Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel tb-16

by Kathy Reichs

  “Gross’s version differs markedly from that of Eggers’s.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant Noonan. That is why we are here.”

  Recognizing the rebuke, Noonan leaned back, lips compressed so tightly they blanched at the edges.

  Fisher refocused on me.

  “According to Corporal Grant Eggers, Aqsaee and Rasekh weren’t rushing anyone. Terrified by the blast, they were attempting to move away from the road.”

  Several beats passed.

  “The victims’ bio profiles are in here?” I tapped the folder in front of me.

  “Yes. Rasekh was significantly taller than Aqsaee. And the two differed in age.”

  “By how much?”

  “Mr. Rasekh was fifty-two.”

  Fisher gave a tight shake of her head.

  “Mr. Aqsaee was killed on his seventeenth birthday.”

  FISHER ADDRESSED A NUMBER OF points concerning logistics, then, wishing us Godspeed, withdrew. Welsted took over.

  “It’s essential that we dot every i and cross every t while exhuming, transporting, and examining these remains. We screw up, go off task just once, the locals have the right to pull the plug. And we’ll have eyes on us every minute.”

  “Friggin’ nightmare.”

  “I realize that displeases you, Mr. Blanton. But that’s the agreement. Two local nationals observe throughout.”

  Blanton pooched air through his lips but said nothing.

  “The team will assemble at the staging area at oh-five-hundred tomorrow. Estimated flight time to Sheyn Bagh is two hours, which should put us wheels-down no later than oh-eight-hundred. Count an hour for a meet and greet with the mayor and his honchos, that puts us on-site at the cemetery by oh-nine-hundred. Wheels up by seventeen hundred. Either of you have a problem with that?”

  “It’s hard to estimate how long an exhumation will take without knowing what conditions we’ll encounter,” I said.

  “You’ll have eight hours.” Read: end of discussion.

  “Suits me,” Blanton said. “No way I’m overnighting outside the wire.”

  “NCIS has final say during the dig and analysis, with input from Doctor Brennan.” Welsted looked my way. “But any disagreement, it’s Blanton’s call.”

  Though troubled, I nodded understanding.

  “Blanton will oversee the actual digging. His crew will consist of two marines from Delaram and two LNs—”

  “Like Ali Baba and his buddy will know how to trowel.” Disdain dripped from Blanton’s words. “Or how to keep their friggin’ sandals from crushing the evidence.”

  “Lack of local participation was a deal breaker.” Welsted’s patience was wearing thin. “The Afghans insisted, the Pentagon agreed.”

  “Christ.”

  I looked at the NCIS agent, surprised by his contempt for the Afghan people.

  But was that it? Was it the locals Blanton disliked? Or a malignancy that had taken root among them?

  I try to be open-minded, to judge each individual on merit and accomplishment. I hold no bias against any belief system, sexual orientation, or skin color that differs from mine. I do not hate in stereotype.

  But I have no tolerance for a creed that not only denies an education to girls, but condones, even encourages, the abuse of women. For dogma that allows men to beat, mutilate, even execute members of my gender.

  My one prejudice. I despise the Taliban. And I firmly believe that the arrogance and cruelty of its followers stems from ignorance, fear, and male insecurity.

  “Mr. Blanton will handle all video and photography,” Welsted continued. “Villagers wishing to observe will be allowed to do so, but will be kept at a distance of at least ten yards.”

  “We gonna serve ice cream? Maybe sing a few camp songs?” Blanton slumped back in his chair. “Friggin’ circus.”

  Welsted spoke to me. “You know your equipment needs?”

  I pulled a list from my backpack and handed it to her.

  Welsted looked around the table. “Any questions?”

  I had one.

  “Where will I perform my analysis?”

  “At the hospital here on base.”

  “I’ll need X-ray capability.”

  “All arranged.”

  I had another.

  “Why couldn’t we do this today?”

  “The army is providing transport. The Blackhawk is available tomorrow.”

  Blanton started to speak. Welsted cut him off.

  “Have a good one, people.”

  Blanton shot to his feet and strode from the room.

  I gathered my backpack and jacket and made my way outside. As I reached the sidewalk, Blanton was disappearing around a corner of the building.

  “Dr. Brennan?”

  I turned. Welsted was coming through the door.

  “Do you have plans right now?”

  “Got a date with a case file.”

  “Are you qualified with a weapon?”

  “I’ve done some shooting at Quantico, but—”

  “I’m heading to the firing range. How about coming along?”

  “Guns aren’t really—”

  “A woman needs skills, especially over here.”

  Taking my silence as assent, Welsted elbow-steered me toward the van that had brought us. During the drive, she exhibited an unsettling level of enthusiasm for, and encyclopedic knowledge of, firearms.

  “You have your M16, M4 carbine, M27 automatic rifles. Sniper rifles like the M110, M40. The M1014 semiautomatic shotgun. Used by forces in Britain, Australia, Malaysia, Slovenia, the L.A. cops. Nice. Under a yard long. Less than nine pounds.”

  Welsted had never met a weapon she didn’t like.

  “I’ll stick to handguns,” I said.

  “More useful stateside, if you get my meaning.” Welsted actually winked.

  The range was open-air and located on the periphery of the base. Beyond the uprights serving as targets, past the outer fence, stretched mile after mile of barren rock and sand. In the far distance, a walled village rose like a tiny, wavery bump in the endless expanse.

  “Be right back,” Welsted said after checking us in.

  She was. With a weapon familiar to me.

  “Beretta M9. Semi. Range of fifty meters. Fifteen-round detachable magazine.”

  I took the Beretta. Remembered why I liked it. Not too large, not too heavy. Nice heft. Grip that felt good in my hand.

  “Reuben will assist you. See you in sixty.”

  Welsted moved to a target four down from mine.

  Reuben was large and mustached, and definitely not a talker. He handed me earplugs and goggles, then set up a target and watched me shoot. After a few corrections to my grip and stance, he disappeared.

  An hour after starting, I was leaving a tight circle of holes in the black bull’s-eyed human form.

  I was removing my earplugs when Welsted reappeared, face flushed either from heat or excitement.

  “Good?”

  “Good,” I said.

  Reuben materialized as Welsted called for the van. I handed over the Beretta and protective eyewear. Thanked him.

  We were barely rolling when Welsted began punching keys on her mobile. Her end of the conversation suggested firming up of arrangements for the next day. Politeness was not the woman’s strong suit.

  I checked my iPhone. No signal.

  “Pain in the ass dealing with these people.” Welsted shoved the phone into a pocket of her fatigues. “Customs vary from tribe to tribe, subtle differences mostly. Pays to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

  “No surprises,” I said.

  “It’s rare that a surprise here brings good news.”

  General rule or personal recollection?

  After another two calls, Welsted turned and jabbed a thumb toward the window.

  “You gotta try the Green Bean. Awesome coffee.”

  Except for the weapons, fatigues, and sign stating NO SALUTE AREA, I could have been viewing a gathering spot o
n any college campus.

  Painfully young men sipped from paper cups in the shade of a gazebo. A couple held their heads close while reading something in their laps. A woman wrote alone at a picnic table, sun sparking her short brown hair.

  Were the men just back from a convoy? Preparing to set out? Was the couple deciding what movie to see? Was the woman composing a postcard home?

  In a year, how many would still be alive and intact?

  My eyes began their reflex search for Katy.

  And the guilt surged anew.

  “Cup of java now?” Welsted asked.

  “I should go back to my quarters and read the case file.”

  And check for messages.

  “Your call.”

  Back in my room, I logged on to the dusty old PC. Found no word from either Katy or Blanton. No voicemail.

  What the hell?

  I checked my watch.

  12:40.

  I paced, agitated to be doing nothing. Anxious about my daughter.

  I’d been at Bagram for twelve hours. Where was Katy? Why hadn’t Blanton located her?

  More senseless back-and-forth across the floor.

  Why hadn’t I brought Welsted into the loop?

  I knew Katy’s unit. Could find her myself.

  No, a tiny voice advised.

  For once, I listened.

  Pulling a bottle of water from the cabinet, I shoved aside papers and magazines, pulled the Gross file from my backpack, and began reading.

  Very quickly, my eyes grew heavy. My mind refused to focus.

  Thinking food and a little exercise might reinvigorate me, I set out for the DFAC.

  Forty minutes and an epic salad later, I rounded the corner of my B-hut row. My pulse quickened at the sight of a pink paper wedged into the doorjamb of my unit. I hurried forward, hoping it was a note from Katy.

  It was.

  Can’t believe you’re here. Awesome! Off with unit today, tomorrow. Meet tomorrow night. Lighthouse Coffeehouse. 10 pm. (Too late for you, old lady? Tee hee!) No comments on my hair.

  Katy

  Yes!

  With a lighter heart and renewed energy, I returned to the file.

  FIRST I REVIEWED THE NAVAL Criminal Investigative Service Summary of Incident report. Skimming the boilerplate, I focused on the salient facts.

  A cordon-and-knock operation in Sheyn Bagh led to a firefight during which two unarmed Afghan civilians were fatally shot. The shooter was Second Lieutenant John Gross. Gross radioed his BDA to company HQ, and upon return to FOB Delaram reported in greater detail to his company commander, Captain Wayne Hightower.

  I had to think for a minute. Recalled from my work at JPAC that BDA meant battle damage assessment.

  Hightower ordered Gunnery Sergeant Werner Sharp to interview all participants and reported the incident to battalion HQ. Interviewees told Sharp that the drive to Sheyn Bagh had taken thirty minutes. The convoy of five Humvees and one seven-ton armored truck arrived at sunset. Two of the Humvees were augmented with M2 .50-caliber heavy machine guns. Though historically a friendly village, intel had reported probable weapons caches and explosives stores. The platoon was on high alert.

  Sheyn Bagh was bordered on three sides by a wall and on the fourth by a steep hill. The front wall had two gaps for passage from the road to the village, one at each end.

  I glanced at the NCIS photos. The place looked like a scene from a Ray Bradbury novel.

  Back to the summary.

  Light was fading. Three Humvees pulled inside the compound, and two set up outside the wall, one near each opening. The seven-ton positioned between them.

  Fire teams from second and third squads began banging on doors and rousting occupants, starting at opposite ends and working toward the middle. First squad deployed to protect the vehicles and to provide covering fire to the searchers.

  Lieutenant Gross, armed with an M16 and an M9 Beretta, remained in front to command the operation and to provide additional covering fire. Gross directed Corporal Grant Eggers, a SAW gunner with first squad, to also remain at the front with his light machine gun.

  The first house entered was near the end closest to the lieutenant. Two AFG males were taken outside and ordered to remain in place. The searchers found nothing and advanced to an adjoining house. At that moment an explosion rocked the area next to one of the Humvees. The explosion sounded like an RPG. Two marines near the Humvee were hit.

  Automatic-rifle fire from the hillside began kicking up dirt at the front of the compound. Lieutenant Gross screamed “contact front” and “engage, engage.” He yelled to the Ma Deuce gunners to sweep the hillside. They tore up the hill and Eggers unleashed several bursts from his M249. Eggers at that point heard cries of “Allah Akbar” from his right and heard the lieutenant open fire. He turned and saw the two LNs from the first house twitching and staggering at an angle between the lieutenant and the house, in a direction away from where the RPG had hit.

  The shorthand was all coming back. AFG was for Afghan and LN meant local national.

  When Eggers saw the LNs, they were fifteen to twenty meters from the lieutenant, spinning sideways from the impact of the rounds. As they collapsed facedown, Lieutenant Gross ejected the clip from his M16 and jammed in another. Eggers turned to fire more bursts at the hill, but no enemy returned fire. The .50-cal gunners were still raking the hillside. Lieutenant Gross yelled to cease fire, and it got quiet.

  Lieutenant Gross ordered everyone back to their vehicles and he and the medic moved to the wounded. Eggers checked the two LNs and both were dead. He did a cursory search and found no weapons or explosives on or near the bodies.

  The medic declared the wounded stable but in need of medical attention. Deciding transport by vehicle would be quicker than waiting for a medevac chopper, Lieutenant Gross aborted the mission, had the wounded loaded into the seven-ton, and sped back to Delaram. The dead Afghans were left for the villagers to deal with.

  I stopped reading to stand and stretch, and to contemplate what chaotic hell those minutes must have been. Then I turned to the gunny’s assessment of the facts. Basically, Sharp had found the following.

  Only Gross and Eggers saw the Afghans get shot, and Eggers did not see the first several seconds. Initially, the two were cooperative and nonthreatening. Only Gross and Eggers heard the men yell anything. Gross claimed the Afghans rushed him. Only Gross shot at them. It was undisputed that the men were unarmed.

  The gunny paid particular attention to the statement given by Eggers, and summarized it in some detail:

  Eggers was upset and thought both LNs had been shot in the back. Thought they were running from the RPG blast, not toward Gross. Why empty a 30-round clip at these guys? The hostile fire was coming from the hillside. Eggers thought he recognized the younger LN from prior sweeps of the vil. The kid had seemed friendly. Villagers had told him that bad guys would infiltrate the vil, fire at patrols, then melt away. Eggers was sure the dead were noncombatants.

  I read the statement by the company commander, Wayne Hightower, but learned nothing new. A file note by an NCIS special agent quoted Hightower as saying he did not intend to play Captain Medina to Gross’s Lieutenant Calley, and that he’d made a full report to his superiors.

  From the statement by battalion commander Lieutenant Colonel Walter Roberts, I learned that Roberts had informed the commanding officer of RCT 6, Colonel Craig Andrews. Roberts had also transferred Lieutenant Gross from command of his platoon to a staff assignment at battalion H&S Company. Headquarters and support. Roberts commented that the Gross case had the potential to develop into a major incident at the governmental level. He recommended that the inquiry proceed “by the book.”

  I read a directive from Andrews that the Gross matter be referred to the NCIS field office for an investigation into possible felony charges.

  I got up for a stretch and shoulder roll. Then I turned to the NCIS scene investigation file.

  Two things struck me immediately. First, t
he file was remarkably thin for an incident potentially leading to felony charges. Second, the special agent directing the scene investigation had not been Blanton. Somehow, that gave me more confidence.

  As I worked my way through, I understood why the file was so sparse. By the time an NCIS site visit could be arranged, there was little to inspect. The bodies had been buried and the scene had been cleaned, then trampled by normal day-to-day activity.

  One village elder produced thirty M16 shell casings and pointed out the area from which they’d been retrieved. The investigative team photographed damage to the wall where the RPG had landed, collected metal fragments blown from the Humvee, took telescopic photos of pockmarking on the hillside, and dug a handful of .50-cal slugs from the soft rock.

  NCIS interpreters conducted interviews, but no one had witnessed the actual shooting. Everyone questioned told the same story. The dead were good men. No insurgents in village. No explosives. No bad weapons, just rifles for protection against thieves. Insurgents on the hill had come, then gone. Marines killed boy. Very bad thing.

  Permission for an exhumation was repeatedly denied. With no bodies and no witnesses, that left only the scene examination report and statements from members of Gross’s platoon.

  Distilling the statements of the marines and the NCIS investigation down to the basics, a couple of facts stood out. One, the two witnesses to the shooting told conflicting stories. Two, rounds had struck the LNs either in the front or in the back.

  I understood the importance of the exhumation. Wondered what Gross was thinking. Clearly he knew.

  Perhaps because Eggers had no stake in the outcome, his statement carried enough weight to compel Colonel Andrews to prefer charges against Gross for murder and for conduct unbecoming an officer.

  Yep, I thought, murder surely is unbecoming.

  I read the DD Form 458s, the military charge sheets. The first identified the accused as Second Lieutenant John Gross, and alleged violations of the UCMJ Article 118 and UCMJ Article 133.

  The specifications under 118 read: “That in Sheyn Bagh, Helmand Province, Republic of Afghanistan, the accused did unlawfully murder one Ahmad Ali Aqsaee, an Afghan national by shooting him multiple times with an M16 automatic weapon.” It provided the time and date of the incident.