by Kathy Reichs
No cat.
Then I smelled coffee.
And heard muted music. “Good Day Sunshine”?
Puzzled, I pulled on sweats and headed for the stairs.
A box of donuts sat on the dining room table. Napkins. Plates and utensils. Butter and jam.
In the study, the Beatles were singing about needing to laugh.
I pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Pete was at the counter, pouring juice from a carton.
“Sugarbritches.” Big Pete grin. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Is there a nonsarcastic answer to that question? My brain conjured none.
“What are you doing here?”
Then, panic.
Which must have shown on my face.
“Don’t worry.” Pete raised a calming hand. “Katy’s fine.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
“She’s fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Pete stowed the carton in the fridge and turned back to me. A smile twitched his lips as he took in my attire and disheveled hair. Probably a bed crease denting one cheek.
“Don’t start.” I gave him my squinty-eye warning.
“What?” Boyish innocence.
“It’s much too early for a fashion critique.”
“You look terrific, sugarbritches.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Here.” Pete thrust a glass toward me. “It’s loaded with vitamins.”
“You sound like Anita Bryant.” Accepting the OJ.
“She was right.” Pete took a sip. Clarified. “About oranges. Cheers.”
Pete tapped his brim to mine. We both knocked back our juice.
“Where’s Bird?” I set my glass in the sink.
“Sleeping off the pâté.”
“You gave him pâté?”
“Relax. It was chicken liver, not goose.”
“The vet has him on a diet.”
“He didn’t mention that.”
My eyes were still rolling when the cat strolled in. Pete picked him up.
Birdie purred like a Ducati cruising at eighty. He likes my ex. Always has.
“Did you know you’ve been robbed?”
“What?” My eyes flew around the kitchen.
“Your refrigerator’s been stripped.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“Seriously. It’s empty.”
“I’ve had a busy couple of days.”
“The hit and run?”
“Mm. That why you’re here? To make sure I’m eating?”
“Madam.” Sweeping an arm toward the door. “Shall we adjourn for coffee and tarts?”
“I will not get sucked into your wedding drama.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
We both filled mugs, added cream, then moved to the dining room. Pete took the chair opposite mine at the table.
“Butter and jam?” I cocked a questioning brow.
“You never know.”
“Yes. With donuts, you do.”
I helped myself to a chocolate glazed with sprinkles.
Pete took no pastry. Didn’t touch his coffee.
“Snooze you lose,” I said brightly. “Should have bought more chocolate.”
“They’re all for you.”
“What, no flowers?”
It was an old joke between us. Pete didn’t laugh.
Alrighty, then.
As I waited for my ex to get to the point, another possibility entered my mind.
“Is there a problem with the divorce? Did I do something wrong on one of the form—”
“Everything’s in order.”
“Have you filed—”
“I will.”
“The wedding is still on track?”
Jesus, Brennan. Why bring it up?
“There are some glitches. Nothing Summer can’t handle.”
Summer can’t handle stirring yogurt without instruction. I didn’t say it.
Birdie jumped onto the chair beside Pete. He ran a hand down the cat’s back. Stared at the motion, distracted. Avoiding?
My gut clenched.
“You’re not lying to me, are you? This isn’t about Katy, right?”
“Only peripherally.”
Heat flamed my cheeks.
“You said—”
“She’s fine.”
“Have you heard from her today?”
“No.”
“Then you have no idea how fine she is.” Sharp.
Pete continued stroking the cat. Continued watching his hand do it.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I said.
Pete leaned back. Changed his mind and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“There’s a way you can see Katy.”
“We were supposed to Skype—”
“In person.”
“What? She gets leave? Already?” My donut froze in midair. “Oh, God. Is she hurt?”
“No.”
“Has she been hospitalized?”
“No. Christ. Stop overreacting.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I have no reason to believe that our daughter is anything but healthy and happy.” Überpatient.
I studied Pete’s face. Saw no deception. But a boatload of doubt.
Janis Petersons? Man of glib tongue and cast-iron nerves?
“What’s going on, Pete?”
He lifted his mug. Set it down without drinking.
“You can go to her.”
“Go to her?” I’d missed a connection somewhere.
“To Bagram.”
“Bagram. Afghanistan?”
“Right.”
This was not making sense.
“I know you worry, sugarbritches. I worry, too. Especially when days pass without word. I can’t let on, of course, being manly and all.”
Another old joke unacknowledged by laughter.
Pete continued, his tone different now. Deadly serious.
“I don’t want to manipulate you. But I do want to persuade you.”
Persuasion. The lawyer’s stock in trade.
“Persuade me.” Again I parroted, totally confused.
Pete drew a deep breath. Let it out. Laced his fingers.
“Okay. You remember my friend, Hunter Gross?”
I shook my head.
“The one I mentioned at dinner on Wednesday?”
At the bar with its volume on blast. “He’s a marine,” I said. “His nephew’s a marine.”
“Yes. John Gross. I’ve known Hunter for years.”
“From your days in the Corps.” I could never keep Pete’s old marine buddies straight.
Pete nodded. “Hunter called me again. He’s truly concerned about his nephew.”
“Go on.”
“I think I told you John’s at Camp Lejeune awaiting an Article 32 hearing.”
An Article 32 is the military equivalent of a grand jury. The purpose is to determine if sufficient evidence exists to proceed to court-martial.
“John’s been accused of killing Afghan civilians.” The story was coming back to me. “Which he denies.”
“A court-martial will ruin the kid’s career. Though that’s the least of his worries. If found guilty, he could serve life in a federal penitentiary. Or worse.”
“What’s he supposed to have done?”
“According to the charge sheet, he shot two unarmed villagers during the search of a compound.”
“What’s his version?”
“It was dusk. The scene was chaos. The men came at him screaming about ‘Allah!’ One made a move as though reaching for a firearm. He claims he shot in self-defense.”
“Turned out the men had no weapons.”
“You’ve got it.”
I thought about that.
“Gross is holding, what, an M16? The victims are unarmed? Yet they rush him? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Heat of the moment? Person
al jihad?” Pete shrugged. “Who knows?”
“There has to be more to the story.”
“Here’s what I know. As a lieutenant and platoon leader, John had to make a lot of difficult decisions. With serious consequences.”
Pete paused, perhaps recalling his own difficult choices while in service.
“One such decision involved a corporal named Grant Eggers. After repeated corrective interviews, John was forced to remove Eggers from his position as fire team leader. Eggers was furious, apparently bad-mouthed John at every opportunity, but never confronted him.”
“Let me guess. Eggers is the one making the accusation.” I went for a powdered-sugar frosted.
“Yes. He says the men weren’t running toward John, but away from him. He claims John shot them in the back.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Crazy ten ways to Sunday. Hunter is convinced his nephew is being railroaded.”
“Why?”
“Uncle Sam isn’t exactly beloved over there. Two unarmed civilians dead. An American marine the shooter. The locals want blood.”
“Politics.”
Pete shrugged. Who knows?
“The solution couldn’t be simpler.”
Pete reached over and brushed a thumb across my upper lip. I batted his hand away.
“Sugar mustache,” he said. “Go on.”
“The medical examiner checks the bullet entry and exit points.”
“That’s been impossible.”
“Why?”
“The men are buried in a Muslim cemetery. NCIS has repeatedly tried to get access, but the Afghan authorities have repeatedly refused to allow either an exhumation or an autopsy. After a lot of diplomatic maneuvering, they’ve now reversed their position.”
I had a sudden suspicion where this was heading.
“They’ve agreed to an exhumation,” I guessed.
“Yes. But there’s no guarantee they won’t change their minds again. So speed is of the essence. The Article 32 hearing has been recessed to allow time for the exhumation to take place.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How well preserved do you think the bodies will be?”
“What was done with them postmortem?”
“Hunter’s intel says the men were bathed, shrouded, and buried. Just laid on their right sides, heads toward Mecca.”
“A year in the ground. No caskets. I’d expect advanced decomp, if not full skeletonization.”
“U.S. experts will only get one shot at these bodies. If base personnel aren’t top-notch, John could be screwed.”
“Determining bullet trajectory is not rocket science.”
“You know that. Will they? According to Hunter, this is John’s best hope to clear himself. The defense wants a say in who will exhume and examine, and the prosecution has told them to propose someone who might be mutually acceptable.”
“You want me to go to Afghanistan.” Said with the enthusiasm I reserve for boils and sties.
“Yes. Your prosecution background will satisfy the government and the defense will go along with Hunter’s recommendation.”
Pete leaned back, eyes intense on mine. He’d presented his case. Now he waited.
Deep breath.
“Don’t get me wrong, Pete. I feel for John and his family. But military physicians have a lot of experience—too much—with traumatic injury. Any doctor in Afghanistan will have seen hundreds of gunshot wounds.”
“In fresh tissue. You just said it. The only thing left will probably be bone. That’s you. That’s your thing. You’re the best. Plus, the Article 32 hearing is in North Carolina.”
“I have commitments. I can’t just take off for the other side of the world.”
“You do it all the time.”
“No, I don’t.”
“JPAC?”
Pete was referring to my role as a civilian consultant to the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command, the military’s central identification laboratory in Honolulu.
“That’s different. Those visits are scheduled.”
“That’s another reason it has to be you. You know how the military functions, and your JPAC connection is another big reason the government will agree to you as the forensic expert.”
“Pete—”
He reached across and took both my hands in his.
“I’m asking this as a personal favor. Please. Oversee the exhumation. Do the analysis.”
“This is ridiculous. The logistics would be a nightmare.”
He smiled. “You’ve already been cleared.”
“By whom?”
“The DOD, the Pentagon, the friggin’ White House.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Pete pantomimed crossing his heart. “Digging up corpses on foreign soil is serious business, especially when they’re evidence in the investigation of an American soldier.”
“No way.” I pulled my hands free. “I’ve got a teenage Jane Doe in my cooler and no one gives a flip. If I don’t press her case, who will?”
“How’s that going?” Not full-out sarcastic, but close.
“It’s going.” Clipped. Why was I even discussing this?
“It’s your choice, of course. Stay here and keep pressing. Go to Afghanistan and help an American who’s maybe getting screwed. An American who risked his life serving his country.”
Pete paused to allow the unspoken implication its full impact. Katy.
“You can do either, buttercup. But ask yourself. Will staying here really help your Jane Doe?”
Annoying as it was, Pete had a point. Slidell would keep chipping away at the hit and run. Not as fast without me nagging, but he’d do the work. Luther Dew? No nagging needed there. The DNA? I could fly around the world and still beat the results to my inbox.
“John Gross needs one person he can trust to be impartial and competent. He needs the best.”
“What if I find that these men were shot in the back?”
“Then I will have fulfilled a commitment to a friend, and you will have found the truth, wherever it leads.”
Then Pete the litigator brought his argument home.
“The incident took place at a village called Sheyn Bagh. You’ll go there to oversee the exhumation. You’ll do the analysis at Bagram.”
Where Katy is stationed. Again, it didn’t need saying.
“I’ll think about it.”
Dear God, was I really considering this?
Pete passed me the donuts. I shook my head. He placed one on his plate, collected both mugs, and disappeared into the kitchen.
On the sideboard, Gran’s clock tapped out its quiet metronome. Curled on his chair, Birdie snored softly. Out the window, a mockingbird trilled a Saturday-morning air.
Pete returned and set coffee before me. Took his chair. Waited.
At length, he asked, “Finished thinking?”
“No.” I was.
“You’ll go, right?”
“When?”
He pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans, removed two papers, and laid them on the table.
I glanced at each.
Invitational travel orders.
An e-ticket on Turkish Airlines. Charlotte-Douglas to Dulles International. Dulles to Istanbul.
Leaving the next day.
THE REST OF that day was a nightmare of errands, packing, and last-minute arrangements. Ditto Sunday morning.
Larabee had to be notified. Slidell. Dew. LaManche in Montreal. Katy.
I tried Ryan, got voicemail. Big surprise there. Message: Gone to Afghanistan. Let him think about that.
Not wanting an inquisition, I sent Harry an e-mail. An extremely vague one.
I asked a neighbor to bring in the mail and papers. Dropped Birdie with Pete. Filled a prescription. Bought socks.
You get the picture.
Packing was a challenge. The Weather Channel said it might be hot, might be cold. Terrific. Figuring I could peel down, I erred in the direction of the latter.
Sunday morning I also loaded files onto my MacBook Air. A template for an evidence transfer form. A template for a forensic anthropology case form. The latest version of Fordisc 3.0, a program for the metric analysis of unknown remains. A number of online osteology manuals. All probably unneeded, but I wanted to be fully armed.
Last, I copied an article I was preparing for the Journal of Forensic Sciences. Unlikely I’d do any writing on this trip, but what the hell.
The taxi rolled up at four. I was at Charlotte-Douglas in thirty minutes, through security in thirty more.
Aviation miracle, the flight was on time. Three hours after leaving the annex, I was walking up a Jetway at Dulles.
After locating the Turkish Airlines gate, I found the Virgin Atlantic lounge and burrowed in for my three-hour wait.
Again, the gods were smiling. At 10:20 a voice announced my flight was boarding for an on-time departure.
Thinking international travel wasn’t so bad, I queued up with my fellow business-class passengers, found my seat, stowed my belongings, and buckled my belt.
I do not sleep well in flight.
For the next ten hours I read, ate a reasonably good meal, tried a movie or two. Donned earplugs and eyeshades, reclined my seat, and tucked under the blanket. Sought positions in which all of my limbs enjoyed blood flow. Reoriented again and again. Raised the seat and turned on the light to read. Lowered the seat. Dialed up white noise on my phone. Tried another movie.
Again and again I thought about Jane Doe. Assured myself I hadn’t abandoned her.
Deplaning in Istanbul, I felt like I’d rowed the entire fifty-five hundred miles.
The Turkish Airlines lounge was all gold and white, with circular arches separating bars, seating clusters, and food stations. The chairs and sofas would have looked stylish in any posh L.A. hotel. Wi-Fi. A pianist. Even a masseur. I could’ve lived in the place.
I snagged a few hors d’oeuvres, then checked my e-mail.
Katy and Ryan remained incommunicado.
Not so Harry. Now panicked.
Twenty-four hours had passed since my departure from Charlotte, almost none of that time spent sleeping. No way I was up to dealing with baby sister. I sent a follow-up message as vague as my first. Traveling. Catch up soon.
My next flight was aboard a 737 whose interior had never experienced a facelift. I got the bulkhead row, which meant a wall in my face in exchange for an extra inch of legroom.