Shattered Image. J.F. Margos

      “I’m in touch with that emotion in a big way.”

      Now I felt really bad. Here I was talking about all this to Leo, and her parents and brother were all dead, and her only living relative was her cousin, Pete. Her parents had been killed by a drunk driver on 2222, and her brother, formerly Tommy Lucero’s partner, had been shot to death in the line of duty just over a year ago.

      “I’m sorry, kid, I wasn’t thinking.”

      “Aw, don’t start walking on eggshells around me. I don’t own grief, you know. Vietnam was horrible. I’m sure Ted wasn’t the only person you knew there who didn’t make it. You have a right to feel what you feel about that.”

      “Unfortunately, Ted wasn’t the only friend we had there who didn’t make it. He was the friend we knew and loved the most, I guess, but there were so many others. Oh man, marines there on the base who went off on patrol and they’d come back with a third of the guys gone, and two or three of those were friends of ours. Pilots that flew off and never came back—it was an endless stream.”

      “So now Ted may have been found, and you have to help figure that out.”

      “Yes.”

      “And that takes you right back into the endless stream again.”

      “Yeah.”

      “I totally understand. Toni?”

      “Yes.”

      “You can talk to me about it anytime. Sometimes it’s better to talk about these things with someone who gets it. Know what I mean?”

      “Yeah, kid, I do.”

      Chapter Four

      Sergeant Major Tomlinson called me back from the CILHI labs in Hawaii. CILHI’s staff includes thirty anthropologists, four forensic odontologists (dentists) and numerous other forensic scientists. They also employ other experts on an as-needed basis, which can include any legitimate expert requested by the family of a missing service person. I had been used twice previously to reconstruct the faces of two servicemen recovered from Laos and Cambodia.

      The Sergeant Major remembered me. With his typical military courtesy, he continually addressed me as “Dr. Sullivan” because of my Ph.D. in art. It made me uncomfortable. I had worked hard to complete my formal education, but I considered the informal education of my life’s experiences to be more important, and that education had been completed by “Toni,” not Dr. Sullivan.

      We spoke about my phone conversation with Irini. He was familiar with the case and gave me all the details from his perspective.

      It had been a long road to find remains that might actually belong to Teddy. Three times before, CILHI had thought they would bring Ted home. The first time, they dug at a site they thought was near his supposed crash site, but they found nothing. They conducted more interviews with the locals and continued searching for the right site.

      The second time they were supposed to go in and search a site, there were political problems and they weren’t allowed in. The third time, with political problems resolved, they went in to search the second site and labored again with no results.

      More interviews with locals and more research had pointed them to this new site. Here they had found fragments of bones, pieces of the airplane—some parts of it had been cannibalized by the locals for use in homemade farming equipment—and they also found other personal items that had definitely belonged to a U.S. serviceman. They sifted the soil in that location for months and collected everything they could find. Now they just needed a way to prove that what they had found were the remains of Captain Theodore P. Nikolaides.

      As Irini had said, few teeth were recovered and the ones they found were only Ted’s good teeth and not the ones they needed to make a positive match to his dental work. The nuclear DNA had deteriorated, but that was expected. The mitochondrial DNA was totally usable, but there was no one with whom they could compare it. They had used that DNA, however, to match the bone pieces and the skull—that was a match. Knowing that all those parts belonged to the same person meant that once the ID had been made through my facial reconstruction, all the matching pieces could be said to belong to someone—he would have a face, a name, a history and a family and friends.

      If these were Ted’s remains, he would get a posthumous Purple Heart and qualify for burial in Arlington National Cemetery. His family would have closure and his fellow American citizens would lay him to rest with full military honors. It seemed a cheap price for the life of such a man and it was long overdue, but it was more than a man like Ted Nikolaides would have ever expected or asked for his service. But then, that is the hero’s way and my friend Ted had been a hero long before he ever gave his life for his country.

      Sergeant Major Tomlinson and I agreed that I would arrive in Honolulu at Hickham Air Force Base next week to begin my work. I would make my own travel arrangements.

      It was three in the morning. I sat on the patio behind my house, barefoot, wearing my jeans and a pullover sweatshirt, with a mug of root beer in my hand. I was slumped down in an Adirondack chair gazing up at the stars and the elliptical track above me. I had picked out a couple of planets, but couldn’t remember which one was Mars and which one Venus. My brain was otherwise occupied and all other data had slipped off-line.

      Teddy Nikolaides had great teeth and a brilliant smile to show them off. His smile was broad, engaging and completely sincere—consequently, it was absolutely mesmerizing. It was painful at this point to remember the joy of that smile.

      The last day I saw Ted was supposed to be his last day in Vietnam, not his last day on this side of life. The weather had been incredible that day. Ted had orders to go home. He was supposed to leave for Saigon and then go on to Hawaii, where he would change planes and continue back to the mainland—to Chicago. There he would be with his beautiful Irini and their two children, Eleni and Gregory. Eleni was four and Gregory was almost two.

      From the moment he got up that day, Ted had been more energetic than usual. He had been jubilant. He had to fly one more mission and it was supposed to be a short one, and then he was leaving. Before he boarded the plane, he had come to say goodbye to Jack and me. He wasn’t sure there would be time when he got back before he headed off for Saigon. The three of us talked of Ted’s trip home, of how Jack and I would get together with Ted and Irini in the States, and of all the incredibly good times we knew the four of us would have together. Ted was talking of moving his family from Chicago to Texas. He and Irini had already discussed it. Irini and I had talked on the phone and began to write one another. She wanted to move, to live in a place that was more like her home country.

      As the three of us finished our conversation, there was a moment where sorrow almost overcame us, but Ted wouldn’t allow it.

      “No tears,” he had said. “There will be such good times for all of us, and it will be soon.”

      We all hugged and laughed as Ted made jokes. He walked out to his plane and climbed on board, pulled on his helmet and raised his hand high in one final greeting, beaming his beautiful joyous smile.

      I tilted the mug over my lip and let the carbonated beverage flow in a long swallow. It was my second glass. In spite of the hour, I was seriously considering a third. After the two reconstructs I had done for CILHI, I knew what to expect in terms of remains. The skulls I had worked on previously had been put together from pieces—lots of pieces. The one on which I would do the reconstruct this time was only in five pieces. The forensic anthropologist had put them back together already. Apparently, the only reason there were pieces of the skull to reconstruct was due to some fluke of protection that had been offered by the pilot’s helmet, and the nature of the crash.

      All that was left were just pieces of bones, bones of those long dead—dry bones.

      I laid my head back against the chair and whispered, “Dry bones…”

      I thought about death and life, about dry bones and prophecies of resurrection and the words of the prophet Ezekiel flowed into my