Isle of Dogs (2 page)

“If I discuss what’s wrong with America today, I need to show what was wrong with it when it got started,” he’d explained. “And you need more pilots. You’ve already had two quit on you in the past three months.”

A
NDY
sat at the table in the dining room, which had become his hopelessly cluttered office, and typed his password into his computer and opened a file. After twelve months of arduous research and writing, and flying lessons and ground school, he was desperate to get out and chase lawbreakers and investigate violent crimes from both the ground and the air. He was eager for people to read what he had to say, and often he fantasized about riding or flying with other troopers or working a scene and overhearing people talk about what they had read on the Trooper Truth website that day. No one would have a clue that Trooper Truth was in their midst gathering even more information from their comments. Only Hammer knew the truth about Trooper Truth, and she and Andy had been meticulously careful to protect his identity.

When, for example, he had done archaeological research and traveled as far away as England and Argentina gathering facts, he never let on that he was a journalist-cop doing research. He was simply a twenty-eight-year-old man who was doing graduate work in history, criminology, and anthropology. It was the first undercover job Andy had ever had, and it
still amazed him that no one bothered to check on whether he was actually enrolled in a university graduate program or was even who he said he was.

Although Andy was not the sort to stare into the mirror and see himself the way others did, he was aware that he had many gifts in his favor. He was tall with a sculpted build, and his features were so perfectly proportioned and refined that as a boy he had been teased for being
pretty.
His hair was light blond, and his blue eyes changed with his thoughts and moods very much like the sky reflecting shifting clouds and light. He could look stormy or peaceful or extremely intense. His intellect was quick and facile, and his words could shine like silver and be just as hard when necessary.

It had never been difficult for Andy to get what he wanted because people, as a rule, were drawn to him or at least mindful that he was a presence they could not dismiss. He also worked hard to compensate for the emptiness of his early years. His father had been murdered when Andy was a child, leaving no one but an alcoholic mother who never acknowledged that her son was special or decent, but rather exiled him to a lonely realm of relentless preoccupations and fantasies.

Had he not grown up that way, he could not have endured the isolation that was necessary for him to explore and write what the world was about to read. But now that the moment had come, he felt as disturbed and gloomy as the morning beyond his windows. Heavy clouds hung over the city. As a vein of lightning pierced the dark dawn, it occurred to him that it would be a terrible omen if the power went out and his computer crashed. He was startled out of his preoccupations when the telephone rang.

“At least you’re awake,” Judy Hammer said without so much as a good morning. “I’m—”

“I thought you were going to call me out in emergencies,” he interrupted her. “I wish you’d let me know about the truck driver at the Farmers’ Market.”

“You weren’t needed,” she said.

“Same M.O.? Was he cut on?”

“I’m afraid so. Several cuts to his neck with what looks like a razor, but none of them lethal,” she replied. “Apparently, the assailants left in a hurry, and he came to long enough to call
nine-one-one. The reason I called is, I’m waiting, Trooper Truth,” Hammer let him know. “I thought you said your website was going up at six-thirty. That was five minutes ago.”

It was her way of telling him
good luck.

A B
RIEF
E
XPLANATION

by Trooper Truth

The rich early history of the U.S.A. is based largely on eyewitness observations described in letters, true adventures, testimonies, maps, and books published in the early seventeenth century. Most of those original accounts have been lost forever or are silently maintained in private collections. Other historical documentation, sadly, was stored in Richmond and burned up during the Civil War so Northerners could rewrite the facts and convince schoolchildren the world over that our country really got its start in Plymouth, which is simply a lie.

That lie and others should come as no surprise. So much of what we know as “fact” in life is, in truth, nothing more than propaganda or a well-meant reflection on how events and people are perceived by those with a bias and poor vision. Tales pass from lips to lips, from news story to news story, from e-mail to e-mail, from politicians to us, from witnesses to jurors, and eventually we are led to believe all manner of things that are grossly distorted if not patently false. This is why, as I begin to have these conversations with you, the reader, I will rely on my own primary research and experiences, and focus on science and medicine, which have neither imaginations nor personalities nor politics nor grudges.

DNA, for example, frankly doesn’t care if you did it. DNA
doesn’t care if you didn’t do it. DNA knows exactly who you, your parents, and your children are, but has no opinion about it and no interest in being a friend or getting your votes. DNA knows it was you who left seminal fluid in someone, but is neither judgmental nor voyeuristic about how or why that deposit might have occurred. So I am far more inclined to trust DNA than the defendant on the witness stand, and it is a shame that DNA is too busy working crimes and pedigree disputes to reconstruct the history of the United States. If DNA had the time, I suspect we would find that most of what we presently believe about the past is tainted, perhaps shockingly so.

Since DNA isn’t available to serve as our narrator in this series of essays, I will do the best I can to tell you what I have discovered about the beginning of English America, in hopes that it will serve as a metaphor for who we are and what has become of our society. The story begins with a small but significant turn of events on the docks of London, December 20, 1606, when thirty-six mariners and one hundred and eight settlers said painful goodbyes and no doubt comforted themselves in alehouses on the
Isle of Dogges,
as it was spelled on a 1610 map of London.

The settlers and the mariners who would pilot the ships to Virginia descended the Blackwall stairs to the docks, where these brave adventurers, who wanted more in life, including gold and silver, boarded the
Susan Constant,
the
Godspeed,
and the
Discovery,
and began their historic voyage to the New World by being stalled in the mouth of the Thames for six weeks. Records cite the reason for the delay as either no wind or wind that blew in the wrong direction.

If any of the stranded settlers looked back toward the alehouses and experienced a change of heart, we know nothing about it, but the math indicates that no one jumped ship. During the voyage, one settler died in the Caribbean, possibly from heatstroke, and on May 14, 1607, when the three ships finally tied up at Jamestown Island on the north shore of the James River in Virginia, one hundred and seven settlers disembarked. Soon after, three settlers were killed by Indians, and in July, the ships sailed back to England for supplies,
leaving one hundred and four settlers to fend for themselves.

Their number dwindled quickly and dramatically as the mariners and Captain Newport made the endless voyage back to England. There, I suspect, the men restored themselves and made plans in Isle of Dogs alehouses and at the Sir Walter Raleigh House while the settlers waited for supplies and tried to develop peaceful relations with the Indians—or Naturals, as the settlers called the Native Americans—by giving them bits of copper and trading other trinkets for tobacco and food.

No one thus far has been able to give me a definitive explanation for why the settlers and the Naturals had such an inconsistent relationship, but I suspect the answer lies in human nature, which inspires people to overpower others and to be touchy, bigoted, selfish, greedy, deceitful, and to beat up innocent people and steal trucks. Nor could anybody tell me why the Isle of Dogs was named such, and I can only speculate the obvious: The name may refer to
sea dogs,
since it is known that many Elizabethan sailors and pirates patronized the alehouses while resting from where they had been or waiting to sail out to wherever they were going.

I will go into great detail about pirates soon enough, for they certainly were a powerful presence when America was trying to get started, and we still have a problem with them today on our highways and high seas, although the pirates’ mode of transportation, equipment, and weapons have dramatically evolved over the centuries. It is unfortunate, I’m sorry to tell you, that modern pirates have the same personality and modus operandi as pirates of old. They remain cruel-hearted cutthroats whose creed is
dead men tell no tales,
thus justifying their seizing of ships and tractor trailers and murdering everyone in sight. Lest Virginians assume their history is untouched by such despicable character disorders, let me remind you that the Chesapeake Bay once bristled with pirates, and Virginia’s Tangier Island openly traded with and hosted them and, as legend has it, was visited by Blackbeard himself.

As I begin sharing truths with you, the reader, I hope you will reflect upon your own life and try very hard to put at least one other person’s needs and feelings before your own this day. Just as objects in the mirror are closer than they appear,
so The Past rides our bumper along life’s highways and may, in fact, be inside the car with us. Who we are is who we were and the more things change, the less they do, unless we start with our hearts.

Be careful out there!

 Governor Bedford Crimm IV knew nothing about the Trooper Truth website until his press secretary, Major Trader, came to see him at 1:00
P
.
M
. and set the “Brief Explanation” on the governor’s antique burlwood desk.

“Are you aware of this, Governor?” Trader asked.

Governor Crimm picked up the computer printout and squinted at it. “What is it, exactly?”

“Good question,” Trader grimly answered. “We’ve all known it was coming, but there’s been no way to check it out or anticipate its spin on things because Trooper Truth is a fake name. And there appears to be no way to trace this renegade trooper through the Internet.”

“I see,” the governor pondered as he strained blindly to pick out a word or two. “Am I to assume he’s one of ours? Oh,” he added, pleasantly surprised when Trader served him a chocolate brownie on a small Wedgwood plate. “Why, thank you.”

“Made fresh this morning from only the finest Belgian chocolate. I’m afraid I ate far too many of them, myself.”

“That wife of yours certainly can cook,” the governor said as he ate half the brownie in two bites. “I bet she doesn’t use mixes. Or did we already discuss that?” He ate the rest of the brownie, unable to resist anything chocolate.

“Everything from scratch.”

“A strange phrase, I’ve always thought,” the governor considered as he wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “What is
from scratch
?”

“Ingredients. It has to do with—”

“Tsst, tsst.” The governor made his familiar hissing noise, which meant he did not want an answer to the question, but simply was expressing curiosity. “On with things,” he impatiently added.

“Yes,” Trader said. “Trooper Truth. There’s no one on the state police force with the last name of Truth, and no one over there claims to have any idea who Trooper Truth is. But prior to the posting of this first essay”—he indicated the printout—“there have been numerous promotions of the Trooper Truth website and when it was going to be launched. Whoever the person is, he’s well versed enough in the Internet to make sure his marketing ploys and ads have shown up everywhere you can imagine.”

Governor Crimm picked up his nineteenth-century magnifying glass, which was English and made of ivory. Peering through the lens, he made out enough of the essay’s contents to get interested and slightly offended.

“It’s been clear for a while that this Trooper Truth individual is based in Virginia or at least wants to point the finger at Virginia,” Trader indignantly went on as the governor slowly read. “I’ve got a file on what he’s posted on various bulletin boards and sent out in mass e-mailings. He seems to have access to every governmental e-mail address in the Commonwealth, which is one of the reasons I am sure he’s an insider, a turncoat, and a troublemaker.”

“Well, I like what he has to say about America starting in Jamestown and not Plymouth,” remarked the governor, whose family had been in Virginia since the American Revolution. “I’m mighty tired of other states taking credit for what we’ve accomplished. But I don’t approve of his implication that history is untrustworthy. That’s going to step on some toes, now isn’t it? And what’s this about pirates?” He steadied the magnifying glass over Blackbeard’s name.

“Very troublesome. I’m sure you heard the news this morning?”

“Yes, yes,” the governor said, distracted. “Do we have any further information on that?”

“The victim, Moses Custer, was beaten severely and doesn’t remember much and was babbling a lot about a unique experience with an angel whose car had broken down. But after continued questioning by the state police, he sobered up and seemed to recall a young white male with dreadlocks who shouted obscenities when he flung open the Peterbilt’s tailgate and discovered thousands of pumpkins, which he and his gang no doubt had to unload quickly and in secret into the James River. The guy, uh, Custer, had the same weird cuts as some of the other victims.”

“I thought we were doing our best to play down this pirate business,” the governor seemed to remember. “Didn’t I order Superintendent Hammer not to release any statements to the press about anything without our approving it first?”

“You certainly did. And so far, we’re managing to keep the sensational details out of the media.”

“You don’t suppose Trooper Truth intends to keep blabbing about our pirate problem on the Internet, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” Trader replied as if he knew this for a fact. “We can rest assured his website is going to open a can of worms, because by all appearances, it’s an inside job and I fear your administration could be blamed if things really get ugly.”

“You might be right. I get blamed for most things,” the governor confessed as his stomach rumbled and his intestines lurched into activity like worms suddenly exposed to daylight. He wished Trader had not mentioned a can of worms.

Crimm’s constitution just wasn’t what it used to be, and very often he felt like hell. Last night he had endured yet another formal dinner at the executive mansion, and since he was hosting some of his biggest financial supporters, the mansion’s director had decided it was important to serve Virginia food and wine. As usual, this had meant ham from Smithfield, baked apples from Winchester, biscuits made from an antebellum recipe, and wines from Virginia vineyards.

Crimm’s digestion simply couldn’t tolerate any of it, especially the apples, and most of the morning he had been seeking out the most convenient, secure toilet inside the Capitol, until he finally gave up on cabinet-level meetings and retreated
to his office, which had thick walls and a private bathroom he could use without Executive Protection Unit state troopers posted outside the door. As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, the wine had given Crimm a sinus headache.

“It doesn’t make sense why I have to serve, much less drink, inferior wine,” the governor bitterly complained as he slowly moved the magnifying glass over the printout.

“I beg your pardon?” Trader looked confused. “What wine?”

“Oh, you weren’t there last night, I guess.” Crimm sighed. “We ought to serve French wines. Think about how much Thomas Jefferson loved French wine and all things French. So why would it be such an egregious break from tradition to serve French wines in the mansion?”

“You know how critical people are,” Trader reminded him. “But I totally agree with you, Governor. French wines are much better, and you deserve them. However, someone will say something and no doubt it will be widely publicized and costly to your reputation. Which brings me back to Trooper Truth. This article is only the beginning. We have a loose cannon on our hands and somehow must stop whoever it is or at least have some say-so about it.”

The governor could have done without the cannon reference, too, as he slowly made out words and scarcely listened to his press secretary, who was a meddler and an irritation. Crimm was not clear on why he had ever hired Major Trader or even if he had. But Trader certainly wasn’t Crimm’s cup of tea, at least not anymore, assuming he ever was. The press secretary was a fat slob who was far more interested in big meals, big stories, and big talk than he was in being honest about anything. The only good thing about Crimm’s failing eyesight was he could scarcely see people like Trader at all anymore, even when he was in the same room with them, and thank God for small favors, because the sight of Trader with his fleshy jowls, ill-fitting suits, and long, greasy strands of hair combed over his bald pate was increasingly repulsive.

“. . .
objects in the mirror are closer than they appear,
” the governor slowly read out loud as he peered through the magnifying glass. “
So The Past rides our bumper along life’s highways and may, in fact, be inside the car with us
 . . .” He
glanced up and gave Trader a huge eye. “Hmmm, now that’s an interesting thing to consider.”

“I have no idea what it means, if anything.” Trader was irritated that the governor would consider anything beyond what he, the press secretary, recommended.

“It’s like a riddle,” the governor went on, intrigued, moving the magnifying glass over the essay as if he were reading a Ouija board. “You remember the Riddler in
Batman
? All of these little riddles hinting at where, when, and how the Riddler was going to strike next, but Batman and Robin had to decipher the riddle first, of course. This Trooper Truth fellow is giving us a clue about something, about what he’s going to do next or maybe about what
I
ought to do next. Something about
life’s highways.
”

“Speaking of that . . .” Trader seized the opportunity to move on to a subject that he might be able to control. “Speeding continues to be a serious problem, Governor, and it’s occurring to me that if we emphasize speeding to the voting public, we can divert any unwanted attention away from pirates.”

“Speeding on
life’s highways.
Maybe that’s what he’s getting at. Maybe that’s the riddle,” the governor said, fascinated by his own deductions. “But I wasn’t aware that speeding had gotten worse.”

It hadn’t. But Trader wanted to tug the governor’s attention away from riddles. Crimm was known to make inane, inappropriate statements about whatever his latest whim, curiosity, or observation was, and it would not be good at all should he indicate that a riddle or the Riddler was influencing his executive decisions.

“Citizens are complaining that they’re forced to exceed the speed limit even in the slow traffic lane because of aggressive motorists riding their bumpers and flashing their headlights,” Trader spun his latest fabrication. “And we can’t have state troopers every other mile waiting with radar guns. Not to mention, there are escalating incidents of road rage because of these jerks who want to go ninety miles an hour and don’t care who they cut in front of.”

“People aren’t scared enough. That’s the problem.” The governor was halfway listening as he began to decipher what
Trooper Truth had to say about DNA. “You know, he’s right about trusting technology instead of human beings. Maybe we can figure out a way to make the public believe we have some new advanced technology that will catch them speeding even if there’s not a trooper in sight.”

The governor suddenly began to believe with religious conviction that this was the riddle Trooper Truth was hinting at. It was damn time to scare the public into behaving! Detectives and district attorneys did it daily by threatening suspects with DNA even if there was no DNA recovered or if the analysis of it wasn’t helpful. So why shouldn’t the governor start scaring people, too? He was weary of being nice. What good did it do?

“We have all these new helicopters,” he told his press secretary. “Let’s scare the hell out of people with them.”

“What? You want helicopters to find speeders and buzz them?” Trader didn’t like the idea in the least, especially since he hadn’t thought of it first.

“No, no. But I see no reason why we can’t use them to check speeding from the air, pretend they’ve got fancy computers to do that, then the pilots radio troopers on the ground to go after the bastards.” The governor’s intestines were crawling again, as if they had some place to go in a hurry. “All we’ve got to do is post warning signs on the roads out there, and people will be scared into believing they’ll be arrested, even if there isn’t a helicopter or trooper within ten miles.”

“I see. A bluff.”

“Of course. Now, you go to work on that right away.” The governor needed to end the discussion instantly. “Get back with me on the proposal and we’ll issue a press release before the day is out.”

“Using aviation to catch speeders is not a good idea,” Trader warned him. “It’s going to hurt your rating in the polls and create an explosive situation . . .”

Governor Crimm’s gut was already creating an explosive situation, and he shot up from his leather chair as he ordered Trader out. Moments later, as Crimm sat behind a closed door with the fan going, he wondered who Trooper Truth really was and if there might be a way to influence what he posted on the Internet. How helpful it would be if the governor could
get a thoughtful, philosophical person to disseminate Crimm’s ideas and beliefs. Crimm reached for the portable phone on the shelf near the toilet paper.

“Who’s this?” Crimm asked when a man answered.

“Trooper Macovich,” came the hesitant reply from the Executive Protection Unit’s outpost in the basement of the executive mansion.

Thorlo Macovich recognized the governor’s voice immediately and hoped the governor didn’t recognize his. Or maybe if he was lucky, the governor had already forgotten the incident that had occurred in the mansion’s billiards room the other night. It was also possible the governor hadn’t seen it, because he couldn’t see much of anything these days. But that youngest Crimm daughter would remember Macovich, all right. He had never seen anyone pitch such a fit over losing a game of pool—yelling obscenities and ordering Macovich to stay in the basement and never come upstairs again, which was seriously interfering with his duties.