If Colonel Robertson had grabbed up Jinny and forced her onto the back of a wild bull at a PBR final, she’d not have garnered more wild-eyed stares than followed her to the idling jeeps. She climbed aboard the Wrangler stalled by the gate; but before she could latch her seat-belt, the driver double-clutched, prodded the stick into first gear, and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The rear wheels spun. Snow and gravel flew. Contact. And they were off. The jeep fishtailed wildly up the hill, forcing Jinny to hang on to the roll-bar or be bucked into a snowbank—whose slippery deposits had again begun to accumulate interest.
From the back seat the driver’s ID was unreadable through the rear-view mirror, and he paid his passenger no mind. She was hot to trot. A few scathing epithets crackled from the flyleaf of her army vocabulary and singed his ears. The Jeep bucked. Jinny swallowed bitter herbs, and it was time to hang on for dear life. Sonny Chalmers, renowned for his loquacity, crowed a tune from the top of his lungs and sounded like he’d dislocated his shoulder. With one hand he sashayed the jeep down the icy road and sang a backwater ballad to the tawdry timing of Miss Whipple, while letting the other hand hang over the side of the jeep, presumably so he could flick cigarette ashes away from his uniform.
“Hook up the still, Miss Whipple, the thumper and the pot. Condensulate some whisky, we got more gut to rot. Brew up some hooch, Miss Whipple, ‘tis true we got no cash; but looky, don’t you know it? We’ve hustled corn for mash.
“Fill Benny’s cup, Miss Whipple, he’s stinkin’ awful thin. His step-pa up and run away with his ma’s next of kin. The moon’ll shine till mornin,’ the sun left outta spite. So thanks a bunch, Miss Whipple, fer helpin’ out ta-night–fer helpin’ us get tight.”
Lenny laughed; Jinny chaffed. “You know you managed to hit every pothole in the road, don’t you? Tell me I’m wrong,” she groused.
“Well,” Lenny replied with a grin, “as Uncle Dill used ta slice it, ‘Mondays is the potholes of life, so jist be glad they only come ta call every week or so.’ Accordin’ to Uncle’s way of cipherin,’ I figure we jist drove six weeks in seven minutes.” Lenny’s head wagged back and forth like a sprung jack-in-the-box—a sign of mild self-absorption—or Parkinson’s disease. “Say, missy, how’s about you and me meetin’ up when I git off? “
“You’re already off.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Slow down. How are we supposed to get past those posts blocking the road?”“
“Oh them. No worries. They’s bollards. The Colonel’s a magishun, donsha know? Watch.” The jeeps slowed; the bollards sank into the road; the jeeps passed over; the bollards finned up like manatees from the sea. Lenny stared through the rear-view mirror. Does that make yur day, or what?
“What.”
“Huh? . . . Wanna know how he done it?”
“No thank . . .”
“Oh, oh. Hang on, Miss Delta Dawn.” The Colonel’s jeep had turned into a driveway. Lenny overshot, under-compensated, cranked the steering wheel hard to the right, plowed into the curb, jumped the curb, and all four tires left the pavement—just like in the movies. “HEE-HAW.” The jeep pogoed, stumbled forward, and skidded across a half-full parking lot the size of four tennis courts laid end to end. Jinny recovered her composure and stared straight ahead. The Colonel’s jeep brake-lights flashed red, and then—perhaps in shock—lost their color.
“Are we here already, I hope?”
Lenny’s throat tightened; his tone came out gnarly-like. “Almost and doubly so, missy; and here’s a weather advis’ry, complements of the govermint constabulary who pays our bills. I don’t cotton the cause, but a storm’s brewin’ in that Wrangler ahead; so take some advice—batter down the hatches; don’t climb outta yur seat till the colonel gives the nod; try ta stay on his good side—which would be behind him; don’t tailgate; ‘n don’t lollygag; and mostly, don’t say nothin’ that you ain’t willin’ ta substitute yer name, rank and serial number fur. Got it?”
“Got it.” Jinny bit her lip.
Hot, wet cylinders and domino-shaped pads clenched until the jeep came to a stop at the curb; then the partnered pugilists instinctively parted to cool off. Colonel Brendon Robertson—still seated in his jeep—held a cell-phone tightly against his ear. He gesticulated with his right index finger and appeared to be trying to bayonet an imaginary bee.
Jinny released her seat-belt. “Where are we? I don’t see no . . . sigh, I don’t see any signs.”
Lenny looked through the rear-view mirror, closed in with his face and added a quizzical “huh?” to his self-absorbed state of mind. He pointed at the curb and sneered, “Then yur not ready fur Afghanistan. Didn’t you see it as we turned into the lot?”
“See what? Afghanistan? No.”
“Huh?” He did a double-take, then extended his left arm and pointed at the regulatory sign printed in bold black letters on a retroreflective field of white—DEAD END.
“Right. But what I meant was . . .”
“So here’s how my Uncle Dill used ta slice it. “A wicked and adultrus generashun seeketh after a sign. And besides,” he put his finger to his lips and whispered, “If I told ya where we was, I’d have ta . . . you know.” Lenny drew his thumb across his neck, made an obnoxious guttural sound with his saliva, and laughed under his skin, rocking and rolling beneath the light-blue fourragere draped over his right shoulder and tucked under the right epaulette. Jinny was in no mood to dance, and she detested thread-bare clichés. Lenny turned and looked down the bridge of his stubby nose. “Like I say, there’s yur sign, Missy. Are ya sure you don’t wanna . . ..”
Jinny leaped from the jeep before she remembered—Don’t get out before the Colonel. She froze. Lenny smirked; his demeanor continued to sour. “You just stewed yur goose in the Colonel’s juice, Missy.” Jinny was having none of it, or so she tried to convince herself.
Colonel Robertson levered out a leg, climbed from his jeep, and stepped to the curb. Without breaking the silence he returned a stiff salute to a passing, biodegradable lieutenant then looked at Jinny, grunted, wrapped a plaid scarf snugly around his thick neck, and without further ado led the way, puffing like an on-duty tugboat on the line. Short circuit. Overload. The Colonel tooted. Jinny endured. Her shiny brunette hair—too short to tantalize her eyelashes—taunted her cheeks and for her what would ordinarily have been a hop-skip-jump gave way to plod-trudge-slog. She fell in and, dragged her feet, annihilated Robertson’s tracks.
Lenny, still distracted by his fair fare, languished behind the wheel, forgot the frantic windshield wipers, and watched Jinny get smaller and smaller. She reminded him of mottled goat being towed on a barge up a frozen river and soon to be offered to a heathen god on the altar of sacrifice–a narrow, raised planter bearing the skeletal remains of a plethora of snow-sanctified geraniums. On either side of the walkway punchy breezes conspired to suffocate yearling shrubs beneath the pillared portico by covering them with snowy pillows.
Jinny studied the frigid face of the building ahead—a conglomeration of grey bricks sandwiched together by weeping mortar and holding captive fifteen tall, tinted, narrow, evenly spaced slotted windows. Each window looked more like an overstated exclamation mark–minus the dot–than a window. Each was partially obscured by winter’s witness, piled high.
Ash trays stood erect on either side of the paired, steel entry doors and provocatively posed the exhumed butts of dozens of cigarettes. A one-eyed, closed-circuit spy-cam affixed above the entry chalked erratically back and forth like it had rheumatoid arthritis. Jinny tilted her head, stuck out her tongue, and crossed her eyes at the camera. Colonel Robertson stooped—uncharacteristic for a ranking officer—and stared down a bio-metric retinal scanner. A paneled LED flashed orange; the latch snapped; another LED flashed green, and the doors swooped inward, exposing two military policemen. Each soldier brandished an AR-15; each came to attention on opposing perimeters of a black, studded floor-mat; each tried not to gawk at the comely corporal. The doors sucked air as they swooshed closed and hid the dreariness without. Beneath and beyond the wet, studded mat, a gaudy red carpet flooded the foyer but left Jinny feeling like an unwelcome child in a casino. She tailed the Colonel to the end of a long hall and disappeared into a lamp-lighted office labeled, PRIVATE.
The door latched securely behind her as if to say, “Gotcha.”
“Hello again. Remember us?” Bella paused, rubbed her nose, and then dribbled out a perfunctory embellishment. “How are you doing?” Neither she nor Mag proffered a reassuring smile. “I asked how you are doing, Corporal?”
“Fine, thank you very much.” Jinny folded into a straight-backed hickory chair and, like a passenger about to careen downhill on a roller coaster, grabbed the armrests and braced for the ride. The Colonel glanced her way and cleared his throat. Oops. Jinny unfolded and ramped to rigid attention. “Sorry, sir.” He wagged his head, blew an imperceptible puff between his lips, mumbled, and sauntered around behind his desk.
“Be seated, Corporal.” Jinny unbuckled her knees, sat straight and watched all six and a half feet of the old patriot flex painfully forward. Ugh. He pressed his knuckles to the desk. Dominant blue veins on the backs of his hands merged to ferry oxygen-starved blood to the resupply depot in his lungs, all without supervision. The colonel looked askance, first at Bella, then Mag. “I’ll referee this match, you two,” said the colonel glibly. He dropped into a leather- studded chair, slid in tight, and opened a dossier labeled, O’Dwyer, V. “It’s your serve, Agent Magleby. Stay on task.”
Mag nodded and swallowed her gum. Bella blew into her hands and rubbed them together; her St. Louis supervisor’s demands beat like a snare drum in her ears— “Get down to Ft. Sill, interview that soldier, find out if she’s complicit, and if she is, haul her _ _ _ in here for arraignment, war or no war, money or no money. Either you close this case or go find a soup line.”
Metaphorically speaking, Mag and Bella didn’t need lunch. And they needed to score more than a few points. They needed a win—game, match and set. Mag rearranged her body parts in the chair, held up a small electronic device, and asked the first question. “Okay with you if we record this interview?”
Jinny replied demurely, “Fine.”
Click.
“Tell me, Corporal, when did you first come in contact with Oswald Otwyler?”
Jinny’s eyes narrowed. “You already know the answer to that question, Agent Magleby.”
“I don’t,” barked the Colonel. “Answer the question.”
Jinny gulped down a teaspoon full of anxiety and scrunched her elbows to her ribs like a boxer about to be pummeled on the ropes; tension lines furrowed her brow, but she didn’t drop her guard.
“Sir . . . and Agent Magleby, it was the first Sunday of January last year.” Curly and I were hunkered down in the loft of his Grandpa’s barn waiting for a storm to blow over.”
“Why were you in the barn?” Jinny glanced at the Colonel and figured she’d better answer the question—again.
“We were biding our time until the storm broke or moved on. We’d been hunting and—well not really hunting, I guess.” Jinny felt as pinned down as when she had lain beneath Curly on the loft floor. Scurrilous innuendo dominated the questioning for five grueling turns of the minute hand. The agents asked and Jinny responded to a flurry of disingenuous questions—questions served up with a lot of backspin–regarding her affair with Curly. Jinny lobbed returns as best she could until Bella popped a bubble and stopped the match long enough to mark her scorecard. FBI: match point; Jinny: Love.
While blowing her nose, Bella bugled, “Where did you get the truck?”
“It was Curly’s pride and joy. He unveiled it that day and told me it was his inheritance; he kept it covered by a tarp in the barn and worked on it as he earned money for parts. If I might add—both the barn and Curly gave me the creeps, I mean, being alone with him in there.”
“So, your boyfriend gave you the creeps,” sneered Bella. “Shift gears, Corporal. Describe your first encounter with Otwyler and James.”
Jinny sighed audibly. “It’s all in the affidavit. I don’t understand why. . . “
Colonel Robertson’s vocal chords thumped solemnly two octaves below middle C. “Just answer the question.”
“Okay, here goes.” Jinny reached back and painfully unstuck from memory a file labeled, confidential—do not open. “Curly and I were in the loft visiting when two men wearing hoodies and covered with snow unlatched and opened the barn door. We hid and wondered at first what the taller man was dragging behind him. Because the wind blew so hard, the shorter man needed help pushing the door closed. You know the rest.”
Mag flipped through her notebook, paused, and looked over the top of her reading glasses.
“So, neither man detected you in the barn?”
“Correct.”
Colonel Roberson twirled a pencil between his fingers like a baton. Bella stretched, fired an elastic at her own foot, and the band stopped playing. The Colonel piped up. “I’m confused, Corporal. If I understand correctly, neither man laid eyes on you or your friend in the barn. Is that right?”
“Yes, Sir. I wouldn’t be sitting here if they had.” The Colonel, antsy to hasten things along, continued.
“Then line up a few answers for me, Corporal, and we’ll tick my questions off one by one. Question number one–Did you see Otwyler again, and if so, how many times and where?” Bella huffed and puffed but said nothing.
“I only saw him one more time, Sir, and that was the day after Curly died.
“And he saw you, too,” I take it?
“Yes Sir, the day after Curly died.’
“But he’d never seen you together?” Bella rudely interrupted, catching the Colonel with his mouth open.
“No, not that I am aware of.”
“Then how did he know you’d both been in the barn that day?”
“Um, I’m sorry, I don’t get where you’re going with this, Agent Belfast.”
“Well, in the affidavit you testified that he recognized you on the road.”
“What road,” spouted Robertson, who glared—not at Jinny—but at Bella. “Just answer the damned question.” Jinny fished for an answer that wouldn’t float the interrogation downstream and over the rapids. Straightaway, she expelled air like a rubber raft punctured by a sharp rock.
“Yes . . . Sir. Sorry Sir. I was standing by the road in front of our home. Mr. Otwyler muttered, ‘Yum. Yum. See you later baby.’ Then hecocked his thumb, pointed his trigger-finger at me, fired, and drove away.”
“Let the record show that Mr. Otwyler missed.” Bella sniggered disdainfully. “Truth is, I think you are lying to us, Corporal.”
“I certainly am not.”
Bella licked her thumb, paged through her small notebook, and rolled her eyes like a slot machine ready to payoff. “Then how do you explain . . .”
“Bite it Bulah.” Colonel Robertson flipped his pencil across no-man’s land, watched it careen through the air, perform a one-and-a-half gainer, then land point down, stabbing the maroon carpet at Bella’s feet.
“My name’s Bella, Jack.”
“Okay, Bella. Now hear this–call me Jack one more time and I’ll run you out of here faster than soldier can fart.” Everyone stopped breathing.
Bella’s tongue wandered back and forth inside her cheek as if it were trying to parry its way between her lips. She leaned forward, retrieved the pointy pencil, broke the lead with her thumb and deposited it on the desk as if it were a spent casing.
“Why did you do that?”
“Do what, Colonel.”
“Break my pencil?”
For ten seconds each radiated enough heat to melt down two nuclear reactors. The Colonel was first to lean back, cool his coils, and look at Jinny. “Corporal, how did Ottoman, or whatever his name is, recognize you on the road?
“I honestly don’t know, Sir. But in Mr. Corker’s shop, it was clear to me that he did know. Weren’t you agents able to get the answer from Otwyler? He is in prison, right?”
Bella jumped to her feet. “You know, Corporal, you must be a slow learner. You have the bad habit of shoving the answers ahead of the questions.”
“Hold on, hold on. Answer Corporal O’Dwyer’s question,” demanded the Colonel. “Is Otwyler in prison or not?”
Now Mag stood up. “Bella, squat and take five.” Without turning around Bella backed to her chair, sat, and continued to glare. Her left eye involuntarily shuttered closed. “Yes, Colonel, Otwyler is in jail; a federal judge bound him over without bail months ago. The trial is set to commence on March 13th.
Jinny lifted off her chair like a spinster librarian from an errant thumb tack. “Wait-wait-wait a minute. A year and three months? Don’t tell me Ozzie hasn’t yet been tried and convicted for murder.”
“Bear in mind how this works, Corporal O’Dwyer,” replied Mag. “You’re not dealing the cards. We deal; you play your hand. But I’ll tell you this. To date, Otwyler has confessed to nothing but vagrancy.”
“But you have my sworn testimony that he killed his partner.”
“Answer me this,” interrupted Bella. “Did you actually see Mr. Otwyler murder his partner?
“No. I heard his partner confess to shooting somebody during a robbery up north; then I heard the twang of a shovel that killed Mr. James. But no, I didn’t see Mr. Otwyler strike his partner with the shovel. Curly didn’t see him either.”
“Then any evidence that Otwyler murdered his partner is simply hearsay. Would I be right in drawing that conclusion?” Bella smugly replied.
“I smelled the body; the sheriff recovered the body from the barn; I wouldn’t call that hearsay evidence, would you?”
“Just answer the question, smart aleck.” Bella crossed her legs and pumped a foot up and down—without striking oil. Agent Magleby sighed and sat down. “Two points for you, Corporal. Please sit down. And Bella, enough already.”
Jinny slid to the front of her chair. “As for drawing conclusions, Agent Belfast, you may scribble anything you like, but stop trying to box me in. I am innocent of any wrongdoing. Remember if you will that I helped put Otwyler behind bars, didn’t I? You saw him attack me. You used me as bait.”
“I caught you in a lie, Corporal.”
“I meant . . . now you’ve confused me!”
“It was Corker who attacked you. And since you bring him up, he’s out on bail.” Mag and Bella watched the Colonel’s jaw drop.
“I don’t get it. All three of you were on the bus; you saw and heard everything that went on, and Corker’s out on bail?”
Jinny’s eyes glazed over. She sank back in the chair—as far as one can sink into hickory. She rubbed and tried to relieve the kink in her neck. Bella continued. “Here me out. Like I say, Corker’s wife sold her father-in law’s property and used the money to bail him out. The judge said that when we obtain Corporal O’Dwyer’s written testimony . . . “
“Wait. Back up. You hadn’t told us that.”
“Hadn’t told you what, Corporal?”
“That Mr. Corker’s wife bailed him out.”
Mag reached forward and tagged her partner’s shoulder. “Bella, she’s right.”
Jinny’s lower lip quivered; her words came out all hushed and flat. “Why . . . would his wife bail him out? He abused her. Curly told me she’d filed for a divorce.”
The Colonel stood and stretched. “Never mind that, Corporal. He pointed first at Bella, then at Mag. “I still don’t fathom why your own eyewitness testimonies didn’t suffice.”
“Here’s the thing, Colonel. First, Bella and I had to be in Hong Kong when Corker was arraigned. Second, we only have circumstantial evidence to link him to the murder of his son. Third, the defense demanded that the court subpoena your soldier to appear in court. I don’t know how you wiggled around that one.”
“Enough,” demanded the colonel as he pounded the desk. “Look, I’ll witness the affidavit.” Everyone chattered at once. “No, LISTEN. Let’s get a stenographer in here, take O’Dwyer’s statement, and put Corker away.”
“He’s disappeared.”
“What did you say?”
Bella wedged her way into the conversation. “Corker’s attorney convinced the judge that the defendant didn’t pose a flight risk. So, his wife bailed Huey out, and he dropped off the map, leaving her destitute. Simple as that. She even lost her job at Sears, or so we were told by a neighbor.”
The Colonel sat back in his chair and put a foot up on his desk. “Before you drag me any further into your muddled investigation, and before we get an affidavit typed up, I want the answer to one simple question. Maybe two.” He pointed his blunted pencil at Jinny. “You two need to understand something. This young woman is one of three in Bravo Company. If things go her way, in a few months she’ll fly to Afghanistan to defend the flag—your flag—and perhaps a few freedoms you may take for granted.” He subconsciously rubbed an ugly, partially hidden scar on his neck.
“I beg your pard . . . “
“Let me finish. Sit down Agent Magleby.” Mag reluctantly followed the order. “Corporal O’Dwyer has been on base but three weeks. Right Corporal?”
Jinny nodded.
“Notwithstanding the fact that she’s a woman, in less than a month—in every measurable discipline—she has bubbled to the top. Do you hear me? She outshines eighty soldiers. She’s outperformed them all and drawn a lot of unwanted attention. Now what I need to know is this—has Corporal Virginia O’Dwyer violated the Code of Military Conduct?”
Jinny didn’t move a muscle. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She resolutely retained her composure; but inside she felt like someone had turned on an electric blanket.
“Then let us ask the big money question, Colonel,” Bella chirped like a smoke detector with a low battery. “Otwyler claimed your prize puppy here and her boyfriend stole the cash.” Jinny cooled.
“Go for it. Ask your question. But mind your tongue, and before you leave I want the name and phone number of your supervisor.” The Colonel pulled his foot from the desk and sat up straight.
Jinny raised her right arm to the square and slow-pitched a single, dismissive wave of her hand. “Colonel Robertson, I have done nothing wrong. I swear it.” She eased back into the uncomfortable chair, tipped up her chin, shuttered her eyes, extended her lower lip, and exhaled a cubic foot of exasperation. Her hair lifted off then fell helplessly back on her forehead. “And I know where you’re going with your questions. I think you’re trying to trap me.”
“Scared of being caught in a lie?” Mag popped her bubble gum and ordered her tongue to clean up the mess.
“Well, no, but . . .” Jinny leaned forward and again grabbed the ends of the armrests. “Say, ARE you trying to entrap me? Do I need a lawyer?”
Colonel Robertson clicked his ballpoint pen and scribbled a note—Call JAG HQ. He continued clicking-clicking-clicking. Bella dropped her chin and glowered suspiciously from over the top of her glasses. “You don’t feel guilty do you, Corporal O’Dwyer?”
“Bella. Enough.” Mag sucked a quart of oxygen and sniffed the beginnings of a cold. Bella sat up straight and unfolded her arms. She though Mag was snorting like a bull so she swallowed, faked a yawn, and waved a whatever you say, Mr. Dillon.
“Continue your story but stick to what happened, not how you felt.”
“Look, I confess. We were scared and curious at the same time. Oops. Sorry. You said, ‘don’t share feelings.’ I get it. Curly wanted to keep some of the cash—maybe all of it; I just don’t know; but I was determined to talk him into turning it all over to the Dickinson County sheriff.” Jinny leaned forward, rested her hands on her knees, and flexed her lower back.
“So, you did take the money?” asked Mag.
Jinny sidestepped the question. “You may not get it, but Curly and I had been friends since elementary school; we just differed in our definitions of what’s right and wrong. To him, sometimes the truth depended on the situation. For me, truth is absolute. Thou shalt not steal.”
“We are here to inquire after the facts, not your religious convictions,” Bella snorted, then pawed the floor with her left heel.
“Okay, the facts—after chores one afternoon Curly and I met up. Hey, maybe that’s when Mr. Otwyler spotted us. We drove to the barn in Curly’s pick-up, and while I stood worry-watch Curly dug up the bag.”
“Worry-watch?” Mag looked puzzled.
“Yes, I know. I tried to sneak in how I was FEELING at the time. Please believe me—I wanted the money dug up for only two reasons. One—so Ozzie wouldn’t grab and abscond with it before being caught; two—I wanted to help Curly stay straight with the law.” Shivering, Jinny subconsciously combed fingers through her hair before continuing. “Curly shoveled dirt for a few minutes before he struck something solid. Am I getting into too much detail?”
“We’ll ask the questions. Just move it along.” Elbows on their knees, both Mag and Bella sat on the front edge of their chairs mentally fondling their handcuffs.
“Curly brushed away the dirt and exposed the battered top of Mr. James’ head. He smelled putrid, like garlic, but we left him exposed so the sheriff could find him. I know it didn’t take the horse flies long. No wait. Since it was wintertime, there probably weren’t any flies, but I don’t remember for sure.”
“You’re not making this up as you go are you, Corporal?” grunted the Colonel, now surreptitiously feeling in a pocket for a stick of chewing gum.
“No sir. I am not. Fearful that Ozzie might surprise us, we took a quick peak in the bag, saw the ‘loot’—Curly’s words—zipped and dumped it in the truck, and drove to his father’s metal-working shop. Curly parked inside and pulled the overhead door down behind us. By now I was on the edge of panic, fearful that we might have been seen. And for the first time I was scared of Curly. I wanted to run. Somehow all that money had messed him up, and I could feel it. . . . Oh yes, ‘stick to the facts.’” Bella nodded.
“Curly unzipped the bag again, broke open a money wrapper, and threw a handful of bills into the air, crying, ‘Jinny, we’re rich. This cash could set my Ma up for life.’ Well, you know how I felt about that. I scrambled to gather the soiled bills from the shop floor. Curly had barely started counting when a car door slammed outside, and somebody swore.
“Curly said, ‘It’s my dad. Quick! Under the truck.’ I dropped to the floor and slid out of sight just as Mr. Corker staggered in and caught Curly holding the unzipped bag.”
Wheels whirred as Colonel Robertson swiveled to his left and, for the first time that morning, smiled at his comely comrade. His forehead wrinkled and the edges of his thin, closed lips levitated. Jinny brightened and took a deep breath. “Mr. Corker used profanity and said something like, ‘You stupid, stupid kid. So, you’ve gone and robbed a bank and disgraced my family name.’ All I could see was their feet. They tussled and I heard a slap. Curly fell to his knees, scrambled between his father legs, and fled the shop through the side door without looking back. The door swung closed but didn’t latch behind him. Mr. Corker belched, threw up, and became real quiet.”
“Why did he throw up?”
“Well sir, He’s an abusive alcoholic. My uncle . . . “
“Stay on topic, Corporal.” Bella rubbed her hands together like one who’d just read a tell and anticipated a winning hand.
“Okay. Well, then he muttered. I think he was counting. Three minutes seemed like an hour.” Jinny’s arms broke out in goosebumps. She hugged herself. “I was wet and cold. Suddenly the door flew open and banged against a stud. I hit my head on the differential and bit my tongue. A deep voice said, ‘I’ll take that. Hand it over. Now. Your kids ripped me off.’ It was Mr. Otwyler. I’ll never forget the wheeze.”
Jinny pushed up from the chair, still embracing herself. “May I take a break? My clothes are damp, and the air conditioner is punishing the back of my neck. Any chance I could borrow a blanket? And I need to use the bathroom.” The Colonel raised his fist, and without a word picked up the phone, tapped two keys, and a long minute later a knock came at the door.”
“Enter.”
“As you requested, Sir.”
Colonel Robertson stood, took in hand the green woolen blanket, walked from behind his desk, wrapped it around Jinny, and patted her on the shoulders. “The bathroom is behind that door, soldier.” He pointed with three fingers. Jinny stood as the clerk left the office.
“Thank you.”
“Remember, there’s a war on,” said the Colonel.
Minutes later Jinny was back on the Hickory chair. Hickory, dickory, dock—no one had stopped the clock.
“Continue,” whispered Mag. “You were under the truck.”
“I’ve been scared before, but never that scared. There I was, unarmed, lying in a cold puddle of antifreeze, and within a foot of a cold-blooded murderer. I had never met Curly’s dad, so I had no idea what he looked like. But Mr. Otwyler? I saw him first out front of our house as I have already described. Papa said the sheriff told him I wouldn’t have to face him in court and that my affidavit would suffice. “
Bella shook her finger in Jinny’s face. “Well, just maybe your Papa spoke out of turn.”
Jinny shuddered like a mallard after dipping his head in cold water.
“Please put the lid on it for a few minutes, Bella,” Mag muttered plaintively. “Continue Private, I mean Corporal?”
“After pausing and wheezing—perhaps to consider his options—Mr. Otwyler said to Mr. Corker, ‘Okay, whatever your name is, I have a proposition for you.’ Or something like that. ‘Take it or leave it.’ I assumed he had a gun.
“Curly’s dad replied, ‘Hold on, Buster Brown. Huey Corker don’t scare that easy.’ I figured the jig was up and wished I could cover my ears before the gunshot. All I could do was hold my breath and bite my lip.” Jinny paused.
Mag tilted her head to the side, studied Jinny’s face, and said, “You know what soldier? You’ve got a lot of moxie.” Her features softened. “Finish the story.”
“Mr. Otwyler didn’t shoot. Mister Corker said, “Not that it’s any of your blinkity-blank business, but this bag belongs to my son. Now you get out of my shop, or I’ll . . .’
Bella’s interruption conveyed a salty air of sanctimony. “Tell me something, soldier, how is it you are able, one year later, to recall their conversation verbatim? It sounds to me like your parroting a memorized script. Did you rehearse for this interview?”
“I’m telling you how it was. It’s all up here.” Jinny laid her hand on her head and pressed twice like her mother used to do before measuring Jinny’s height at the door. “It’s one of my gifts . . . or curses. Take your pick. Shall I continue?”
“Go ahead.” Mag patted her pocket. “Just don’t forget, you’re being recorded.”
“Let’s see, where did I leave off? . . . Oh yes. Mr. Corker told Mr. Otwyler to get out of his shop, or else. Mr. Otwyler threatened, ‘or you’ll to do to me what must be done to your kids?” I was terrified.
Mr. Corker became more agitated. “’Hey man, now are you threatening my kid?’”
“’Easy mister. Remember, I’m the one with the gun. Don’t hyperventilate all over me like you did on the trunk, or that’s how you’ll leave this junk yard.’”
“’What do you mean by that?’”
“I mean, if you don’t mind your tongue, you’ll leave ventilated.’” Curly’s dad got all quiet.
“’Look, for your information I only got one kid, and because of you he got away. I was gonna smack him with a ball-pin hammer where it wouldn’t show. I just needed to nail down some of his faults, don’t you see, as if it were any business of yours.’”
“’It is my business,’ Mr. Otwyler screamed. ‘Your son and his woman witnessed a murder; and both have to be silenced. You said you wanted to nail down some faults. I don’t care how you do it, but I nominate you for the job, and I get to play the trump card.’”
“’Nominate me for what? You mean you want me to kill my own kid?’”
“’For ten grand you’ll kill both of them,’” replied Ozzie—people like you will do anything for a few bucks.’”
Six pair of eyes peered into Jinny’s baby browns. Colonel Robertson’s pen clicked, dot-dot-dot—dash-dash-dash—dot-dot-dot. Jinny missed the coded alarm.
“’ Who do you think you’re kidding?’ Mr. Oswald replied. ‘There’s gotta be ten times that much money in here. Maybe, if you’d caught me in the right mood I’d kill the girl, but . . . . I’ll tell you what, let’s go someplace warm and negotiate. Till then, the cash stays locked up in this shop.’”
“‘What about your kid?’ If you lock up, can’t he get in?’”
“’Naw.” Pause. “Well, let me cogitate a minute . . .?’”
“’That does it. Let’s go. I’ll carry the bag,’” said Mr. Otwyler.
“’What do you take me for, a fool?’ replied Mr. Corker. ‘”
“’I thought that was obvious.’”
“’Huh? Come on in the house. It’s warm and my old lady is working at Sears till midnight.’”
“’No, I’ll carry the bag. Come with me. There’s somebody I want you to meet. But be careful what you say, he’s a pistol.’”
The Colonel piped up. “You said, ‘he.’? Does this pistol have a name, Corporal?”
“I don’t know who owns the name, Sir. But as they turned to leave, one of them bumped and knocked the hammer to the floor. It bounced underneath the truck and landed three inches from me.” The frightful recollection caused Jinny to breathe through her mouth then tightly purse her lips. “You know what? . . . let’s leave out a description of how I felt.”
“Good.”
Jinny purposely didn’t divulge how hard she had prayed that night. Actually, praying hadn’t been hard; to her, it was more like picking up the telephone to plead with a trusted friend for help. “Mr. Corker and Ozzie left, latched, and locked the door behind them. I heard a car engine turn over and saw the headlights sneak under the door then retreat. That’s it, unless you have more questions.”
Colonel Robertson surprised everybody. “Don’t leave me hanging, Corporal.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, Sir. I waited about fifteen minutes, slid from beneath the truck, unlatched a window, climbed out, and ran for home without looking back. That was the last time I saw Curly free, and the last time I saw the money.”
“So Curly’s dead and you had no hand in his death?” asked Colonel Robertson.
“Yes. I mean no, Sir. No hand in his death.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“No. But I have my suspicions. I came here hoping these agents would fill in the blanks and let me return to my platoon.”
“You came here on my orders O’Dwyer. And you’ll be dismissed when I dismiss you. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.” Jinny stood, stretched, and glanced at both agents. “Have you learned anything from Ozzie? Surely he has answers.”
“We ask the questions. You answer the questions. It’s that simple. Haven’t you gotten that into your bright little head, missy? Sit down, or . . .” It was Bella again.
“Enough,” demanded the Colonel, rising to his feet like a phoenix from a funeral pyre. “One more disrespectful dig like that and I’ll have you thrown off this base faster than a . . . oh, whatever. Do you hear me? You didn’t come with a bench warrant and based on what I’ve heard you are not only wasting my time, you are needlessly badgering one of my command. So, cut the crap.” The Colonel gathered up, filed his emotions, and then sat down and asked, “What do you think happened to Curly and the money, Corporal? Please be seated.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jinny took heart. “Colonel, I have no idea what happened to the money, but I believe Curly’s dad trapped him, cuffed him to the truck, and welded the door shut; he was a welder, after all; I suspect he thought he’d figured out how to make Curly’s death look like an accident. But according to Curly, Mr. Corker was usually too drunk to think straight, and he was abusive, to put it politely. Am I right?” Jinny paused for air. A few more riffles timed their way downstream. Still no nibbles from the agents. The Colonel picked up his ball point pen and resumed sending dot-dot-dot—dash-dash-dash—dot-dot-dots.
“None of you has detailed how Curly died.”
“Sorry, sir. I thought I had. Curly drowned in a canal near my home.”
“Near your home?”
“Yes, sir. A county road runs past our farm and for a few hundred yards parallels a large irrigation canal. Curly died there while my Papa struggled to free him from the wreckage.
The Colonel looked over at Mag and Bella. “Are you up to speed on this accident?”
“Oh, it wasn’t an accident, sir,” replied Jinny,
“Agents?”
“According to the sheriff’s report, she is correct, Colonel Robertson.”
“Who killed him?” Jinny was quick to reply.
“I didn’t know it at the time, but as I said, Curly had been handcuffed to the steering wheel, the truck had lost a rear wheel, the driver’s door had been welded shut, and the carburetor forced wide open. His truck spun out of control and plunged into the canal near my home. My Papa nearly lost his life trying to save him. The last time I saw Curly, the paramedics were pulling his body out of the water. And I don’t think it was Curly who stowed the black bag in the truck. Somebody wanted it to look like Curly was skipping town.” Jinny teared.
“I know this is hard on you, Corporal, but I have a few more questions. Tell me about the bag.”
“Sir, as I’ve already explained, I do not know what happened to the money. An EMT pulled a black bag out of the drink. I was there when he unzipped and laid its contents on the ground. He pulled out some clothing, a rifle, and some soggy ammo. But no money. I have no idea who ended up with it.” She locked eyes with Mag. “Have you searched Corker’s house?”
“Yes, and it’s not there,” she replied.
The Colonel fired a question at Bella. “Has the rifle been linked to any crimes?”
“No, Colonel Robertson, for your information it has not.”
“Tell me about your encounter with Corker on the bus.”
“Yes, sir. As to why nearly a year passed before Mr. Corker’s attempted to take my life by sticking a syringe in my neck, I do not know. If Agents Belfast and Magleby hadn’t been seated behind me that rainy day on the bus in Wichita, either Mr. Corker or I would be dead. Personally, I think they deserve a commendation for rescuing him, not saving me. May I go back to my unit, Colonel?”