Final Answers (5 page)

A
blustery wind pushes me south on Connecticut to 17th and on through Lafayette Square, where the cannons that flank the statue of Andrew Jackson are old and weathered and anything but loose. It’s been years since young women thought of me in such terms, so I decide to take the remark as a compliment.

The J. W. Marriott is a block-long edifice of rust-colored brown brick and marble next to the National Theater. I enter from 14th Street and find myself on the top level of an atrium sheathed in mahogany, marble, brass, and plush oriental carpets, capped by a series of arched vaults. Its four balconies are joined by high-speed escalators that take me down to the ballroom level. I push through a set of massive wooden doors into a vast space of equally opulent decor.

“I just want to make sure I understand this,” I hear a woman saying in a commanding tone. Rather tall and smartly dressed, she stands beneath one of the crystal chandeliers, surrounded by a group of young workmen. They all sport low-slung tool belts and T-shirts that advertise local sports teams and favorite beers. “So humor me and we’ll go over it again from the beginning. Okay?”

The workmen nod in unison.

“The displays are on the truck, right?”

“That’s right,” the spokesman replies.

“Where’s the truck?”

“At the loading dock.”

“The one here or the one at the warehouse?”

“Here.”

“Then why hasn’t it been unloaded yet?”

“Because it’s still in drayage.”

“I thought you said it was here?”

The young men break up with laughter.

“It is here, ma’am,” the spokesman explains as the others settle down. “Drayage is like—well, let’s just say the truck hasn’t cleared local customs yet.”

“Ah. Now I get it. Okay, no problem. Here’s what you do. Call your boss and tell him there’s going to be a story in tomorrow’s
Post
that his people are holding up the families of dead servicemen for a payoff.”

Jaws drop.

She turns on a heel and walks away.

I’m standing off to the side concealed by one of the sliding partitions used to divide the room. “Mrs. Ackerman?” I call out, stepping into view.

She changes direction without breaking stride and comes toward me. She’s polished and at ease with the way she looks. Her generous features are framed by long, dark brown hair swept back to accentuate her cheekbones, and intelligent amber eyes that have an alluring cant. After her run-in with the workers, I’m expecting they’ll have a fiery glare, but there seems to be a sadness in them instead, a burnished cast that matches the copper MIA bracelet on her wrist.

“Who’re you with?” she challenges. “Food, beverages, concessions?”

“Veterans,” I reply, introducing myself. “You handled that pretty well.”

“Thanks. It’s a dirty job—” she pauses, then pleased with herself adds “—but I loved doing it.”

“They had it coming. I’m told you’re the League’s unoffical expert on Laos.”

“Yes,” she says with a laugh. “They can’t live with me and they can’t live without me.”

“That makes two us.”

“How so?”

“I’m trying to identify someone missing in Laos. I’d like to see his name added to the Memorial. They thought you might be able to help.”

“My pleasure.” Her eyes brighten as she says it, then cloud in thought. “What makes you think he’s not already on it?”

“Well, as I said, he’s MIA.”

“That doesn’t mean his name isn’t on the wall.”

“It doesn’t? I’m sorry, Mrs. Ackerman. I’m not sure I follow that.”

“Obviously not,” she says, shaking her head in dismay. “You’re really out of touch, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, you sound like one of those guys who made it back and then made believe it never happened.”

“Yes, I put it behind me. Believe me it wasn’t easy.”

“Well, maybe you tried too hard.”

“I didn’t come here to be insulted, Mrs. Ackerman. Are you going to help me or not?”

She sweeps her eyes over me while she makes up her mind. “You have a half hour, Mr. Morgan?” she asks in an intriguing tone.

I nod curiously.

“There’s something I want to show you.”

We take the escalator to the hotel’s underground parking garage. She leads the way to a Volvo Turbo sedan that emits a series of musical chirps when she deactivates the alarm. We get in and she drives off, tires squealing on the smooth concrete as she circles up the ramps, then exits onto 13th Street, making a left toward Constitution. She misses the light at the corner of E, reaches for the cellular phone tucked between the seats, and presses one of the buttons that automatically dials a prestored number.

“Hi, it’s Kate. The Georgian in Kalorama—are we out of escrow yet? Shit. Better stay on top of it. Check on that listing in the
Post
for me too, will you? Thanks. Should be back by four-thirty the latest.”

“You sell real estate?”

“Uh-huh. The market’s soft. I’m holding my own.”

“I can see that,” I say, indicating the car.

“Really? I suppose now you’re going to ask me why a member of the National League of Families didn’t buy American, right?”

“Well, now that you mention it—”

“I almost did. Then I saw that commercial. You know the one where the Volvo smashes head-on into the concrete wall without
being totaled?” She pauses dramatically, then adds, “Well, my husband gave his life for his country, and I just decided that the Ackermans had already done more than their share.”

There’s something about the way she says it that’s tough, poignant, and funny all at the same time, and I want to laugh.

“Go ahead,” she says, sensing I’m holding it in. “Everybody breaks up when I say that. Anyway, I like real estate because my time is my own, and I can work League activities in around it.”

She makes a right onto Constitution, drives about six or seven blocks through heavy traffic, and swings into a parking area behind a huge limestone building. A sign warns: Tow Away—Authorized Parking Only.

“You sure you can park here?”

“I’m like the six-thousand-pound gorilla,” she replies as she flips down the sun visor, revealing an official League insignia. “I park anywhere I want.” She gets out, activates the alarm, and starts crossing the street, threading her way between traffic.

I don’t know the city very well, but I sense where we’re going when I see the Washington Monument and reflecting pool in the distance.

“I love approaching it from here. It’s such a surprise.” She strides briskly across the grass, then stops at the edge of a sudden drop-off; and there directly below us, is the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

We are literally standing on the top of the wall, looking straight down at the visitors. We watch them for a few moments, then proceed to the far end where the path that parallels the Memorial begins its descent from ground level. The sun has fallen below a layer of threatening clouds, and as we walk past the panels of polished granite, rays of light catch in the recessed letters making each name seem illuminated from within.

She goes directly to one of the panels and, like a blind person reading braille, gently and lovingly runs her fingertips over one of the names.

JOHN W. ACKERMAN.

“Your husband.”

She nods. “You see that?” she asks, pointing to the space between his name and the next.

I move closer to the wall and see a tiny cross engraved in the granite.

“You know what that means?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“Well, if you look around you’ll notice that most of the names have a diamond engraved after them; but a few have one of these.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” I admit warily, expecting to be chastised again.

Instead, as the rumble of distant thunder rises and darkening clouds move in front of the sun softening the light, she seems to have a change of heart and smiles. In an almost contrite tone, she says, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Morgan, most people don’t. I’m afraid I overreacted before. I owe you an apology.”

“It’s okay,” I say, returning her smile. “You were right. I guess I am a little out of touch.” I step to the wall and run the edge of my thumb over the tiny cross, feeling the texture of the stone change. “This means he’s missing in action, doesn’t it?”

“That’s right. The original group of MIAs, about twenty-five hundred in all, were included on the Memorial. Of those, thirteen hundred or so were declared dead due to the circumstances surrounding their loss.”

“Killed in action, body not recovered,” I say, reflecting on my meeting with Collins in St. Louis.

Kate nods. “They were lost in air crashes mostly. Flight crews, special forces guys, fighter jocks,” she pauses reflectively, then adds. “A lot of them were pilots.”

“Your husband a pilot?”

“Yes,” she replies, her face suddenly coming alive. “He loved to fly; he loved danger more. That’s what attracted me to him. We were such opposites.”

“No Volvo for him, huh?”

She shakes her head no and breaks into a wistful smile. “You know, months after those men were declared dead by Congress somebody flying over a crash site saw one of their initials and date of loss burned into a field.”

“You think the man’s still alive?”

“No. Probably not. But there’s always that little glimmer of hope. Of course, after twenty years, almost thirty for some, most families are realistic. I am.”

A few drops of rain streak the granite next to us as we resume walking. She seems to be looking for something on the wall. We’ve gone a short distance when she finds it and points to a space between two names. “See this?”

The symbol she indicates is a combination of the other two; a cross with a diamond inscribed around it, connecting the four points.

“That means he’s an MIA whose remains have been repatriated and identified . . .” Her voice breaks and she pauses briefly to regain her composure. “They added the diamond to signify that his fate’s been resolved.”

“That’s all you want, isn’t it?”

“That’s what all the families want. To know what happened to their loved one beyond any doubt. To have that final answer and to have some part of him, however tiny or grotesque, to bury with honor and dignity.”

Despite the painful longing in her eyes, her face has a serene strength that reminds me of Nancy; of how she looked when, by the sheer force of her will, she would rescue me from terrifying flashbacks of violence and human carnage. I can’t help thinking, but for a lot of luck and the grace of God, that could easily be
my
wife standing there.

“What if one of them turns up alive,” I wonder.

“Then a circle, not diamond, will be inscribed around the cross.” She looks off for a moment, then adds, “I can’t show you one of those.”

A steady drizzle has begun falling. We’re about to leave when an idea strikes me. “Just a minute. There’s something I want to check,” I say, curious to see how my name is marked. I walk along the wall until I find the panel. I’ve seen it before, but the sight of it sends a chill through me anyway. A cross, not a diamond, separates my name from the next.

“You okay?” she wonders, seeing I’m deep in thought.

“I’m fine. This is the problem,” I reply, pointing to the cross. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like you said, a cross after a man’s name means his body wasn’t recovered, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which means somebody—one of his buddies, his commanding officer, a fellow pilot—either saw or deduced what happened and reported him missing in action.”

“Yes. What’s your point?”

“I was wounded. My guys got me out. I checked my personnel
file. I even saw the reports the medics filled out. There weren’t any mistakes. No one reported me missing.”

“So, what do you think happened?”

“Well, I know for certain that I got separated from my tags and ID when I was wounded; I figure a KIA ended up with them by mistake.”

“But that means his body would have to have been recovered for your name to be on the wall.”

“Exactly. But it wasn’t,” I counter, indicating the cross. “That’s the piece that doesn’t fit.”

“It probably never will,” she says resignedly. Then her chin lifts with curiosity and she asks, “What do you do? I mean for a living?”

“I tell fortunes.”

“Pardon me?”

“I do statistical analysis.”

“A number cruncher?”

“Fair enough.”

“You don’t like that.”

“Well, we’re usually called actuaries, though there are those who think accountants without personalities is more like it. Why?”

“Oh,” she says with a little laugh, “I was just wondering why you think things have to add up.”

“Because they always do.”

She smiles thinly and makes a gesture with her shoulders to indicate she disagrees. Then, with a glance to her watch, she announces, “I almost forgot. I’ve got a house on the brink of escrow.”

“Go ahead. I’ll grab a cab.”

“You’ll never get one in this,” she says, turning a palm to the rain. “Where are you staying?”

“Hay Adams.”

“It’s on the way. Come on.”

It starts pouring as we return to her car and drive north on 24th. We’re approaching Washington Circle where traffic slows to a crawl when I realize I’d been so caught up in the details, I’d overlooked their significance. “If my guy is MIA, he’s on the Memorial,” I announce brightly.

Kate breaks into a knowing smile and nods.

“How many guys could be listed as missing on 12 May ’68 in Bolikhamsai Province?”

“Something tells me you know how to find out.”

I call the Friends of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial offices on Kate’s car phone, give the clerk the time/place parameters, tell him my guy is MIA, and ask him to run a search.

Traffic has come to a complete standstill. The wipers move across the windshield like metronomes, each hypnotic sweep adding to my anticipation. We’re just starting to inch forward when the clerk finally comes back on the line. I switch the phone to the hands-free mode so both Kate and I can hear him.

“I list twenty-three men missing in Bolikhamsai Province,” he reports. “But none on that date. None at all in May as a matter of fact.”