GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (5 page)

CHAPTER 7 - CROSSROADS

I spent the next morning in my office on my computer and phone gathering every piece of information I could about the murder of John Panetta. I gave Abby, my office manager, the task of finding out if “Vernon Maples” was indeed “dead.”  Abby, born Habika Jones, was a former Army Military Police staff sergeant who was languishing as a security guard in my building before I realized that her talents were being wasted. She had already helped me solve several cases and was working toward her own private investigator’s license. She knew things that I didn’t. She even knew things that some good homicide cops and medical examiners missed. Like how far a body, depending on its weight, has to drop before a noose breaks the neck. That bit of arcane information proved that a client of mine was a murder victim and not a suicide, as everyone else, including me, surmised.

I also called Cormac Levine at the D.A.’s office and asked him if I could buy him lunch.

“I believe that’s what they call a rhetorical question,” Mac said. “Ruddy & Dean’s at 12:30.”

There was a lot of information, or at least coverage, about the murder. It had for a while been a national story, although naturally it made the biggest splash locally. By 11:30, I had printed perhaps two dozen articles from the Internet and built up quite a file on the dead man. He was, indeed a hero, and one of the last of the 248 Americans who were awarded the Medal of Honor for service in the Vietnam War. He was a Specialist 4th Class serving as a machine gunner with A Company in the 198th brigade, a unit of the 23rd (Americal) Division, during the battle of Kham Hoac in Quang Nai Province, when he won his medal during his second tour in the battle zone. I read the official Medal of Honor Citation:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty on 14 July 1971. While serving as a machine gunner with Company A, Sp4c. Panetta accompanied his unit on a combat mission near Kham Hoac. Suddenly his company came under small arms, automatic weapons, mortar and rocket propelled grenade fire from a battalion-size enemy unit. With communication with his own battalion lost and many of his comrades wounded in the initial attack, Sp4c. Panetta observed that his outnumbered company was pinned down and disorganized. He immediately moved to the front with complete disregard for his safety, firing his machine gun at the charging enemy, giving the pinned-down Americans a chance to regroup and evacuate their wounded. Although seriously wounded in both legs, Sp4c. Panetta maintained a steady volume of fire, killing several enemy soldiers and blunting the North Vietnamese attack. When his own machine gun was disabled by incoming rounds, he crawled through a hail of enemy fire to an operable machine gun and resumed the defensive fire, giving his company commander time to move to a safer position from which to organize a counterattack. Sp4c. Panetta remained at his position until relief arrived. He was found unconscious, surrounded by enemy dead, after an artillery barrage beat back the North Vietnamese forces. Sp4c. Panetta’s gallantry and extraordinary heroism were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the U.S. Army.

Panetta’s obituaries naturally repeated the accounts of his valor. The local paper, the
Staten Island Advance
, noted that Panetta, who was born in 1949 in Pulaski, near Lake Ontario in upstate New York, had moved to the borough only 14 months ago, buying a run-down house in foreclosure. A carpenter by trade, he did much of the work to fix it up himself. Some of his neighbors were quoted as saying he lived a quiet life but was always willing to help out when they needed some carpentry work. He had one survivor, a first cousin named Victoria Gustafson, who came down from Pulaski to handle the funeral arrangements. Panetta was buried in Arlington National Cemetery, although there was a memorial service in Our Lady Help of Christians, a Catholic Church in Tottenville where Panetta attended mass. It brought out hundreds of neighbors, members of local veterans’ organizations and, of course, camera-ready politicians.

The obituaries and other stories were vague about what Panetta did after he left the Army and where he lived before moving to Staten Island. His cousin, Gustafson, was quoted saying that after leaving his home town Panetta “lived out west,” working in several states as an itinerant carpenter. “He never married. He traveled extensively at home and abroad, because I got postcards from all over. He came back home every few years and stayed with me in Pulaski for a short visit. Last time was about a year ago, just before he moved to Staten Island.”      

There was no speculation as to why Panetta chose Staten Island as a place to “retire,” as the obits termed it. He apparently had no contacts in the borough, or even the city, prior to buying the house in Eltingville. I wondered about that. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. If he moved here for a reason, maybe the reason got him killed. I would have Abby try to track Panetta’s whereabouts in the years before he moved to Staten Island, but my gut told me the answer to his murder was to be found in New York, either in Pulaski or Staten Island, or both.

I wasn’t too concerned with learning how he’d accumulated the money to buy a house and travel so much. I’d have Abby work on that, too. But I also knew that a single man with no dependents, a good carpenter, could accumulate a lot of money. Traveling would be no problem. One of the “perks” of winning the Medal of Honor includes free transportation on military aircraft and the use of military recreation facilities such as pools, bowling allies and golf courses worldwide. His retirement income, from Social Security, disability payments and the special Medal of Honor pension benefit, would be substantial. No American could begrudge such perks, which even included lifetime invitations to all presidential inaugurations and inauguration balls. Soldiers who hold off human wave attacks or throw themselves on grenades to save their comrades aren’t thinking about dancing at an inauguration ball, which is why almost 70 percent of all Medals of Honor are awarded posthumously.   

After Panetta’s murder, the police, pressured by veterans’ organizations and always-patriotic politicians, had pulled out all the stops. As Mike Sullivan had intimated, the cops had drawn a blank and were going with the home-invasion story: Panetta’s death was a terrible tragedy, and just bad luck. Hopefully, some stolen items might turn up, or the killer would get careless and brag. I knew that neither of those things would happen. Word was leaked that the police suspected an African-American male. That didn’t go over well in certain parts of Staten Island. Doors were double-bolted. Bottom line: The cops were chasing a phantom.

A fact that was confirmed when Abby walked into my office.

“I called some old pals in the MP’s,” she said, sitting down across from me. “And they called some of their friends, or gave me the numbers to call. I checked some databases I have access to, and some I don’t. Your boy, Vernon Maples, went missing eight years ago and is presumed dead. In fact, he has been declared legally dead. His disability checks had been going to a nursing home in Sadieville, Kentucky, while his mother was alive.” Abby smiled. “And they kept going there for two years after she died. The asshole running the nursing home was still cashing them. Not just hers, either. A lot of other dead people’s. He’s doing five-to-ten in Federal prison for Social Security and Medicaid fraud.”

Abby picked up the plastic photo cube on my desk. She was constantly trying to spruce up my office and make it more “homey.” The cube was her idea. I had finally put some pictures in it. She twirled it around.

“Derek Jeter? Eli Manning? Mickey Mantle?” She looked at the last photo, then at me. “Secre-fuckin’-tariat?”

I’d cut out photos of Jeter, Manning and the greatest thoroughbred in history from magazines. The Mantle was a yellowed old baseball card I’d found in a box of old family memorabilia in my basement.

““I bought this so you could put family and personal photos in it,” Abby sniffed. “This is so tacky.”

I thought that was unkind. Jeter and Manning were terrific athletes and solid citizens. And while the Mick’s reputation as a person had suffered in recent years, my grandfather had regaled me with stories about how the great Yankee had blasted tape measure home runs while basically bandaged from head to toe. Most modern ballplayers — not Jeter, of course, — went on the disabled list with hangnails. And Secretariat won the Belmont by 31 lengths.

“I don’t have any family, any close family, still around,” I said. “Just some cousins, but I wouldn’t know where to get shots of them.”

“You don’t put cousins in a photo cube. And not a horse!”

“I have lots of photos of my parents at home,” I said defensively. “Grandparents, too. I don’t consider them cube material.”

“What about Alice?”

“I don’t have any pictures of her.”

“Get one, for God’s sake.”

In truth, I had been thinking of doing just that, even though I realized that putting a photo of your lover in your office was a sign of commitment.

“Maybe.”

“Just do it, boss. And when you put it in the cube, lose the nag. Alice might get the wrong impression.”

Abby put the cube down.

“So, what’s this Maples guy to you? If it’s a missing person’s case, I don’t like our chances. I know you think you can find a virgin in a whore house, but this guy ain’t gonna be found.”

“Vernon Maples was in my outfit in Afghanistan. He was also in my living room last night. He shot me with a tranquilizer dart and ate three slices of my Joe & Pat’s pizza.”

“No wonder you want to find him. Best pizza on Staten Island.”

Abby stared at me.

“You’re not joking, are you?”

I stood up and opened my shirt to show her the bruise where the dart went in.

“I’ll say one thing for you, boss. You’re never boring. What did he want?”

“If I tell you, you might be involved in a crime that could lose you that license you don’t even have yet. So, for now, I’m going to keep you in the dark.”

“I know what you’ve been downloading from the Internet, boss. I can put two and two together.”

“Conjecture isn’t knowledge, Abs. Let’s keep it that way.”

“The cops are looking for a black man. The one thing I know for sure about Vernon Maples is that he was white.”

“That bother you? The black man thing?”

“Only if they scapegoat a brother.”

“Not going to happen, Abs.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I gave her what I thought was my most enigmatic smile.

“Never mind,” she said.

***

Mac was already seated when I got to the restaurant. He was deep into a book and only looked up when I slid into our booth.

“More Civil War?”

He held up the book so I could see the title:
Crossroads of Freedom: Antietam (Pivotal Moments in American History)
by James M. McPherson. Mac’s enthusiasms were usually short-lived, but intense. Currently, he was devouring everything he could get his hands on about the Civil War. 

“Did you know, Alton, that more Americans died at Antietam than died on D-Day at Normandy. About 6,000. Only about 2,500 at Normandy.”

“Double your pleasure, double your fun.”

“What does a Doublemint slogan have to do with anything?”

“In the Civil War, both sides were Americans. Tends to inflate the casualties.”

Cormac sighed.

“Even taking that into account,” he said, “The casualties were higher, considering the number of troops involved. It was a pivotal moment in American history. Dashed the South’s hope of British intervention because it allowed Lincoln to issue the Emancipation Proclamation. The Brits wanted to fight for cotton, but not for slavery.”

A waitress appeared propitiously and Mac ditched the Civil War, the prospect of food vanquishing both the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia. We ordered mugs of Lionshead Lager and cheeseburgers.

“You are looking particularly dapper, today, Mac.”

A big man, with big appetites and a waist to prove it, Mac had a full head of reddish gray hair, with long sideburns and a thick mustache that served mainly as a crumb catcher. He usually sported a mismatched jacket and trouser combination that was set off with a mismatched shirt and tie. It was his way of rebelling against Mike Sullivan’s edict that all his investigators wear a jacket and tie. But today he had on a brown suit, tan shirt and light blue tie. And the suit almost fit.

“I’m taking Irene to dinner in Manhattan after work,” he said. “It’s our anniversary.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Lunch is on me.”

“Lunch was always on you. What’s up?”

I pointed at his book.

“I’m at a bit of a crossroads myself, Mac. I need some help.”

“Stop the presses!”

Our beers came. We clinked glasses and drank. Mac licked his lips in appreciation.

“This might call for another,” he said. “Lay it on me.”

“Technically, if I tell you what I’m about to tell you, I won’t be withholding evidence, since you’re a cop. But then I don’t want you to tell anyone.”

“You want me to withhold the evidence? That’s fucking beautiful.”