Undaunted, A Stan Turner Mystery Vol 1

UNDAUNTED

A Stan Turner Mystery

by

WILLIAM MANCHEE

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Top Publications, Ltd.

Dallas, Texas

UNDAUNTED

A Stan Turner Mystery Volume 1

Smashwords Edition

© Copyright William Manchee

2013

ISBN 978-1-935722-39-7

No part of this book may be published or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or information storage and retrieval systems without the express written permission of the publisher.

This work is a novel and any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1

Love, War, and Politics

Fall 1967

Seventeen-year-old Stan Turner had realized very early on that his life would be a struggle. Although his parents both worked very hard, neither made much money, so the family lived from paycheck to paycheck, borrowing on credit cards to stay afloat. When the family debt got out of hand, there would be the inevitable arguments ending with his mother's tears and his father's angry accusations. Stan hated these arguments and vowed when he grew up, he’d get a job that paid him well enough that he wouldn’t have money problems.

Stan would have done anything to help his parents out financially, but his part time jobs barely provided him with the minimal necessities for a high school student about to set off for college. He’d been accepted to UCLA, but knew he’d somehow have to pay for it himself or take out student loans. Not willing to take on any debt, he opted to work his way through college. Luckily, he’d been assured by campus officials that there were many jobs available, and he could surely find one. 

Ever since Stan was twelve years old, he had been intrigued with politics and thought that was ultimately the career he wanted to pursue. He knew most politicians were attorneys so he set his sights on that goal first; politics would come later. His first summer out of high school he was lucky enough to be selected as a congressional intern for their local Congressman, Charles Harmon. During that summer he met a lot of influential people and got a good dose of politics. He was anxious to get through college and law school so he could launch his career.

Years earlier when Stan was in the sixth grade, he had been warned that his life would be anything but easy. He and his friend Steve went to the Ventura County Fair as they did each fall. As they were surveying the new exhibits in the main Exposition Center, they came across a booth introducing the new and revolutionary Univac Computer. They were intrigued by the exhibit as computers were to be the wave of the future but, in particular, by the fact that this computer had been programmed to tell fortunes. Of course, this was too exciting to pass up, so they each paid twenty-five cents to look into their futures. Steve went first and was thrilled when it predicted a life for him of fame, fortune and good health. Stan on the other hand wasn't quite sure what to make of his fortune.

Struggling in a hostile world,

pursuing your destiny,

you will stand resolute against adversity,

undaunted.

Stan wasn’t superstitious, so he didn’t initially lose any sleep over this grim fortune. But as time went on, he began to realize it was going to be his reality. The first major jolt came shortly after his marriage to Rebekah James, a dark-haired beauty he met during the first semester of his junior year at UCLA. They'd met in their History of Art class and were soon dating. It wasn't love at first sight, but it didn't take them long to fall in love and decide they wanted to be together for the rest of their lives. So, during the Christmas break they had a small wedding and then went on a short honeymoon to Lake Tahoe.  When they got back from Tahoe, Rebekah moved into Stan's apartment and Steve, who had been Stan’s roommate, graciously moved back into the dorm.

Living together as husband and wife turned out to be more difficult than Stan had imagined. It wasn't that they weren't happy together, in fact, just the opposite. While they were alone in their apartment, they were inclined to spend too much time in bed, and too often neglected their studies. Fortunately, after being jolted by the previous term's report cards, Stan made a point to go to the library at night after work and stay until his homework was done. That gave Rebekah time alone to do her homework and by the end of the next quarter their grades had recovered nicely.

On January 30, 1969 they had just gotten home from school, Rebekah was making supper, and Stan was crashed on the sofa watching TV. At five o'clock George Putnam and the Channel 11 News came on.

"Good evening. In the small farming community of Liberal, Kansas, authorities are perplexed by the third murder in two months of a prominent Negro leader. A spokesman for the Liberal Police Department said that the deaths appear to be the work of a serial killer. Each of the three victims to date have several things in common. They all have been black males, each was killed on a Sunday night, and the killings were accomplished by a single slash to the throat. after each murder the killer carefully carved the letter ‘T' on the victim's chest. Local law enforcement agencies have branded the killer the ‘Sunday Night Slasher.'

"On the war front, the communists today launched a massive offensive against thirty South Vietnamese cities. It is by far the largest offensive of the war and comes only months after the South Vietnamese people elected its first Democratic government under its new constitution. President Nguyen Van Thieu could not be reached for comment. Casualties are reported to be heavy as the U.S. and South Vietnamese troops attempt to repel the attacks.

In related news, antiwar protesters staged another rally in Washington pointing out that the Vietnam War had now become the longest war in U.S. history. They called for the repeal of the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution and the immediate withdrawal of U.S. troops.

Rebekah interrupted her cooking to listen to the report. She had been concerned about the Vietnam War, not only because of great loss of American lives, but also because Stan's student deferment would be up when he graduated in June 1969.

I thought they were supposed to start peace talks in Paris, Rebekah moaned.

I guess someone forgot to tell the North Vietnamese generals.

They've got to get this war over before you graduate.

If Johnson and Nixon would have just let our generals handle the war by themselves, without constantly meddling, the war would be over now.

You think so?

Yeah, Washington is so worried about China getting in the war they won't turn the military loose on North Vietnam to cut off the supply lines to the south.

What will you do if they draft you?

I don't mind serving my time in the military. I'd just like to do it after I get out of law school.

I hope they'll let you do that.

I'm just afraid if I don't go to law school immediately after college, I'll never go.

I heard they weren't giving out graduate school deferments anymore.

Who told you that?

I heard it on the radio. If it's true, you won't be able to go to law school.

Well. ... No telling what will happen between now and then; let's not worry about it.

But I am worried about it, Rebekah moaned. I can't just turn off my concerns like a water faucet.

There's nothing we can do about it anyway unless you want to move to Canada.

I wouldn't mind that.

Come on. ... You'd leave the United States knowing you could never come back?

If we lived in Vancouver we wouldn't be that far from my parents in Portland.

I couldn't do that. I'll fight if I have to. It's just too bad we're not fighting for something worthwhile.

You mean you don't believe in the domino theory anymore?

No, it seems kind of ridiculous now.

Well, dinner is ready, come and eat.

Later that year a controversy erupted over the fairness of the selective service system. Minority leaders complained that a disproportionate number of Negroes and Hispanics were being drafted into the military due to unfair student deferments, biased draft boards, and political intervention in the selective service system. As a response to that criticism Congress was considering a lottery system whereby draftees would be determined by a random drawing by birth dates. Each birth date would be assigned a number from 1 to 365 with all needed military personnel being drafted from the lowest birth dates until the needs of the military had been met.

In the fall of 1968 Stan began to apply to law schools around California and took the Law School Admissions Test. Working two jobs and being married had left Stan little time to study, so his grade point average at UCLA was only about a 2.8. So, he was painfully aware that getting into law school was not going to be easy. He applied to Berkeley, Hastings School of Law, UCLA, and the University of San Diego. The first three were highly rated law schools, any of which he would have loved to attend. The University of San Diego was included as a precaution in case he didn't do well on the LSAT. It was a much easier school to get into, yet still had a decent reputation.

Stan's main job while he was in school was in the varsity bookstore in the Student Union. His hours were from three to seven Monday through Friday. It was an okay job but didn't pay enough for them to survive. After many trips to the job placement office, in the spring of 1968 he found another part-time job from six to eight every morning Monday through Saturday. It was a plush restaurant and sidewalk café in Westwood called Micaela's Place. His job there was to hose down the patio and clean all the leaves and bird droppings off the tables that invariably accumulated each night.

Micaela's Place was owned and operated by Miguel Sanchez and his wife, Micaela. They were wonderful people and Stan got to know them quite well. Each morning when he was about finished with his work Micaela would come out and talk to him. Sometimes it was to give him additional tasks or offer constructive criticism of his work, but most of the time she just liked to talk.

She was the daughter of a farm worker who spent most of his life moving around Southern California from one harvest to another trying to scrape out a living for his large family. It was a cruel and bitter life but fortunately Micaela had been able to attend one public school or another and managed to get a high school diploma. Armed with this education and the pride and confidence it provided her, she was able to get a job as a waitress at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Being an attractive, intelligent, and ambitious woman, she quickly earned the respect and admiration of the hotel management. They rewarded her with greater responsibility and longer hours but no significant increase in compensation.

When Micaela met Miguel, she was depressed and frustrated with her life. She knew she was another victim of white racism. She saw her less talented Caucasian colleagues get pay raises and promotions while she struggled at minimum wage. She felt helpless and alone. She dreamed of owning her own restaurant. Then one day she was sent to pick up some linen from a local laundry company that had been inadvertently left off the regular delivery truck. The company was one of only a handful in L.A. owned by a Mexican American.

She entered the busy little enterprise not sure exactly where to go or whom to see. It was very noisy so her verbal attempts at getting help were ineffective. Seeing a young man with a clipboard giving instructions to a group of workers, she tapped him on the shoulder. The young man turned out to be the owner's son, Miguel Sanchez.

When Miguel saw her, he was mesmerized. Not only was she pretty but she was smart and ambitious. They hit it off immediately and began to date. In time they fell in love and after eight months of courtship, got married.

Miguel loved Micaela very much and wanted to help her fulfill her dream of opening a restaurant, so he convinced his father to back her. On July 4, 1949 she opened Micaela's Place in Westwood, California near UCLA. The restaurant was so successful Miguel had to quit his job and help Micaela run it. About eighteen months later, Micaela gave birth to a son, Thomas. They both loved Thomas very much and spoiled him. This caused a problem because Micaela didn't want to leave Thomas to go to work every day, so Miguel built a nursery at the restaurant where they were able to keep an eye on him while they worked.

One day during one of their chats Stan told Micaela all about Rebekah. She insisted that he bring her over to meet them on one particular Saturday. They arrived at the appointed hour and were warmly greeted.

Come sit down. Can I offer you some coffee or tea? Micaela asked.

Some coffee would be great, Stan said.

Micaela brought over coffee for everyone and sat down. Stan has told me a lot about you, Rebekah.

Oh really?

Yes, he says you love art.

Yes, I do, Rebekah agreed.

I love art, too. I wish I could have studied it like you.

Rebekah smiled. It is fascinating, but you don't have to study it to enjoy it.

That's definitely true.

Rebekah gazed at the ornately furnished room curiously. Did you decorate this place yourself? Rebekah asked.

Oh yes, Miguel and I did it many years ago.

Well, you did a fine job. Your restaurant is absolutely charming, I love it.

Thank you. Decorating is something I learned working at the Ambassador Hotel when I was very young.

She nodded. So, Stan says you have a son, Rebekah said.

Yes, we have a seventeen-year-old son, Thomas, Micaela replied.

Oh, does he still live at home?

No, he's in the Marine Corps in Vietnam right now—a place called Khe Sahn.

Oh, you must be very proud of him.

Yes, he's a fine boy.

What does he do in the Marines?

He's in the infantry.

Did he want to go into the Marines or was he drafted?

He enlisted.

Oh, I bet you must worry a lot about him.

Yes, I pray for him every day. There is not an hour that passes that I don't think about him and wish that he were home with me.

Maybe the war will be over soon, and he'll come back home.

I hope so.

So, Miguel, were you a marine? Stan asked.

Yes, during World War II I was stationed in the Philippines for a while and then in the Canary Islands.

So, Thomas wanted to follow in his father's footsteps?

Yes, he's always dreamed of being a marine.

They talked for some time until Stan glanced at his watch and noticed it was getting late.

Well, it's been nice talking to both of you. Rebekah and I have to get going here pretty soon. I've got to go to study, and Rebekah has a term paper that's due tomorrow.

It was nice meeting you, Rebekah. Micaela said.

Well, thanks for inviting us over. Rebekah replied.

You're welcome, Miguel said.

Several weeks later Stan had gotten up early to go to work at Micaela's Place. When he arrived, he went to the storage bin and pulled out the long hoses that he used to wash down the patio. As he was connecting the hose to a faucet, two U.S. marines, in dress uniforms, walked into the patio area. One was a young, enlisted man and the other an officer. They saw him and walked over.

Sir, do you know where we can find Miguel Sanchez?

 He should be inside; just ring the bell.

The officer rang the bell and waited. After a minute the door opened, and Micaela appeared. She smiled at the marines at first but then suddenly her face paled as she realized the purpose of their visit.

Oh, no! No! ... Don't tell me my boy is dead.

I'm sorry, ma'am, the officer said.

Miguel came quickly to the front door after hearing his wife cry out.

What's wrong? What happened?

I'm sorry, sir, the officer said. Private Thomas Sanchez was killed by mortar fire eight miles north of Khe Sahn on November 3, 1968 at approximately 2:00 p.m.

What? Oh my God, Miguel said. Are you sure?

  Yes, there was a positive ID. I'm sorry, sir, the officer said soberly.

Miguel, it can't be, Micaela cried. Thomas can't be dead. Oh God, no!

 Miguel turned to pull her into his arms and comfort her. She was pale, her breathing difficult, and then she fainted. Miguel caught her before she hit the floor. Stan ran over and helped him put her on the sofa. Then Miguel leaned over her and began to weep.

We don't have any additional information at this time, but rest assured we will advise you as additional information is received about your son's death. Here's my card; call me if I can be of any assistance. I'm so sorry about your loss. Private Sanchez was an excellent marine. You should be proud of him.

Chapter 2

The Accident

It was unusual for Virginia Stone to get a call from her sister Glenda during the week. Glenda was a schoolteacher, a single mom with two teenage girls still at home, making her life quite hectic. It was usually late on Sunday afternoon that she'd finally find the time to sit down and fill her sister in on the week's events. But it was Tuesday and Virginia had just gotten out of a meeting with her editor and there it was, a message from Glenda marked URGENT. With great trepidation she returned the call immediately.

Glenda? It's sis. What's wrong?

Oh, Virginia, she moaned. There's been an accident. Stewart is dead.

Stewart was Glenda's eldest son. He'd just enlisted in the United States Marine Corps and was at boot camp at Camp Pendleton, California.

Oh, my God! What happened?

I don't know. They just said he fell off a tower and was killed. I haven't got any details.

I'll catch the next plane out. I'm so sorry. How are the girls taking it?

They're in shock. I still can't believe it myself. How could something like this happen?

I don't know, but I'll get to the bottom of it, I promise you.

I know. Call me when you have a flight number and I'll pick you up at the airport.

I will. I'm so sorry, honey. I know you must be devastated.

Virginia hung up the phone and went directly to her editor's office. Joe, you're going to have to get someone else to do the bribery story. My sister just called. My nephew was killed in some kind of training accident at boot camp at Camp Pendleton.

Jeez. That's terrible, Virginia. I'm so sorry. Don't worry about it, Joe said. I'll get someone to cover the story for you.

I'll call you tomorrow and tell you how long I'll be gone. I've got to see about getting the body and planning a funeral.

Did they say how it happened?

No. There's been no explanation.

Well, if I can do anything to help, call me.

Joe Biggs was the senior editor for the Charlotte Observer and a great boss. He'd lured Virginia away from the Boston Globe several years earlier while she was recovering from a divorce, and she'd never been happier. He'd promised to let her find and pick her own stories and he'd pretty much kept his promise. Of course, he'd assign her other stories from time to time which she was happy to do, but if she found one that she liked and brought it to him, he'd rarely turn it down.

Her apartment was about twenty minutes from the office, so she went straight there, called American Airlines to check flight times, and then packed a bag. Being a reporter, it was not unusual to have to drop everything and hop on a plane to cover a story, so Virginia was pretty good at it. She usually enjoyed the excitement and adventure these trips provided, but today was different. She knew the only thing she'd find at her sister's house was grief, sorrow, and uncertainty—things she wasn't particularly good at handling.

The flight was uneventful and late Tuesday afternoon she stepped into the terminal at LAX. Glenda and the girls were in the baggage claim area waiting for her. They exchanged embraces, got her luggage, and proceeded out to a waiting taxi.

I didn't feel like driving, Glenda explained. You know with the traffic and parking; I decided a cab would be the best way to pick you up.

You should have stayed at home. I could have gotten a cab on my own. You didn't need to drag everyone away from the house.

Actually, we needed to get away. The house was full of neighbors and friends. It was getting pretty unbearable. I used you as an excuse to get rid of everybody.

Right. ... So, how did they inform you of Stewart's death?

Two marines came by the house. They told me there had been a training accident and Stewart was dead. I asked them what happened and all they said was that he'd climbed to the top of an observation tower and somehow lost his balance and fell fifty feet to his death. Apparently, nobody saw it happen, so there are no witnesses.

That's totally bizarre. Why would he be up on the tower by himself? I wouldn't think anyone in boot camp would ever be left alone.

That's what I thought, too, but when I asked them about it they just repeated the same story. They said neither of them had personal knowledge as to what happened, so they couldn't really answer our questions.

Well, maybe we'll just go down there and talk to Stewart's commanding officer. I think they owe us a more complete explanation. When will you be able to claim ... ah ... the body?

Glenda shrugged. They said it may be as long as ten days. They have to do an autopsy and complete their investigation before they can release it.

Well, that will give us time to go down there and get some answers.

The next day they left the girls with one of Glenda's friends and drove down to Camp Pendleton. They didn't call ahead because they didn't want to give them time to prepare for their visit. Stewart's commanding officer, Lt. Jonathan Griggs, wasn't in his office when they arrived so they waited. About a half hour later he showed up and didn't look pleased to see them. Fifteen minutes later they were ushered into his office and directed to side chairs directly in front of his desk.

I'm sorry for your loss, Lt. Griggs said frowning. We try very hard to avoid accidents like this, but no matter what we do they still seem to happen from time to time.

Virginia sat forward in her chair and looked the lieutenant in the eyes. We know accidents happen. That's just part of life. But we'd like a few more of the details about this accident. All we know so far is that Stewart fell off an observation tower. There's been no explanation as to why he was up there, who he was with, how he happened to fall off, or who found him,

"Yes, well that's a bit of a problem. You see, the platoon was at the obstacle course where the tower is located earlier in the day but had left to go to dinner. Apparently Private Lawrence stayed behind and wasn't missed until roll call, right after dinner. Upon the discovery that he was missing we assigned several soldiers to search for him and, about a hour later, his body was found at the foot of the observation tower. So far, we have no idea what happened to him.

How could he be missing so long without detection? Glenda asked.

There are hundreds of recruits being trained at any given time. There is no way to keep track of them every minute. We have periodic roll calls during the day to make sure everyone is accounted for, but in between roll calls a soldier can get lost.

Have you questioned the other soldiers in his platoon? Virginia asked. Maybe one of them said or heard something.

Yes, we asked at roll call if anyone had seen Private Lawrence fall or had any information about him that might explain what happened, but nobody came forward.

We continued to talk to Lt. Griggs for some time but got no more answers. As they were walking to their car to go home, Virginia noticed a