One Was a Soldier

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  McCrea fell in between Clare and Sarah, so that the four of them made a wall of hawkish green punctuated by dove gray. Like Trip, he stood at ease, facing the speaker. His eyes cut toward Clare. “The chief isn’t here with you?”

  Clare shook her head minutely. “He offered.” She kept her own spine straight, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes forward. “The husband is here. Is your presence going to be a problem?”

  From the corner of her eye, she could see the ribbons on his chest rise and fall. “You know about that?”

  This time she looked at him directly.

  Eric’s mouth compressed. “No one’s going to notice me. They’ll just see the uniform.” He faced front again. “I had to come. She was one of us.” Sarah leaned forward and glared at them, her finger to her lips. McCrea dropped his voice to a whisper. “She was one of us.”

  * * *

  There was no honor guard. Clare didn’t know if that was because the area commandant was so overwhelmed with requests he couldn’t supply one, or if the army didn’t send a team for soldiers who had died after walking away with a million dollars of army money. There was a group from the local VFW, though, one big-bellied guy, a pair who looked too thin and frail to hold up their rifles, and a bearded man of about forty. Three of them fired the volley while everyone in uniform saluted and the older folks placed their hands over their hearts and the younger ones stared.

  Clare and Eric and Trip and Colonel Seelye kept their salutes as the bearded man and the big-bellied guy—Desert Storm and Vietnam, Clare thought—folded the casket flag into a sharp-edged triangle and presented it to Tally’s mother. She clutched it, as mothers always did, and for a moment Clare could see in her every woman standing at a graveside, left with nothing but a flag to hold. Those hands, digging into the star-spangled twill, seemed to reach into Clare’s chest and squeeze her heart. She stopped analyzing the ceremony. Stopped comparing and critiquing it against the dozens of funerals she had officiated at. Her eyes filled with tears and the bitter, salt-rimed taste of grief stung the back of her throat.

  She turned her face away from the childless mother, struggling to master herself. She stared hard at the trees fringing the older section of the cemetery, their autumn colors burning like banked coals against the heavy gray sky. She paid attention to the details, slick stone and dripping branch, because focusing on the sodden scenery meant she wasn’t falling apart.

  That was how she saw Quentan Nichols.

  * * *

  “It was him. I’m sure of it.”

  Russ relocated a pile of reports and newsletters from the extra chair to his desk. “Sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down.” Clare paced from the desk to the filing cabinets to one of the tall windows. It was streaked and spotted, the watery afternoon light held at bay by the bright fluorescents inside the office. “I want you to do something.”

  There was a knock on the door. Harlene stuck her head in. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Clare?”

  “I’d love one, Harlene. Thank you.”

  “Hey!” Russ crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. “What about me?”

  “You got two legs, don’t you?” The dispatcher nodded at Clare. “You look a right treat in that uniform.” She shut the door.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Sorry, Major, the uniform doesn’t do it for me. Too many bad memories of idiot officers.”

  “Russ!”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Sorry.” He straightened and went around his desk. He picked up a file. “Here.”

  She took the slim folder. Inside was a fax from Fort Leonard Wood acknowledging the MKPD’s request, blah, blah … she found the information halfway down the sheet. Nichols, Quentan L., posted to Fort Gillem, Georgia, September 26. Copies of the travel order and the transportation receipts. She flipped the page. A different fax headlined Office of the Commandant, Fort Gillem, told her Sergeant Nichols had arrived on October 4 and was currently listed as active duty assigned to the military police post.

  She looked at Russ. “He’s in Georgia?”

  “Since a week before Tally McNabb’s death.” He took the folder from her. “Did you think I wouldn’t take a look at Nichols? Rule him out as a suspect?”

  “But I saw him. Today. At the cemetery.”

  “Did you go after him?”

  “Of course not! I had to stay till the end of the ceremony, and then I had to introduce myself to Tally’s mother and offer my condolences.” She ground the sole of her ugly regulation pump against the floor. “I should be at her house right now.”

  “I bet you made a casserole.”

  She glared at him.

  “Okay. So today you saw a youngish black man of average height, standing maybe a hundred yards away, through the mist and rain.”

  The door bumped open and Harlene entered, carrying two mugs and a sugar bowl on a wooden tray that looked as if it had been someone’s shop project in high school. She set it atop the most stable stack of papers on Russ’s desk. “I got one for you, too,” she told Russ. “Don’t get used to it.”

  After she closed the door behind her, Russ spooned a generous helping of sugar into one cup and handed it to Clare. The oversized mugs were decorated with fat, parasol-carrying geese. Too cutesy-poo for his wife, he had once told her, so they had donated the set to the department.

  Clare took a sip of the sweet and bitter brew from Linda Van Alstyne’s rejected kitchenware. “Yes, okay, I was a long way away and conditions were cloudy—but I have very good eyesight, and it’s not as if Millers Kill is crowded with black men in uniforms.”

  “What about the private who’s here with Seelye? Was he with her during the ceremony?”

  “No, but—”

  “She probably set him at a distance to observe. Maybe follow Wyler McNabb.” He blew on his coffee. “If I were investigating the theft, I’d have him dogged. See if he led me to the money.”

  “I know what I saw! It was Quentan Nichols!”

  “Clare, it doesn’t matter. Let’s say you did see Nichols. Let’s say he took a leave of absence and drove a thousand miles north to lurk outside his girlfriend’s funeral. He didn’t kill her. Her husband didn’t kill her. She committed suicide. The case is closed.”

  “I cannot believe you’d dismiss her death that—that—casually!”

  He stepped away from the desk. “I’m not dismissing her death. I’m making a judgment based on physical evidence and solid investigating. You, on the other hand, are pulling crap from thin air because you don’t want to believe the plain facts.”

  “The plain facts? You mean, like the fact that she may have a fortune stashed away somewhere? The fact that she must have had accomplices who helped her steal the money? The fact that she was troubled and under investigation—”

  “Which led to her suicide!”

  Clare stabbed a finger against his khaki-covered chest. “So she knew, one way or the other, that the party was over. Anyone who wanted to keep that money or keep their involvement in the crime a secret had a million reasons to shut her up before she could talk to anyone. I don’t see how you can just blindly ignore that!”

  He leaned forward in a way she had seen before, when he was trying to use his size to intimidate people. “The theft of U.S. Army property is outside my jurisdiction.”

  “Tally McNabb’s death is in your jurisdiction—and you’re failing her.”

  His mouth thinned until it was a hard line. “I’m sorry you can’t accept the death of someone in your therapy group. I’m sorry you didn’t see where she was going ahead of time and stop her. But I’m not going to waste my department’s resources on an imaginary murder because you feel guilty for not helping her.”

  His words hit like a sucker punch. When she could find the air, she said, “I see. Clearly, I should keep out of your business. Like Linda did.”

  “Goddammit!” He slammed his mug on his desk, sloshing coffee over folders and paper
s and blotter. “That is not what I said.”

  “You think I’m overreacting because—what? She was in Iraq, like me? Because she was in therapy, like me? Because she was screwed up, like me?”

  He looked at her. “Yes.” His voice was flat.

  “I’m out of here.” She grabbed her purse and hat from the top of one of the filing cabinets.

  “Clare—”

  “And I want you to think, very carefully, about whether you really want to marry someone like me.” She swung open the door and dropped her voice. “Because God knows, I might snap and decide to kill myself for no good reason.”

  BUT I HAVE SQUANDERED THE INHERITANCE OF YOUR SAINTS, AND HAVE WANDERED FAR IN A LAND THAT IS WASTE.

  —Reconciliation of a Penitent, The Book of Common Prayer

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 10

  They were sitting around Will Ellis’s hospital bed, all five of them together. At the end of the sad, short ceremony at the graveside, Sarah had said, “It’s Monday. I expect to see you all tonight.” Trip Stillman had pointed out Will hadn’t been discharged yet. “That’s why the group is meeting in his room,” she had told them.

  The three soldiers had changed back into civilian clothes, but Sarah could still conjure the way they had looked, pressed and contained and ramrod straight, as if they were double-exposed in photographs. Sarah wondered, not for the first time, which was the original image and which one had been superimposed.

  Fergusson told Will about the people who spoke, and Stillman described the rifle salute. Sarah mentioned how beautiful the flowers were. Everyone tried to keep it upbeat, but there wasn’t really any way to put a good face on the violent death of a twenty-five-year-old woman. Will grew pale and paler as they spoke, as if the light inside him were being turned down by degrees and would soon be extinguished. “I can’t believe it,” he finally said. “I can’t believe she really did it.”

  It struck Sarah that the only difference between Will and Tally was lack of access to a gun and seven days of stomach purges and antidepressants. Coming close but no closer seemed to have stripped death of its glamour in Will’s eyes.

  Fergusson shook her head. “I don’t believe she did.” Sarah was sure she had been drinking. She was in control—no slurring or listing—but her color was high and her expression unguarded.

  “Forget it.” McCrea lifted his head and spoke for the first time. Something was clearly bothering him beyond Tally’s suicide. “I thought she was killed, too, but we’re wrong. Her husband turned out to have an airtight alibi before, during, and after the time of death.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. And her boyfriend from Iraq couldn’t have done it because he was on duty at Fort Gillem. I’m not saying she was killed in some sort of lovers’ quarrel. I think she was killed for money. A whole lot of money.”

  “Excuse me?” Sarah said.

  “You saw the other officer at the funeral?”

  “Yes. I thought she was from Tally’s company.”

  “She was. Sort of. She’s with CID, assigned to FINCOM. She’s investigating the theft of a million dollars from the army’s coffers.”

  Stillman leaned forward. “She thinks Tally was involved?”

  “She thinks Tally’s responsible.”

  “What?” Will said.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Stillman said.

  McCrea rubbed a finger over his mouth and made a humming noise.

  Sarah’s first impulse was to view Clare’s statements as a symptom of denial or anger. A projection, thrown up because the bald truth of McNabb’s suicide was too painful. On the other hand, she was engaged to the chief of police. Maybe she knew something the rest of them didn’t. “What evidence does this investigator have?”

  “I don’t know. She’s here trying to get a warrant to search Tally’s house and all her financial records. Russ—Chief Van Alstyne believes she’ll probably arrest the husband as an accomplice.”

  “Where’s the money?” Will asked. Sarah was glad he had said it first.

  “I have no idea. The where isn’t the point. It’s that someone—maybe several someones—had a pretty damn good motive to kill her.”

  McCrea shook his head. “If the chief is calling it a suicide, the evidence has got to be locked up solid. He doesn’t cut corners.”

  “I know that!” Fergusson sounded exasperated. “I’m not saying it doesn’t look an awful lot like she did it. But think, Eric. You were at the scene. Would it have been impossible for another person to have staged it?”

  He paused. “Not impossible, no. Although it would’ve required a hell of a lot of fine-tuned planning to carry it off that convincingly.”

  “The sort of planning a lot of money could help with?”

  He frowned. “Maybe. Provided the perp had enough brains. Most criminals are dumb as dirt.”

  Sarah raised her hands. “I’m feeling as if we’re wandering off track here. We were talking about dealing with Tally’s death—”

  “You know what we say in the Corps?” Will’s voice was stronger than it had been. “Nobody gets left behind. Alive, dead, it doesn’t matter. Nobody gets left behind.”

  “It’s over,” McCrea said. “There’s nothing else we can do for her.”

  Will gave the police officer a look that reminded Sarah of how young he really was. “You can. You could at least dig into it some more.”

  “No. I can’t.” Eric bent over in his chair and locked his fingers over the back of his head. Hiding his face from the world. “I’ve been suspended. I can’t do jack shit.”

  Will and Stillman stared. Fergusson glanced away. She knew. Sarah leaned toward McCrea. “What happened, Eric?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Before she could prod him into revealing more, he said, “I lost it with a suspect. I was mad, and I couldn’t … I lost it.”

  Will flopped back onto his pillows. “Oh, God. Look at us. A cripple, a drunk, a washed-up cop, and—” He looked at Stillman. “I don’t even know what you are. An obsessive note-taker with three-generations-old technology.” The doctor drew his PalmPilot closer to his chest.

  “I am not a drunk,” Fergusson said.

  “Reverend Clare, you’ve been to my house. I’ve seen you putting away wine like it was Kool-Aid. I’ve heard my parents talking about you.”

  Clare breathed in. “They were talking? About me?”

  “And we’re what Tally left behind. Her squad mates.” Will closed his eyes. “Losers and failures. You wanna know who’s going to give her justice? Nobody. Not a damn soul.”

  The silence that followed was painful. It wasn’t thoughtful or contemplative. It was the silence of despair. Of ending. Of surrender. Sarah should remind them of the grief process. She should help them connect their feelings with their experiences. She should offer them something positive. She couldn’t. The echo of Will and Clare’s words were drowning out all her other ideas. Who will give justice to the dead?

  She opened her mouth. “We can try.”

  “What?” McCrea looked at her.

  “I said we can try. There’s no law against asking questions, is there? Talking with her friends or co-workers?” As she said it, Sarah realized she wanted someone to blame as much as the rest of them. She wanted to know she could not have prevented Tally’s death. This is not a therapeutic response, she told herself. “I suppose we could … we could…” She spread her hands. “Actually, I have no idea what we could do.”

  “There might be some people I could call,” Stillman said hesitantly. “To find out about her service in the 10th Soldier Support. I can probably get some information on the man she met in Iraq as well.” He smiled vaguely. “The old doctors’ network.”

  Sarah made an encouraging noise.

  “I’ve met the officer who’s investigating the theft,” Fergusson said. “I can see if she’ll tell me anything about what they’ve discovered so far.”

  “Why don’t you just pump the chief for information?” McCrea asked.

&n
bsp; “Euw.” Will made a face. “She’s my priest, remember? TMI.”

  “What? It’s okay if she drinks, but it’s not okay if she—”

  “That’s enough.” Fergusson sounded every inch the officer. “I know you’re angry with Russ. I’m pretty pissed off at him myself. But don’t take it out on me, Eric.”

  McCrea couldn’t meet her gaze. He dropped his head and mumbled something.

  “I don’t have any special contacts or anything,” Will said. “I don’t think any of the marines I knew can help us out.”

  “She was closer to your age than to any of us,” Fergusson said. “Maybe you can spread the word among your friends. You never know what somebody may have heard on the grapevine.”

  Will looked skeptical. “Most of my friends left for college.”

  “So e-mail them. Pick up the phone. They’ll be so happy to hear from you, they’ll tell you anything.”

  “Well…” He kneaded his thighs. “I guess. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to anybody. Maybe I can call a few guys. Okay.”

  If Sarah hadn’t been watching Fergusson instead of Will, she would have missed the flare of triumph on the priest’s face. Doing well by doing good, Reverend? One way or another, something positive might come from this folly. Which made her think. “What about you, Eric?”

  McCrea glared at her. “I told you. I’m suspended. I can’t help you.”

  “Maybe you should try helping yourself. A structured, goal-oriented activity with no pressure from your work or your family? It could be a good place to work on containing your anger.”

  “C’mon, Eric.” Fergusson leaned forward. “We need you.”

  “In the first place, I don’t have either my badge or my service piece. In the second, pursuing an active investigation while suspended is grounds for termination.”