Blood Lines (49 page)

“
Mom
 . . . ,” Nicky protested.

“All right, I love you. If you need anything, call me. And tell Joe thanks for me.”

“I will. I love you too, Mom. Bye.”

Estrella folded her cell phone and put it away.
You're lucky to have him,
she told herself.
You have no reason to feel sad.

But she did. She'd never gotten over Julian's death, especially not the fact that he'd committed suicide only months before Nicky was born. That was still the deepest hurt of her life.

She turned her attention to the files she'd downloaded from the U.S. Army databases regarding servicemen in Vietnam and started reading. Once she'd had PFC Dennis Hinton's name and had cross-referenced it with PFC Tyrel McHenry and Sergeant Victor Gant, a lot of the busywork had been eliminated.

What was left was a U.S. Army Criminal Investigation Command report that was interesting.

Estrella knew that Will would want to see the CID report, but she also knew he was busy working the crime scenes. He was also there counseling Shel.

When she'd first heard about the attack on Tyrel McHenry, Estrella's heart had gone out to Shel. She and the big Marine had been close friends since she'd joined the NCIS team shortly after he did. Part of it was the commonality of the Spanish language they shared, but part of it—Estrella suspected—was because they'd both been hurt by family. Julian had left her, and Tyrel had never been there for Shel. Both of them had holes in their hearts and lives that had affected them deeply.

And both of them were too stubborn to talk about their losses. They each believed the loss was theirs to carry alone.

But now Shel's had gone past the point where he could carry it himself.

Estrella only hoped what she was finding out was going to be beneficial rather than hurtful. She was afraid that, just like the phone call to Nicky, it might be a little of both.

>> 1721 Hours

“Private First Class Dennis Leon Hinton was officially declared missing on October 17, 1967,” Estrella said.

“Missing? Not AWOL?” Will sat in a chair at the McHenry kitchen table beside Estrella as she walked him through her findings. He was tired but restless, which was always a bad combination for him.

“Yes. Army MPs worked his disappearance as a criminal act from the beginning.”

“Why?” Will knew that U.S. soldiers had gone missing in Vietnam during that time period for a lot of reasons. Some of them deserted, and some were killed in DMZ skirmishes or ambushes. There were even times when attacks against U.S. soldiers killed men who weren't identifiable.

That war, more than any other before it, had taught Americans how bad war could be. There, in the middle of enemy territory, trapped in a land where the enemy had no place to retreat and no choice except to fight, they'd learned how ferocious that enemy could be. Vietnamese women carried hand grenades into bars and pulled the pins, killing themselves and all within. Children working as shoeshines covered razors in their rags to ruin soldiers' boots or wound them. There wasn't a place in that country where the American forces hadn't had to defend themselves.

AWOL or desertion would have been easier to accept than kidnapped or murdered. All sorts of crimes had happened over there, on both sides, but they had been eclipsed by the horror of the war.

“Private First Class Marvin Cantrell reported Hinton missing,” Estrella said. “According to this report, Cantrell suspected foul play on the part of Victor Gant. Late the evening of the fifteenth, Cantrell had left the bar in Qui Nhon where he'd been with Hinton. Cantrell ended up with food poisoning and was sick for the next two days.”

Will followed the information on the badly typed image copy Estrella had retrieved from Department of Defense files. The copy was stamped as property of the Army's CID.

“As soon as Cantrell was well enough, he went to his commanding officer and made the report,” Estrella said. “They kicked the report over to the MPs and the matter was turned over to the CID.”

“But the CID didn't find anything?”

“No. Those years were the hot ones in Vietnam. River traffic through Qui Nhon was important during those years, and the North Vietnamese were pushing back with everything they had. Their attacks were taking their toll.”

“What information do you have about the investigation?”

“Although they don't look it, typewriters being what they were then and correction fluid being all the rage—” Estrella pointed to obvious smears across the pages—“the notes are good. The CID lieutenant was a Philadelphia police officer before he got drafted. He went over there knowing how to conduct an investigation.”

“That was lucky.”

“It would have been luckier if he found Hinton or figured out what had happened to him.” Estrella tapped the keyboard and pages flipped past. “His investigation met with a lot of resistance.”

“Because of Victor Gant?”

“Because of a lot of people,” Estrella said. “By that time in the Vietnam War, drugs had become prevalent among the troops.”

“They were a bunch of scared kids,” Will said. “Most conscripted armies are.”

“The military forces in Iraq aren't conscripted,” Estrella said gently, “and I think a lot of them are scared kids anyway. I was older than a lot of them when I joined the Navy, but I was still scared for a long time while sitting on an aircraft carrier.” She paused. “Drugs are a coping mechanism, but they only put things off. They don't help.”

Will knew Estrella was speaking from personal experience. He glanced at her.

“I knew someone,” Estrella said without looking at him, “who lost himself in drugs. But it wasn't drugs that pushed him over the edge. It was everything that was going on in his life.” She shook herself and took a breath. “Sorry. It's a long story and sad.”

“If you ever want to tell it to anyone,” Will said, “I'm here.”

“I know. But today definitely isn't the day for that.” Estrella highlighted a section of the report. “The CID investigator, Ramsey, established a timeline for Hinton.”

Will stared at the timeline. “Guy was meticulous.”

“I know. Ramsey charted everything Hinton did the day he disappeared. The timeline ends here, in one of the local bars in Qui Nhon.”

Ramsey's file even included faded color pictures that looked like they'd been taken with a Kodak Instamatic. Scratches marred the pictures' finish and they looked like pale imitations of the originals.

The bar where the timeline ended was a single-story ramshackle building with a corrugated tin roof. Bits of jungle brush peeked out from the rickety wooden steps that led up to an abbreviated veranda.

“Cantrell went to Fat Boy's with Hinton that night,” Estrella said.

“Fat Boy's is the bar?”

“Yes. It's also a type of Harley,” Estrella said. “The bar's owner was an expatriate American veteran who got released on a medical discharge.”

“And instead of going home, he decided to hang around and open a bar?”

Estrella nodded. “That's all covered in Ramsey's notes. The rumor was that Fat Boy's provided drugs to anyone that wanted to buy them. Victor Gant was supposed to be a silent partner.”

“Was he?”

“Ramsey couldn't confirm that.”

“Why did Hinton go there?”

“The reports don't say.”

“Did Hinton go there regularly?”

“I don't know.”

Will's frustration grew. It was hard seeing Shel, who was normally one of the most together human beings on the face of the planet, torn up over what he was supposed to do. Will wanted desperately to do something to help.

“Was Gant there that night?”

“Yes. Cantrell's statement confirms that.”

“Did Hinton and Gant know each other?”

“There's no indication,” Estrella responded.

“What happened?”

“Statements of other witnesses in the bar that night confirm that Hinton left in the company of Victor Gant.”

“What about Tyrel McHenry?”

“McHenry isn't mentioned in these reports.”

“Does anyone know where Gant went that night?”

“Not that Ramsey ever discovered.”

Will pushed up from the chair and looked out through the window. The ranch looked peaceful—except for the sheriff's deputies walking around outside. Will imagined this had been a great place for someone like Shel McHenry to grow up. There was plenty of hunting and fishing, and the ranch work was physically demanding. For a moment he wondered what Shel would have been like as a boy.

Then Will thought about how estranged from his children Don had said Tyrel McHenry was. The man's past, whatever had truly happened, couldn't have been easy.

“There is something we can follow up on,” Estrella said.

Will turned to her.

“A few of Victor Gant's cronies are mentioned in Ramsey's reports,” Estrella told him. “Since they're all ex-military personnel, I was able to pull them up.” She laid a computer printout from a portable printer on top of the table. “Six men besides Gant are named. Two of them were KIA in Vietnam. One went MIA there. Another was killed in a 1997 shootout with the Atlanta Police Department while riding with the Purple Royals. The fifth, Michael Wiley, is still riding with Victor Gant. We tagged him as Fat Mike.”

“What about the sixth man?”

Estrella pointed to a name on the page. “PFC Richard McGovern was hit by a Bouncing Betty land mine in 1971 and got mustered out on a medical discharge. He's living in Philadelphia on a military pension.”

Will looked at the young soldier's face on the monitor. Back when the picture had been taken, McGovern had been a young man with angular features and hard eyes. He didn't look civilized even in his dress uniform.

“McGovern was there at the bar the night Hinton went missing?” Will asked.

“Yes.”

“Where did he spend his military career?”

Estrella checked. “He was assigned to Gant's unit for seven of his eight years served.”

“Did you background him?”

“I did.” Estrella pulled up another file. “Stateside, McGovern was arrested for selling drugs six times from the age of eighteen to twenty. He entered the military voluntarily to avoid jail time.”

“But then he re-upped.”

“Yes.”

“I don't think McGovern became an overnight patriot,” Will said.

“I doubt that.”

“Do you have a current address for McGovern?”

“The military sends him a check every month.”

“Get me the address.”

48

>> International Border

>> El Paso, Texas

>> 1942 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Perspiration trickled down Tyrel McHenry's back as he sat in the back of the cab in the line leading to the border patrol checkpoints. Evening was settling over the area. The eastern skies had turned dark.

Tyrel's eyes burned from fatigue. He hated wearing a ball cap instead of the Stetson he'd worn for so long. But he'd had to wear a hat. His forehead had a demarcation as clear as the Texas-Mexico border from El Paso to Ciudad Juárez. He'd never been outside the house without his hat, and his forehead would have been unevenly tanned. People would have noticed and remembered him, and he couldn't afford that.

He'd also dyed his hair black, something his vanity would never have allowed him to do had he not been forced into hiding. With his weathered tan, he figured he could pass as a Mexican in time. That was the plan anyway. After today he didn't intend to ever step foot on American soil again.

He didn't deserve to. He hadn't deserved that honor in over forty years.

“Senor,” the cab driver called.

“Yeah,” Tyrel answered.

“Do you have your papers ready, senor?”

“I do.”

The cabbie was a round-faced man in his forties. The taxi smelled like cheap soap; a figurine of Jesus stood on the dashboard.