“Sir, we don’t have the appropriate assets in theater for a forensic evaluation,” I said.
“You’re taking point on this task. It’s a critical mission,” he said firmly. “Make it happen.”
“Yes, sir.”
I immediately called Colonel Gagliano to let him know about the assignment and suggested that he could intervene and take the mission himself. He said if General Hahn wanted me to take lead, then I needed to take it. I protested mildly, stating that I was too far out of my lane of expertise. What I really meant was I wanted out of a mission that focused on the dead. I wanted to spend my time in trauma care and emergency medicine, not on some politically expedient assignment.
“You’ve dealt with more dead patients than I have,” he stated flatly. “None of us have any forensic expertise and we don’t have a pathologist in theater. Plan accordingly and stay on task. Keep me informed and let me know what you need.”
What I needed, I thought, was a different mission. I wanted nothing to do with Saddam’s dead sons. Soldiers needed my expertise in the field or in combat hospitals. The Army needed doctors who were trained in managing trauma, yet I was assigned to care for two dead men who had dedicated their lives to the murder, rape, and torture of Iraqi citizens. The incongruity made me want to curse, but soldiers and officers were expected to adapt to the needs of the mission. I didn’t have the option of asking the general to get somebody else for the job.
—
I had worked closely with Ambassadors Patrick Kennedy and Clayton McManaway since the first days of my assignment to the 30th Med Brigade in Baghdad. In our meeting, I explained my concern that no Army doctors in theater, especially me, were qualified to perform a forensic evaluation. Both ambassadors knew I had worked with the Institute of Forensic Medicine in Baghdad (also known as the Medico-Legal Institute) and wanted me to make contact with the institute’s director, Dr. Faik Bakr, so Iraqi pathologists could collaborate on the identification. McManaway wanted a plan of action and he wanted it then and there.
“Dr. Kerstetter,” he said leaning forward, “give us your best advice on how to proceed. We need to be sure on this. There are political considerations that are time-sensitive.”
The thought of doing medical missions out of political expediency was, to me, something akin to politicians kissing babies, but Iraqi law and custom required an immediate release of the dead for burial, and local political pressures demanded our quick response.
“Sir,” I said. “The best way to proceed is by flying a team here from the Medical Examiner’s Office at Dover Air Force Base. They have response teams that can deploy worldwide for this kind of mission. They’re the recognized experts in forensics.”
McManaway shook his head and responded forcefully. “That would take too long. If the Iraqis can make the identifications and certify the Iraqi death certificates, you can sign the military death certificates. Would that work?”
I knew it wouldn’t and wondered how far I could push that point. I also knew the mission was sensitive. There would be zero tolerance for errors. I needed to be clear and decisive.
“If we were to shortcut professional forensic standards, it would be equivalent to malpractice,” I replied carefully. “We simply cannot allow ourselves to become compromised. A forensic team should collaborate with the Iraqis on this case. If I called the medical examiner’s office in Dover now, they could deploy a team and have them here inside of twenty-four hours.”
“Doc, you’re putting us in a difficult position here,” Ambassador McManaway said sternly, his brows furrowed. Any delays in identifying the bodies risked a public rebuke by the disposed leadership of Iraq.
“Yes, sir. We are in a difficult position.”
Both ambassadors looked at each other, then at me. I suspected I had crossed a line of acceptable dialogue.
“Wait here while we confer with Mr. Bremer on this,” Ambassador McManaway finally said.
L. Paul Bremer was a direct presidential appointee who didn’t necessarily see things the way Army leadership did. I grimaced, thinking I would be ordered to sign the death certificates despite my professional objections. But when the ambassadors came back, they said I needed to get on the phone and order the forensic team to fly to Baghdad.
“You’re right, Doc,” Ambassador Kennedy said. “Do this one by the book. We’ll handle the political fallout. Let General Hahn know what we decided and get the Dover team here yesterday.” I felt like I had escaped the grip of a lethal virus. I would not have to sign the death certificates after all.
I phoned the medical examiner’s office at the Dover Air Force Base in Delaware at 6:00 p.m. The time difference made it Wednesday, 2:00 a.m., in Delaware. I asked the duty officer to patch me through to the medical examiner on call. The medical examiner was a colonel, I was a major.
“Sir, this is Major Kerstetter calling from Baghdad on behalf of General Hahn.”
“Major who?”
“Dr. Kerstetter, sir. I work for General Hahn and General Sanchez.”
There was a distinct pause on the line. “Go ahead.”
“We have a situation that requires the forensic identification of high-value targets. I am requesting immediate assistance from one of your teams. Time is critical and I have full authorization from the general to make this request.”
“When do you need us there?”
“Yesterday would have been great, but today would be fine. We need your team here without delay.”
The colonel was quick and professional. “You can expect our departure within four hours. I will notify you directly.”
—
The Dover team arrived within twenty-four hours, as promised. I had already begun negotiations with Dr. Bakr for his participation with the forensic team. His help would be essential. Most of Iraq did not believe Uday and Qusay were dead. The rumor on the street was that we had killed their doubles or not killed them at all. Initially, military leadership thought that a combined statement by Iraqi and U.S. officials would quell any suspicions, but it became apparent that more verifiable evidence needed to be offered to the public. Our thinking was that Iraq’s own forensic experts could make the identifications in conjunction with the forensic team from Dover and that would be enough. But Dr. Bakr was skittish about signing any death certificates for the Hussein brothers for fear that he might be assassinated or his family targeted for cooperating with the Americans. In an emergency meeting with him and several of his colleagues, I tried to appeal to their responsibilities as forensic experts representing the interests of Iraq.
“Dr. Bakr, this is an opportunity to inform the nation of Iraq that the Medico-Legal Institute will not be manipulated by threats or rumors. Your expertise is needed to work in collaboration with our forensic experts from Dover. Together, we’ll be able to inform your citizens that the terror reign of Uday and Qusay has ended.”
“The terror will continue. You don’t know Iraq.” Dr. Bakr shook his head as he answered. He was an older, balding, and soft-spoken physician who, I would later learn, had a leaning toward entrepreneurial ventures. When he wasn’t performing his official duties as director of the institute, he ran a private clinic and a pharmacy. He had received some of his medical training in Europe, where he became fluent in English. And he did know Iraq. He could recite its cultural history all the way back to the beginning of civilization.
“True,” I said. “I don’t. But I do know we have ended a reason for that terror. And you can validate that reason for the citizens of Iraq. As a colleague, I ask you to work with me to make an accurate forensic identification. The Coalition authorities would look favorably on your cooperation.”
“We will need help rebuilding the institute and we need security.” He raised his eyebrows and paused.
Taking his cue, I said I was authorized to provide the institute with assistance for new equipment and a security detail.
“I must discuss this with my colleagues. We can meet tomorrow again.”
/> “Tomorrow is out of the question. We must decide today, this afternoon,” I responded firmly. “The forensic team from Dover is expecting you to participate. The ambassadors expect you to participate. Please, tell your colleagues we must proceed today.”
I felt a risk in being firm. If I pushed too hard, he might resist, but my mission was clear, and getting his collaboration was not optional. The next hours of negotiation were critical to the success of that mission and I feared my influence was crumbling. Dr. Bakr was right. I didn’t know Iraq or understand the expanded risks he and his colleagues would take in working with the U.S. Army. He explained to me that he would not work alone, but if his fellow pathologists were willing to work as a group, then he would work with our forensic team and encourage his colleagues to sign Iraqi death certificates.
I sat in Dr. Bakr’s office as he phoned some of his top colleagues. He wanted twelve pathologists to represent the institute. The first three colleagues he phoned agreed to help. The next two refused. So it went, over more than an hour of calls and discussions, until he got his team of twelve who agreed to examine Uday and Qusay Hussein and attest to their deaths. By the time the negotiating was over, it was well past 8:00 p.m.
Early the following morning, I met Dr. Bakr and his colleagues at the institute. Two pathologists didn’t show. We loaded everybody else into two large vans. Three heavily armed infantry vehicles took lead and tail positions in our small convoy. I had been advised by our intelligence officers to expect an attack on the route to our destination.
By the time the convoy of pathologists arrived at the secure site, the Dover team had already completed the autopsies. Forensic medical photos and X-rays had been taken. The forensic team assigned causes of death and reconstructed the faces of the dead to allow for easier facial recognition. DNA samples were being processed. The Iraqi pathologists were not disappointed that the autopsies were completed. Several of them told us they would not even allow themselves to touch the bodies of Uday and Qusay Hussein.
The forensic team from Dover presented their evidence as if presenting to a mortality conference of their scientific peers. After the photos and X-rays were presented, the entire group of Iraqi pathologists were invited to view the bodies in the autopsy tent. Dr. Bakr stood to go first and motioned to me to join him. Going first was a position of leadership and authority. In a sense, it was an honor to go first. During the entire presentation I had thought about the role I was playing in what would undoubtedly be viewed by some as a historic medical event, the autopsies of Iraq’s two most heinous and volatile monsters. They were serial rapists, murderers, and criminals so violent that even Saddam Hussein had imprisoned Uday in reaction to several brutal murders. These were not men, but devils whose unrestrained violence and arbitrary brutality tore at the lives of even ordinary Iraqi citizens. Like Iraqis, I hated them and everything they stood for. I could smell their stench from the autopsy tent. It turned my mind as well as my stomach. As Dr. Bakr held out his hand for me to join him, I rose and stood by his side.
“Doctor, please forgive me,” I said quietly. “I cannot join you. I will not allow myself to see the bodies. I hope you understand.”
He looked at me and took my hand. I imagined that, in his role as a pathologist, he had taken the hands of many Iraqi families as he counseled them about the loss of their relatives. He said nothing for a moment, then spoke with an air of compassion.
“I understand completely.”
With that, he turned and led his fellow pathologists into the autopsy tent.
I felt relieved that he had not insisted on my joining him. I felt that viewing the bodies would have been too much to bear, not in terms of forensics or medicine, but in terms of my own sanity, in terms of the images and memories I would carry forever. I had seen their X-rays and photos. I had done my duty as ordered, taken the responsibility, made the necessary forensic arrangements. That was enough. Uday and Qusay were dead, their identification certain. I wanted nothing more of the mission, nothing more of their deaths and their bodies and their legacies. I longed for the living—for patients who needed rescuing or blood or maybe even just the touch of a doctor to assure them. As in other times when missions had drained me, I thought of my children. As I considered the task of viewing the forensic evidence, I felt that my refusal to witness the bodies of Uday and Qusay Hussein was my way of protecting my family from the entangling influences of their evil.
The Iraqi pathologists stayed in the autopsy tent less than a half hour. When they returned, they all affirmed the deaths of Uday and Qusay. They talked as if they had witnessed something that brought great relief to them personally. Two of the pathologists said words to the effect that they were happy the murderers were dead. One started telling us about the sufferings of families that he knew personally, of rape and torture at the hands of Qusay Hussein. And in the middle of telling us about those families, his emotions grabbed him and he started to weep openly. The tent was silent. And if it were possible to sense the depth of pain that the Iraqi people suffered, I sensed it then. When I heard the Iraqi doctors talk about the cruelty they had witnessed over the years, I was glad that I had stood firm and refused to view the remains.
With the death certificates signed, I returned to headquarters to report to General Hahn and Ambassadors Kennedy and McManaway. They thanked me for a mission well done and the general asked me to join him in his office.
“Well done, Doc,” he said. “I know this was not your idea of a medical mission, but it was a mission that had to be done and I knew I could trust you with it.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He gave me the slightest smile that quickly turned serious. “I need you on one more task related to this mission before you’re finished.”
“Sir?” My response wasn’t the affirmative “sir” that I usually gave. It was the puzzled kind that came with a shade of apprehension. I dreaded the thought that the mission still wasn’t over.
“You need to work with officials of the Iraqi Red Crescent Society and your Iraqi contacts at the Forensic Institute to transfer the remains to Tikrit. Saddam’s family will take control of the bodies for their final disposition. Give them the death certificates and then have them sign a transfer form.” His orders were not a discussion.
“When does this all take place, sir?”
“As soon as possible but no later than forty-eight hours. Nobody gets any rest until this mission is completed and we have delivered the remains. Again, if you need anything, let me know. Work the details out with Colonel Gagliano.” And that was it; short and final.
—
I met with Colonel Gagliano that afternoon and we worked out a plan of transfer. Again, time was of the essence for tactical and political reasons. I called Dr. Bakr just before dinner. It was difficult to tell him exactly what I needed, since some of the details were classified. I merely said that I needed his help making contact with the family of Uday and Qusay in Tikrit.
It seemed the entire country of Iraq was buzzing about the death and disposition of the Hussein brothers. Rumors surfaced about attacks by Saddam loyalists to recover the bodies because they were being defiled by military doctors doing autopsies. Other rumors claimed that anti-Saddam fighters would undertake similar attacks to take the bodies for political purposes. U.S. military intelligence reported that once the photos of the Hussein brothers went public, the secure and secret location of the bodies would no longer be secret or secure. We should expect an attack from either or both of the opposing forces.
Dr. Bakr would not give me the names of his contacts in Tikrit who knew the Hussein family. He was blunt. “Too dangerous!”
He did, however, give me the name of a leader in the IRCS who could make contact.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “You have done enough.”
I phoned the contact at the Red Crescent Society, Dr. Hakim, about 7:00 p.m. He had already been aware of the request to have the Hussein brothers delivered to Tikrit. The request
had come from a Hussein family spokesman, an uncle of Saddam. I didn’t know if Saddam had a real uncle or if the spokesman was a distant relative simply referred to as uncle. It didn’t really matter to me. I was tired of the whole affair and wanted only to be done with it so I could return to my role as a doctor. To do that, I needed to make direct contact with a member of Saddam’s family for the final disposition of Uday and Qusay. Short of talking with Saddam himself, an uncle would do just fine.
I talked to Dr. Hakim in general terms. The final handoff would occur under the highest levels of U.S. Army security and we would not tolerate any attempt to interfere with the transfer. He understood that and knew the transport of Uday and Qusay came with high stakes. Their deaths had spurred an escalation of fighting throughout Iraq. The proper disposition of their bodies might de-escalate tensions. If we let the transfer degenerate into a political fight or an outright battle, more Iraqis and soldiers would die and we would have failed our responsibilities.
At the end of our conversation, he gave me the name and phone number of the uncle. Dr. Hakim offered to phone the uncle first and introduce me as the U.S. military contact. He suggested I wait until 9:00 p.m. to make my call. In the interim, I would receive a phone call from another Red Crescent member, a doctor whom I had worked with before on a humanitarian assignment. She would also help facilitate the transfer. Her call came within fifteen minutes.
“Dr. Kerstetter. It appears we will again be working together. Let us hope it goes as planned,” she said.
“All I ask is that you help me on the day of the transfer,” I replied. “We will be at a secure site. I don’t know where yet. The details will come later. Will you be there representing the interests of the Red Crescent?”
Crossings Page 12