A Triple Thriller Fest (79 page)

Mrs. Mitchell had been cooking when Adams and Mike came up to the house.  The beefy fragrance of stew cooking on the stove made Mike think about dinner.

The two Mitchell children came into the room for a brief moment and were told by their mother to go into the kitchen and watch some television.

Mrs. Mitchell sat down on the couch and invited Mike and Adams to sit in two maple occasional chairs.  Fumbling about out of nervousness, she brought out an imitation leather-bound photo album and started to leaf through the book for a recent photograph of Mitchell.  Finally, she found one of Mitchell hugging his eight-year-old son, Tommy.  Tommy was holding a baseball bat and Mitchell had a fielder’s glove and softball.  As she handled the picture over, she wiped her tears on the cuff of her sleeve.

Both Adams and Mike carefully studied the picture and furtively glanced at one and another.  Mitchell was definitely the man who drove the black paneled truck and fired the rocket at the first Suburban.  Both were sure of this despite the fact that the corpse, now on a slab at CSAC, had a major portion of his head blown off.  Adams asked Mrs. Mitchell if he and Mike could keep the photograph.  She nodded.

“Mrs. Mitchell, could you tell us where your husband worked and if he had any close friends that we can talk to?”

“Is Jerry in trouble? I mean, should I get an attorney or something?” said Mrs. Mitchell.

“You can always get an attorney, if you wish, Mrs. Mitchell,” Adams said.  “But what Mr. Liu and I want is some information concerning your husband; we’re not charging you or your husband with anything at this time.  You can help us or not, it’s your choice.”

“Jerry worked at the Catonsville Lumber Yard in Catonsville, Maryland.  He’s such a likable guy, I know he had lots of friends at work, although he hardly ever brought anyone home — said that home was where he could relax.  He did, however, sometimes go with friends from work to a rod and gun club near Dickerson, Maryland.”

“How long have you been married?” said Mike.

“We’ve been married for ten years, about ten months after I met Jerry at a church social.”

“Does Mr. Mitchell have relatives?”

“No, he was an orphan.  His parents died when Jerry was ten and he grew up in a series of foster homes.  That’s why he loves kids so much.”

“Where and when was he born?” said Mike.

“He was born in Rosston, Illinois, on January 10, 1940.”

“What was the name of the rod and gun club near Dickerson?”

“I’m not sure, but Jerry would often go for a weekend with some of his friends.  It might have been Dickerson Rod and Gun, something like that.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Mitchell.  If you remember anything else please give me a call,” said Adams as he handed Mrs. Mitchell a card with his telephone number.

As Mike and Adams drove away from home of Mitchell, both of them were even more mystified.  It was clear in their minds that one of the Huntersville attackers was Mitchell, but why?

“Maybe the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club has the answer,” said Mike.

Adams nodded thoughtfully.  “I’ll have a background check run on Mitchell.”

0800 Hours, Monday, June 14, 1993: Washington, D.C.

Adams went to the FBI building in Washington, D.C., instead of the CSAC office so he could run a trace on Mitchell.  As he was getting ready to leave his office, the telephone rang.  It was Mike.

“Hi, Mike,” answered Adams.  “So far, Jerry Mitchell is coming up clean.  He doesn’t seem to have a record of any kind.  No service, no crimes, not even a parking ticket.  This guy seems to have lived a clean, straight life.  Wait a minute.”

Adams put Mike on hold as Special Agent Martha Thomas barged into his office.

“Herb, I thought you should see this right away.  You may be on to something.”

Adams took one look at the photocopies of Mitchell’s two documents, one a birth certificate and the other a death certificate.  He gave out a long, low whistle.

“Thanks a lot, Martha.  You’ve earned your pay for today.”

Martha smiled and left Adams’ office.

“Mike, are you sitting down?” said Adams, picking up his telephone.

“What’s up?”

“We just got some records on Mitchell.  Special Agent Martha Thomas in our Management Information Systems section did a reverse check on Mr. Mitchell as well as a check of birth records from Rosston, Illinois.  What she found is that Jerry Mitchell was born on January 10, 1940.  However, Jerry Mitchell died that same year on March 20, from complications of birth.  He lived barely more than three months.

“It seems that before 1970, Rosston kept separate birth and death records.  Anyone wanting to establish a false identity can do so easily by searching the death records for an infant death and then separately requesting a birth certificate from the birth registry.  The office usually issues them without question, if you have a driver’s license or something like that.  Happens all the time, people get them for such things as school admissions, marriage certificates, passports, and even, driver’s licenses.  Because the birth registration office is separate from the one for death records, they don’t do cross-checks.  So with a little ingenuity, you can get a birth certificate for someone who died.  This was used by student radicals in the sixties and 1970s to establish false identities for who knows what purpose.”

“That means the stiff we think is Mitchell is not really Jerry Mitchell.”

“You really are a rocket scientist, aren’t you?” said Adams, chuckling.

“That’s heavy,” said Mike.

“Yeah.”

“What do we do next?”

“Where are you?”

“Outside of our offices on Wisconsin Avenue, at a telephone booth.”

“I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes in front of the Sears store on Wisconsin Avenue near the office.  Can you get some special weapons?”

“Already have.  They’re in an aluminum briefcase next to me.”

Adams pulled up to Mike, who was waiting at the Metro signpost next to the Sears store.  Mike quickly got into Adams’ car, carrying the aluminum briefcase.  Once on the road again, Adams handed Mike the photocopied records of Jerry Mitchell’s birth and death.

Having lost his reading glasses during the fracas on Huntersville Road, Mike had to hold the photocopies close to his eye to read them clearly.

“Ever thought about reading glasses, Mike?”

“Had some, but I lost them on Huntersville Road, Herb.”

“Damn shame.”

Adams made a U-turn on Wisconsin Avenue by driving around Tenley Circle.  He then headed north on Wisconsin Avenue, toward Route 495.  At Interstate 495, Adams went west to Interstate 270 toward Rockville and beyond.  After driving for about one hour, they reached the small western Maryland town of Dickerson.

After stopping for directions, they easily located the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club.  Mike and Adams drove along the narrow blacktop road through heavily wooded land and came to the roughly painted sign that said, “Private — Dickerson Rod and Gun Club — Members Only.”

“What do you think, Herb?”

“Did you get the special weapons?”

“Two Uzi automatic pistols with double magazines.”  He opened the aluminum briefcase and took out one of the pistols.

“Let’s put them under the seat just in case,” said Adams, as he turned down the dirt driveway leading to the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club.  Adams and Mike traveled about a half mile to a clapboard farmhouse with peeling white paint.  As they approached the farmhouse, a man in soiled and torn denim coveralls and a dirty red flannel shirt limped out toward them.

The fellow, about sixty years in age, was unshaven and missing several front teeth.  A toothpick hung precariously in the right corner of his mouth.  He looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a long time.  He wore a blue cap that said Latonsville Feed & Grain and carried a Remington double barrel shotgun.  Adams stopped the car at the house and rolled down his window.  As the man came up to the window, the unmistakable smell of body odor wafted into the car.

Mike cautiously reached under his seat for the Uzi pistol and held it by his side, safety off.

Adams smiled.  “Hi.  You the proprietor?”

“Yep.  Didn’t you see the private sign?”

“Yes, we did.  We’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Bout what?”

“I’m Herbert Adams, Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  With me is Mike Liu, an agent with the Naval Investigations Office.  We’d like to ask you some questions concerning a possible client of yours.”

“Got a warrant?”

“No, we don’t.  If you like, we can get one real quick and do a thorough search of your club.  All we want to do is ask a few questions, that’s all.”

“As long as that’s all you want.”

“Can we get out of our car?”

“Okay, just don’t go snooping around.”

Mike slipped the Uzi under the seat and unconsciously felt for his Walther.

Adams and Mike got out of the government sedan, Adams locked the car, and the two walked up to the owner of the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club.  Adams led the discussion.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s Johnnie Williamson.  Look, I run a clean, decent, God fearing business here.”

“Mr. Williamson, we’re not here to look into your club.  We have a photograph of someone we understand frequented your club and we just want to get some information.”

“Lemme see the photo.”

Adams handed Williamson the photograph of Mitchell and his son.  Williamson looked at the photograph closely and then said, “He looks like one of them fellows that used to come up here from Washington for them survivalist games.”

“Did you keep any records of the group, names?”

“Maybe.”

“Look,” Mike said angrily.  “The matter we’re investigating is of vital national security interest.  We don’t have time for games.  If you aren’t going to cooperate, we will have people here within minutes who will tear the hell out of your little club.  Is that clear?”

Williamson’s sunken eyes darted back and forth from Adams to Mike and back.  His demeanor softened ever so slightly.

Turning to Mike, Williamson said, “Where did you say you was from?”

“Naval Intelligence.”

“I’m a retired Navy man, myself.  I really don’t want no trouble.  It’s just that my clients all want some privacy, you know.  Why don’t you come inside for a minute?”

Mike and Adams followed Williamson inside the small clapboard farmhouse.  The house fit the character of Johnnie Williamson.  The inside did not look as if it had been cleaned for years.  The furniture, overstuffed chairs and a sofa, looked threadbare and worn.  The wallpaper was dingy and had yellowed with age.  The corners of some sections of wallpaper had detached from the wall and were hanging down.  The braided rug in the living room was soiled and torn.  The general atmosphere of the house was dank and musty, with the smell of curdled cooking grease and closed-in body odor.

On the table in the living room was a bowl of corn flakes, a carton of milk that was just beginning to curdle, a hot plate upon which sat a bubbling, glass pot of water, a package of white bread, an open jar of grape jelly, and a jar of instant coffee.  Around the legs of the table slinked two gray and black-striped cats.  They looked as if they hadn’t eaten in days.

In the corner of the room was a kitty litter tray that hadn’t been changed in weeks and the malodorous scent of cat urine wafted from the corner, adding to the generally foul atmosphere.

Williamson went to the table and started to put some of the food into a white 1950s Kelvinator refrigerator in the kitchen.  The kitchen had not been cleaned in some time.  A pile of dirty dishes sat unwashed in the sink.  Williamson added his breakfast bowl to this pile of unwashed dishes with a clatter.

Coming back into the living room, Williamson invited Adams and Mike to sit down at the table.  To get the two cats away from the table, Williamson picked up a newspaper, rolled it up and threw it at the cats, which scampered through the torn screening at the bottom of the front storm door.

Williamson then turned to Adams and Mike.  “Care for a cup of coffee?”

Mike politely declined, but Adams, hoping that Williamson might be more cooperative if he accepted this small gesture of hospitality, said, “Sure, can I have it black?”

Mike stared at Adams as if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses.  Adams purposefully ignored Mike’s stare.

Williamson went into the kitchen.  Mike and Adams heard the running of water as Williamson took a coffee mug from the pile of unwashed dishes and rinsed it out.  Drying the mug on a towel that probably undid any cleaning the rinsing might have effected, Williamson brought the stained and greasy mug to the table.  Mike gave Adams a small smile, which was returned with a concerned gaze, first at the mug and then at Mike.

Seating himself at the table with a sigh after adjusting his stiff left leg, Williamson reached for the jar of instant coffee and the teaspoon sitting on the bare table.  The spoon, having served this purpose many times before, had a thin crust of dried coffee on it.  Williamson opened the jar of coffee, put the spoon in and scooped two spoonfuls of coffee crystals into each mug.

He then took the bubbling glass pot of water and poured boiling water into each mug, which he then stirred with the spoon.  After licking the spoon, Williamson placed it back on the table.  He then offered a mug of hot, black coffee to Adams.  Adams’ eyes flitted back and forth at the offer.  Mike just watched with a bemused smile.

Finally, Adams took the mug of coffee and said, “Thank you.”

Now in a more expansive mood, Williamson leaned back in his chair and took off his blue cap, hanging it on back of his chair.  Nursing his mug of coffee, Williamson began to speak.

“That fellow used to come up here with about twelve or so other fellows for a weekend.  They always paid cash and pretty much kept to themselves.”

“When was the last time the group used your club?” said Adams as he held the mug of hot coffee up to his lips and took a small obligatory sip.

“About a month ago.”

“Was there any one who seemed to be the leader?”