Blood On The Bridge

by Zack Klika

  Tim looked the photo over, pushed it to the side, and picked up another one that looked identical.

  “This one,” he said, a hint of disappointment in his tone.

  Riley did not see a difference, but she understood why he seemed down. He had spent the better part of the last four years trying to teach her how to tell a story with a photograph, and she still found it difficult to pick out the subtle differences between two different photographs. And there was always a difference between two photos, even if they were taken a split second apart.

  “It looks identical to the one I just showed you,” Riley said, her brows furrowed in concentration.

  “Look again.” Tim motioned to a sector of the photo. A hint.

  She studied the photo and, out of pure frustration, gave up a few moments later.

  He took the photo and pointed to one of the soldiers. “Look at him.”

  She looked at Tim’s photo, then back to the one she picked out. Sure enough, there was a difference between the two photos. In the one Riley picked out, the soldier had a stone-cold face. Looked like every other soldier. In the second photo, he had a smile. Not a grin and not a wide smile. Just a smile.

  “So he’s smiling,” she said, disappointed she had missed it but not willing to show Tim how she felt.

  “Why do you think he’s smiling?” he asked.

  Riley thought about it. He wasn’t smiling at her. He was just smiling. Then she thought about rumors she had heard about the captain who was being replaced. Captain Hick was his name. Real piece of shit, from what she heard. Picked on soldiers because he could. Rank did that to some officers. One time she heard he got mad at some soldiers for playing football during PT and took the football from a soldier, then cut it open with scissors. That might not have been too bad, but after he cut the football up, he decided to throw it at the soldier’s face while the soldier was at attention. The change of command was most likely caused by that incident. You can’t abuse a soldier, then expect them to follow you into a theater of war. It might have worked for General Patton, but today’s Army was a lot different than Patton’s Army. And Captain Hick was no Patton.

  “He’s happy they got a new captain,” said Riley.

  “There ya go,” Tim said, taking the chosen photo back to his desk. “So what did Sanchez say?”

  Riley’s mood went from good to bad, reality washing back over her.

  “Not much of anything really. No one in custody for her murder and he’s holding back on what happened to her on that bridge.”

  “Something is off,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s been almost twenty-four hours since she was found and still no press release. I thought the Clarksville Times article would have at least pushed the base to release a photo of her to the public, asking for any information about her murder.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s going to be a big story,” Riley said, ownership in her voice.

  “You’re right. It will be big. But you shouldn’t think of it as your ticket out of the Army. I’m letting you run with this because a woman was killed and there’s no excuse for it. And it should go without saying, but you won’t be able to print this in our paper.”

  “I understand,” said Riley, letting the reproach sink in.

  “Her death demands that her story be told, if for no other reason than that she was one of your fellow soldiers.” Tim picked up a thin manila folder off his desk and handed it to her. “I called in a favor and got those from records. She was a pretty high-speed soldier. Only here a year and already had her Air Assault wings and Pathfinder badge.”

  Riley set the folder down, her body going back to its relaxed state. Tim might have seemed too intense from an outsider’s view, and he could be, but when he was done making a point, he moved on quickly.

  “I get the Air Assault wings,” Riley said, “but the Pathfinder badge doesn’t make any sense. It takes most soldiers at least three attempts at that school before they pass. Not to mention it’s a twelve-week course. You’re telling me she was a first-time go?”

  “And she was halfway through Special Forces Assessment and Selection,” said Tim.

  Pleased with the way Tim phrased it, Riley asked, “When did SFAS start taking on women?”

  “It hasn’t yet. She was part of a trial run to see how women did in it.”

  That was too much for Riley.

  The Air Assault program at Fort Campbell was popular around the world. Soldiers from different countries would come to the base to get their wings. Having them pinned on at the end of the two-week course was a rite of passage. The wings stayed on your uniform forever. You never had to requalify. The course was designed to prepare soldiers for insertion and evacuation missions by way of helicopter. It taught you things like sling-loading operations, rappelling techniques, and fast-rope procedures.

  Over the course of the two weeks there were several inspections and tests. The tests were mostly physical. A few long-distance runs. Some of the well-known tests were the timed obstacle course and the helicopter rappelling test. If you failed any of the inspections or tests, you racked up points. If you racked up twenty points, you were disqualified from the course. About half of the soldiers who went to the course got their wings. The other half went back to their units empty-handed.

  Riley lasted two days. She made it past all the first-day tasks. Run four miles—timed. Finish the obstacle course—timed. She showed up the second day of the course, and there was a surprise inspection. She was disqualified ten minutes after the inspection. Part of the packing list for the course was a field jacket. Hers was rolled tight in the rucksack. Zipped up to the top like it was supposed to be. But there were twelve buttons that snapped over the zipper, and none of them were buttoned. The instructor for the course docked her five points per button. Sixty points. She only had herself to blame. If she ever looked over someone else’s gear, though, she would check the buttons.

  The Pathfinder course she only had a basic understanding of. Once you finished the course and got your badge, you were a specialist at navigating your way through foreign terrain.

  Riley knew even less about SFAS. That Jennifer Carlson obtained a slot had Riley’s mind working overtime. One scenario surrounding her death hit home. Hard.

  “Do you think her murder had something to do with hazing?” Riley asked.

  “It’s possible. A majority of soldiers don’t think women should be in combat roles. Maybe the guys from her Selection group let her join in on some after-work fun and things went a little too far.”

  She tried to imagine the barriers Jennifer had broken down to get all the way to SFAS.

  “To get that far, and then . . . ,” she mumbled, but stopped talking when she realized her thoughts had become vocalized.

  Tim watched her. Riley knew it wasn’t the first time he had seen her lost in thought and talking to herself. She still hated that she let it slip in front of him from time to time.

  “Do you know who runs SFAS?” she asked.

  “A colonel named Martin Wright. Her in-processing paperwork is in the folder too.”

  Riley pulled out a small notepad from her shoulder pocket, flipped it open, and wrote the name down.

  “Thanks, Tim. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Always,” she said and grinned.

  Tim shook his head and gathered his belongings.

  After he left, Riley picked up the folder he had set on the table and pulled out a thin stack of papers. Military records didn’t look like much to most soldiers, enlisted or commissioned, but Riley knew better. To a journalist, they were worth more than gold. That was one of the first things Tim had taught her.

  Riley started on page one. A wallet-sized photo was stapled to the upper-right-hand corner. Jennifer was beautiful with an unnerving look about her. Her dirty-blonde hair, pulled back in a bun, didn’t detract from her beauty either. Enhanced it actually. Riley knew it was better that Jennifer was attractiv
e. It would help her story pick up more press. Riley folded the photo up to get a better view of the initial page.

  Jennifer Carlson joined the Army in Clarksville, Tennessee, and requested Fort Campbell as her duty station. Why here? Riley wondered. No one wants to be here. She continued through the documents. Jennifer did nine weeks at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. The same base Riley had gone to. The parallels of their lives ended there. Jennifer went on to school at Fort Lee, Virginia, for her AIT, Advanced Individual Training. She must have been tough because she picked 91B as her occupation: vehicle mechanic. Loosening a baseball-sized lug nut on a five-ton military truck took muscle. Air Assault and Pathfinder already made a bit more sense to Riley.

  Besides the schools she had already passed, there wasn’t much to look at. That was normal for someone who hadn’t been at the base for more than a few years. Jennifer probably would have deployed with her unit sometime in the near future. Her in-processing paperwork showed that she was attached to FSC 1-137, a forward support company that was part of 3BCT, the 3rd Brigade Combat Team. Her unit was called Workhorse. There was no confusing what it meant either. Riley had been attached to a few FSC units during her deployments, and she knew firsthand that they were the backbone of any great infantry unit. They provided deployed soldiers with everything: food, water, mail, showers, vehicle repairs, materials for shelter, even ammunition for weapons. The list went on and on. Without a strong FSC by your side, you would not last long overseas.

  She pulled a pill bottle out of her pocket. Rattled it. Only a few left. That was going to be a problem. She tried to keep to four pills a day. Two in the morning. Two in the late afternoon. She was about to take her last two, which meant she was now taking six pills a day. She didn’t like it, but she needed the calm the pills brought on, the clarity they afforded her.

  Riley continued through the folder’s contents. The last page was the admission paperwork for SFAS. Jennifer was assigned to Bravo group with twenty-three other soldiers. All of them men.

  The boys’ club, she thought. No women allowed.

  A drop of blood fell on a sheet of paper she was holding. She licked her lip and realized she had been biting it. The blood reminded her why she needed the pills now more than ever. She sent a text message to her dealer and tossed back the last two pills. Getting a refill wasn’t on the agenda, but it worked out since Jennifer’s barracks were right next to her dealer’s. She was going to kill two birds with one stone. It felt good to be tackling a story she felt invested in.

  Chapter 6

  Lee and Conn lay tangled in white sheets. Both of them exhausted. The comforter kicked to the floor. Conn let out a deep breath and pulled it back onto the bed, sliding it over her naked body, which Lee took in. He still couldn’t believe his flirting had gotten him this far with her. He grabbed a glass of water, took a big swig, and offered Conn the glass. When she reached for it, he pulled it back.

  “That’s gonna cost you,” he said. “One kiss.”

  Conn grinned. He knew she loved it. Her movements were smooth, confident, in control. She kissed him, taking the glass with a free hand in the process. As he settled back into bed, his demeanor changed. A seriousness washed over him. Conn propped herself up on one elbow, facing him. He felt like an open book when he was around her. She always seemed to know what was eating away at him. More often than not, he let her initiate the conversation.

  “I didn’t know he’d make you go to the fights. I would have warned you,” said Conn, peering up at Lee.

  “I know,” he said, feigning a smile. He could never tell if she was lying or not.

  “It’s set up so that as soon as the fights start and you give us word, we get you out of there,” Conn said and smiled, trying to console him by rubbing his biceps.

  Lee shook his head as he said, “Assuming it all goes as planned. If these guys think I had anything to do with their arrest, they’ll kill me.”

  “They won’t have a clue,” said Conn and sat up. “And you could always tell Johnson you won’t do it.”

  “And go to jail? I’ll pass.”

  “You wouldn’t do any jail time if your evidence disappeared.”

  That caught him off guard.

  “No,” was all he could say. His response came quicker than he wanted it to. They both stared at the ceiling for a moment. He didn’t mean for it to come out like that, but there was no taking it back. Not like he could say no in a nice way anyway. If he took the offer, he would owe her. He didn’t want to owe anyone a thing.

  “It’ll all be done after tomorrow,” said Lee. In his mind it would be. If Johnson didn’t let him go after the fights, he would bring out his recordings to refresh Johnson’s memory.

  “And then you can go back to selling to undercover cops,” said Conn, rolling over and sitting up at the edge of the bed.

  Her pants were almost all the way on when Lee finally said something. Almost a whisper, something that he seemed embarrassed to say out loud.

  “Maybe you’re why I’m stopping.”

  Conn stopped getting dressed and said, “I’m sure.”

  Lee watched her for a moment and wondered why they played these games. He knew their relationship would never go any further than where it was. He pulled her back to bed.

  “When do I get to meet your little guy?”

  He knew it was an uncomfortable topic for her. That was the plan, though. He wasn’t just tormenting himself for fun. He had a goal in mind.

  She started to speak, but closed her mouth and stopped.

  “Forget about it,” Lee said, planting the seed. “It’s probably best if I don’t meet him. I mean with my background and all.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Conn said. She tried to kiss him, but he shook free of her and stood up. He walked to the window in his sweatpants and peered into the darkness surrounding a streetlight. The situation was overwhelming. His situation. Every bit of it. Compartmentalizing his problems helped. And Conn was one of those problems. You just had to be a cop.

  “I think you should go,” Lee said, keeping his back to Conn.

  He knew she ran a risk every time she came to his apartment. The risk would be easier to avoid if he gave her a reason to stay away. If he pushed her away. Better to do it with a clean break.

  Conn finished getting dressed and left without a word.

  When the front door had closed, he walked back to the living room and opened his laptop. The article about Jennifer was still open in his web browser. The woman he knew nothing about, other than the two people who killed her, was weighing heavy on his conscience.

  He fired up a joint to erase the day.

  Chapter 7

  Danny watched with an emotionless gaze. The reflection of flames flicked in his eyes, one of which was now badly bruised. A fight was taking place, but he could not hear anything other than the voices inside his head. They called him stupid, worthless, nothing. The voices were not always this hostile. But he had never slipped up the way he did earlier that day.

  Why would you say that about the soldier? Are you fucking retarded? It was one of the voices in his head.

  Danny clenched his jaw and ignored the question. He was somewhere across town, deep in a dense forest. Spectators were crowded around two men going blow for blow. Both of them haggard and bloodied. One of the fighters was scraggly with long hair, the other nothing but lean muscle, a buzzed head, and a tattoo on his right shoulder that looked to Danny like a horse holding a sword.

  The only light came from three bonfires placed in a triangle formation that the fighters could not step out of for fear of getting tangled in the barbed wire lining. Buck stood next to Danny with a deadly grin plastered on his face. Fighting was what Buck lived for. It was one of the many reasons Danny didn’t do anything when Buck hit him. And Buck hit him a lot.

  The sharp crack of bone rang out as the scraggly fighter landed a devastating knee into the other man’s nose, sending him sprawling to the ground. Blood spurted everywhere. The cro
wd cheered on for the man to finish it. He tried to oblige them by jamming his heel into the other man’s throat, but the crowd’s cheer was probably the last thing he would ever remember. The fighter on the ground caught the man’s heel right before it made contact with his jugular, kicked the other leg out from under him, and knocked him out before he ever hit the ground. In the split second it took for them to reverse roles, the fight was over.

  Danny wondered why he never liked fighting even though he was good at it. Growing up around a father who beat on him and his mother whenever he got a chance probably had something to do with it.

  Or you’re just a pussy, pussy. Another voice in his head.

  “Let’s go,” Buck said, nudging Danny with his elbow.

  Danny nodded and obediently followed Buck as he walked towards the back of the crowd.

  “Everything ready?” Buck asked him in between swigs of beer.

  “Yeah. It’s parked over there,” said Danny and nodded in the direction of a dark green Toyota Tacoma.

  “Good job.”

  When they got to the truck, Buck told Danny to hang tight while he found a good tree to piss on. Danny leaned against the hood of the truck and kept an eye out for anyone who had wandered too far.

  You could do this by yourself. Why fuck with him. He’s nobody. The voice low this time. A whisper. Like someone else might hear it.

  Buck was the brains of the operation. Danny knew that. Why didn’t the voices? They would get him in trouble again if he wasn’t careful. It was one of the voices that had thought of the clever joke about the soldier on the bridge. The joke that caused him so much embarrassment in front of Lee. It didn’t matter now. It was done. Lee was a nobody.

  Danny pulled out his knife from his waistband and spun it around in his hand, the polished blade catching the reflection of his bruised purple eye, a reminder of his place in the grand scheme of things.

  It doesn’t look that bad. Another voice. A kind one.