by Diane Capri
We had both read the old JAG court-martial report. Even on the surface, the situation was bad. Three senior officers convicted of crimes serious enough to have carried the death penalty.
“Only fourteen crimes carry the death penalty under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. At the senior officer level, crimes like that are rare,” I said, dusting off and donning my lawyer hat briefly.
“I checked,” Gaspar said. “We’ve got only five convicted servicemen awaiting execution now, out of all the military branches. All five were guilty of premeditated murder or felony murder.”
“Right. But none of those five were officers. And no convicted serviceman has been executed since 1961.”
Gaspar glanced over at me. “So you think that Reacher was in charge of the investigation that led to the prosecutions in the JAG report? Or he was involved in the crimes and got himself busted instead of prosecuted?”
I nodded. “Which one do you put your money on?”
“I don’t see them letting an MP Major like Reacher avoid Leavenworth with the others if he was involved with the same crimes.”
“Why not?”
“Because they prosecuted the bigger fish. Why would they let the smaller one go?”
I had my theories on that, but my gut said Gaspar was right. Reacher’s crimes were different in kind and degree from the officers who were prosecuted. “Summer was his number two on the case. Fairly chivalrous of him to let her take the credit for the bust, don’t you think?”
“I figure it was the times. The Army was on the cusp of some major downsizing right then.” He shrugged. “She was probably at the decision point. Go, or stay. If she got promoted, she’d stay.”
“The names of the officers were redacted from the JAG report.” I closed the laptop. “But if you were looking for the names, how would you find out who they were?”
“The paperwork would tell you if you had the time and the energy to sort through it. There weren’t that many officers on either the infantry or the armored side, even back then.” He drained his coffee and tossed the empty cup over his shoulder into the back. When we turned in the car, there’d be a pile of trash back there. “You could get lists of all the officers and trace what happened to each one around that timeframe. It wouldn’t take long to find the right names by the process of elimination.”
I nodded. It was the kind of grunt-work we had a team of people to do on normal FBI assignments. But we didn’t have the luxury on this one. “Summer had been ordered to tell me everything about what happened with Reacher back then. I’m guessing that’s the part that got her killed.”
“Because she knew things she had not revealed before?”
I nodded again. “And because someone else was aware of what Summer had previously kept out of the files.”
“What we need to find, then, are the others who knew what Summer knew.”
“As the first step. The second step is to find out why they didn’t want her to tell me.”
“And Lesley Browning’s husband can help with the first step?”
“He might be able to help with both. JAG officers are lawyers. Lawyers usually come in after the fact. Whatever Summer told Matthew Clifton and O’Connor about Reacher at the time should have become part of the report.” I paused. “And it’s not there. At least, it’s not in the unredacted portions we’ve been allowed to read.”
“So you think O’Connor wasn’t involved in the original incidents, but he knew what they were and he knew the underlying facts. And he kept them buried.” Gaspar nodded as he worked things through. “That tracks.”
“He knew at least enough of the facts to secure the confessions from the three officers and put the matter to bed quietly without airing dirty laundry in public at a sensitive time in Army history.”
“It’s Army SOP,” Gaspar said. “Keeping things on the down low would have been at least as important as exacting justice for the underlying crime.”
Which was the problem. Summer had died a colonel. She’d made her career on the old case, sure. But she must have performed well afterward to continue advancing.
On paper, she seemed worthy enough. No record of disciplinary action that I’d found. She would want to protect the Army’s reputation from what happened back then, and her own reputation, too. In fact, she’d have wanted to keep all of her investigations under the radar, which was very hard to do in the information age.
“Why kill her now?” I asked.
He shrugged, his all-purpose response.
The GPS led us directly to Dynamic Defense Systems after about twenty minutes’ driving time. The building was a five-story mirrored cube. Reflective coated glass, they called it. Energy efficient because it reflected the heat in the summertime. Office towers in Sunbelt states like this one were uninhabitable without it.
The cubed building was almost invisible. Trees planted around the cube were reflected, too. It seemed like a small forest sitting amid the asphalt instead of a building full of classified government secret weapon systems.
At the front gate, Gaspar showed his badge. “FBI Special Agents. We’re here to see Thomas O’Connor.”
The guard made a phone call, prepared two visitor passes and directed us to park in the visitor parking area near the front entrance. The lot was packed. Gaspar found an empty slot at the end of the row.
We parked and entered through double glass doors that parted in the center automatically like a supermarket’s. Except these also probably performed a full body scan of every visitor on the way in and on the way out.
The floor inside was carpeted and probably laced with tracking grids that gathered biometrics like weight and shoe size from which height and sex were extrapolated and matched with the body scans.
Leather chairs and tables seemed carelessly tossed around the lobby. A square reception desk that echoed the building’s exterior design squatted in the center of the room. A youngish woman sat inside the square. She looked like Dolly Parton’s granddaughter. This was Nashville so she might have been an aspiring country singer, too.
Gaspar gave our names. Five minutes later, a professionally dressed woman in her mid-thirties entered through a door on the opposite side of the lobby and approached us.
“Agents Otto and Gaspar? I’m Delphina Osgood, Mr. O’Connor’s assistant. Please come with me.”
We followed her through a labyrinth of corridors that smelled like warm apple cider until we reached a corner office in the back. The door was open.
Thomas O’Connor, looking exactly like his corporate headshot on the web page, paced the room. He was thicker through the middle than expected, but otherwise of average size and build. Clean-shaven. Brown hair neatly parted and combed. A plain gold wedding band encircled the appropriate finger.
He held a telephone receiver to his ear and occasionally responded with “Uh huh,” and “Right,” and “I see.” He waved us into the room with one hand.
Delphina Osgood stood aside and said, “Would you like coffee?”
The question always jolts me. It’s like asking if I would like oxygen. “That would be great. Black.”
Gaspar smiled and said, “Cream and sugar, if you have it.”
“Certainly,” she replied and left.
The office, like the building, was neat, square, contemporary, and impersonal. And utterly ordinary. As if someone had ordered the entire setup from an online catalog in one package called “The Office.” Dark wood desk and credenza. Black leather desk chair and visitor chairs. Plain beige drywall surrounded us on all the vertical surfaces. The carpet was darker beige. Framed photos on the walls were probably ordered from the same catalog.
Delphina Osgood brought the coffee and one for O’Connor and placed our business cards on his desk before she left. After muttering a few more verbal nothings into the receiver, O’Connor ended his call and turned his attention to us.
“I’ve already told the FBI everything I know. I thought this was over.” His delivery was smooth as if
he talked to the FBI on a regular basis, which it sounded like he probably did. Probably on a first name basis with every security agency in the country, public and private, too.
He sat behind the desk and folded his hands on top. He glanced at the cards. “Otto and Gaspar, is it?”
“You’ve already told the FBI everything you know about what?”
“The Clifton investigation. That’s why you’re here, right? Matthew Clifton is one of the finest men I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t violate contracting ethics or any other kind of ethics. I don’t know who your whistleblower is, but he’s barking up the wrong tree here.” O’Connor’s earnest expression matched his words. “The Justice Department arrested and convicted Hanlon. That’s the end of it.”
His tone suggested the opposite. He clearly subscribed to the a-strong-offense-is-the-best-defense approach.
Fine with me. I’d circle back to the whole “Clifton investigation” business.
“Actually, we’re with the Special Personnel Task Force. We are completing a background investigation on a former Army officer.” Defense contractors, particularly former JAG officers, weren’t the same as housewives. Unlike interviewing his wife, we didn’t need to warm him up first. He wouldn’t think the abrupt statement or an active investigation required further explanation. Not at first.
“Who is the candidate?”
“Major Jack Reacher. We understand you had contact with him while you were both on active duty. Have you kept in touch with Major Reacher?”
He frowned as if he was puzzled now by the name and the question. “It’s a big army and I haven’t been active for a long time. Can you give me a bit more to jog my memory?”
“How about Colonel Eunice Summer?”
“Yes, of course, I’ve worked with Colonel Summer. Small woman. Carried herself like a catwalk model.” He nodded, but the frown stayed in place. “I retired eighteen years ago, and I haven’t seen her much since then.”
“Back in 1990, you prosecuted a case with General Matthew Clifton. Colonel Summer was the MP handling the criminal investigation. Major Jack Reacher was Summer’s senior officer.”
His frown cleared. “Yes. I do recall. Though Major Reacher did not assist us in the prosecution. He had been reassigned by the time I began working on the case.”
“Do you know why he was reassigned?”
“Let me think a minute.” He steepled his fingers together and rested his forefingers against his bottom lip. “It seems I remember something about a parking lot brawl. A complaint was filed against him by a fellow officer, as I recall. The complaint was investigated and probably substantiated, given the outcome.”
“Meaning Reacher was involved in a bar fight? That wouldn’t be enough to get him busted back to Captain,” Gaspar said. “Had to be more to it than a brawl.”
“You’re right, Agent Gaspar,” O’Connor replied. “It was a long time ago and I handled a lot of cases after that. I’m sorry I can’t remember the specifics. Maybe there was a civilian involved? That would make sense.”
“You never interviewed Reacher in your big case against the senior officers?”
“We didn’t need to. The officers confessed, I believe. And we had Lieutenant Summer, who was familiar with all the facts.”
“Did you ever have any dealings with Reacher after that?”
He shook his head slowly as if he was thinking about it and coming up with nothing. “I’m pretty sure I never crossed paths with him at all, back then or since.”
“What’s your job here?” I asked.
“I’m the Chief Compliance Officer. I make sure that we comply with all federal rules and regulations. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork involved in an operation like this.” He laughed and then seemed to remember he was talking to the FBI. “Or maybe you would.”
“What exactly is your firm’s work with the Army?”
“Design, development, and manufacture of advanced weapons systems. Without revealing any secrets, we are involved with what they call The Big Power War.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we anticipate a conflict with other major powers instead of the ragtag guerrillas and insurgents we have been fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. The change in focus requires a return to conventional warfare equipment, such as tanks and bombers.”
“And that’s where Dynamic Defense Systems comes in.”
“Exactly. We’re not the only company providing newer and better equipment, but we are one of the bigger, more successful contractors.”
“And how are you working with Colonel Summer?”
“We’re not. I haven’t actually worked with Colonel Summer directly since that case all those years ago.” He stood, which suggested we should do the same. He gestured with an extended arm and open palm toward the door. “I’m sorry I can’t be of help to you. If you think of anything else, call me anytime.”
Delphina Osgood reappeared as if she’d been listening for her cue. Maybe she had been.
I ignored her and took a solid guess. “Colonel Summer was handling the Clifton investigation, though. So you’ve been working with her on that, right?”
“That matter is not being handled by the FBI.” He gave us the sweeping open palm again. “I’m not allowed to discuss military issues with civilians. You’ll need to get answers on military matters directly from the Army.”
He picked up a ringing phone and turned his back to us. Gaspar shrugged. We followed Delphina Osgood, who escorted us all the way to the double glass doors that opened automatically and scanned us as we exited. To be sure we’d left the premises instead of lying in wait, or something.
Standing outside on the pavement, Gaspar said, “Well that was a total waste of time.”
“You’re a man, you tell me,” I said, maybe a bit too belligerently. “How likely is it that Joe Reacher is O’Connor’s wife’s ex and the man responsible for introducing him to his beloved, yet O’Connor has to strain to remember the Reacher name? And what about that bullshit on the Clifton investigation? You buying any of that?”
Gaspar smirked. “He did display an appalling lack of curiosity, didn’t he?”
CHAPTER 21
After surviving another flight, we reached another military base. They were all different, yet familiar. Each one popped my internal alert level into the red zone and held it there. Bases were populated with highly trained military personnel and thousands of weapons and plenty of tension. In my book, that meant a potential disaster waiting to happen at a moment’s notice. Civilians who lived on base as well as those who came and went presented another layer of risk. The adrenaline running through my system could have propelled an old mare to the Triple Crown.
This time the sign said:
Welcome to Fort Herald
Home of America’s Armored Corps
This was the most populous U.S. military installation in the world. Its massive dimensions—350 square miles, more than 215,000 acres—could only be truly appreciated from the air. It’s worth the trip to Google Maps.
We entered through the main gate and cleared the first hurdles easily because the Boss had paved the way. Our credentials were examined and we were provided with visitor passes and directions to General Matthew Clifton’s office. So far, so good.
We drove less than a mile past buildings and lawns that were meant for visitors, not combat troop training. The soldiers were easy to distinguish from the civilians because soldiers were dressed in ACUs. Everyone moved with purpose.
November was warmer in Dallas than in the North Carolina Mountains or Nashville, but a chill wind still blew through the parking lot. We left the Crown Vic parked as instructed and made our way to the headquarters building, which was nowhere close to as nice as Dynamic Defense Systems. This was the Army. Strictly utilitarian, even for the upper echelons.
General Matthew Clifton was waiting for us in the Commanding Officer’s assigned duty station, which he would occupy for a few more days, his brother had said. H
is appearance was startling because he resembled Tony not at all. He was of average height, with a receding hairline and sandy hair. The only physical attribute they shared was a pair of striking bottle-green eyes.
Nothing about him was sparkling or friendly. Certainly, he sported no blinding mega-watt smile. His style was all business. “Cooper and Finlay asked me to hear you out. I have ten minutes, so let’s get to it.”
Both names jarred. Charles Cooper was a name rarely uttered by friend or foe on this assignment. I didn’t even think about him by name, and Gaspar and I certainly never used the Boss’s name, either. Not even between us. We were under the radar. He didn’t want his fingerprints all over our work. He’d made that crystal clear from the outset.
But Finlay, too? Another name I didn’t expect to encounter here, for sure. Lamont Finlay, Ph.D. Special Assistant to the President for Strategy. One of the most powerful men on the planet. Why the hell was he involved in this?
General Clifton thought I already knew. Which meant I couldn’t ask him outright.
So I did as he’d instructed and went straight to the meat. “Yesterday, three unusual things occurred at Fort Bird. All three are related to an old case handled by Jack Reacher’s 110th Special Investigations Unit back in 1990. A case you were involved with, too. We are trying to figure out whether Reacher is connected to these new crimes, or if someone with an old grievance is fighting back. Maybe trying to frame them or exact some kind of revenge. Or both.”
Clifton barely blinked. He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and slipped his arms into first one sleeve and then another. “How does any of this involve me?”
“You knew both Jack and Joe Reacher, I’m told.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point, General, is that the junior officer Reacher worked with on that 1990 case is now dead, and your brother has Reacher’s former XO position. You were the senior JAG officer who prosecuted the case Reacher handled, and you are currently doing business with the junior JAG officer who prosecuted it along with you. And if that’s not enough, that same junior JAG officer is married to Joe Reacher’s ex-wife. That is a truly remarkable tangle of connections.”
