In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  “Just the man from CID. And now the two of you.”

  From her manner, Terry judged that Kate’s reserves were close to spent. “For Brian’s sake,” he requested, “from now on please talk only to us. We don’t want CID picking out petty inconsistencies in what you say to someone else, or wondering if you and Brian are ginning up a story. The one you’ve already told is good for Brian. You can help us keep it that way.”

  Kate stood, signaling that they were done. “The funeral is tomorrow,” she answered tiredly. “I only wish I could bury this with Joe.”

  four

  TERRY AND MEG STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK OUTSIDE THE D’Abruzzos’ town house. She looked tired and preoccupied, parsing in silence what they had heard from Kate and Brian. Checking his watch, Terry saw that it was past four o’clock—hours had vanished without a trace. “Do you have time to sort this out?” he asked.

  She turned to him, her eyes grave and filled with questions. “Of course.”

  “Then let’s go to my place. As near as I can make out, the floor plan is identical to Brian’s.”

  They got in his car and headed for Terry’s apartment complex. Glancing at Meg, he asked, “What did you make of Kate? You seemed a little remote from her.”

  “I’m exhausted, that’s all. My brother has killed a man. I don’t have much energy left for Kate.” She slumped back in the car seat. “To tell the truth, I’m angry at her. Maybe that’s not fair. But if she’d reported Joe to his CO, she’d still have a husband. Instead, my brother’s in terrible trouble, and I don’t know what will happen to him.”

  “One way or the other,” Terry answered mildly, “half of my cases are about family—sometimes the way one member acts upon another, causing a chain reaction no one really means to happen. I don’t know your family and don’t presume to judge it. But it seems that the change in Joe D’Abruzzo intersected with pretty complex dynamics—including Kate and Brian’s—which predated his appearance in your lives. Kate couldn’t have foreseen them all.”

  “Maybe not,” Meg responded in a tone of resignation. “Nonetheless, she lit the match. The only question now is what happened in Brian’s apartment.”

  Terry pulled up at his building. “It’s one question,” he amended. “If we can keep the answer simple, that’s best for Brian, and perhaps for everyone else. The deeper reasons are likely beyond the reckoning of lawyers.”

  The two of them got out. As Terry opened the front door of the building, he noted Meg checking her watch, no doubt timing how long it took for Joe to climb the stairs to Brian’s apartment. Their arbitrary partnership was of one day’s duration, and Terry had the impression of a linear mind intently focused on fact. When he opened his apartment door, she stepped inside, methodically inspecting the living room. “The furniture’s different,” she said. “But the layout and dimensions are the same.”

  To have her inside his apartment felt strange to Terry. The only women who had come here—none of them as striking or electric as Meg—had not come to work. Silent, he imagined how the room must look to her. It had been furnished on the cheap by a young officer who sent money to a mother with little of her own; its best feature was a partial view of a few recently planted saplings that aspired to be trees. “The living room is fifteen by twenty,” Terry said at length. “On the right is the kitchen; the door to the bedroom is to the left. Neither room has an exit.”

  Glancing at him, Meg took out a legal pad. “So the only escape would have been blocked by Joe.”

  “According to Brian’s account. Fortunately, he’s the only witness.”

  Meg turned to him, edgy. “That’s a cynical remark.”

  “Practical,” Terry answered calmly. “Claiming self-defense is easier when the other guy is dead. We control the narrative of events—”

  “We also have two men in a confined space. One was drunk, angry, considerably bigger, and skilled in martial arts.”

  “Assuming we can prove all that.” Terry remained standing, his hands in the pockets of his uniform. “What’s less fortunate is that Brian shared his lapse of memory with the CID. He’s given back some of his advantage.”

  Meg shook her head, resistant. “We can point out how cooperative he was.”

  Terry shrugged. “People who plan a murder are often very cooperative—they’ve worked out their lies in advance. The problem now is that Brian can’t easily revive his memory to explain away unhelpful facts.”

  “That came after the first shot,” Meg argued. “If he was afraid for his life at the moment he fired, isn’t that self-defense?”

  Despite her efforts, anxiety kept creeping into Meg’s face and voice. “We still have to sort out the physical evidence,” Terry said evenly. “For example, how far from Brian’s door was the chair where he hid the gun?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Ten feet, maybe fifteen.”

  “CID may wonder how D’Abruzzo ended up lying with his face to the wall a fair distance from the chair. Right now we don’t know where his wounds were, how many shots Brian fired, or whether D’Abruzzo was close enough that Brian’s shots left gunpowder on his body. We’re also assuming that Major Flynn can’t conjure a motive beyond the one Brian gave—defending himself against the abusive husband of a quasi-sister.”

  “What other motive would he have?”

  “I don’t know enough to guess. But Flynn will turn over every rock—especially if the physical evidence is subject to multiple interpretations.” Terry made his tone more reassuring. “His threshold problem is that a claim of self-defense reverses the burden of proof. Under the law, Flynn would have to prove that Brian wasn’t forced to shoot D’Abruzzo. Without a witness of his own, that’s tough to do.”

  Meg exhaled. “So you think Brian will be okay.”

  “Given what I know,” Terry temporized, “I’d rather be Brian’s lawyer than the prosecutor. But Flynn will slice and dice what Brian and Kate told CID. Then he and CID will ask anyone he can find about Kate’s relationship to Joe, Kate’s to Brian, and Joe’s to Brian—”

  “Ask what, exactly?”

  “Had Joe really changed? Did anyone suspect Joe was abusing Kate? Are there other reasons why Joe hated Brian or Brian hated Joe? Did something happen between them in Iraq that may bear on this shooting? And even if Joe was abusing Kate—which CID won’t accept at face value—Flynn could see that as a motive for Brian to kill Joe, whether or not he needed to.” Terry paused, letting her absorb this. “Then there’s the unexpected. The guy next door is a freak for John Wayne movies, and these walls are paper-thin; every other night, the Duke shoots me in my sleep. There’s a fair chance one of Brian’s neighbors heard voices or gunshots. If so, CID will find him.”

  Meg scribbled furiously, her sharp slanted handwriting attacking the page. In a subdued tone, she said, “You’ve prosecuted these cases. What else will they be after?”

  “Flynn won’t like Brian’s delay in calling the MPs, or that he called you first. He’ll want to know from the medical examiner if D’Abruzzo died at once, which wound killed him, and whether any of the wounds suggest that D’Abruzzo was trying to defend himself rather than attack. He’ll also ponder whether the number of wounds suggests that this was overkill—”

  “Joe invaded Brian’s apartment, for godsakes—”

  “Not precisely—Brian let him in.” Terry paused, then continued firmly: “You also need to consider whether being both Brian’s sister and his lawyer is more than any human being can do. As Brian’s lawyers, we have to think like Flynn. You can’t fall in love with the client’s story because you love the client.”

  Meg gazed at him. “I try domestic violence cases,” she answered quietly. “They’re all about ‘clients’ I care about—the women I protect from abusive husbands. Unlike Kate, they went to the police, often at great risk. They need me to do my job.

  “I learned early to separate myself from fear or anger. I’ve never done a homicide case, but I can learn. Brian’s too important for me to let my
emotions interfere.”

  This had the ring of truth: even after these few hours, Terry guessed that Meg was skilled at cauterizing painful feelings. “Then remember I’m not your adversary,” Terry answered. “I’m trying to anticipate Flynn and CID. That’s my job.”

  “And mine,” Meg responded with a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll do my best to keep up with you.”

  Despite himself, Terry smiled briefly. “Then let’s suppose the physical evidence somehow contradicts Brian’s story. Self-defense requires that Brian shot Joe in the reasonable belief he was in grave danger. The fallback position is that while a reasonable person wouldn’t believe that D’Abruzzo was a threat to life, Brian genuinely did. That’s imperfect self-defense, reducing murder to manslaughter. One potential basis is PTSD—a reflexive response to a perceived threat, conditioned by combat experiences, which manifests itself in different ways—”

  “Like Brian’s nightmares.”

  “Yes. I’d like you to write down everything you noticed about his behavior since Iraq—vigilance, jumpiness, sleeplessness, detachment, outbursts. If necessary, we’ll bring in an expert in PTSD.” Terry softened his tone. “I hope we’ll never need one. But on the evidence of two-plus hours, Brian’s walking a very thin line between self-control and dissociation. That could help explain his loss of memory. In the right case, I’d argue that—of all courts—a court-martial should recognize the damage this miserable war is doing to our soldiers.” Terry smiled a little. “Respectfully, of course.”

  Meg made a note. Dryly, she said, “I’d certainly be interested in hearing you explain that to my father.”

  “I plan to. So please tell General McCarran I need to see him. Also Kate’s mother. Both of them without you.”

  Abruptly, Meg looked up. “For what reason?”

  “Because your presence will affect how they react. Today you helped me deal with two traumatized people you’ve known your entire life. But I’d like to form my own relationships with Brian’s father and Kate’s mother, as I would in any other case.” Terry paused. “Ditto Mike Flynn. By reputation, Flynn wouldn’t trust the shooter’s sister any more than he’d trust bin Laden to babysit his kid. Your position here is anomalous—you might even end up as a witness. For Brian’s sake, let me judge when that requires special handling.”

  Meg’s face took on a stubborn cast. “Just as long as we discuss it,” she said at last. “I don’t want to learn about something after you’ve done it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The alacrity of his response produced a look of veiled doubt. Whatever else, Terry thought, Meg McCarran was no fool. Pointedly, she asked, “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  “Yes. I can’t suggest this, but I don’t want your father or Rose Gallagher talking to the CID. Do you think Rose will avoid that?”

  Meg considered this. “I think so. For Kate’s sake, and to spare her grandchildren more pain. She’s been protecting children since Kate was born. Including me and Brian.”

  Terry nodded. “That’s it, then. Let me drop you at your car.”

  He did that, Meg remaining silent until they arrived. Then she turned, extending her hand with the trace of a smile. “Thank you, Captain. I know this wasn’t what you were expecting on your Sunday off. Let alone the bonus of a co-counsel.”

  Her hand was cool, her touch light. “You didn’t pick the circumstances,” Terry said. “And I don’t mind the company. Let’s hope that Brian doesn’t need either of us for long.”

  Nodding, Meg got out, giving him a quick backward glance before getting in her car.

  When Terry was back in his apartment, he made himself a drink, sorting through all he had heard and observed. Despite his sympathy for Brian and his sister, Terry grappled with a deep unease he could not define. But the draw of the case, and the people in it, was undeniable.

  He poured himself another scotch. Twelve hours before, heedless of the McCarran family, he had been sleeping beside Jenny Haskell. It felt like a year.

  five

  ON MONDAY MORNING, TERRY MET WITH MAJOR MICHAEL Flynn, the trial counsel directing the inquiry into Joe D’Abruzzo’s death.

  The prosecutor waved Terry to a chair. By reputation fiercely disciplined and intense, in person Mike Flynn had the whippet thinness of a fitness fanatic, and the skin on his sculpted face looked close to the bone, as though God—in whom, Terry had heard, Flynn believed with unnerving zeal—had stinted on raw materials. From the reddish-brown crew cut to his probing green eyes, Flynn radiated alertness, intelligence, wariness, and a focus that rivaled Terry’s own. His preparation for trial was storied.

  But that, Terry knew, was not the only reason the regional trial counsel had assigned this matter to Flynn. The flip side of his disinterest in matters outside his faith and the army was a devotion to military justice that permeated his life, a deep resolve to protect its institutions from taint. Because of Flynn’s own high standards, Colonel Dawes had opined, he would strive to be both rigorous and ethical. The main problem for Terry was Flynn’s lack of self-doubt. Unlike Terry, Flynn was a prosecutor to his core.

  Without preface, Flynn said, “What can I do for you, Captain Terry?”

  Terry was prepared for brusqueness. “Work with me,” Terry answered. “If we’re candid with each other, we can avoid a mistake that could damage both Lieutenant McCarran and the army.”

  Flynn’s laser stare radiated disapproval. “What you’re suggesting is that your client’s surname creates a leverage all its own. There’s another officer involved here: a captain without connections who gave the army and his country everything he had, and whose death left two kids without a father. He was every bit as valuable as your client, and is equally entitled to justice.”

  Flynn, Terry saw at once, drew purpose from victims, in this case perhaps strengthened by a subliminal identification with D’Abruzzo. “I agree,” Terry answered. “But Brian can’t help being named McCarran, and how we define justice in this case will reflect on the army in a very particular way. Nothing I’ve heard suggests this wasn’t self-defense.”

  Flynn gave him a thin smile that was no smile at all. “And you’d like me to tell you what I know.”

  “My client’s entitled to that, Major Flynn. For us to play cat and mouse increases the chance of a serious mistake.”

  For a moment Flynn scrutinized him in silence, signaling his unwillingness to be prodded. “It’s my practice to be candid, Captain Terry. Within the limits of your obligations to McCarran, I expect the same from you. If you can persuade me that there’s no probable cause to charge McCarran, so be it. But you won’t accomplish that today.”

  This last statement put Terry on edge; Flynn’s tone suggested something deeper than punctiliousness or caution. “I didn’t expect to,” Terry answered. “I’m focused on what you’ve learned so far, and how you see it.”

  Flynn picked up a pen, clasping it with the fingertips of both hands. “You know the rudiments. McCarran called the MPs to report he’d shot D’Abruzzo. From the tone of his voice on the tape, McCarran could have been calling his pharmacy for a refill. He sounded dispassionate, to say the least.”

  “Brian was a combat officer,” Terry objected. “Calm is a requirement of survival. Though what you heard may have been the shock of killing the husband of a woman Brian thought of as a sister.”

  “Perhaps,” Flynn said in a neutral tone. “Certainly, their stories mesh seamlessly—domestic violence, McCarran taking the victim’s gun, D’Abruzzo coming to get it.”

  Terry nodded. “True. To me, their accounts make sense.”

  Flynn shrugged, a dismissive twitch of the shoulders. “Assuming their accounts are truthful. According to your client and Mrs. D’Abruzzo, she called to warn him that her husband was coming for his gun. But McCarran says he erased the message; the phone company doesn’t maintain records of local calls on landlines. There’s no evidence that the call ever happened.”

  With mounting disquiet, Te
rry began to perceive the pattern Flynn was constructing. “That would also be true,” he rejoined, “if Mrs. D’Abruzzo had called you in this office and you’d deleted her message after listening to it. But you would know, as Brian did, that she’d called. That’s why he called her back.”

  Flynn smiled faintly. “Or called Captain D’Abruzzo.”

  Terry feigned incredulity. “To invite him to a shooting? Talk about a crime without a future—what officer in his right mind would plan to kill his fellow officer in his own home?”

  Flynn had assumed the clinical manner of a scientist testing a hypothesis. “If murderers had less self-confidence, Captain, there’d be a lot less murder. Let me pose a question of my own: If McCarran feared this man’s supposed propensity for violence, why did he let D’Abruzzo in? Of course, that’s where your assumptions may betray you. As I noted, there’s no evidence that D’Abruzzo was violent at all.”

  “That would make Kate a liar,” Terry said flatly.

  “All I know,” Flynn countered with the same relentless dispassion, “is that she never reported her husband for striking her. Even though—like McCarran—she claims to have been terrified of him. Once again, there’s no evidence to corroborate a critical aspect of the story.”

  “What about at the crime scene?”

  “That’s problematic, too. The gun was on McCarran’s chair—the location from which he claims to have shot D’Abruzzo. But the four cartridges on the floor were in different locations, all closer to the door, which may indicate that McCarran was moving—”

  “Brian doesn’t remember,” Terry interposed.

  “So he claims. But there were four bullets in the corpse, suggesting that McCarran may have had more in mind than discouraging an unarmed man.”

  “Where were the wounds?”

  “Arm, chest, palm of the hand.” Flynn skipped a beat. “And back.”

  Though the position of the body troubled him, this revelation jarred Terry far more. “In a deadly confrontation, things happen quickly. People move.”