Another Man's Moccasins

“And Virgil smacked him alongside the head with the butt of his M16, knocking him out cold.” I watched as she bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Then, just for good measure, Virgil rolled over and threw a few rounds at the battalion commander’s helicopter.”

She laughed, and the tourists looked at us.

“The colonel said, ‘I’ve got incoming, I’ve got incoming...’ and flew off.”

I nudged the handle on my mug and noticed the little half-ring on the counter that it left behind. “So there they were without any air support or EVAC, and this lieutenant, Tim Shields, the one that wrote up the report, came to and leaned over to Virgil to say, ‘We are going to die.’ Virgil told him that they could slip down in the river; that it’s only about knee-deep with a four-foot berm on either side so that they could retreat. This lieutenant told Virgil that’s a good idea and gave him the M60 and ordered him to provide rear guard as the rest of them retreated a little farther down the river, where they’ll wait.”

She groaned.

“They left him. So there he sat, alone, with a half-empty M60 machine gun and the better part of a North Vietnamese regiment on the way. The shooting began, and he returned fire and started working his way back down the river for the next three hours, alternately dealing with the mosquitoes, leeches, and the North Vietnamese. He got to an embankment that led to a roadway, where he tossed the empty M60 into the river, pulled out his sidearm, and started jogging into the night. Three clicks down the road, he ran into a patrol.”

“Ours?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Thank God.”

“They called in an EVAC, and an hour later Virgil was standing tall in front of the same lieutenant and battalion commander, who were screaming at him for getting lost and losing the M60. Virgil, after enduring sixteen hours of close combat, most of it single-handed, told them to stop yelling at him and that he’s going to go take a nap. The lieutenant grabbed Virgil’s arm, and Virgil swung around and punched him in the face, breaking his nose and driving the bone shards into his brain, which killed him instantly.”

She didn’t move. “Manslaughter, at worst.”

I looked out the windows at the flickering leaves alternating their light and dark sides. “Not in this man’s army. The colonel pushed and got a premeditated murder charge stemming from Virgil having struck his commanding officer while under fire in the field. Nobody stepped forward to say anything, and Virgil gets convicted of second-degree murder with a twenty-two-year hard-labor sentence in Leavenworth.”

Vic leaned in. “Twenty-two years?”

“With good behavior, he got out in seventeen.” I tapped the manila envelope that I had put on the counter. “I had Ruby check the database and she came up with the rest.” I opened the folder and read the small print on the faxed sheets. “On the walk home . . .”

“From Leavenworth, Kansas? ”

I nodded. “He was picked up by the Troop E highway patrol and told that he can’t hitchhike on the interstate. They dropped him off just outside of Abilene where he got a ride from a fellow by the name of Peter Moore and a young girl, Betty Coleman, who said that they’re on their way from East St. Louis and could give him a lift as far as Rapid City. They got up near North Platte, Nebraska, that night, where this Moore says he’s tired. Virgil offered to drive, but this guy said that they’ll just sleep in the car, the two of them in the front and Virgil in the back. The next morning, Peter Moore was found with his head caved in, and Betty Coleman was picked up by the North Platte Police Department and swore that Virgil did it.”

"Drugs?”

I nodded. “Cocaine found on Betty’s person and in Peter Moore’s bloodstream. Virgil got picked up by the Nebraska Highway Patrol and had one wicked-looking blunt trauma and skull fracture.”

“That would explain the scar.”

“Virgil stated that Moore attacked him in the night with a claw hammer and that he fought the guy off, but that Moore was alive when he left with Betty Coleman.”

"They test Virgil?”

"No, but with an eyewitness and Virgil’s record . . .”

“They print the hammer?”

I sipped my coffee. “Missing.”

“She did it, finished this Moore guy off after Virgil split, and then took the drugs.”

“Yep, but she was a petite little blonde, and Virgil was a seven-foot Indian, dishonorably discharged and a convicted murderer.” I set my empty mug back on the counter. “Ten to twelve.”

Dorothy sidled over and motioned with the regular coffee; she knew that the Absaroka County Sheriff’s Department ran on heavy fuel. “Can I interrupt long enough for a refifill?”

We both slid our mugs forward, and I smiled up at her. “How’s the usual coming?”

She studied me some more and then turned toward the grill.