      “Something the matter, sir?”

      “No, I just thought the name sounded familiar for a moment,” Cellars said, and then frowned.  “So, tell me, why would a man who retires with what I gather was an impressive military record
and
full retirement benefits decide to change his name, become a homeless bum, and end up dying — cold, hungry and scared of shadows — in the middle of the night in Medford, Oregon?” he said softly.

      “Could be any number of reasons, sir,” Harthburn said quietly.  “We see it all the time with the retirees who just don’t know how to keep themselves busy on the outside.  Never know what kind of trouble a man’s gonna get himself into if he doesn’t have a good woman to keep him straight.”

      “I suppose that makes a lot of sense,” Cellars said, nodding his head slowly.  “It just seemed like he really knew who he was.  He talked about all his ex-wives like they were all memories that he’d just as soon have forgotten, but —”

      List of names.

      “Lot of the folks we see around here did that,” Harthburn said.  “Blanked out the past like it never existed, and then made up a whole new life that — I guess — they think fits them better.”

      
You’ve got yourself a real distinctive voice, there, Sergeant.  No mistaking it — tone, rhythm, timbre — especially with all that music Eleanor likes so much playin’ while you was talkin’.” 

      “We generally go along with their act,” Harthburn went on when Cellars remained silent.  “Doesn’t hurt to spend a few minutes with those old farts, and listen to their stories —”

      
People I know ... people who think they’ve got an interest in what you and your buddy are doing … or what you’re supposed to be doing.

      
“— because you never know when one of them’s gonna to tell you something —”

      
Only something else happened to you out there … not just the explosion.  Just like something happened to —

      
“— that just might turn out to be useful some day.”

      The list of names … and general descriptions of fifty-one individuals who had gone missing in the greater Jasper County area of OSP Region Nine under similar circumstances.

      Cellars eyes blinked wide open.

      “Shit,” he whispered in a hoarse voice.

      “Beg your pardon, sir?”

      “Willie Carpenter didn’t blank out his memories.  He lost them … maybe just like I lost mine … so he had to make up new ones, probably to stay sane.”

      “What are you talking about,” Marcini demanded, grabbing his arm.

      “Willie Carpenter is one of the names on that list that Talbert gave me … the list of the fifty-one people who’ve had gone missing in Jasper County during the last year under similar circumstances,” Cellars said, his eyes flashing with excitement.  “He told me he recognized my voice on the Ace Bellringer radio the other night — he was sure it was me — because he could distinguish the unique characteristics of a voice … just like I can.”

      “But —”

      “Listen, we’ve got to get this information to Talbert, right away, and then get out to the Alliance of Believers.  Carpenter told me that he and his friends liked to attend the Alliance meetings because they were looking for a connection to something.  My guess is they all lost their memories when —”

      “Uh, I can’t let you do that, sir.”

      “You can’t let me do what?” Cellars demanded.

      “Can’t let you drive off this base and continue on with your investigation.”

      Cellars blinked and then stared at Harthburn in disbelief.

      “Why the hell not?” he finally managed to ask.

      “Because the last thing I’m supposed to tell you that the transportation General Byzor arranged for you is waiting outside in the parking lot right now … and that I’ve been ordered by the General to make sure you get into it, sir.”

      “But —”

      “I understand that you’ve got other important things to do, sir,” Harthburn said, “But you’re also an Army Major — your official ID card
and
General Byzor both say you are — and you’ve been given travel orders by an Army Brigadier General … so it’s my job to make sure you obey those orders, sir.”

      “And if I don’t?”

      Harthburn got a pained look on his face.

      “You really don’t have a choice, sir.  Major Gladstone has fifty-six MPs stationed at this base, and they’re all pretty much like Mac and me.  Of course, knowing the Major like we all do, he won’t bother using us.  He’ll just come over here and pick you up and put you where the General wants you to be … and that will be it, sir.”

      Cellars started to say something, but then just shook his head in continuing disbelief.

      “You know, I’m
really
beginning to enjoy all of this,” Sutta said to Marcini, and then turned to Harthburn.  “Sergeant,” he said calmly, “just out of curiosity, once Detective-Sergeant Cellars sees the wisdom of following the General’s orders, would you and some of your MPs be willing to help us in following up on his investigation?”

      “Oh, absolutely, sir,” Harthburn said quickly.  “Major Gladstone said we were to help Major Cellars with his work in any way possible.”

      Sutta turned to Cellars with a look of pure satisfaction on his grizzled face.

      “Well, Detective-Sergeant — or is it Major? — what do you think about that deal?”

      Cellars sighed heavily, and then finally nodded in agreement.

      “Okay, Sergeant,” he said, giving Sutta a meaningful glare, “wisdom it is … not that I’ve got a whole lot of choice in the matter.”

*     *     *

      Cellars followed Harthburn out the Lobby entrance door and down the sidewalk leading to the Clinic parking lot … noticing as he did so that the snowstorm had dwindled down to a few swirling flakes … and then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw what was waiting for him at the far end of the lot.

      “Uh, what exactly is that, Sergeant?” Cellars asked as Sutta and Marcini came up beside him and stared wordlessly at the flood-lit spectacle.

      “That would be an OH-58D Kiowa Warrior, sir.”

      “It looks more like some kind of deformed helicopter to me,” Cellars said.  “What’s that thing on top of the rotor blades?”

      “That’s a MMS — Mast Mounted Sight — and you’d better not let the pilot hear you call her deformed, sir,” Harthburn chuckled.  “Fact of the matter is, the Kiowa is one bad-ass bird that you definitely don’t want to meet up with as the enemy.  They call her a light-attack helicopter, but that’s just a matter of which side of the ‘incoming’ you happen to be on.  Right now, the one you’re going to be flying in
is
armed light … with a pair of front-sighted, pylon-mounted fifties; but they can be switched out for some really serious hardware in a matter of minutes.  It’s an impressive demonstration to watch, sir, if you ever get the chance.”

      “I’m sure it is, Sergeant,” Cellars said, nodding agreeably.  “And you’re sure that’s the transportation General Byzor specifically ordered you to put me in?”

      “Yes, sir, it is.  No question about that, sir.  I’m also supposed to tell you that your CSI kit is already on board, but you’re going to need this gear, too.”  Harthburn motioned for a pair of MPs standing at the edge of the parking lot to step forward.

      “What’s all this?” Cellars asked as he stared at the pieces of equipment they held in their gloved hands.

      “That would be your issued IBA — Interceptor Body Armor — with a tactical vest set up for your police Sig-Forty, fully locked and loaded, and six extra magazines — which you definitely need to put on, right now, sir,” Harthburn said as he and one of the younger MPs helped Cellars out of his field jacket.  “You’re also getting a heavier hooded thermal jacket and gloves that are much better suited for the field conditions you’re going to be in …and your flying helmet, sir,” Harthburn finished as he stepped back and inspected Cellars approvingly.

      Cellars stared down at the glistening face-shielded helmet in his hands, and shook his head slowly and sighed heavily.  “Weirder and weirder by the minute” he muttered.

      “What was that, sir?”

      “Nothing, Sergeant,” Cellars smiled.  “I was just going to say that in addition to helping them out with our investigation, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep a real close eye on Dr. Sutta and Professor Marcini while I’m gone.”

      “Roger that, sir,” Harthburn replied.  “We’ll keep both of them out of harm’s way.  Oh, and speaking of harm, don’t forget to duck when you run out to that chopper, sir.  Those rotor blade cuts can really smart.”

      “I’ll try to remember that, and thanks for your help, Sergeant,” Cellars said as he extended his right hand, only winced slightly under the MP’s strong handshake, and then turned to face Sutta.

      “You do understand, I hope, Colin, that neither of us really wants to see you coming back in serious need of our professional services,” Sutta said, patting Cellars on the shoulder as the two men exchanged a far more civilized handshake.