There were two photographs, a drab black-and-white that was Cody’s last official Navy photo and a five-by- seven color shot of him with his wife and two small children in front of a Christmas tree. The date on the back was Christmas, 1971, his last Christmas home. There were also some news clippings, including the announcement in the San Francisco Chronicle that Cody’s widow, Joan, had married a rear admiral two years after Cody was officially declared dead. Cold, hard facts and not too many of them.
Hatcher studied the two photographs. He remembered Cody as being tall and hard with a quick laugh, a man who loved a good time almost as much as he loved the ladies.
The photographs prodded Hatcher’s memory, but twenty years had dulled it. Hazy incidents flirted with his brain — the good times, oddly, seemed the most vague — then there were other incidents, juxtaposed visions of Murph Cody, that were crystal clear. In one, Cody was the brutish sophomore, a hulking shape in the boxing ring, pummeling his opponent relentlessly, driving a youngster into the ropes, slamming punches in a flurry to the chest and face of the kid until Hatcher and another member of the team jumped in the ring and pulled him off. In the other, Cody was the penitent, showing up at the hospital later that evening, apologizing in tears for hurting the young freshman, who had two broken ribs and a shattered cheekbone, and sitting beside him all night.
He remembered, too, his own fear as a freshman of Cody, who had a reputation among the new frogs as a mean hazer.
‘When did you meet him?’ Sloan asked.
Hatcher thought for a moment as memories bombarded him. Opaque memories like the shape of a room but not the furnishings in it and faces without voices. Then slowly the memories began to materialize as his mind sorted through fragments of his life.
‘The first day at Annapolis,’ he answered. ‘I’ll never forget it. .
August 1963. A bright, hot day. Hatcher and a half- dozen other frogs were lined up ramrod-straight, their backs flat against the wall in the dormitory hallway. It was their first day at Annapolis, and they were all confused and scared. Two upperclassmen had them braced and were giving them their first introduction to the cruelties inflicted on a frog, a new freshman at the academy.
The worse of the two was a burly midshipman with a permanent sneer named Snyder. Snyder hated all lowerclassmen. Because he had almost busted out himself, he had no tolerance for them.
The other second-year man merely watched. He was tall, muscular and handsome despite features that were triangular and hawkish and made him appear older than he was. He stood at parade rest, never taking his eyes off Hatcher.
‘Look at these maggots,’ Snyder said, stalking the line of frightened young midshipmen. ‘Look around you, maggots. By this time next year only two of you will be left.’
He stood in front of Hatcher. ‘You’re the juvenile, huh. How did a delinquent like you get into Annapolis?’
Hatcher stared straight ahead, not knowing what to answer.
Snyder’s face was an inch from Hatcher’s. ‘What’s the matter, maggot, can’t you talk?’ he yelled.
‘Yes, sir!’ the terrified Hatcher answered.
‘Are you a maggot?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Are you lower than dog shit?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘I can’t hear you!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Awright, clear the hall!’ Snyder yelled. ‘Move it, move it, move it. On the double!’ And he laughed as they all scrambled to their rooms.
A minute later the tall cadet appeared at the door to Hatcher’s room.
‘Everybody clear out but Hatcher,’ he snapped and the room emptied. Hatcher stood as erect as a statue in his new uniform, his chin tucked against his clavicle. Cody stood very near him but did not look t him; he stared out the window at the courtyard as he spoke. ‘My name’s Murphy Cody. You call me Mister Cody.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I hear you’re a Street kid. Is that right, maggot?’
“Well, sir, I . .
‘Yes or no!’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘I hear you were a Golden Gloves champion in Boston. That correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cody looked him over. ‘Middleweight?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You don’t look like you could break wind, maggot,’ Cody said and walked out of the room.
Thanksgiving, 1963. A cold, harsh-wind day. ‘Hit the wall, maggot,’ Snyder bellowed as Hatcher was leaving the mess hail and the underclassman assumed the position.
A dozen frogs had already fallen before the relentless hazing of Snyder, Cody and other midshipmen. Yet Hatcher felt that in a funny way Cody was watching out for him. Hatcher had surprised them all. While other freshmen broke under the rigorous schedule and hazing, Hatcher seemed to get stronger as the months went by. By winter he knew he would get by that crucial first year if Snyder didn’t force a confrontation.
Snyder had other plans.
‘Hatcher’s mine,’ Snyder bragged openly. ‘I’ll break him. He’ll be gone before Christmas.’
He braced Hatcher constantly, in the lower classman’s shower, in the yard, in the halls, his comments always insulting and humiliating. Eventually it started to get to Hatcher.
Now he was at it again.
‘The academy is for men, maggot,’ Snyder snarled. ‘You’re not a man, you’re what we used to call a J.D. back where I come from. You know what a J.D. is, maggot?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m going to make it my business to run you off. You’re history. You don’t deserve to be an officer in this man’s Navy.’
Hatcher didn’t say anything.
‘You want to be an officer, maggot?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, that’s a joke. You don’t even have a mother and a father, isn’t that a fact?’
Hatcher didn’t answer. He could feel the blood rising to his face.
‘I asked you a question, maggot.’
Still no answer.
Snyder moved so close his breath was hot against Hatcher’s face.
‘You know what they call someone who doesn’t have a mother and a father, maggot?’
Hatcher stared straight ahead. He fought to keep himself from trembling with rage.
‘Say the word,’ Snyder demanded.
‘Maybe he doesn’t know the word, Snyder,’ Cody’s voice said. Hatcher was staring straight ahead; and Snyder moved out of the way and suddenly Cody was staring at him.
‘Maybe he never got that far in school,’ Cody said. ‘Is that right, maggot?’ Snyder snapped.
‘Well, maggot, is that right?’ Cody repeated.
‘Yes, sir,’ Hatcher said.
Snyder leaned over to Cody and said softly, ‘He’s mine, Cody. He’ll be Boston dog meat by Christmas.’ He chuckled and moved on.
‘You almost lost it there, maggot,’ Cody said sharply. ‘I was watching you. Now, you listen up. Everybody figured you’d be history by now, but you fooled us all. So don’t lose it now. Snyder’s trying to provoke you, and if he does, you’re gone. You took it this long, just keep taking it. Couple more months and you’re a second-year man and nobody can mess with you anymore.’
‘What’s he got against me, sir?’
‘He’s an elitist. He doesn’t think you fit the profile.’
‘Do you, sir?’
‘It doesn’t make any damn difference what anybody thinks, it’s what you think. And we never had this talk,’ Cody snapped and walked away.
‘You and Murph Cody were pretty close for a time, weren’t you?’
Hatcher was drawn back to the present by Sloan’s question. He stared at him for several seconds and then said, ‘Yes . . . we were at Annapolis together. I didn’t see much of him after we graduated. He went in the air service and I went into intelligence. Why? Why the interest in Cody?’