I had one more house call to make that day. I had been thinking about the tattoo that Andy Kellog had mentioned, and of Joe Long’s view that it might indicate someone who had served in the military, perhaps in an airborne division. I knew from experience that it was hard to track down that kind of information. The bulk of files pertaining to service records were kept at the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis, Missouri, but even if I did have a way to gain access to its database, which would be difficult to begin with, the access would be useless without some clue as to the possible identity of the man in question. If I had some suspicions, then it was possible that I could find someone to pull the 201 file, but it would mean calling in favors from outside, and I wasn’t ready to do that yet. The Veterans Administration was also tight with information, and there weren’t many people willing to risk a federal job with a pension by slipping files under the table to an investigator.
Ronald Straydeer was a Penobscot Indian from Oldtown who had served with the K-9 Corps during the Vietnam War. He lived out by Scarborough Downs, beside a bullet-shaped trailer that had once been home to a man named Billy Purdue but now served as a halfway house for the assorted drifters, ne’er-do-wells, and former comrades in arms who found their way to Ronald’s door. He had been invalided out of the service, injured in the chest and left arm by an exploding tire on the day he left ’Nam. I was never sure what had hurt him more: the injuries he received or the fact that he had been forced to leave his German Shepherd, Elsa, behind as “surplus equipment.” He was convinced that the Vietnamese had eaten Elsa. I think he hated that about them more than the fact that they kept shooting at him when he was in uniform. I knew that Ronald had a contact, a National Service Officer named Tom Hyland who worked with the Disabled American Veterans, and who had helped Ronald to file his claim for benefits through the Veterans Administration. Hyland had handled power of attorney for Ronald when he was trying to maneuver his way through the system, and Ronald always spoke highly of him. I had met him once, when he and Ronald were catching up over chowder at the Lobster Shack by Two Lights State Park. Ronald had introduced him to me as an “honorable man,” the highest praise that I had ever heard him accord to another human being.
In his capacity as NSO, Hyland would have access to the records of any veteran who had ever filed for benefits through the VA, including those who might have served with an airborne unit and who had enlisted from an address in the state of Maine, or who were claiming benefits here. In turn, the DAV worked with other service groups like the Vietnam Veterans of America, the American Legion, and the Veterans of Foreign Wars. If I could convince Ronald to tap Hyland, and Hyland in turn was willing to do me a good turn, then I might be able to come up with a potential short list.
It was almost dark when I got to Ronald’s place, and the front door was open. Ronald was sitting in his living room in front of the TV, surrounded by cans of beer, some full but most empty. There was a DVD of Hendrix in concert playing on the TV, the sound turned down very low. On the couch across from him sat a man who looked younger than Ronald, but infinitely more worn. For his age, Ronald Straydeer was in good condition, with only a hint of gray to his short dark hair and a frame that had held off the onset of late-middle-age spread through hard physical labor. He was a big man, but his friend was bigger still, his hair hanging down in curls of yellow and brown, his face grizzled with a three-day growth. He was also fried to the gills, and the smell of pot in the air made my head swim. Ronald seemed to be a little more together, but it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the fumes.
“Man,” said his buddy, “lucky you weren’t the cops.”
“Helps if you lock the door,” I said, “or even just close it. Makes it harder for them to enter.”
Ronald’s friend nodded sagely. “That is so right,” he said. “Soooo right.”
“This is my friend Stewart,” said Ronald. “I served with his father. Stewart here fought in the Gulf first time around. We were talking about old times.”
“Fuckin’ A,” said Stewart. He raised his beer. “Here’s to old times.”
Ronald offered me a beer, but I declined. He popped the tab on another Silver Bullet and almost drained it before letting it part from his lips.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said. “He might have been in the service. He’s got a tattoo of an eagle on his left arm, and a taste for children. I thought that, if it didn’t ring any bells for you, you might be able to ask around, or put in a word with your NSO friend, Hyland. This guy is bad news, Ronald. I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”
Ronald considered the question. Stewart’s eyes narrowed as he tried to concentrate on what was being said.
“A man who likes children wouldn’t go around advertising it,” said Ronald. “I don’t recall hearing about anyone who might have those tendencies. The eagle tattoo could narrow it down some. How do you know about it?”
“One of the children saw it on his arm. The man was masked. It’s the only clue I have to his identity.”
“Did the kid get a look at the years?”
“Years?”
“Years of service. If he served, even if he just cleaned out latrines, he’d have added his years.”
I didn’t recall Andy Kellog mentioning any numbers tattooed beneath the eagle. I made a note to ask Aimee Price to check it with him.
“And if there are no years?”
“Then he probably didn’t serve,” said Ronald simply. “The tattoo’s just for show.”
“Will you ask around anyway?”
“I’ll do that. Tom might know something. He’s pretty straight but, you know, if there are kids involved…”
By now, Stewart had stood and was browsing Ronald’s shelves, bopping gently to the barely heard sound of Hendrix, a fresh joint clasped between his lips. He found a photograph and turned to address Ronald. It was a picture of Ronald in uniform squatting beside Elsa.
“Hey, Ron, man, was this your dog?” asked Stewart.
Ronald didn’t even have to turn around to know what Stewart had found.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s Elsa.”
“Nice dog. It’s a damn shame what happened to her.” He waved the photograph at me. “You know, they ate his dog, man. They ate his dog.”
“I heard,” I said.
“I mean,” he continued, “what kind of fucking people eat a man’s dog?” A tear appeared in his eye and rolled down his cheek. “It’s all just one big damned shame.”
And it was.