Dead of Winter

Cloverdale blinked, wiping snow from his face. “Firefight near Hue, Valentine’s Day, 1968,” he said matter-of-factly. “We lost six men, eighteen wounded, including the captain. I lost the arm but got a ticket back to Marked Tree.”

The snow had covered Cloverdale’s head, forming a white helmet over his close-cropped hair. He looked suddenly like an old man.

“How did you get here?” Louis asked.

Cloverdale hoisted the gun higher up against his shoulder. “Well, I did my time at the VA hospital, bummed around the country for a couple years. I stuffed all the war shit into a box and tried to build a life.” He paused, smiling. “Hard keeping the lid on that damn box sometimes.” His eyes drifted to the bag in Louis’s hand.

Jesse honked the horn. Louis looked at the cruiser and waved an impatient hand.

“You’re gonna get snowed in here, man,” Cloverdale said.

“Go on,” Louis said. “Please.”

Cloverdale looked up the road toward the collection of houses. “Randall was in my unit. His family’s from around here. They gave him the land and he decided to make a camp for vets. There’s just seven of us now but we’re building houses for more. We look after each other, you know?”

Louis nodded.

Cloverdale’s face hardened. “I don’t like people who feel sorry for themselves. I mean, what’s done is done. But people on the outside, they don’t know. They just don’t know.”

“Why are you talking to me then?” Louis asked.

Cloverdale looked back at him. “Because I want you to know that we’re not murderers. We’re off the grid. But we aren’t murderers.”

Louis nodded slowly. He held out the Ziploc. Cloverdale took it and looked at the drawing.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“This is one of two. They were found by the bodies of the dead officers,” Louis said.

Cloverdale handed it back. He wiped his face. “It’s a message,” he said.

“Message? What kind of message?” Louis asked.

Cloverdale hesitated, his face twisting slightly. “Your man is military.”

Louis waited.

“Some companies had their nicknames printed up on cards.” He paused. “I heard about this but never really saw it. A company would go in, wipe out a village of Vietcong and then throw the cards down on the bodies. It was a taunt, a kind of challenge to Charlie, letting them know they were there.”

He looked at Louis. “They called them death cards.”

“Do you recognize this one?” Louis asked, holding out the plastic bag.

Cloverdale wouldn’t take it. “No. The number is probably a company or squadron maybe.”

Louis looked down at the bag then put it back in his pocket. He looked up at Cloverdale’s drawn face.

“Thanks,” he said and started to turn away.

“I know your man,” Cloverdale said.

Louis turned back sharply.

Cloverdale just looked at Louis then he smiled slightly. “I’ve met him, hundreds of times.”

“Look,” Louis said, “don’t jerk me around.”

“I was a counselor afterward,” Cloverdale said. “I worked with a lot of fucked-up men and lot of them who could have done what your killer did, given the wrong circumstances.”

“What are the wrong circumstances?” Louis asked.

“You asking me for a profile?”

“Yeah.”

“It ain’t that easy, officer,” Cloverdale said, shaking his head. “Nothing about ‘Nam was easy or obvious. It was the camouflage war and there’s no hope of ever flushing it out.”

“But you can tell me what kind of man I am looking for,” Louis said.

“Yeah, I can.” Cloverdale shifted the gun off his shoulder and rested the butt on the ground. “Look for a normal man.”

“Normal?” Louis said.

“A guy who tried to be normal and failed.”

Louis frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“He probably enlisted, maybe because his life was shitty up to then and the military makes a lot of big promises about straightening out your life for you.”

“Go on,” Louis said.

“He probably did all right for himself in the military, maybe even had his first taste of success,” Cloverdale said. “But something happened and he felt like he was a failure again. He might have had a drug or alcohol problem and got the quick trip through the VA system.” Cloverdale paused. “Now they have a nice name for it, post-traumatic stress syndrome. Back then, we were all just addicts.”

“What about after the war?” Louis asked.

“After,” Cloverdale said softly. “Well, let’s just say nobody was exactly throwing rose petals at your man’s feet. Your man went to war, did his job, and then everyone at home told him what he had done was a joke. Not great for the self-esteem.”

Louis waited, wishing he had a notebook with him.

“He probably couldn’t find a job,” Cloverdale went on, “or if he did it was in some factory that probably laid him off when the recession hit. ‘Nam vets earned less, were prompted less, and had more turnover.” Cloverdale drew in a breath. “Check homeless shelters, that sort of thing. There’s still about a quarter of a million vets on the street.”

A horn honked. Louis turned to the cruiser. Jesse was motioning for him. Louis looked back to Cloverdale.

“Can you tell me why?” Louis asked.