The Road Home by Patrick E. Craig Page B

than a couple of days.”
    â€œA couple of days?” Johnny frowned. The fear of the drug dealers came back over him.
    â€œGot any money, boy?” Dutch asked.
    â€œSure. Do you want a deposit?”
    Dutch took off his cap and scratched his grizzled head. “Well,” he said slowly, “given that I don’t know you, that would probably be a good idea. How about fifty dollars? Oughta cover the whole shebang.”
    Johnny fished the money out of the pocket of his striped pants. “Are there any motels in town that are close by?”
    â€œSure, the Bide-a-Wee is just down the street. Nice rooms for a real good price. I think Jonas has a weekly rate too.” Dutch said. “There’s a restaurant right across the street. And if you have need of transportation, I got a loaner out back. Seein’ as how I’ll have your truck and all.”
    Dutch looked the van over. He gave Johnny another one of his curious looks. “You wouldn’t be needin’ a paint job, would ya? Twenty-five dollars, and she’s as good as new. Scrape all that hoo-haw right off and paint her a nice inconspicuous blue.”
    â€œI’ll think about it, Dutch,” Johnny said. “It would probably be a good idea to keep a little lower profile out here.”
    Dutch smiled in agreement.

C HAPTER E LEVEN
    Bitter Words

    J ENNY WATCHED FROM HER DESK as the man picked up the key to the microfiche room and headed there. When he went inside, she slipped quietly up the hallway and followed him in. He was waiting for her and stuck out his hand.
    â€œHi, Jenny. I’m Bob Schumann.”
    Jenny took his hand and shook it. He was a nice-looking older man with white hair and a pleasant smile. He had on an Ohio State jacket and a Cincinnati Reds baseball hat pushed back on his head. The smile wrinkles around his eyes belied the gruffness she had sensed on the phone. A briefcase sat on the desk behind him.
    Jenny went to the files, pulled out the filmstrips, and handed them to Schumann. He sat down at the reader and quietly perused the two articles. Then he turned to Jenny.
    â€œI remember when I wrote this story. It was a real mystery in nineteen fifty-one, and the fact that there was heroin in the car was a huge deal back then. Nowadays, with all the stuff going on in San Francisco and New York, the drug angle isn’t so exciting. It’s always bothered me that all the leads in this story were dead ends.”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about the man?” Jenny asked.
    â€œNot much more than what’s here,” Bob said. “They did an autopsy, and the cause of death was drowning. The only possible identifier they found on him was a large tattoo.”
    â€œA tattoo? That wasn’t in the story,” Jenny said.
    â€œI made a sketch of it at the coroner’s office when they let me view the body, but the police chief made me leave it out of the article. Seems that it was a popular tattoo with the servicemen during the war, and the sheriff didn’t want anything bad reflected on our local vets, what with the heroin and the empty liquor bottles they found. It didn’t seem important at the time, so I pulled it.”
    â€œDescribe the tattoo to me,” Jenny said.
    â€œVery large, located on his left shoulder,” Bob said. “Well here, let me show you.”
    Schumann opened the briefcase and rummaged among some papers. He pulled out a sheet with a rough drawing in the middle. The picture was of a large, ornate tattoo of the patriotic type common among servicemen. The Statue of Liberty was in the center, surrounded by four flags, two on each side. Above the tattoo it said, “God Bless America,” and right under the statue were some Roman numerals.
    â€œNotice the number under the statue. When I compared it to other tattoos like it, they didn’t have a number. I’ve always remembered it, maybe because it was like a palindrome.”
    He