Chu had printed out several pages of data on each of the men. Bosch had those pages in the file along with printouts of the photos taken by both Drummond and Jespersen on the Saudi Princess, as well as a translation of the story Anneke Jespersen had submitted to the BT with her photos.
Bosch opened the file and reread the story. It was dated March 11, 1991, almost two weeks after the war had ended and the troops had become peacekeepers. The story was short, and he guessed that it was just a copy block that went with her photos. The Internet translation program he used was basic. It did not translate grammatical nuance and style, leaving the story choppy and awkward in English.
It is called “Love Boat,” but no mistake this is a war ship. Luxury liner Saudi Princess never leaves port but always has maximum security and capacity. The British vessel has been chartered and temporarily used by the U.S. Pentagon as a rest and recreation retreat for American troops from in Operation Desert Storm.
Men and women with service in Saudi Arabia are allowed occasional three-day rest and relaxation leave and since the cease-fire the demand for it is very big. The Princess is only destination in the conservative Persian Gulf where the soldiers can drink alcohol, make the friends and not bring the camouflage equipment.
The ship stays in port and is well guarded by armed Marines in uniform. (The Pentagon asks journalists who visit cannot reveal the ship’s exact location.) But on board there are no uniforms and life is a party. Has two disco, ten 24-hour bars and three pools. Soldiers who stationed in the region for weeks and months and dodged SCUD missile and bullets of Iraqi have 72 hours to have fun, taste their alcohol and flirt with the opposite sex—all of the things forbidden in camp.
“For three days we are civilians once more,” said Beau Bentley, a 22-year-old soldier from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. “Last week I was in a firefight in Kuwait City. Today I sip a cold one with my friends. You cannot beat that.”
The alcohol flows freely in the bars and at the pool edge. Celebrations of the Allied victory are many. Men on board the ship are more than women by fifteen to one—reflecting the composition of the U.S. troops in the Gulf. It is not just men on the Saudi Princess who wish the sides were more even.
“I haven’t had to buy a drink for the time I’ve been here,” said Charlotte Jackson, a soldier from Atlanta, Georgia. “But the guys constantly hitting on you gets olden. I wish I had brought a good book to read. I’d be in my cabin right now.”
Based on the comment from Beau Bentley about being in a firefight only a week before, Bosch figured the story had been written and then held almost a week by the BT before publication. That meant Anneke Jespersen had probably been on board the ship sometime during the first week of March.
Bosch had initially not viewed the Saudi Princess story as significant. But now with the connection established between Jespersen and the members of 237th Company on the ship, things were different. He realized he was looking at the names of two potential witnesses. He pulled his phone and called Chu. The call went to message. Chu was off duty and had probably shut down for the night. Bosch left a message in a low voice so he wouldn’t disturb the other patrons in the restaurant.
“Dave, it’s me. I’m going to need you to take a stab at a couple names. I got them out of a nineteen ninety-one news story, but what the hell, give it a try. The first name is Beau Bentley and he is or was from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The second is Charlotte Jackson. She was listed as from Atlanta. Both were soldiers in Desert Storm. I don’t know what branch. The story didn’t say. Bentley was twenty-two then, so he’s forty-two or forty-three now. I’ve got no age on Jackson, but she could be anywhere from, I’d say, thirty-nine to maybe fifty years old. See what you can do and let me know. Thanks, partner.”
Bosch disconnected and looked toward the front door of the restaurant. Still no sign of Hannah Stone. He went back to his phone and shot a quick text to his daughter to ask if she had gotten something to eat, then went back to the file folder.
He leafed through the biographical material his partner had drawn up on the five men. Four of the reports contained a driver’s license photo at the top. Drummond’s DL was not included, because his law enforcement status kept him out of the DMV computer. Bosch stopped on the sheet for Christopher Henderson. Chu had handwritten DECEASED in large letters next to the photo.
Henderson had survived Desert Storm and the L.A. riots as a member of the Fighting 237th, but he didn’t survive an encounter with an armed robber at a restaurant he managed in Stockton. Chu had included a 1998 newspaper account reporting that Henderson had been accosted while he was alone and locking up at a popular steakhouse called the Steers. An armed man wearing a ski mask and a long coat forced him back inside the restaurant. A passing motorist saw the incident and called 9-1-1, but when police arrived shortly after the emergency call came in, they found the front door unlocked and Henderson dead inside. He had been shot execution-style while kneeling in the kitchen’s walk-in refrigerator. A safe where the restaurant’s operating cash was kept at night was found open and empty in the manager’s office.
The newspaper report said that Henderson had been planning to leave his job at the Steers to open up his own restaurant in Manteca. He never got the chance. According to what Chu could find on the computer, the murder was never solved and no suspects were ever identified by the Stockton police.
Chu’s bio on John James Drummond was extensive because Drummond was a public figure. He joined the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department in 1990 and rose steadily through the ranks until he challenged the incumbent sheriff in 2006 and won an upset election. He successfully ran for reelection in 2010 and was now setting his sights on Washington, DC. He was campaigning for Congress, hoping to represent the district that encompassed both Stanislaus and San Joaquin counties.
A political biography that was circulated online during his first run for sheriff described Drummond as a local kid who made good. He grew up in a single-parent family in the Graceada Park neighborhood of Modesto. As a deputy he served in all capacities in the Sheriff’s Department, even as pilot of the agency’s one helicopter, but it was his superior management skills that accelerated his climb. The biography also called him a war hero, crediting him with serving with the National Guard in Desert Storm, as well as noting that he was injured during the 1992 Los Angeles riots while protecting a dress shop from being looted.
Bosch realized that Drummond accounted for the one injury the 237th Company sustained during the riots. A bottle thrown back then could be one of the little things that got him to Washington now. He also noted that Drummond was already a law officer when called out with the guard to the Persian Gulf and then Los Angeles.
The self-serving material in the campaign biography also noted how crime across the board in Stanislaus County had dropped during Drummond’s watch. It was all canned stuff and Bosch moved on, next looking at the sheet on Reginald Banks, who was forty-six years old and a lifelong resident of Manteca.
Banks had been employed for eighteen years as a salesman at the John Deere dealership in Modesto. He was married and the father of three kids. He had a degree from Modesto Junior College.
On this deeper dig, Chu had also found that in addition to his DUI conviction, Banks also had two other DUI arrests that did not result in conviction. Bosch noted that the one conviction came from an arrest in San Joaquin County, where Manteca was located. But two DUI stops in neighboring Stanislaus County never resulted in charges being filed. Bosch wondered if being foxhole buddies with the Stanislaus County sheriff might have had something to do with that.