Walker handed me a business card and repeated his wife’s offer to let me stay in their guest room when I got to San Diego.
“She wanted to have coffee with us this morning, but I let her sleep in. She was fairly shook up over what happened yesterday.”
“You mean the emergency landing, or Larry wanting her to sign his stomach?”
“The landing was no big deal. My wife knows enough about airplanes. She’s a cool customer when it comes to flying. She just can’t stand it when people bring up the ‘old her,’ the things she had to do back then just to eat, like posing for that magazine. Ever since we got married, all she’s ever wanted to be is respected, a pillar of the community. She told me once she’d rather die than have to go back where she came from.”
I knew the feeling well. People from the wrong side of the tracks — or, in my case, the feedlot — can spend a lifetime over-compensating, struggling to attain the kind of acceptance and respectability in general society denied them at birth. Crissy Walker hailed decidedly from that camp.
Walker finished his coffee and stood. “I’d like to get on over to the field, see how Larry’s doing on the repairs to my plane.”
“That’s assuming Larry’s even at the airport,” I said, “and not at your hotel, trying to get your wife to sign who knows what.”
Walker grinned.
We walked along a frontage road to Larry’s hangar. The gray overcast had lifted a thousand feet or so, still low enough that it obscured the ridgelines of the coastal Rancho Bonita Mountains to the north. I watched a Great Blue Heron standing motionless in a field adjacent to the runways, its long sharp beak tilted earthward over a gopher hole, waiting patiently in ambush. The bird reminded me of how I once hunted terrorists.
“You mind me asking you a question, Hub?”
“Shoot.”
“What was it like, getting that medal?”
He thought about it for a couple of seconds. “It’s like strapping into an airplane, only you ain’t flying it. You’re just along for the ride. You got all these people telling you how great you are, tears in their eyes, thanking you for your service, all that happy horseshit, when you know the real heroes are the ones who didn’t make it home.” He dug his hands in his front pockets. “The truth of it is, that medal didn’t mean a whole lot to me before, not really. Now, it don’t mean a damn thing. I’d trade every decoration I ever got in a New York minute, everything I ever owned in this life, if I could have my daughter back for just one day.”
“I read once that all the stars in the night sky are really openings in Heaven, so that all the people you’ve ever loved and have gone before you can shine down, to let you know they’re happy.”
“Wish I could believe that.” We walked in silence for awhile. Then Hub said, “You got any children?”
“My ex didn’t think I was ready. She said it wasn’t a good idea, having kids when you’re still one yourself.”
“They do make you grow up right quick, I’ll give your ex that much. I thought Ruthie was gonna be a boy. But you find out that don’t matter much, which flavor they come out. You love ’em all just the same.”
I told him Savannah and I were exploring a possible reconciliation, and that she was planning to come with me to San Diego.
“Well, I sure hope that works out for you, I really do,” Hub said. “Lucky in love. Best luck of all.”
I couldn’t discern an ounce of disingenuousness about the man. The ancient philosophers knew all too well that legends have feet of clay. They warned as much in the sage words they left for humanities majors like me to absorb centuries later. But I saw no such flaws in Lt. Col. Hubert Bedford Walker, USAF retired, one of fewer than one hundred living recipients of America’s highest military decoration. I was honored to be in his company and pleased to be in his employ.
The bank teller scrutinized Walker’s check with thinly veiled skepticism. She had false eyelashes and looked about twelve, which more or less matched the number of minutes I’d been waiting in line for my turn at her window.
“I may not look it,” I said, leaning closer and speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone, “but I’m posing online as a Nigerian prince. The sucker who cut me that check? I’ve got him convinced it’s seed money for an investment that’ll return ten million large.”
“This check is drawn on a bank in San Diego,” she said, like San Diego was Nigeria.
“OK, the truth,” I said, unable to stop myself, “I’m not really a Nigerian prince. I just found that check in the parking lot.”
“Excuse me a minute.” She locked her cash drawer with a key dangling from her neck and moved off twenty feet to consult her manager.
They spoke in hushed tones, shooting me questioning glances every few seconds. I assumed they would scrutinize the balance of my bank account, which was starting to resemble the federal deficit, and put a hold on the check for a couple of days until it cleared. No biggie. The manager came over. The hold, she said, would be a full week.
“That’s pretty standard banking practice for non-local checks in Nigeria,” she said.
She smiled, but not in the nice kind of way.
No one ever said being a smartass was without its drawbacks.
Kiddiot was still gone when I got home. At least he was consistent: a cat who never failed to disappoint. I stuffed some clean clothes into a duffel bag for the trip to San Diego, along with my toothbrush, then telephoned the five people on Hub Walker’s list.
My calls to prosecutor Stephen Tassio, Greg Castle of Castle Robotics, and Ruth Walker’s former co-worker, Janet Bollinger, went straight to voice mail. I left detailed messages for each.
Eric LaDucrie, the ex-Big Leaguer-turned-death-sentence pitchman, answered after about ten rings. He sounded like he was in a cocktail lounge. I could hear the tinkle of a piano somewhere behind him and people laughing, talking loud. I told him that Hub Walker had hired me to dig up dirt on Dorian Munz, and that I wanted to talk to him.
“I might be able to help you out,” the Junkman said, “only I’m in Washington. I’m back the day after tomorrow. Can it hold ’til then?”
I said it could and gave him my number.
My last call was to Munz’s defense lawyer, Charles Dowd. He sounded inner-city African-American and harried.
“My client has passed,” Dowd said. “The case was adjudicated. There’s nothing more to be said beyond that.”
“All I need is a half-hour of your time, Mr. Dowd. Just to clarify a few points.”
“You say you’re who again?”
“Cordell Logan. Hub Walker, the father of the young woman your client was convicted of killing, hired me to look into the case.”
“What exactly is it you’re looking for, Mr. Logan?”
“Your client, Mr. Munz, made certain allegations against Ruth Walker’s boss, Greg Castle, shortly before Munz was executed.”
“I’m well aware of those allegations. I believe I was there. You still haven’t answered my question.”
I explained how Hub Walker and Greg Castle were friends — something I was certain the attorney already knew — and that Walker hoped to help repair the damage done to Castle’s reputation by Munz’s spurious allegations.
“Mr. Walker would like me to gather a few statements from knowledgeable people who can affirm your client’s guilt in Ruth Walker’s murder. Mr. Walker would like to then pass those statements on to the news media in defense of Mr. Castle.”
“The jury,” Dowd said, “found the evidence against my client overwhelming. All of that evidence was introduced during proceedings in open court. All of those proceedings are available for your inspection in the office of the clerk of the court. Beyond that, again, there’s nothing more I can say. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Logan, I have a preliminary hearing to prepare for.”