Crown of Serpents (5 page)

But after fifty years of distinguished service, the Depot’s mission shifted and Congress shut it down in the mid-nineties. It was then turned over to county officials for re-development. The Seneca County Industrial Development Agency immediately solicited new investors to take over the land and pre-existing structures in order to reinvent the base into something beneficial to the local and state economy. In just a few short years, private corporations bought up most of the main structures on the eastern side near the hamlet of Romulus. There, a state prison and a county jail were constructed while on the far western side, near Seneca Lake along the southwest perimeter adjacent to the defunct airfield, a new State Trooper sub station and a fire-training facility had been added.

But it was the huge, fenced-in, 8,000-acre parcel of the interior of the base that had remained abandoned for years. It had served as an ecology-tourism attraction and wildlife habitat and had thus become overgrown with weeds and cracked pavement as it aged. This inner area contained all 519 weapons and ammunition storage bunkers, some operations buildings, unique wetlands, and in the middle of it all the world’s largest herd of white deer. Just the sheer magnitude alone of managing the famous deer herd and repairing the twenty-four miles of chain-link perimeter fencing that contained them was sucking the county coffers dry. The county had needed to sell the unused land and when an anonymous individual offered to buy it all their prayers seemed answered.

Apparently, what was getting the locals all fired up again wasn’t the fact that the land was being sold at all, but instead to whom. A media leak just a week ago revealed the anonymous buyer as a very wealthy Iroquois Indian philanthropist. As a result, a majority of local residents immediately speculated worse case scenarios. Some feared if the Indians started buying Depot lands then next on the list would be laying claim to their own homes and private property and rekindling the old lawsuits again as the Cayuga tribe did years back. Others concluded that an Indian-owned casino would immediately be built on the base, disrupting their tranquil, rural way of life by adding traffic and crime to the area. Small business owners added to the fracas by noting that several of their tax-paying, American-owned gas marts recently had to shut their doors because of the tribal competition spreading in the area. They figured an Indian-owned Depot would spur even more tribal-owned businesses directly stealing away customers, especially with the incentives of tax-free Indian gasoline and tobacco products. In fact, when driving through the hamlet of Romulus earlier Jake had even recalled a sign in front of a boarded up convenience store that read Another Business Lost to the Indians.

The dramatic leap of racist judgment from the volunteer was a result of legitimate arguments and fears, Jake now realized. On the other hand, he also knew the continued transition of the government-owned Depot to the private sector was already an economic success story that had benefited taxpayers by adding more jobs and expanded economic growth for the area. If this Indian philanthropist, whoever he or she was, could provide that same entrepreneurial leadership, the situation could be a win-win for both sides.

Not only had Jake taken an interest in the Depot from its historical role in the Army, but he also had an interest in that unique white deer herd from an ancestral point of view. The deer had been fenced in, managed, and protected by the U.S. Army since 1941. What would be their fate now should a private owner come in? What tribe did this owner represent? Was he or she from an estranged out-of-state tribe or a New York based tribe? The problem was that Jake’s own Seneca Indian ancestors and their neighboring Cayuga tribe had held the white deer herd sacred as far back as the founding of the Iroquois Confederacy. From the legends he learned as a child, he knew a white deer was a symbol of protecting the peace between the original five tribal nations that formed the confederacy. On several occasions when he was much older and driving past the Depot with his beloved Uncle Joe, Jake had even caught a rare glimpse of the white deer — behind the perimeter fencing on Route 96A along the west side of the base. Their natural beauty was simply astounding. But because of their stature, they were also considered an elite trophy in the world of sport hunting.

What Jake was hearing about their fate disturbed him. Speculation held that if the land was sold, the new owner could charge an admission fee to hunt the white deer on his private 8,000-acre wildlife preserve. The owner could market it as containing the best stock in the world regardless of the herd’s historical significance or its sacred roots.

Jake shook his head. He didn’t know the answer. There were too many variables. Ultimately, these local political issues were out of his control. He was just an outside observer. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t solve all of the world’s problems. Heck, serving as the world’s police force in the U.S. Army taught him that. Trying to save a fringe deer herd in a remote rural county was best left to someone else.

It wasn’t his mission.

He looked down at his watch. “7:20. Good.” This side escapade he had gotten himself into still allowed him time to issue his police statement, get his uniform cleaned, and not miss his appointment in Rochester for his afternoon lecture at the Army’s 98th Division Headquarters. But first he wanted to check out something most interesting to him before packing up — the Indian gravesite. He salivated at what contents might be inside.

Walking toward the mound, he noticed a group of emergency officials already huddled together. They included an African-American State Trooper in his gray uniform and ten-gallon Stetson hat, and two Seneca County sheriff’s deputies — one older and bigger, one obviously a young rookie and much skinnier — both in their dark blue uniforms and matching caps. The female state police investigator stood there too, speaking and pointing to the opening of the grave. Jake quietly approached the group from behind and leaned against a tree to listen in. The older deputy sheriff, a large-boned, pot-bellied, rat-faced man smoking a cigarette, turned as Jake’s presence was felt. He wore a scowl on his face. Pulling the butt from his lips, he exhaled and folded his arms across his chest, nodding Jake a greeting. Jake returned the gesture noticing the deputy’s nametag as Wyzinski.

What Jake overheard from the group of cops was that the victim had apparently stepped into the Indian grave by mere accident as he had claimed over 9-1-1, but then proceeded to ransack it — as evident by the silver broach Jake had found on his body. The investigator concluded, based on footprints, that after the theft occurred when the victim was backing out, he had fallen right through some loose shale and into the limestone shaft. He held on long enough to call 9-1-1 and for them to get his GPS coordinates, but then lost his grip and plunged in. To his death. Or as the investigator put it, blunt force trauma to the head.

Deputy Wyzinski immediately spoke up. “Good riddance. The guy was a piece of dogshit anyway.” He tossed his butt on the ground and stomped it out. Jake noticed the investigator flinch, her eyes glaring at the cigarette butt.

The big black State Trooper added a remark. “Chalk this one up as a praiseworthy accidental death.” He smiled with bleached teeth.

The other deputy, the pencil thin mustached young man, chimed in too. “What was he drinking? Old Milwaukee? What’d they say in that commercial? It doesn’t get any better than this!”

The three male cops snorted with laughter.

The female investigator ignored them and peered into the grave mound. She rubbed her chin, still not realizing Jake was behind her. She then glanced over at the hole in the ground. “I’m not sending anyone back down there. Too dangerous. Our would-be rescuer did a good enough job already. I have enough to go on.”

Jake grinned.

The cops grunted their agreement, then as a group, trudged away toward the body basket for some more derogatory comments. The female investigator split off, picked up the extinguished cigarette butt discarded by the veteran cop, and headed over to the on-scene emergency commander — the fire chief — as denoted by his white helmet ranking. Jake was left alone near the Indian grave. It was obvious the victim and local law enforcement had several run-ins. To blatantly show such lack of respect for a dead person, the victim must have committed some major crime.

Wrapping the wool blanket around him a bit tighter, Jake bent down to peer inside the grave mound. Under a partially collapsed ceiling of weeds, mud, and a framework of rotted wood, there sat an upright skeleton wrapped in deteriorating green and blue cloth. The Indian’s skull, still with strands of long gray hair attached, was cocked sideways and sticking out from under its shroud. The bottom jaw was missing. The jawbone, cracked in half but still having some teeth rooted, lay on the ground near several pottery items, beads, and flint arrowheads. How ironic, Jake thought. Here might have been an important chief or even a clan mother from his own Seneca tribe or possibly from the Cayuga tribe that once shared this land. And he was now the one getting crapped on for even setting foot back on his ancestor’s old grounds.

On the far side of the skeleton lay a dirty deerskin wrapping. Upon closer inspection he found the fur wasn’t the typical brown but actually white. He scratched his temple, his mind spinning. A link to the sacred white deer herd, maybe to the symbol on the broach? But why bury the body in the middle of a marsh on a tiny remote island? Was there even a marsh here way back then? Did the white deer herd once roam this area too? Was this some sacred or spiritual location? Was there a connection to the well? Was it really a well or just some type of natural ground fissure, say from an ancient earthquake?

Replaying what he saw in the hole, Jake remembered the pile of rocks at the back wall of the cave. It seemed out of place, as if someone had deliberately stacked them there — again wild speculation. And also when the shaft became properly lit with rescue lights from above, he couldn’t help but notice there were several rock ledges or steps that made climbing back out much easier. The ledges almost acted as a natural staircase. Were they carved that way? And the crosshatched rotted wood that had fallen in from the surface seemed strange too. Could it have been a concealed trapdoor on the surface at one point? It was definitely man-made. Or maybe the well was just some sort of ancient salt mine. He did know that Indians at one time had gathered salt in the area, especially around marshes.

Jake sighed. He could ponder the possibilities for days. He wanted to investigate more, but realized, after checking his watch again, time was growing short. He needed to get washed up and back on the road. He definitely planned on returning on his time off though, maybe hooking up with an excavation team to find out more. He stood up and sauntered toward the group around the body basket as two new firefighters emerged from the swamp. They carried a piece of plywood over to the ground hole and covered it up. Their captain barked an order, and the other firefighters picked up the body basket. He instructed them to carry it out through the marsh to the Seneca County Coroner’s van parked at their staging area. Several of men griped about the notoriously lazy old coroner who had refused to walk through the swamp to officially pronounce the victim dead. Grunting their disapproval, they stepped off the island and struggled to get their footing in the murky waters.

Watching the men carry away the body, Jake realized that once again he found himself at the center of the action. It was the story of his life — right place, right time. Scratch that, he corrected himself, the wrong time this morning.

He stole a glance at the fire chief who was just ending his conversation with the woman investigator. Dressed in full bunker gear, the chief turned and faced Jake. The man was an obvious leader in physical presence alone. Tall and barrel-chested, he wore a handlebar mustache and spectacles. Jake estimated his age to be late-fifties. The chief pulled a portable radio out of his coat pocket and turned his back on Jake. Jake read the large white letters on the back of his coat, Fire and Rescue, and his name at the bottom, Bailey.

“Cranberry command to county dispatch?” the chief broadcast in a slow deep voice.

“Go ahead chief,” the radio hissed back in a faster female voice Jake recognized as the original dispatcher he heard in his SUV.

The chief keyed the transmit button. “All units leaving the scene and heading back to the staging area at Hirschman’s Farm. We’re sealing off the well too. The state investigator will be out here a while longer to finish her report.” As he spoke, his fire captain placed several large rocks on the edges of the plywood to weigh it down over the hole. The chief gave him a thumbs-up and motioned him to head back.

The radio crackled again, confirming the chief’s report. “Affirmative. The well is sealed. All units back to staging area. Investigator still on scene. 7:42. KED-758 out.”

Pocketing his radio, the chief turned around and deliberately settled his eyes back on Jake. With a stern glare, he approached. The way the chief swaggered over, Jake figured another sparring match was in the making. The chief glanced down over his spectacles at Jake’s Army rank and nametag.

“How do you pronounce your name Major?” he slowly asked.

“TUNUN-DA.”

The chief smiled widely and surprisingly extended his right hand. Jake gladly accepted and gave a bone-crushing squeeze in return.

“Hoo-ah, Major Tununda. I’m Chet Bailey. Just wanted to personally thank you for your effort down there in that God-for-saken shit hole. My captain says you’d make a great member of his rescue team.”

Jake cracked a grin, catching the Hoo-ah, Army slang for a job well done when addressing a fellow soldier. “Thanks chief. But it was your crew who had to haul the basket up. I just secured it tight to make their job easier. Hey, so when did you serve?”

Bailey snorted, took off his glasses and started to clean them. “Early seventies. 82nd Airborne. Was in that jungle clusterfuck of ‘Nam.’ Couldn’t wait to get the hell out.”