by Kathy Reichs
“I have.”
“I understand you saw some action out there.”
“It wasn’t dull.”
“Proceed.” Fisher leaned back, hands folded in her lap.
“It’s the ever-popular good news and bad news,” I said.
“Hit us with the bad.”
“Mr. Rasekh’s remains were far too damaged to allow any conclusion concerning bullet trajectory. Concerning cause or manner of death at all.”
Fisher offered a tight nod. “And the good news?”
“Mr. Aqsaee was in better shape. Though postmortem damage was extensive, gunshot trauma was evident in the thoracic region. I was able to observe, describe, and record partial entrance and exit wounds on two rib fragments, one vertebra, and on the anterior and posterior surfaces of the sternum.”
One of Fisher’s brows arched slightly.
“His breast bone.”
“Go on.”
“Do you want a full biomechanical description of the fracture patterning?”
“Save that for your report. For our purposes, the bottom line will do.”
“Second Lieutenant Gross did not shoot Ahmad Ali Aqsaee in the back.”
Though quiet before, the room now went deathly still.
A beat, then Fisher said, “Maybe we could use a little more than that.”
“I was able to identify three entrance wounds and two exit wounds. Together these impact sites described at least two bullet paths. The trajectory in both cases was anterior to posterior.”
Same eyebrow.
“The bullet entered Mr. Aqsaee’s chest and exited his back.”
“A finding that corroborates Second Lieutenant Gross’s account of the incident.”
“Yes.”
“How confident are you of your conclusion?”
“Very.”
“Based on some little nicks in the bone?”
“In addition to the entrance and exit holes, metal fragments were visible on X-ray. Their orientation supports a conclusion of front-to-back movement.” I’d spotted this when viewing the films of Aqsaee’s unwrapped and semi-rearticulated bones.
Noonan leaned forward. “You’re saying that the younger victim is a hundred percent?”
“Nothing is ever a hundred percent.”
“Within reasonable medical certainty.”
“Yes,” I said.
Noonan ran a hand over his jaw. Exhaled through his nose.
Fisher still had questions.
“What about ricochets? Could a bullet go in from behind, bounce around the ribs or sternum or whatever, and double back?”
I shook my head. “Bullets don’t boomerang like that. If a round enters through a victim’s—”
“Can we stop calling them victims now?”
The sharpness of tone startled everyone. Fisher responded.
“What would you prefer, Mr. Blanton?”
“Insurgents? Or how about shooters?”
“There is no evidence that either Aqsaee or Rasekh was armed.”
Blanton slumped back, shaking his head.
Fisher had one more query.
“Could he have shot him both in the chest and in the back?”
“That is theoretically possible, if he’d been spun around by continued bullet strikes, but I found no indications of back entry or front exits.”
“So Gross may be innocent.” Noonan’s tone was flat, no surprise, relief, or skepticism.
“Please understand me,” I cautioned. “All I am saying is that Mr. Aqsaee was either facing or approaching Lieutenant Gross when shot.”
Gross’s innocence or guilt was another matter, one involving variables not recorded in bone. Did the men behave in a threatening manner? Did Gross have a reasonable belief that he was in imminent danger? But that was for the lawyers, not for me.
Fisher said, “We appreciate your quick turnaround on this. Since the incident, relations with Sheyn Bagh have been shaky at best. If done poorly, this exhumation could have torpedoed what little goodwill we’ve reestablished.”
“I doubt the villagers will take comfort in my findings.”
Fisher thought about that. “No, they won’t like the outcome. But, sadly, the Afghan people know the price of war. They will accept that, under duress, a soldier was forced to make a life-and-death decision. That, under threat, he acted to save himself and his men.”
Perhaps. But I wondered what spin she and her team would use.
“You’ve done remarkable work here, Dr. Brennan. And it is truly appreciated. But I’ve been asked to impose upon you further. As you may or may not know, Second Lieutenant Gross’s Article 32 hearing was suspended to allow for this operation. Your presence at Lejeune is requested.”
I’d been anticipating this. “When?”
“Immediately.”
Crap.
“I’ll be there.”
“Arrangements for your transport have already been made. The Marine Corps thanks you. As do I.”
We all rose, shook hands, and went our separate ways.
• • •
Katy couldn’t join me for dinner, so we’d made plans the previous night for a shopping trip.
As I walked the short distance from my B-hut to the PX, an exuberant sunset turned the snowcapped mountain peaks fiery red. The prefab buildings I passed glowed more warmly than during the day, and shadows split the ground into patches of sunlight and dark.
The store was packed. I scanned, but didn’t see my daughter in the sea of camouflage.
“Hoo, boy.” I felt a double tap on my backpack. “You’d make a lousy surveillance officer.”
I turned. Katy was two feet behind me.
“Gotta watch your flank, Mom.”
“Technically, you’re not on my flank.”
Katy smiled. She wore fatigues and boots. And an M16 slung over one shoulder.
So strange to see my daughter packing heat.
“Grab some caffeine?” she asked.
“Sure.”
The Green Bean’s interior looked like any café you’d find back home. A wall menu offered a zillion variations on coffee and tea. An espresso machine hissed intermittently in the background. Or was it cappuccino?
“What’s your poison?” I asked. “I’m buying.”
“Regular, just milk.”
Another surprise. My daughter’s preference in coffee now matched her new hairstyle. Simple and practical.
We settled into chairs by a wall covered with military patches. The leitmotif was all about combat: skulls, swords, iron crosses. The 335th FTR SQDN called themselves the Chiefs.
Katy noticed me eyeing the assemblage. “A lot of units have their own badges. They’re kind of like family crests.”
I knew that, but let her explain. I didn’t care the topic of conversation, was just happy to be spending time with my kid.
At one point Katy asked about my investigation.
“It went well,” I said.
“So you’re done?”
“I leave tomorrow.”
Katy didn’t respond. I wondered. Was she sad I was going? Relieved? Had I invaded a world she wished to keep as her own?
“I met two women in Manas.” She spoke after a pause that seemed to go on forever. “At Pete’s Place.”
“What’s that?”
“A bar on base. At Manas, service members are allowed two drinks every twenty hours. Or something like that. Except marines.”
“Why not marines?”
“I guess a few got overserved and blew it. I don’t know the whole story. Anyway, it’s much more civilized there than in Afghanistan.”
“Not loving the no-alcohol policy?”
She rolled her eyes. “So these women were a mother-and-daughter team who’d enlisted, trained, and deployed together.”
“Seriously?”
“They were Air Force, assigned to some sort of escort duty.”
“Are you suggesting we buddy up?”
Loud guffaw. Anoth
er pause, then, “My unit’s heading out again in two days.”
“Heading where?”
“To the north. That’s all I can say. Actually, that’s all I know.”
“I understand.” I did. And hated it.
Katy finished the dregs of her oh-so-plain coffee and asked, “Ready to cruise the mall?”
We both laughed. The Bagram “mall” consisted of a warren of shops and kiosks, most selling locally manufactured products. Brass, wood, and fabric items. Jewelry. Rugs. That was about it.
“Lead on, empress of shopping,” I said.
She did.
“Are the merchants all Afghans?” I asked as we walked.
“I think so. They come in the morning, clear security, operate their stalls, clear security again, and head home. We’re talking sixteen-, seventeen-hour days.”
As we passed, vendors entreated us gently to inspect their wares. Now and then we stopped. I was admiring an intricately woven scarf when something brushed my free hand. I turned.
An Afghan girl of about fifteen or sixteen was standing close, her large brown eyes fixed on my face.
“Hello.” I smiled.
The girl whispered in Pashto or Dari. I caught only one word. Allah.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
Eyes cutting left and right, the girl repeated what she’d said. Maybe. Again, all I caught was Allah.
Did the girl want something? Or was she just trying to spread the word?
Katy was examining a scarf on another rack. I waved her over.
“Can you understand what she’s saying?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Katy lowered her voice. “She’s a little off.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen her do this before.”
“Do what?”
“Rag on women in civvies.” Katy nudged me around the girl and up the street. “One of my bunkmates says the kid’s nuts.”
I allowed myself to be led. But when we stopped, I glanced over my shoulder.
The girl was still staring at me. As I watched, a man emerged from the shop and drew her inside.
“Mom.”
I turned back.
“Come look at this.”
Unsettled, I tried to focus on the rug that had drawn Katy’s eye. I was about to comment when the sound of wailing split the air.
“Incoming.” Katy dropped the rug. “Let’s go.”
We bolted across the road, took a hard right, and scrambled into a low concrete structure covered with sandbags. Others already occupied the benches. More followed us in.
In seconds the bunker was full. I sensed no panic, more the calm acceptance that comes with routine.
As we waited in the dark, sirens screaming, I again felt a light touch on my hand. I glanced left. Recognized the silhouette. The Allah girl was hunkered beside me. Beyond her was the man who’d taken her inside the shop.
Time passed.
The girl was so close I could feel her body trembling. At one point she whimpered. The man spoke to her sharply. I heard the word Khandan. Her name?
Finally, the all-clear sounded. We gathered our gear and scrambled out.
“You’re pretty cool about this,” I said, slinging my backpack over one shoulder.
Katy shrugged. “More a nuisance than anything. You get used to it. Life goes on.”
Usually. But many had died at U.S. bases as a result of missile and mortar attacks.
As we spoke, the man and girl passed. Though he paid us no attention, her eyes again locked onto mine. Sad? Bewildered? Pleading?
Yes. That’s what bothered me. The girl seemed so needy. But needy of what?
Then she was gone.
“What do you suppose that kid was trying to say?” I asked Katy.
“I told you. She’s a nutjob. Forget it.”
I tried.
But that night, alone in my bunk, the girl’s face floated before me.
Again and again I saw the dark, imploring eyes.
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER I WAS still thinking about the girl.
Two girls, actually.
Khandan, at Bagram. Jane Doe, in Charlotte.
Welsted had organized my return flights. I’d risen with the sun to set out. The seven-thousand-mile trip, one to tax the resolve of even the most hardened traveler, started sadly, then quickly morphed into a nightmare.
First there was the tearful farewell with Katy. She met me at the flight line. We hugged tightly. She was so damn strong.
“You going to be okay?”
“I’m the one leaving. Promise you’ll be careful?”
“Relax, Mom. I’ll be fine.”
Her calm certainty filled me with an odd sort of dread.
We’d hugged again. Then I’d made my way toward the lockdown hangar.
That’s when the true misery began. Our C-130J had a blown rotor on one engine. Mechanics had been summoned. We all know what that means.
Already cleared for departure, I wasn’t allowed to return to base. I spent hours dozing, watching football, drinking coffee, going to the head, and eating plastic sandwiches and muffins with a hundred sweaty soldiers, airmen, and marines.
Finally, we boarded and harnessed ourselves in. The plane muscled up through the desert air, broke the clouds, and leveled off. I leaned back against the icy vibrating bulkhead and closed my eyes.
And there were the girls.
Khandan. Something about her intrigued me. Katy said she was mentally challenged, but I wondered. She’d had an intensity that didn’t square with that.
What had she been trying to say? I’d gotten one word. Allah. Was she seeking help? A handout? A sale? A convert? And why did the encounter bother me so?
Then there was Jane Doe in the MCME morgue cooler. Radio silence from Larabee. Dead ends, trails gone cold? Was Slidell still pushing? I needed to complete my testimony, get home, and rededicate myself to the case. To the promise I’d made her.
By the time we touched down at Manas International my head throbbed, a vein of fire ran my spine, and my ankle was causing me serious grief. This time I was met by a milk-faced soldier with a corn-silk mustache. His fatigues read ELKINS.
“Sergeant Mensforth is tied up.” Elkins’s voice was high and adenoidal. “I’ll help get you processed.”
I followed him through the labyrinth that was the transit center, weaving among U.S. service members and Kyrgyz guards with stone faces and very large guns.
Elkins pointed at a pile of luggage that looked identical to the one I’d rummaged on the way out.
I collected my bags and lugged them to customs. Where every item was removed and inspected as though my record showed multiple convictions for trafficking in heroin and guns.
We proceeded to passport control. Where I was refused clearance.
Not conversant in Kyrgyz, I failed to understand the problem. So did Elkins. A translator was summoned. Much discussion followed, during which my flight was called.
At long length, the interpreter explained that upon arrival I’d been issued a permit for one entry into Kyrgyzstan. Today’s transit constituted a second entry.
Sixty minutes and a zillion phone calls later, the issue was resolved. Or a bribe was paid. I’ve no idea. I bolted to the gate and boarded as the door was closing.
Five hours after taking off, I landed in Istanbul. I was checking e-mail in the Turkish Airlines lounge when an annoyingly calm and sugary voice announced several flight delays. Mine was among them. Since the lounge was the most comfortable place I’d been in a week, I was not devastated.
Dawn was lighting the horizon when I finally settled into my little pod in business class. I was reading the menu when the captain’s voice came over the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a pesky little light flashing on the board up here. Probably nothing, but we’re being advised to remain at the gate.”
The cabin attendants immediately began dispensing alcohol to the bu
siness-class passengers. Little comfort to us nondrinkers.
It was late afternoon when we finally took off. Once airborne, I ate dinner, watched one movie, then lowered my seat and killed the light. Though fitfully, I did sleep.
Beyond knowing I’d gained seven hours, I was clueless about my exact ETA in DC. I collected my bags, dragged through customs and immigration, then on to my departure gate.
What are the odds? My flight was delayed.
There are times when all one can do is acknowledge the random futility of existing in this universe.
While waiting, I checked my phone messages. Ruff Noonan had called to say that Lejeune was aware of my situation, and that someone would meet me at wheels-down in Jacksonville, North Carolina.
Larabee wanted me to call as soon as I was back in Charlotte.
Pete asked that I phone when stateside.
Nothing from Ryan.
I e-mailed Katy to let her know I’d gotten back to the world.
It was just past midnight when I finally touched down at the Albert J. Ellis Airport in Jacksonville. A sergeant in fatigues approached as I was off-loading my belongings from the carousel. Stout, middle-aged, but looking like he could lift a Toyota.
“Master Sergeant Earl Rigg, ma’am. I’m your ride to Lejeune.” Rigg heaved my duffel onto his shoulder. “Follow me.”
We drove north on Route 258, lights strobing the windshield. Rigg wasn’t a talker. Or maybe he sensed my exhaustion.
I stared out the window, barely taking in the passing tableau. A pawnshop awning saying WE BUY DRESS BLUES. Endless fast-food joints. Wilson Bay, the water an endless black mirror.
After some time, we pulled up to an imposing brick wall with signage stating CAMP LEJEUNE, HOME OF EXPEDITIONARY FORCES IN READINESS.
Rigg spoke when we’d cleared security.
“Looks like you could use some shut-eye.”
“It’s that obvious?” I smiled. I think.
“Yes, ma’am.”
As Rigg drove across the base, I cracked the window and inhaled the warm night air. The smell of fresh-cut grass, pine, and red cedar made me realize how glad I was to be back in North Carolina.
The Lejeune Inn, built to provide temporary housing, was brick and strictly utilitarian. The Boxy and Plain School of architecture.
“Get yourself sorted with the front desk,” said Rigg. “I’ll bring your gear.”
