by Kathy Reichs
“Corporal Eggers is the chief witness for the prosecution.” Enough said.
“How is Lieutenant Gross handling all this?”
“John loves his country and loves the Corps. But he feels betrayed. He hates being stuck in Jacksonville, and would prefer to return to Afghanistan. He is certain he will be vindicated. As am I.”
Hawthorn smiled and pointed a finger at my offending debris. “May I?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He tossed the cup and napkin into something at his feet.
“So,” he said, straightening. “Let’s get into greater detail about your testimony.”
For the next hour we went over the basics. Hawthorn listened, asked a few questions, made a few notes. When I’d finished, he rose and thanked me again.
“If you need anything further, I’m staying at the Lejeune Inn,” I offered, sincerely hoping he wouldn’t call.
Rigg met me outside with the van.
As we drove across base, I thought over Hawthorn’s comments.
Intense was the word he’d used.
How intense? I wondered.
Rigg dropped me under the portico, said he’d collect me at oh-eight-thirty the following day. I went to my room and called Ryan. Got his machine. Although he’d responded to none of my earlier messages, I left another.
Frustrated and hungry, I walked to a Wendy’s for a double with cheese and fries. God, it was good to be home.
Back in my room, the humming clock said 1:15. Already regretting the quart of grease I’d ingested, I lay down on the bed. Outside, the sentry birds were now twittering like mad.
I closed my eyes.
Again I was awakened by a ringing phone. The room had gone dark.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?”
The silence sounded hollow, as though someone was listening. Or cupping the receiver.
Click.
Apologies to you, too, shithead.
I walked down the hallway, bought a vending-machine Diet Coke, returned, and booted my laptop. As I moved images into a PowerPoint presentation, my thoughts kept veering to Gross.
Would bones dug from the Afghan desert hold the key to his fate?
THE COURTROOM WAS spartan: A raised bench stage center, defense and prosecution tables opposite, a witness stand adjacent to the bench and facing the courtroom, a court reporter’s desk in front of the witness stand, an empty jury box, a few seats for spectators at the rear.
The investigating officer, Lieutenant Colonel Frank Keever, was a gray-haired guy, trim, with a no-nonsense air. Major Christopher Nelson had a blond buzz cut and what must have been a very long torso. The prosecutor looked much shorter standing than sitting.
A man and a woman were the only people in the three rows of benches at the back of the room. The only ones wearing civvies. Diligent note taking suggested both were journalists.
Lieutenant John Gross was already seated when I arrived, back rigid, fingers intertwined on the tabletop. He was built like a bulldog, compact but powerful, with a face that looked like chiseled granite. Every crease was sharp. Every hair was in place.
Promptly at 9:30, Keever brought the hearing to order and asked Hawthorn if he wished to proceed with evidence for the defense.
I was called to the stand.
Gross’s eyes followed as I crossed the room. Otherwise, not a muscle, hair, or lash moved.
Hawthorn began with a review of my credentials. Some questions were the same as those posed during jury selection two weeks earlier in Charlotte.
Hawthorn brought out that I had a PhD in anthropology and was certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, a group with less than a hundred members. I explained that I was not a medical doctor but specialized in the examination of skeletal material, and that I worked closely with pathologists in the evaluation of human remains.
Hawthorn mentioned my association with JPAC and my familiarity with the military. He pointed out that the bulk of my work had been on behalf of the prosecution rather than the defense.
I testified that I’d just returned from Afghanistan, where I’d supervised the exhumation of the bodies of Abdul Khalik Rasekh and Ahmad Ali Aqsaee, and performed skeletal autopsies at the Bagram Air Force Base hospital.
Gross watched with the intensity of a tomcat eyeing a sparrow. Now and then a subtle tremor twitched his left lower lid.
Hawthorn then got to the heart of it.
Hawthorn: “What conclusions, if any, did you draw concerning the entry and exit points of bullets?”
“As to Mr. Rasekh, none. As to Mr. Aqsaee, I concluded that bullets had struck him in the area of the chest and had exited at his back.”
No reaction from Gross. Just the tic.
Hawthorn: “Why were you not able to determine trajectories with respect to Mr. Rasekh?”
“Bone destruction was too extensive to allow identification of entry or exit points.”
Hawthorn: “But you were able to identify such points for Mr. Aqsaee?”
“Yes.”
Hawthorn: “Please describe the findings that led you to that opinion.”
“There were several. Defects on two rib segments, on bone shards that had been part of the sternum, and on one vertebrae all demonstrated classic fracture patterning for gunshot wounds in an anterior-to-posterior trajectory. Metal and bone fragments found on X-ray further supported that finding. Mr. Aqsaee was shot in the chest.”
Gross remained absolutely motionless, his face a stone mask.
Hawthorn: “Can you explain briefly what happens when a bullet impacts tissue?”
I provided a jargon-free overview of the biomechanics of gunshot wounding, including the effects of projectile tumbling, cavitation, and fragmentation.
Hawthorn: “Tell us about bullet damage to bone.”
“A projectile traveling at high speed subjects bone to sudden dynamic stress. Though bone is thought to be rigid, it actually has some elasticity. As with soft tissue, when a bullet penetrates bone, a temporary cavity is created.”
Hawthorn: “What velocity is required for penetration of bone?”
“Studies suggest a minimum of two hundred feet per second. Much less than a bullet fired from an M16.”
Hawthorn: “Tell us about exit and entrance wounds.”
“Typically, when a bullet penetrates bone, a circular to oval defect is created at the point of entrance. The defect’s edges are sharp, and its diameter may roughly approximate that of the bullet’s caliber. An exit defect tends to be larger and more irregular in shape.”
Hawthorn: “Why?”
“A number of factors, including the potential for bullet deformation or fragmentation, and the potential loss of much of the bullet’s kinetic energy.”
Hawthorn: “Larger size and irregular shape. Are those the only differences?”
“No. As a bullet exits bone, fragments are broken off the edges of the exit surface and propelled forward, accompanying the bullet on its path. As a result, an exit defect is beveled out in a conelike fashion. Schematic representations are included in my report. I also have photos and copies of X-rays.”
“Have you transferred those to a computer-imaging format which you can display on our screen?”
“Yes.”
I booted my laptop, opened my PowerPoint presentation, and advanced to an image of a section of rib.
“This photo shows the anterior aspect of a piece of Mr. Aqsaee’s right fifth rib.”
Hawthorn: “The part that faced front?”
“Yes.” I ran the cursor around the upper border of a partially preserved circular defect. “Note the sharp, clean edges. This is a bullet entrance hole.”
I advanced to the next image.
“This shows the posterior aspect of that same rib, the part that faced Mr. Aqsaee’s spine. Note the beveled edges of the defect. The beveling indicates that this is a bullet exit point.”
Hawthorn: “What does this fracture patterning tell you?”
“The bullet trajectory was front to back.”
Gross remained impassive, but seemed to glance at the bench every so often to gauge how the lieutenant colonel was reacting.
I moved to the next image.
“This defect is located on the anterior aspect of Mr. Aqsaee’s right seventh rib, at a point close to its articulation with the sternum.”
Hawthorn: “His breast bone.”
“Yes. Note that the defect characteristics are almost identical to those in the previous shot.”
The next image showed a posterior view of that same rib. As with the exit defect on the fifth rib, spalling was evident around the edges. I moved on.
“This shows bullet damage on a segment of that same rib, the seventh, at a point close to its articulation with the spinal column.”
Hawthorn: “Where it curves around to form the back of the rib cage?”
“Yes. This is an anterior view. Note the clean edges on the defect.”
Next image.
“This is a posterior view of that same segment of rib. Note the beveling.”
Hawthorn: “So a bullet entered the front of the rib cage at the level of the seventh rib, then exited that same rib in back, near the spine.”
“Yes.” Next image. “This is a view of the anterior surface of Mr. Aqsaee’s sternum, after rearticulation of the broken pieces.”
“His breast bone.”
“Yes.”
Hawthorn: “You reconstructed it yourself?”
“Yes. Note the clean-edged circular defect at the middle right. This is a bullet entrance point.”
Next image.
“This shows the posterior aspect of the sternal defect. Note its significantly larger size, irregular shape, and the fragmentation that exposes the underlying spongy bone. This is a bullet exit point. The fracture patterning demonstrated on these two images indicates that a bullet traveled through Mr. Aqsaee’s sternum on a trajectory of front to back.”
Hawthorn: “So. You are saying that three bullets entered Mr. Aqsaee’s chest and exited his back.”
“A minimum of three. There could have been more. I can only observe trauma evident on the skeleton.”
Hawthorn: “Do the flight paths of these bullets suggest anything concerning Mr. Aqsaee’s position relative to that of Lieutenant Gross at the time of the shooting?”
I projected a photograph to which I’d added graphics to illustrate this point. The reconstructed sternum, rib fragments, and vertebral fragments were placed in anatomically appropriate positions in a schematic of a skeleton. A red line connected each entrance wound with its associated exit wound, then extended forward and backward from the rib cage and spinal column. Each line ran roughly parallel to the skeleton’s feet.
“The bullet trajectories suggest that Mr. Aqsaee was upright and facing Lieutenant Gross when he was shot.”
Gross’s lips tightened. His chin hitched up a millimeter, leveled.
“I can also project the X-rays.”
I moved to an image in which brilliant white dots peppered a partial rib and two vertebral fragments.
“When a gun is fired, metal particulates can travel with the bullet as it moves through the body. These particulates appear here as white specks due to their greater density in comparison to bone.”
I advanced to an image superimposing the X-ray over a schematic of a rib cage, and drew the cursor along a path from the rib to the vertebrae.
“Note how the metallic trace is more densely packed in the rib, less so in the vertebrae. Particles were lost as the bullet advanced along its path.”
Hawthorn: “Its path being from the chest toward the spine.”
“Yes. In addition to metallic trace, bone fragments can be displaced forward as a bullet moves through tissue.”
I placed the cursor beside a minute sliver, not as intensely white as the metallic trace, but brighter than the vertebral bone in which it was embedded. Then I moved it to another sliver, and another.
“These bone fragments came from the blowout zone at the back of the sternum, from the area of bone loss we observed earlier. The orientation of the fragments suggests they were traveling from front to back with the bullet.”
“So, in summary, this evidence substantiates your conclusion that Mr. Aqsaee was upright and facing Lieutenant Gross when shot in the chest.”
“Yes.”
“Did you prepare a report of your procedures, findings, and conclusions?”
“I did.”
Hawthorn: “Let me show you defense exhibit one. Is that your report?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Sir, the defense moves to admit exhibit one into evidence. A copy was previously provided to Major Nelson.”
Nelson did not object to the report and had no questions for me. Keever advised that he would submit his conclusions and recommendations within a week, then adjourned the hearing.
Even while the flow of testimony was running decidedly in his favor, Gross never relaxed or smiled. He’d remained taut and erect throughout, battling his twitch.
As I passed the defense table, he disengaged from Hawthorn and strode toward me. His face revealed nothing, but his step and carriage radiated confidence.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gross’s hand shot out. Without thinking I responded.
Gross’s cuff hiked up as we shook, revealing the lower part of a tattoo. I saw the bottom of the Marine Corps globe and anchor, the letters RIP circling below.
I’d heard that this version was favored by the most “gung ho mofo” types. Mess with the Corps and you’ll rest in peace.
Noticing my glance at the tattoo, Gross came to attention, saluted, and said, “Semper fi, ma’am.”
With that he stepped back, pivoted, and walked away.
PART THREE
TUESDAY MORNING, I woke before the alarm bells bonged. Early dawn was seeping through the window, turning my room into a study in shades of gray. Outside, the first few mockingbirds were sending out tentative trills.
I ran sleepy eyes over the chair, the dresser, the antique wooden shelf with its collection of memorabilia. A conch shell from Maui. A silver Latvian bride’s headband. Framed photos whose images I couldn’t see. Didn’t matter. I knew each like I knew my own features. Katy at her college graduation. Ryan and me in Guatemala City. Pete and Boyd on the beach at Isle of Palms. Birdie stretched full-length in the sun.
God, it was good to be home.
I rolled over.
The digits on the clock read 6:12.
I tried to fall back to sleep. Impossible. Would have helped to have Birdie there, snuggling and purring.
At 6:45, I gave up. A long hot shower and shampoo scrubbed away the last piggybacking grime from Bagram. Though still tender, my ankle was on the mend. The swelling was down and the bruising looked less flamboyant.
Down in the kitchen, I made coffee and popped bread into the toaster. Oddly, there was milk in the refrigerator. And cottage cheese, OJ, a plastic container of lasagna from Pasta and Provisions, fresh produce, lunch meat and cheese, and a number of other items I hadn’t purchased. Including a Heineken.
More than a dozen Observers had been dutifully brought inside during my absence. Making a mental note to thank my neighbor, I glanced through a few in a fast-forward manner, working from the oldest to the most recent. I got a general sense of what had happened in my absence. Which was the usual.
A student shot up a school in Montana, claiming he’d been bullied. Four dead. A couple was found with an arsenal of guns and explosives in their Trenton, New Jersey, apartment. Both were under arrest. The NRA was defending the right of every American to pack a semiautomatic and load it with a thirty-round clip. The video-game industry was claiming innocence in the fostering of a culture of violence.
On the local scene, a Gastonia plant closing was about to put hundreds out of work. Guns were found at two middle schools. Fraud was being alleged at a college. A kid reported missing from Mou
nt Holly in 2004 was found living with his grandparents in northern Michigan. He was now fourteen.
I was on my sixth paper when a small headline caught my eye. Local section. Three column inches. I checked the date. The story had appeared the previous Saturday.
SEARCH FOR SUSPECT IN FATAL HIT AND RUN
The article started out by asking for the public’s help in identifying a teenage hit-and-run victim. It provided a brief description of the girl and the date, approximate time, and Rountree–Old Pineville Road location of the accident. It stated that authorities were looking for witnesses or persons with information. My name was mentioned, as was Slidell’s. Anyone with knowledge of the girl or the incident was urged to contact the CMPD.
My morgue-cooler face shot accompanied the text. So did a number for the homicide division at police headquarters.
The byline was Allison Stallings.
Second mental note. Another thank-you due. Though I could have done without personal mention. Seeing my name in the paper never thrills me. Unless I’ve finished the Charlotte 10K in under an hour.
The previous Sunday’s edition had a follow-up piece on the MP case Slidell was working when I left for Afghanistan. Pictures of the missing woman, Cheryl Connelly, and her kids; background on her movements immediately prior to her disappearance; and a hint she might have had mental issues.
So Connelly was still whereabouts unknown as of two days ago. Great. Unless she’d turned up or was found on Monday, Slidell would still be distracted.
I took the papers to the recycling bin. Two empty Heineken bottles lay at the bottom.
Hm.
I went to the study. A PC sat on my desk, plugged into a wall switch. A Dell, minimally a decade out of date.
Pete and I have opposing views on cars and computers. I see the former as a means of transportation, the latter as a slick on-ramp to the knowledge of the world. My Mazda is too old to have resale value. My Mac is fast and new and will be gone as soon as an updated model comes out.
For my ex, automotive trumps cyber speed every time. I knew who’d been in my house. Suspected the reason.
I dialed Mrs. Flowers.
“Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner.”
