Following signs, Schag wended his way through the corridors of the hospital until finding a plaque next to two swinging doors that read: Neurology. He found a nurse's station beyond the doors and asked for Lieutenant Commander Clarke.
"I'm sorry," a nurse said, "But Dr. Clarke isn't available."
"Do you mean she's not here today, or she's not taking visitors?" Schag asked as he showed the nurse his credentials.
The nurse's mouth opened into an astonished "O," a reaction Schag hadn't expected. She stood quickly, murmuring, "Please wait here," turned and hurried down a hallway. A minute later, the nurse scurried back, saying, "Dr. Clarke can see you now. Third door on the left."
Schag thanked her and eyed her curiously as she stared back at him, mouth still agape. He found the door, rapped twice, and turned the nob. Clarke was sitting at a desk, staring at a document in front of her.
"Dr. Clarke?"
She didn't look up.
"I don't know what I did to you, agent," she said, "that you would do this."
"Ma'am?"
"Why?" Clarke asked, looking up. From the redness of her eyes, it was clear she'd been crying. "I only offered to help your friend."
"Doctor, I'm . . ." Schag, stunned, grasped for words. "I don't know what you're talking about. What do you think I did to you?"
"This, goddamn it!" she yelled, tossing the document at him.
The paper fluttered to the floor. Schag picked it up and read the first few lines. "It's an affidavit from someone who says she's your lover? Is this true?"
Clarke, eyes lowered, nodded and sniffed loudly.
"Don't ask, don't tell is gone, commander," Schag said, still not understanding. "It's not a court martial offense anymore."
"It is if my lover is an enlisted woman under my command," Clarke said. "And you know that damn well."
Schag finally understood. While being gay in the military was no longer illegal, fraternization with the lower ranks still was, no matter what your sexual preference. In the old days, the Navy turned a blind eye to the offense or allowed the offender to discretely retire or resign his commission. Under the new procedures, however, the Navy dealt with fraternization quickly and publicly.
"What made you think I had anything to do with this?"
"Oh, I don't know," Clarke said, waving her hand. "You're the only NCIS agent I've talked to in the last forty-eight hours and then this shows up on my C.O.'s desk."
"That's not the way we operate, commander," Schag said, shaking his head. "I—we—have no reason to investigate you. As for this, it's not even a real witness affidavit. It doesn't say NCIS had anything to do with questioning this sailor. It's only signed by her and a notary public."
Clarke looked up, brow knitted, mouth tight. "Are you saying it's not real?"
"It's real as far as your sailor wrote it, signed it, and had it witnessed by a notary, but it's not an official Navy document, not something NCIS did." Schag thought a moment, and cleared his throat. "Did you and, uh, the young lady have a falling out?" Clarke shook her head. "Have you talked to her about this?"
"My C.O. ordered me to stay away from her and have no communication with her of any kind," Clarke said.
"That's SOP," Schag said, nodding. "Better keep it that way, too, commander. In the meantime, where is she now? Still here in your department?"
Clarke shook her head with minute movements. "The admiral transferred her to the emergency department immediately after receiving that."
Schag held up the affidavit. "You mean this?" Clarke nodded. Schag studied the document again, his brow knitted. "Can I have this?"
Clarke's blue eyes narrowed. "Why?" she asked.
"I want to check out this notary," Schag said. "Maybe I can figure out how or why all this came about. It wouldn't change your situation, commander. The die is cast on that. But intel is always helpful."
The doctor nodded, sniffing. "Take it then," she said. After a moment, she looked up. "Then why are you here, agent?"
"You heard Bill Butcher killed himself?"
Clarke nodded. "It's all over the news," she said.
"The M.E. is doing the autopsy today," Schag explained. "I thought you might want to get some samples—you know, blood and tissue, whatever you need—maybe find out if this agueloquine was the reason Bill went rogue."
Clarke didn't say anything.
"Look, commander, I'm trying to find some good to come from all this mess," Schag said. "If Bill went off the reservation because of this medicine, it might help take some of the tarnish off him."
"He becomes a victim instead of a victimizer," Clarke said. Schag nodded. She considered what the agent said, then shook her head. "Can't be done. We need the approval of Mr. Butcher's next of kin."
Schag pulled the forms from his flight jacket pocket and handed them to Clarke.
"We have it," he said. "I visited his wife this morning and she agreed. All the forms are signed. I also called the M.E.'s office. You're invited to observe the autopsy."
Clarke studied the documents, sat back in her chair, and blew air from her pursed lips.
"You do work fast," she said. "I give you that." She handed the documents back. "What the hell? My Navy career is finished. What more can they do to me? Send me back to Iraq?"
☼
"Deja vu," Clarke said. "Haven't we been here before?"
"Yes, we have," Schag said, resignation in his voice.
He aimed his leased car into a parking spot in front of the building housing the medical examiner's office. The building, a modernistic patchwork of asymmetric angles, stood across the street from the county emergency operations center where Clarke and Schag met. They had walked past the building on their way to and back from having coffee. Schag remembered the dread he felt on seeing the short concrete wall with the gray metallic sign and raised letters reading MEDICAL EXAMINER & FORENSICS CENTER. Somehow, he knew he would be visiting this place before too long. And here he was.
Inside, a technician handed them visitor badges and dark-blue scrubs to wear and, after dressing, escorted them into the autopsy room. It was a cavernous space lined on two walls by stainless steel autopsy tables, sinks, scales, and computer screens. The stainless-steel tables glistened in the overhead fluorescent light. The surface of each table canted toward a central drain where blood and other bodily fluids could flow. The room was vacant save for one man in scrubs and a face shield. The miasma of burnt flesh hung in the air. Schag took a small tube of Mentholatum from his pocket, opened it, and offered it to Clarke. She looked at him questioningly.
"Put it around your nostrils," he said, showing her on his own nose. "It helps with the stench."
"Dr. Carter?" Their escort called out. "Your visitors are here."
The man turned, raising the face shield. He was in his fifties, thin, with a long, bearded face. The beard and his short, thinning, curly hair were both gray.
"Oh, you must be Agent Schag and Dr. Clarke," he said. "Come. Come."
Schag and Clarke crossed the room, and Dr. Carter greeted them with a friendly smile that seemed out of place for the location.
"I'm Dr. Jason Carter, deputy M.E.," he said. "I'd shake your hands, but as you can see I had to start without you." He held up gloved hands smeared with thickened blood in explanation.
Behind Carter lay the naked, burnt body of a man. A Y-incision had already opened the trunk of the corpse from the shoulders to the pubis, revealing his internal organs. Schag glanced at the body's left hand. The Navy SEAL ring was missing. He looked over at a nearby table and saw the ring sealed in a plastic evidence bag.
"That's Bill Butcher, I take it," Schag said.
"I'm afraid so," Carter said, sensing the agent's pain. "He was your friend?"
Schag nodded. "And we worked together before all this happened."
"A terrible thing," Carter said, turning to Clarke. "And you are researching the impact of agueloquine on the emotional stability of those prescribed it?"
"Ba
sically," Clarke said, nodding. "Mr. Butcher was prescribed agueloquine on his last deployment overseas. I believe it may be responsible for the psychosis that led to this." She nodded to the body. "I thought a few tissue samples might give us better insight to Mr. Butcher's state of mind."
"By the way, doc," Schag said, pulling the papers from jacket pocket. "I have Bill's wife's authorization papers right here."
"Excellent," Carter said. "Put them on the center table there, please." He waved a hand toward a table that almost ran the length of the room. He turned back to Clarke, moving her closer to the autopsy table. "You know, I've read quite a few of the journal articles on this agueloquine problem. What tissue samples would you need to help you prove your hypothesis?"
Schag laid the papers on the table and looked around, not eager to see Bill's body sliced and diced. Like most law enforcement officers, he attended autopsies for training and for evidence collection. He remained detached for those carvings, but this was different. He spotted a large flat-screen computer monitor on the center table, and studied it. A dozen smaller screens divided the larger screen. In each square was an X-ray. Schag looked closer, saw Bill Butcher's name on each of the squares. Schag knew X-rays were part of the autopsy, but one of the small squares seem to stand out to him. He looked closer, squinting at the tiny image of a leg. A small L in the corner of the image indicated it was the X-ray of someone's left leg.
"Doc?" he said.
Carter and Clarke both turned and answered in unison. "Yes?"
"Sorry. I meant Dr. Carter."
"What can I do for you, agent?" Carter asked, clearly not pleased with the interruption.
"These X-rays," Schag said, pointing to the monitor. "These are all of Bill Butcher?"
"Yes. We had them shot this morning in preparation for the autopsy," Carter said, eager to get back to his discussion with Clarke.
"Can I see this one here?" Schag pointed a finger at the X-ray of the left leg. "I mean full size."
"Touch the image and it will enlarge," Carter said gruffly before turning back to Clarke.
Schag touched the image as told and it blossomed to fill the screen. He studied it closely, following the shape of the tibia and fibula—the two bones of the lower leg—up to the knee, then to the femur, the large, thick bone of the upper leg and hip. He pursed his lips in thought, and looked at the L again to make sure he was looking at the correct leg.
"Dr. Carter?"
Carter's back stiffened and he sighed before answering.
"What is it, Agent Schag?"
"You're certain these X-rays are from that corpse?" Schag asked, turning and pointing to the body on the table.
"Of course," Carter answered tartly.
"And this is an image of the left leg, correct?"
"If it has a little L in the lower corner, then it's the left leg," Carter said, turning back to the corpse and Dr. Clarke.
"Forgive me, doctor, but would you look at this X-ray?"
"Why?" Carter's voice was no longer able to hide his impatience.
"Please, take a look," Schag asked. "You, too, commander. Does this leg look like it was ever broken?"
Both physicians stepped over to the monitor and studied the X-ray. They looked at each and shook their heads in agreement. They turned and faced Schag.
"No, agent," Carter said. "This image shows perfectly intact bones. This extremity has never been broken. Why?"
Schag scratched his head, aware his gloom was beginning to fade.
"Bill Butcher's Navy career as a SEAL ended when he had a parachute malfunction," Schag said. "He landed hard, very hard, and shattered both the tibia and femur of his left leg. He had to have pins inserted in each bone—pins which are still there." Schag tapped the monitor. "This leg has no pins."
Carter looked more closely at the X-ray. He called up another image, this one of the right leg to make sure there were no pins in that one. There weren't. He looked up at Schag.
"Then . . ." Carter let the sentence hang.
"Then what?" Clarke asked.
"Then that body is not Bill Butcher," Schag said.
CHAPTER 14
THURSDAY
NCIS Safe House
San Diego, California
1100 Hours
WHEN SCHAG REPORTED HIS DISCOVERY to Riley, the agent-in-charge's profanity-riddled response made it painfully clear Butcher's survival didn't delight him. Schag understood the anger. He knew it would fall upon Riley to notify the sheriff's department that the burnt body sitting in the medical examiner's office was not the man they thought it was. Schag and Riley both knew what the response would be. Certainly not good. Riley even considered delaying the call to the sheriff, giving the county M.E. time to notify the lawman first. But since it was his own man who made the first identification of the body, then discovered the error in that identification, Riley knew the sheriff would consider it NCIS's responsibility to notify him first.
Riley and the sheriff weren't the only ones upset. In the three days since Schag misidentified the corpse, the small army of law enforcement officers and agents demobilized. That army must mobilize again—and at great cost. Not only that, but valuable time was lost, time in which Butcher could have fled the area because the dragnet spread to catch him had been pulled in empty. Recriminations flew at the press conference called by the sheriff to announce the renewal of the manhunt, with Tom Riley, red faced but stoic, enduring an onslaught of accusatory questions and innuendo from the press.
The only person to receive the news with enthusiasm was Yolanda. By the time Schag arrived at the safe house, she already knew about his discovery. Riley notified the agents on her guard detail, and they, in turn, told Yolanda. The instant the agents let Schag in the door, Yolanda wrapped him in her arms, kissing his cheek, and burrowing her head into his neck. He felt her warm breath on his skin, the press of her body against his, and felt guilty for the desire it raised within him.
"I knew Bill wouldn't kill himself," she said as they separated. Tears streamed down her face, smearing her eyeliner. This time, however, Schag understood these were tears of relief. "I told you, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did, Yolanda," Schag said. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? For what?"
"For what I put you through when I thought Bill had shot himself," he explained. "I know how much your beliefs mean to you and Bill."
Yolanda smiled sadly, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek again. "You're a good friend, Lin," she said.
☼
Schag threaded his car through downtown traffic, looking for the address of the notary public who notarized the affidavit of Lieutenant Commander Clarke's lover. After returning the doctor to Balboa, Schag had stopped by the hospital's emergency department to talk to the commander's lover. She was a first class corpsman, a senior petty officer who should have known better than to get involved with a senior officer. Her name was Braxley, and she was about the same age as Clarke. Unlike the shorter and more curvaceous physician, Braxley was tall and lanky, with black hair pulled tight around her head. Schag took her into a private office, where she stood nervously at attention.
"Stand at ease, sailor," Schag said, taking out his notebook and pen.
Braxley remained at attention, as if too nervous to relax her muscles.
"Sir, I already told the other agent everything I have to say," she said. "On the advice of my lawyer—"
"Relax, petty officer," Schag said. "I'm not here to discuss your relationship with Dr. Clarke. I'm here to talk about this other 'agent,' as you call him."
As soon as Schag explained, it was clear to her she had been tricked into confessing her relationship with Clarke. The realization made her muscles weaken, and Schag had to help her into a chair. Braxley stared at the floor, aware her blunder had ended the career of her lover and maybe her own as well.
"I should have looked closer at his credentials," Braxley sobbed. "I just saw a badge and assumed . . ."
"Did it look like my credentials?"
Schag asked, handing her his flash wallet with the NCIS badge and identification card.
Braxley studied the badge. "No," she said, shaking her head. "This guy's badge looked more like a police officer's badge—you know? Silver and kind of egg-shaped. Yours is gold and kind of … squatty."
Schag's eyes rolled at the description. "Did he give you a name?"
"Riley," Braxley said. "Special Agent Thomas Riley."
Schag looked up from his notebook. "He called himself Tom Riley?"
"Thomas Riley," Braxley corrected. "Why do you know him? Is he a real NCIS agent?"
Schag ignored her question. "What did this man look like, petty officer?"
Braxley closed her eyes and concentrated a moment.
"Somewhat heavy set—not obese, but heavy," she said. "Short hair, really short like a Marine's and light brown with some graying. About so tall." Braxley held her hand up to her shoulder height.
Schag sighed with relief. "Yes, there is a Special Agent Tom Riley," he said. "My boss. But he doesn't match that description. Where did he approach you? At Balboa?"
"No. At home. In the evening after duty."
"What did he say?"
Braxley screwed her face up, thinking. "He said he was from criminal investigations and that he knew all about Kendra and me. I mean Dr. Clarke."
"Criminal investigations?" Schag asked. "Not NCIS or Naval Criminal Investigative Service?" Schag knew that was the proper way for an agent to identify himself.
"No, I'm certain he just said 'criminal investigations.'"
"Okay. Did he have any evidence?"
"Email," Braxley said, nodding. "Intimate. Love letters, you know?"
"Do you know how he got them?" Schag asked.
Braxley shrugged. "You guys have ways to do that, don't you?"
"Yes," answered Schag. "But it requires getting a court order. Then what?"
"He made me write my affidavit on my computer and print it out," Braxley said. "Then he drove me to this notary public and had me sign it."
"And afterward, he took you home and left you?" Braxley nodded. "That was it?"
The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2) Page 10
