Mrs. Mitchell sat down on the couch and invited Mike and Adams to sit in two maple occasional chairs. Fumbling about out of nervousness, she brought out an imitation leather-bound photo album and started to leaf through the book for a recent photograph of Mitchell. Finally, she found one of Mitchell hugging his eight-year-old son, Tommy. Tommy was holding a baseball bat and Mitchell had a fielder’s glove and softball. As she handled the picture over, she wiped her tears on the cuff of her sleeve.
Both Adams and Mike carefully studied the picture and furtively glanced at one and another. Mitchell was definitely the man who drove the black paneled truck and fired the rocket at the first Suburban. Both were sure of this despite the fact that the corpse, now on a slab at CSAC, had a major portion of his head blown off. Adams asked Mrs. Mitchell if he and Mike could keep the photograph. She nodded.
“Mrs. Mitchell, could you tell us where your husband worked and if he had any close friends that we can talk to?”
“Is Jerry in trouble? I mean, should I get an attorney or something?” said Mrs. Mitchell.
“You can always get an attorney, if you wish, Mrs. Mitchell,” Adams said. “But what Mr. Liu and I want is some information concerning your husband; we’re not charging you or your husband with anything at this time. You can help us or not, it’s your choice.”
“Jerry worked at the Catonsville Lumber Yard in Catonsville, Maryland. He’s such a likable guy, I know he had lots of friends at work, although he hardly ever brought anyone home — said that home was where he could relax. He did, however, sometimes go with friends from work to a rod and gun club near Dickerson, Maryland.”
“How long have you been married?” said Mike.
“We’ve been married for ten years, about ten months after I met Jerry at a church social.”
“Does Mr. Mitchell have relatives?”
“No, he was an orphan. His parents died when Jerry was ten and he grew up in a series of foster homes. That’s why he loves kids so much.”
“Where and when was he born?” said Mike.
“He was born in Rosston, Illinois, on January 10, 1940.”
“What was the name of the rod and gun club near Dickerson?”
“I’m not sure, but Jerry would often go for a weekend with some of his friends. It might have been Dickerson Rod and Gun, something like that.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Mitchell. If you remember anything else please give me a call,” said Adams as he handed Mrs. Mitchell a card with his telephone number.
As Mike and Adams drove away from home of Mitchell, both of them were even more mystified. It was clear in their minds that one of the Huntersville attackers was Mitchell, but why?
“Maybe the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club has the answer,” said Mike.
Adams nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll have a background check run on Mitchell.”
Adams went to the FBI building in Washington, D.C., instead of the CSAC office so he could run a trace on Mitchell. As he was getting ready to leave his office, the telephone rang. It was Mike.
“Hi, Mike,” answered Adams. “So far, Jerry Mitchell is coming up clean. He doesn’t seem to have a record of any kind. No service, no crimes, not even a parking ticket. This guy seems to have lived a clean, straight life. Wait a minute.”
Adams put Mike on hold as Special Agent Martha Thomas barged into his office.
“Herb, I thought you should see this right away. You may be on to something.”
Adams took one look at the photocopies of Mitchell’s two documents, one a birth certificate and the other a death certificate. He gave out a long, low whistle.
“Thanks a lot, Martha. You’ve earned your pay for today.”
Martha smiled and left Adams’ office.
“Mike, are you sitting down?” said Adams, picking up his telephone.
“What’s up?”
“We just got some records on Mitchell. Special Agent Martha Thomas in our Management Information Systems section did a reverse check on Mr. Mitchell as well as a check of birth records from Rosston, Illinois. What she found is that Jerry Mitchell was born on January 10, 1940. However, Jerry Mitchell died that same year on March 20, from complications of birth. He lived barely more than three months.
“It seems that before 1970, Rosston kept separate birth and death records. Anyone wanting to establish a false identity can do so easily by searching the death records for an infant death and then separately requesting a birth certificate from the birth registry. The office usually issues them without question, if you have a driver’s license or something like that. Happens all the time, people get them for such things as school admissions, marriage certificates, passports, and even, driver’s licenses. Because the birth registration office is separate from the one for death records, they don’t do cross-checks. So with a little ingenuity, you can get a birth certificate for someone who died. This was used by student radicals in the sixties and 1970s to establish false identities for who knows what purpose.”
“That means the stiff we think is Mitchell is not really Jerry Mitchell.”
“You really are a rocket scientist, aren’t you?” said Adams, chuckling.
“That’s heavy,” said Mike.
“Yeah.”
“What do we do next?”
“Where are you?”
“Outside of our offices on Wisconsin Avenue, at a telephone booth.”
“I’ll pick you up in about ten minutes in front of the Sears store on Wisconsin Avenue near the office. Can you get some special weapons?”
“Already have. They’re in an aluminum briefcase next to me.”
Adams pulled up to Mike, who was waiting at the Metro signpost next to the Sears store. Mike quickly got into Adams’ car, carrying the aluminum briefcase. Once on the road again, Adams handed Mike the photocopied records of Jerry Mitchell’s birth and death.
Having lost his reading glasses during the fracas on Huntersville Road, Mike had to hold the photocopies close to his eye to read them clearly.
“Ever thought about reading glasses, Mike?”
“Had some, but I lost them on Huntersville Road, Herb.”
“Damn shame.”
Adams made a U-turn on Wisconsin Avenue by driving around Tenley Circle. He then headed north on Wisconsin Avenue, toward Route 495. At Interstate 495, Adams went west to Interstate 270 toward Rockville and beyond. After driving for about one hour, they reached the small western Maryland town of Dickerson.
After stopping for directions, they easily located the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club. Mike and Adams drove along the narrow blacktop road through heavily wooded land and came to the roughly painted sign that said, “Private — Dickerson Rod and Gun Club — Members Only.”
“What do you think, Herb?”
“Did you get the special weapons?”
“Two Uzi automatic pistols with double magazines.” He opened the aluminum briefcase and took out one of the pistols.
“Let’s put them under the seat just in case,” said Adams, as he turned down the dirt driveway leading to the Dickerson Rod and Gun Club. Adams and Mike traveled about a half mile to a clapboard farmhouse with peeling white paint. As they approached the farmhouse, a man in soiled and torn denim coveralls and a dirty red flannel shirt limped out toward them.
The fellow, about sixty years in age, was unshaven and missing several front teeth. A toothpick hung precariously in the right corner of his mouth. He looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a long time. He wore a blue cap that said Latonsville Feed & Grain and carried a Remington double barrel shotgun. Adams stopped the car at the house and rolled down his window. As the man came up to the window, the unmistakable smell of body odor wafted into the car.
Mike cautiously reached under his seat for the Uzi pistol and held it by his side, safety off.