A Person of Interest

Chapter One

Before we land, let me welcome you to San Francisco, the attendant said, For those of you lucky people who live here, welcome home. As you can see, it's a beautiful summer day in the air-conditioned city. Although we just passed over the San Joaquin Valley where the temperature is almost a hundred and ten, in The City it's a balmy sixty-eight degrees. Local time is one twenty one, Pacific Daylight Time.

Ky-lee Sutherland silently looked out the side of the sleek United 747, watching the wind-chopped green bay begin to slip under the starboard wing. A seasoned traveler, Ky-Lee ignored the attendant's suggestions that they fasten their seat belts and put their trays and seat-backs to their full upright position, because she always flew with her lap-belt fastened and she had done all that other stuff already.

Was this home?, she asked herself.

Five years ago, she would have said yes. Now she didn't know. This particular trip was not for pleasure, nor to renew old family relationships. She was here to work, to perform a background check on a mall who's name was too well known to ask about over the phone. Since her boss's name was also a Household word, she could just imagine the conversations when she hung up.

Hushed voice of Secretarial Type number one: Do you know who that was? C. Winslow Stephens's personal investigator!.. And she wants information on Senator Franklin Giovanni!

Hushed voice of Secretarial Type number two: I don't believe it!

Hushed voice of Secretarial Type number one: It's true, I tell you!

Hushed voice of Secretarial Type number two: Wonder why Stephens is checking him out?

Looking up more toward the horizon Ky-Lee could barely make out the tall, white U.C. Berkeley Campanile, which was only a few blocks west of her childhood home.

Was that home?

Berkeley, 127 Trestle Glen Road, to be precise, was where she grew up, the eldest of two daughters of an Archaeology Professor and a Physics Professor. The Archaeology Professor was the male parent.

That was how she was raised. Male parent. Female Parent. Longhairs from the sixties, her folks were of the generation who thought a book of matches was the only answer. They wanted to burn the whole world, starting with their bras and draft-cards, and finishing with the Washington, D.C. establishment. They were so far into non-sexualism that everything in the house was gender-neutral, Ky-Lee didn't have a mother and father. She had a Glen and Doreen.

She didn't have a sister; she had a sibling named Neph.

That was it. Neph Sutherland. Ky-Lee Sutherland. Nice names with no middle initials. Pretty, reasonably gender-neutral names. When they were old enough, they had a choice of surnames: Sutherland, their male parent's name- or Bellows, their female parent's, or a hyphenated combination. Sutherland-Bellows or Bellows-Sutherland. Either way, a true mouthful.

Both daughters opted for the former. Neph was conceived and named during a sojourn to Egypt. Although Doreen and Glen never admitted it, Neph and Ky-lee suspected that her name was a misspelled, shortened, and therefore gender-neutral version of Nefertiti, a definitely female, therefore sexist, name of a person renown for her beauty.

Throughout life, Ky-lee thought Neph was the lucky one. Neph was the one who had her head on straight even after being raised by a pair of Sixties Hippies. She was the one who grew up to be a beautiful creature, a woman who's sexuality was never in question. Up until the day she walked down the aisle with a rich Greek Adonis, she had firmly refused to consider marriage, because that would restrict her from allowing men. Note the plural. From enjoying the charms of The world's best woman.

Ky-lee had the brains in the family. She had to have something, considering that whoever was in charge of passing out the physical goodies saved them for Neph. Her own physical description hadn't changed much since she graduated from the University of San Francisco as a journalism major.

Ky-lee's hair color was a mousy blonde which she always wore in a low ponytail. Formal dress for her was wearing a black and rhinestone banana clip in her hair. Her eyes were a nondescript brown-gray. She wore huge round glasses, median-thick ones to correct an astigmatic condition that wasn't as bad as her glasses would have you believe. The spectacles were simply more rejection protection.

Probably her best feature was her creamy skin. She was twenty-six years old, stood five six in flats, and she would begrudgingly admit she was fifteen pounds overweight. In actuality, she was closer to being twenty pounds too heavy.

Gimme a break. I have slow metabolism… and big bones… and a glandular condition.

Whatever her problem, it seemed that every single calorie from eight hundred to a thousand in a day gleefully settled on her breasts. Calories from one thousand to twelve hundred found her waist. And those numbering over that went straight to her upper legs.

Neph, never very sympathetic about Ky-Lee's weight problems, All Fatso has to do is push herself away from the dinner table a little earlier in the evening, dubbed her older sister Thunder thighs when they were children. It wasn't fair. Neph could eat like a horse and never gain a single ounce.

Ky-Lee was named before she was conceived. Glen brought her name with him when he returned from Southeast Asia, one of the early observers for the peace movement. The best guess that Neph and she could come up with about her name was that maybe she was named after a special person in Vietnam or Korea, or wherever else he went on that six month's tour.

Now that she was a bit older, Ky-Lee hoped she was named after an overseas lover. At least Ky-Lee sounded female.

She wondered how her male and female parent were getting along at UC Berkeley. She hadn't seen them in at least five years. That was more of the strange doctrine of the elder Sutherlands. Once a child was reared and gone from the nest, that was that. Adult Eagles don't return to the nest, do they? A grown-up adult Grizzly Bear won't come calling on his mother. Female parent … will he? The most successful animal in the world, the Cockroach, lays its eggs and goes about it's business. If any of La Cucarachas' kids decided to visit Mom and Dad, they'd Likely be eaten.

So that's the way it was with the Sutherland girls. If and when they ever returned to the homestead, male and female Sutherland would receive them as familiar visitors. No more. No less.

Ky-lee's attention riveted on the immediate future when she felt the landing gear lower and hit home as they locked in place. As often as she flew, as many hours as she had as a private pilot, she was always fully alert when it came time to place the lumbering giants of the air softly upon the ground. More than once she knew very well that the pilots up front couldn't have landed without her pulling up on the appropriate armrest. She didn't have to help this time.

The monster airliner touched down as gingerly as a butterfly with sore feet.

In spite of her aura of reservation, Ky-Lee was apprehensive. Her sister was supposed to meet her at the gate. Neph and Ky-lee hadn't seen each other for a couple of years, although they corresponded once in a while. Cards at Christmas, dirty but hilarious birthday cards, perhaps an exchange of letters once or twice during the year. Actually, Neph owed the letter. Ky-Lee had written her five months previous.

The 747's gaping Rolls Royce engines quieted and the Aluminum Cloud turned off the runway. While some experienced fliers remained seated so that they wouldn't have to associate with the hoards of neophytes, she stood up with the less seasoned travelers while the plane was still easing into the ramp.

Even though the Flight Attendant had already threatened every one of the standing passengers with their lives if they had so much as touched their seatbelt clips, ninety percent of the passengers aboard had been in their seats for almost five and half hours and no matter how well padded the seats are, butts do get sore. Bladders do get full. Lungs do cry out for a cigarette. Lower extremities seem to shout for blood to flow back into her veins.

Standing up, even in a line that was going nowhere, was better than sitting and waiting for everyone to get off ahead of you. Least she felt like she was doing something to alleviate the situation.

She stopped the shuffling line of people behind her while she was at the cabin door long enough to retrieve her hanging bag. With a coat over one arm … it was unseasonably cold in Washington D.C. when she left. And the hanging bag and her somewhat heavy purse over the other arm, she was barely able to stagger out of the plane door. A man behind her asked, Can I help you with that, lady?

No thanks, she said. I can handle this myself.

Suit yourself.

Angry at herself, she watched the back of the man while he strode away. Why didn't I say I'd appreciate it, instead of trying to prove something?

Ky-Lee!

She snapped her head in the direction of her sister's voice and smiled widely when she saw Neph waving and jumping up and down.

It's just not fair! She's so pretty!

Hiya, Kye, Neph said and hugged her warmly.

Hi, Neph. God, you look great.

Well of course I do, Neph said with a wide grin. What did you expect? Hilda the house-frump?

Where's my nephew?

Right here. She proudly stepped aside to reveal a small baby in a carrier in the lounge chair behind her.

Oh, lord, he's precious! Ky-lee picked him up with unfeigned enjoyment. Even though he was less than six months old, Little Tony was already a handsome lad, combining the best of his mother's animal beauty and his father's continental good looks. Except now he was teething and being a cranky kid.

Even so, Ky-Lee carried the drooling child while she and Neph walked casually to the front of the terminal, Neph's chauffeur packing Ky-Lee's coat and hanging bag. Her Mercedes Limousine was waiting in a three-minute parking zone and the police were doing nothing more than making sure no one scratched the car's silver and black paint job. Neph, I've been sitting down forever and I'm not ready for another seated ride. Give me ten minutes to get the blood back in my legs, okay?

Sure.

So while they stood alongside the car and chatted for a few more minutes, like adult sisters do, catching each other up on the other's life, the parking cops simply waved other cars around. And while they talked, Ky-Lee saw at least two men bump into other people because they were watching the stunning Neph Papandreas stand.

Ky-Lee looked up at her twenty-four year old sister. She had to look up. Neph was five ten in her bare feet. As she was married to a man who was five inches taller, she enjoyed wearing high spiked heels, making her street height about six foot one or two.

Neph's flaming red hair helped to prove male-female magnetism, if there was such a thing. Her contact lens-aided emerald green eyes helped also. And so did her utterly gorgeous figure. So did her mid-thigh hemmed white tight skirt which revealed beautifully long and lithe legs.

It hit Ky-Lee like a load of wet laundry. Standing next to this creature, she was simply not of the same species.

Neph was so confident, so alive with every nuance of the word. There was an enchantment about her that encircled them and provided a kind of protective buffer shield between them and the rest of the world.

Sometimes, Ky-Lee swore up and down that one of them, either she or Neph was not Glen's issue. Considering that Neph looked like a Sutherland, it was pretty apparent who, if anyone was, was the bastard. When she was a twelve year old, Ky-Lee innocently asked Doreen, like most all children do, if she was adopted.

She was answered that night with an extended whipping with a leather belt for Calling her mother a cheap whore.

Ky-Lee felt the old feelings of something that wasn't love for her sibling boiling way below the surface. It was more like hatred. Make that a lot like hatred.

While she climbed in the back seat of the car, Ky-Lee dismissed the unwarranted and childish emotion, knowing it probably was the same reaction that every woman who ever met Neph had.

Until Neph and the Greek god were married a year and a half ago, Neph had a richly deserved reputation for sampling any man she chose, married or not, wife nearby or not.

You never did tell me why you came out, Neph said once they were settled in and the limo had finally left the curb.

I'm doing some research for Win.

Neph smiled and turned towards Ky-Lee, her studied body language telling her just how interested she was in what her frumpy big sister was doing. How exciting for you! What's the great C. Winslow Stephens going to write about now?

I can't tell you that, Ky-Lee said. Win has a great idea, but as usual, he's super closed-mouth about it. I think it has something to do with the Politics of the Vietnam War, but I don't know for sure.

He won't even tell you?

Ky-Lee shook her head. He never does. And I don't want to know.

When do you get to find out?

Not until I do a preliminary edit of his first rewrite. That's when I find out.

You get to edit his stuff

Some. I'm not the final judge in any way. But he likes me to be the first one to read it. I comment more on his characters. Especially the younger female ones.

What would you know? Neph said with a snide tone, which brought the expected reaction from Ky-Lee. Just kidding Kye, don't get mad.

I won't, she deadpanned. I try to imagine the females compared to you.

How do they come out?

Sometimes, Sis, she said, looking square into her gorgeous green eyes, A lot more real than you do.

Neph dropped Ky-Lee off at her hotel, said she'd give her a call after dinner and the silver Mercedes hummed away. Once she registered and tipped the bellhop up in her room, she flopped on the bed and dialed the private line of her boss, C. Winslow Stephens.

He and his wife lived aboard their ninety-seven foot yacht, a classically beautiful ketch. She pictured her famous employer sitting at his computer, energetically pounding the keyboard.

No. It's almost five in D.C.. Win will be sitting on the house deck of the boat with his wife they'll be sucking on a couple of largish Whiskey Old Fashioneds. And they won't answer the phone.

She hung up and closed her eyes, imagining the tranquil scene she was often an invited part of. Sandy Stephens would be reading the Rushes, the daily work. It was a most domestic scene. If Ky-Lee was there, she too would be relaxing with a drink, her feet up, her high heels hanging on her feet only by the toes. Maybe she would be doing some first revision editing, maybe not. If not, she might be sitting up and playing Seven-toed Pete, a bloodthirsty and fast-action game of Dominoes with Win.

Ky-Lee never had a romantic thought about her boss, not once in the five years she had been working for him. Come to think of it, she rarely had romantic thoughts about any man.

She wasn't the type.

Ky-Lee didn't have any sort of sexual thoughts about women, either. She was a product of her up-bringing. Gender-neutral. For the most part, men were a waste of time. She enjoyed spending the evenings with Win and Sandy, or staying at home in her apartment with a good book and a glass of sherry. That was more rewarding than dressing and going out to eat unhealthy food in unhealthy restaurants. Dinner dates with a male didn't really get Ky-Lee all ga-ga.

Because she wasn't considered beautiful, Ky-Lee knew that if a man bought her a few drinks and a dinner, he pretty much expected that she'd be so grateful that she'd fall into bed with him. What other reason could there possibly be for a normal male to ask her out?

As Ky- Lee wasn't willing to make herself available in those cases, she was usually the choice on the list one or two items above phoning an inexpensive professional escort service. What made it even tougher was that she was a lot more selective in her choice of bed partners. Unfortunately, the men Ky-Lee would like to get intimate with wouldn't touch her with a ten foot pole. And the men who would, she wouldn't mess with. It was like the old Groucho Marks one-liner. I wouldn't belong to any club who would accept me for a member.

Feeling a bit guilty for resting during the work-day, she sat up, lit a cigarette and went over her notes. Her assignment was to get as much extended biography as possible on a man and had been given up to four days to do it. The man was a San Franciscan. He was actually a fourth generation San Franciscan, fifth generation Californian, a truly rare breed. A man from a most prominent family.

Senator Franklin S. Giovanni was a youthful fifty-five who had the body of someone fifteen years his junior. He was a product of local private schools and graduated from UC. He was married, had three children, served in Vietnam, attaining the rank of First Lieutenant, Infantry. He had been captured in a fire-fight near Cam Ranh Bay.

He escaped a year later and returned home, a highly-decorated war-hero in a non-heroic war. He was now a U.S. Senator, but had already made his aspirations known for the up-coming political convention. A charismatic man, he could deliver California without breaking a sweat.

Chapter Two

Ky-Lee Sutherland awoke a little after dawn. Her room faced the east and the morning sun was welcome. She laid on her back, covered to her waist only by a sheet, and stared at the ceiling while smoking her first cigarette of the morning. One of the better ones of the day. There were times she enjoyed the daring feeling of laying exposed like this. She watched the soft flesh of her abdomen, which was reason ably flat from this point of view. If she lay still, she could see a slight bumping of her belly in response to her heart beat.

Gravity was working for her in this position. Her stomach didn't protrude half the distance of her breasts. If she looked under the sheet, pulled in her tummy, she could see the lower edge of her rib cage, see a wide-ish, flat abdomen and pudendum, flat all the way to a fairly thick patch of silky personal hair. Creamy white breasts sagged somewhat towards her armpits, but what full-figured woman's didn't?

They were her best female attribute, even if they were a bit fleshy. She had always worn practical, well-supportive brassieres so her breasts didn't have any stretch marks, and when she was younger, a little thinner, they were real nicely shaped. Her nipples were still pink, small, sensitive and cute, even to her critical eye. She considered that she had perfect breasts. Only they were hidden under an unknown quantity of extra blubber. She closed her eyes. Her boobs only got ugly when she stood up.

When she ground out the butt in the ashtray, she looked at her watch. Smirking that her friends in D.C. would still be fighting the traffic on the 495 loop, while she was stretched out naked and exposing her all to the delicious early morning California sun, she sat up on the edge of her bed and stretched luxuriously.

She took a shower and after drying off, did something she rarely did. She stood fully nude in front of the room's full length mirror, trying to be objective in her appraisal.

It didn't work. She was immediately self-conscious.

She sighed. Back in Paul Gauguin's day, she would have been considered the perfect model, a most sexy woman. Nowadays, she was plain fat. She was going to have to admit to being a lot more than fifteen pounds overweight.

She forced herself to turn around and look at her buns. They seemed big and fleshy, too. She put her hands on them and jiggled the flaccid mass. She was sure that somewhat undefined zone of ripples was gross-looking cellulite making it's eventual presence known. More and more she admitted to herself that she was way out of shape, that she could have a nice figure only if she'd indulge in the hated e-word.

Exercise.

If only she could pass a bowl of hard candies and not sneak a couple to munch on. she remembered the times. and there were lots of them. when she'd pass by a candy dish until it was empty or she was sick to her stomach.

Now completely depressed, she put on a pair of pink cotton panties, knowing very well that a larger size would fit a lot more comfortably, but there was no way in the world Ky-Lee was ever going to admit that she was a Queen size. She wasn't that fat.

Not yet.

While she dressed, Ky-Lee felt guilty about what she ate for dinner last night. It started out okay. She had resolved to be good and eat a broiled whitefish meal, one that couldn't possibly add up to six hundred calories.

Dining alone with no one to talk to, she had begun to reflect on her childhood. and her teen years. and later. when Neph was growing up two years younger and light years better looking than her.

Even now, Ky-Lee could look into a mirror, and once in a while, for a few fleeting seconds, see a pretty, almost beautiful, adolescent- like face staring back at her. Then the image would revert to type, that of a plain, plump, female.

Intellectually, she knew that fleeting image was her when she was fifteen or sixteen years old. As a teen, even Neph admitted that Ky-Lee could be real pretty. Ky-Lee knew all that in her brain, but the turmoil of her youth made everything ugly to the emotional side of the adult Ky-Lee.

Her parents were products of the sixties. Some of the primary doctrines of that era were to stoke up, shoot up, get high, get stoned, live free, love free.

When Neph was fourteen, already blessed with a fine prognostication of her future grown-up figure, she became an zealous subscriber to the free-love aspect of that life-style.

Ky-Lee tried to follow in her young sister's footsteps, but at fifteen and sixteen she just wasn't into non-romantic sex. Boys would only pretend to be interested in her so they could get an introduction to her foxy sister. If the boy aroused the interest of Neph, Ky-Lee was on the outside looking in.

So last night, Ky-Lee sat at her dinner and thought of Neph's beauty and charm and all the boys she stole from her and all the unfair familial favoritism and all the rest and said the hell with it and ordered a hot-fudge sundae for dessert . . .

And make it a double.

The fog had come in while she was in the shower. Proper dress for the day was a navy- blue skirt, a white blouse buttoned to the throat and a matching navy blazer. A turn in front of the tattle-tale mirror told her it wasn't as bad as all that, that maybe there was someone hidden in there who was pretty. If only she could believe the mirror.

She sighed and closed the hotel room door on her way out. The long, quiet hallway to the elevators was empty. Like her stomach.. which suddenly growled embarrassingly loud.

I can't be hungry! Not after three million calories and all those gobs of fat that I ate last night. Besides, I'm going on a diet, right this instant!

Even with the new diet, Ky-Lee allowed that it was a new day and she was surely entitled to eat breakfast. A1l diets say to eat breakfast. She ate a bowl of cold cereal, with skim milk and a glass of orange juice. She had one piece of toast and sipped a cup of black coffee.

When she signed her tab and stood up, she felt proud of herself. She had consumed a somewhat healthy breakfast and kept the unnecessary carbohydrates and calories to a minimum.

Since the hotel she was staying at was one of the more prestigious ones in the city, cabs were always available. Where to, Miss?

The old San Francisco Record-Herald building. South-side entrance.

Gotcha.

Ky-Lee settled in the back seat and watched the familiar but ever-changing city pass by her window. Most of the damage from the big quake had been repaired or covered over.

She knew where she was, had seen most of the buildings countless times when she went to college at USF. They drove past little cellar bars where she had experimented with alcohol in her never- ending efforts to be comfortable with the opposite sex.

In that quest, she tried pot. It didn't do a thing for her, except make her sleepy and hungry. One time, she attempted a little tiny line of cocaine … never again.

The high was wretched and in minutes, she threw up all over her date, ruining her best and only chance for romance with a decent male. That was then.

This is now. Then she maintained that men weren't worth the risks of getting hooked on drugs. Now AIDS rears its ugly head and, nothing is worth the risk of men. The car pulled in front of an old gray building. Here we are, Ma'am.

Thanks. She paid the fare and gave the cabby an adequate tip. In times past, Ky-Lee had been called cheap, a tightwad, but she considered herself frugal and thoughtful about money.

She trotted up the stairs, conscious that her ample chest didn't flop up and down in motion with the rest of her. it was doing it's own thing. how appropriate. no matter. this was exercise.

It was the first of many, many miles she was going to run to get Ky-Lee Sutherland California-Girl Lithe, just like Neph. The lobby was huge and virtually empty, save a gray haired lady behind a desk. Help you, miss? She asked.

I hope so. I called earlier.

Are you Ms. Sutherland?

I am. I'm a Researcher for C. Winslow Stephens. I'd like to paw through the morgue, if I can.

The C. Winslow Stephens?

Yes, Ma'am.

My Goodness, she smiled. What's it like working for someone so famous? Do you meet famous people?

Not a lot. Winslow isn't into parties, so he mostly hangs around with Joanne and Paul. Plays golf with the Publisher of the Times, too.

Goodness gracious.

She wondered if the star-struck woman was going to ask her for her autograph. It had happened before. That's what happens when you tell little white lies to keep from bursting a fan's bubbles.

Well, I better let you get to work. Take the first right, through the double-doors. Go down the hall to the elevator on the end. Push the button marked 'Basement, authorized personnel only'. When the door opens, tell the people down there that Helena said you could come down. Tell them who you work for, too.

I will. Thanks. She followed directions, walked down the long hall, her heels sending out an echo-locating tattoo into the old building. It was one of those hallways where one of her favorite fantasies came to mind. Ever since she was a kid, she had a great grinning urge to roll a bowling ball down any super-long hardwood-floored hall.

She found herself in a basement that was archaic, musty and ill-kept. The newspaper morgue librarian was pleased to see her. She would have been pleased to see anyone, even the garbage man. She realized that some time invested with the woman might be time well-spent. Be nice to her, she'll be nice in return.

She asked the elderly woman, Why on earth does the Record-Herald maintain a morgue in this day of computers?

She laughed. Our publisher is an old-time newspaperman. He loves to come down here and just look through the old papers. He says there's a big difference from the papers of old, when the news broke in print and today's rags, which are more suited for detailed follow-up stories of news already broken on the electronic media. We have what is probably the best morgue left in the U.S..

After more small-talk, Ky-Lee sat down at a large table. Anxious to please such a persona as Ky-Lee, the silver-haired newspaper librarian fetched coffee for her and brought all the pertinent files and clippings.

Ky-Lee began doing what she was being paid for. She felt pretty good about her investigative methodology. No one ever used newspaper morgues any more. She was a little surprised, but pleasantly so, when she had called the paper earlier this morning and found out they did maintain a morgue. Even though she was a great believer in modern computers and the uses thereof, there was still the notion of going into some moldy old basement or attic and finding something that had been hidden there for ages that put some romance into her job description.

The key to a morgue like this was you had to be researching someone fairly prominent. Considering that Franklin S. Giovanni was odds-on favorite to represent his party in one of the two slots on the national ticket in the November elections, that made him prominent.

She had already read his official biographies. All they did was confirm what he wanted the people to know. There was nothing about the man that did not make him out to be a candidate for immediate sainthood.

Ky-Lee was intrigued with the man. He was a war hero, a POW who escaped in the early part of the Vietnam debacle.

He could never be considered ugly. He was married, three kids, all boys, had a cute wife that she had actually met a few years ago at an A-List social gathering in D.C.. What was even harder to believe was that the good senator jokingly claimed that he was a distant, but nonetheless a true blood relative of the infamous lover, Don Juan.

An hour later, she had several pages of notes on Giovanni. And she had a new lead to track. Since Winslow was chiefly interested in Giovanni's war activities, she had garnered a list of names of men who had served with him.

Never mind the official U.S. Army bull-bleep. Any nitty-gritty details his 'Nam buddies could fill in would be most appreciated. At one time towards the end of the conflict, as part of an anti-war protest, the paper published every single man's name who served in Vietnam, and which outfit he was in, so it wasn't terribly difficult finding the other men who were assigned to Echo Company, Second Recon Brigade, First Infantry, at the same time as Lieutenant Giovanni. She found that another man was also a POW, captured with Giovanni. But this man was still an MIA.

The author of the pertinent article stated that most of the military authorities considered the individual presumed killed in some kind of a blown U.S. raid. She decided to start with that man's family and called a cab.

Rose Copperfield was black, a widow with three surviving children. But she was in no way frail, weak or unable to care for herself. She was a feisty five foot three, thin, with a good smile and a voice that sounded like it was coming from a six foot woman. She maintained a clean house in a somewhat poor neighborhood. The living room was clean with nice furnishings surrounding an area rug on hardwood floors.

She invited Ky-Lee in once she realized who C. Winslow Stephens was. Over coffee Ky- Lee asked, Ma'am, what can you tell me about when your son Jason was captured?

Nothing too much, she said. He and his c.o.. You know what a c.o. Is?

Yes, Ma'am. A Commanding Officer.

That's right. Anyway, Jason and his C.O. were wounded by an enemy mortar round. Then the Viet Cong overran their position, whilst the rest of the platoon puts their tail between their legs and ran! My Jason was caught. So was Franklin Giovanni.

Did you ever get any mail from Jason?

After he was captured?

Yes.

I did. He was in a place called Ahn Loc Doc.

Wasn't Senator Giovanni there, too?

He was. I heard that later. A year and a half after he was captured, six months after Senator Giovanni escaped, the camp was wiped out. I mean, there was nothing left!

Who did it?

The Air Force!

Who's?

Ours of course. The other side didn't have an Air Force! They told me the bombing was a mistake. They didn't find out until a full five years later that the place they destroyed was a POW prison instead of a Viet Cong Headquarters.

How did they find that out?

She gave Ky-Lee a hard look. Who knows? Spies, I suspect.

There was a pregnant silence which Ky-Lee finally broke. I'm very sorry for your loss, Ma'am.

Her eyes softened. My boy died fighting for his country. He's a hero. He was a good boy who loved this land. I'm proud of that boy. Proud.

You have a right to be. Do you know any of his buddies? I'd like to get as much information about Jason and his C.O. as I can. Perhaps Winslow will want to insert an anecdotal chapter about your son in his next book.

He would?

Sure. Ky-Lee hated lying to Mrs. Copperfield, but her investigation must go on. She would make sure that Win dropped the woman a personal letter.

Wouldn't that be nice? You have a list?

Yes, Ma'am.

Let me look at it, child. The woman put on a pair of heavy reading glasses and carefully read Ky-Lee's list of all the men in Echo Company, 2nd Recon, 1st Infantry who lived in the bay area. There's some names you're missing.

There are?

Yes. Out-of-towners. I have a list of Jason's friends I gathered from his letters. I'll just take this list to my desk and copy you some more names.

Oh, I'd be most grateful.

Think nothing of it, girl. You just sit and relax.

Thanks. After the older woman left the room, Ky-Lee got to her feet and stretched. It was three o'clock, her time. The time of the day when lunch sat heavily in a person's gut and put them in a dull frame of mind. The time when even fresh air and a cigarette wouldn't do a thing to perk her up.

She looked at the photo of Private First Class Jason Copperfield on the mantle. He was a handsome man, proud in his Army uniform. She picked up the photo and read the inscription. To Mom, my special girl, all my love. It was signed Jase.

She turned it over. It was dated and marked, Advanced Infantry Training graduation in a woman's hand. She put it back and let her eyes look over Rose Copperfield's personal treasures.

Pictures, a pair of military medals, a couple of souvenir paperweights, a pewter crucifix, four cards apparently left over from a recent birthday. Ky-Lee picked up the cards and read the inscriptions. Nothing too earth-shaking. She smiled. Evidently her children had a lot more devotion for their mother than Ky-Lee did for Doreen, but that's not unusual. One card was from a woman named Shirley-Beth. Another was from Samuel. Number three was from Jasmine.

The fourth was unsigned, but it read, For my special girl! Ky-Lee held the card under the photo, comparing the handwriting, then replaced the cards quickly and sat back down when she heard footsteps of Mrs. Copperfield in the uncarpeted hallway.

"I put in all the most recent names and addresses I had, miss. I do hope that Mister C. Winslow