the better-known of the so-called ‘sightings.’”
Wilcox said nothing; his eyes had gone cold, their lids at half-mast.
I pressed on: “You know, Roswell has a special significance-it’s the only time the Air Force officially recognized the existence of saucers; they even put out a press release saying the wreckage of a disk had been recovered.”
Wilcox was studying me the way a lizard looks at a fly.
“Anyway,” I said, shifting in the chair, crossing my legs, “I’ve come to see you for two reasons. First of all, I didn’t want to go poking around your town without you knowing.”
“Appreciate that,” he said, nodding slowly.
“Second, I’m hoping I can interview you, for the article. I understand this rancher, Mac Brazel, brought in some samples of the oddball debris, and that you’re the one who called in the Air Force…. You mind if I take a few notes?”
I was taking my small spiral pad from my right hip pocket.
“Put that back, son,” he said, waggling a thick finger. He wasn’t all that much older than me, not enough to be calling me “son,” anyway; but he made me feel about fifteen, in the principal’s office, just the same.
“Sheriff, if you don’t want to be quoted,” I said, the notebook still in hand, “I could still use some background information …”
“Mr., uh-Helman, was it?”
“Heller.”
“I’ll let you take a few notes, and you can use my name, too. This won’t take long.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“The Air Force said that thing was just an air balloon. That first press release … three hours later, they said it was a mistake.”
“Well, uh, Sheriff, mistake or not, there was quite a fuss-you had to field phone calls from all around the world, I understand.”
He nodded again. “I sat up all night, taking calls from Germany, London, France, Italy, all kinds of places, and probably every state of the Union. I told ’em what I’m telling you: talk to the Air Force.”
“That what you’re advising me?”
“No.” His tone was firm but not unkind. “My advice to you would be, move on to the next flying saucer story on your list.”
“Why is that?”
He nodded toward the notepad in my hands. “Now I am going to insist you put that thing away.”
“All right.”
“Don’t quote me. Don’t paraphrase me.”
“Certainly.”
Wilcox sat forward and placed both his hands on the desk; his tone shifted to a flatly ominous one that would have seemed ridiculous if it hadn’t been chilling. He said, simply, “Don’t look into this or you’re going to have real trouble.”
“Trouble from you, Sheriff?”
“Not from me.”
“Who from?”
“That’s all I have to say, on or off the record. Do yourself a favor, son-move on.”
“But, Sheriff, my understanding is that you saw some of this strange debris, even handled some of it. Was this stuff really as weird as has been reported? Thin metal that goes back to its original shape, if you wad it up? Unearthly hieroglyphics?”
Wilcox stood, slowly, smiling as benignly as a Buddha. “I appreciate your courtesy, Mr. Heller, stopping by to let me know about your inquiry.”
I sighed, stood, sticking my pad in my back pocket, nodding to him. “Thank you for your time, Sheriff.”
On the way out, the chatty deputy called to me, “Mr. Heller! Where are you staying, should we need to get in touch with you?”
I went over to his desk. “I’m at the El Capitan Hotel.”
“Over the drugstore downtown,” Deputy Reynolds said, nodding, writing it down. “Thank you, Mr. Heller.”
Then he extended his hand and I shook it, and felt a piece of paper there. His bright eyes narrowed and communicated something, and when I withdrew my hand, I tightened it over the note he’d passed me.
I didn’t look at it until I was out of the courthouse and onto the street: “Clover Cafe, two p.m.”
But right now it was barely ten, so I headed for the next stop on the list Major Marcel had provided Pearson; with the exception of the sheriff, everyone else was either expecting me or at least a chum of Marcel’s, and should be a friendly witness.
On the third floor of the Roswell equivalent of a skyscraper-a four-story brick building on Main Street-down on the left of a wood-and-pebbled-glass hallway, black stenciled letters on the door announced the HAUT INSURANCE AGENCY. I knocked, and a flat, midrange voice called, “Come on in!”
It was a single office, not very wide, and not very long, either, barely big enough for the ceiling fan that was lazily whirling, like a propeller warming up; no receptionist-no room for one. By an open window looking out on Main Street, at a work-piled rolltop desk, a boyishly handsome blue-eyed blond young man-maybe twenty-six, in shirtsleeves and a red-and-blue tie and blue slacks-was on the phone, talking life insurance with a client.
He waved me toward the hardwood chair alongside his desk and I sat, removing my straw fedora. The blond kid smiled at me, motioned that this call wouldn’t take long. It didn’t.
“Walter Haut,” he said affably, without standing, extending his hand, which I took and shook. “And you are?”
“Nathan Heller,” I said. “I believe Jesse Marcel warned you I’d be stopping by.”
“Oh, oh, yeah-sure! Glad to see ya. But, uh … you mind if I check your i.d. first?”
“Not at all.” I showed him the Illinois license and the honorary deputy’s badge.
His grin was affable and embarrassed. “You’ll have to excuse the less than lavish digs … I’m just getting in the insurance game … independent agent. I was in your field till about two months ago.”
“Investigation?”
He rolled his eyes. “Collection agency. I don’t know how you guys stand it.”
“My firm doesn’t do repo or skip tracing. Ugly work.”
“I agree.” He leaned an arm on his desk, leaned forward. “You know, I like people-I’m a member of the chamber of commerce-and the last way I want to make my living is doggin’ folks for a dollar. So … let’s make it ‘Nate’ and ‘Walt’ and skip the formalities. Any friend of Jesse’s is a friend of mine.”
“I don’t want to overstate my case, Walt. I’ve only spoken to Jesse once. But my feeling is he’s pretty bitter about taking the fall for Uncle Sam.”
Haut’s head bobbed up and down. “He got a bum shake, all right. Which is why I’m willing to talk … off the record, of course-confidential source, that kind of thing?”
“You got it. Mind if take notes?”
“Feel better if you would. Only thing … if my phone rings, I have to take it … one-man agency, you know how it is.”
“Actually, I do. I spent almost ten years that way, myself. When did you leave the service, Walt?”
“I left last August. I never intended to make a career of it. Were you in the service, Nate?”
I nodded. “Marines.”
“Overseas duty?”
“Guadalcanal.”
He blew an appreciative whistle. “Then you can understand how good civilian life looks to a guy who flew thirty-eight combat missions against the Japs.”
“Not a pilot, I take it.”
“Bombardier and navigator.”
Pen poised over the pad, I said, “Your postwar position out at the air base, I understand, was public relations
