KIA

by Thomas Holland

  “Hooah. Good to go, Chief,” the soldier responded. He adjusted his rifle sling and made another chopping motion to indicate his approval to proceed.

  Deveroux looked over his shoulder at the sergeant as he went past. “That man, the one that’s comin’ up behind me, that’s General Fick. He’s with me. Understand?”

  “Roger that,” the soldier replied.

  Deveroux turned and ran backward a few steps. He had another question. “Who’s got tactical command of this situation, son?”

  “That’d be Captain Walters, Chief.”

  “Thanks,” Deveroux responded as he turned. It took a couple of steps before the words caught up with him. He turned back to the young soldier. “Say again, Sergeant? Who?”

  “Captain Walters.”

  “Aw, Jesus H. Christ,” Deveroux muttered. He shook his head. “Jeeesus Holy Christ.”

  He was challenged two more times before he reached the nerve center of confusion. Both times he’d simply held his badge aloft and didn’t even verbally respond. As he feared, Captain Walters, the former Lieutenant Walters, was in the thick of the knot of people, bawling out orders that even Deveroux, fresh on the scene, could tell were contradictory and wholly confusing. He slowed as he drew near, as much to regain his breath as to ease off the pressure on his knees, and tried to summon up as much military decorum as he could muster. Jesus Christ, he thought.

  “Mornin’, Captain Walters,” he said politely as he shouldered through a ring of stand-arounds. “Looks like we got us a situation here.”

  Walters recognized the voice. As he turned, Deveroux saw him clearly for the first time. It had only been a month since they’d had their run-in at Fort Campbell, and in that time Walters had grown even fatter—if that was possible. He looked more like an overweight Boy Scout leader than a professional soldier, and Deveroux couldn’t help but wonder what kind of connections he must have to not only stay in the army, but continue to get promoted in it. Surely it had absolutely no correlation to intelligence or talent.

  “Warrant Officer Deveroux. Sightseeing?” Walters responded. “If you don’t mind, I have—as you so astutely observed—a situation here. Notice that I said I not We. I’m large and in charge, and this requires my attention. So, if you don’t mind, please remove yourself from this AO—now.” He started to turn his back and launch another round of misguided instructional missiles.

  “Captain Walters—sir—with respect, sir, I’m afraid I do mind. I’m assumin’ tactical control here—now. Effective immediately. This is my area of operations, and there’s really no time to dick-dance today.”

  “I don’t think so.” Walters started toward Deveroux until his brain registered the mismatch in their physical sizes. Even with the protective mantle of his rank, Walters stopped and took a small step backward. “I shouldn’t have to instruct you in—”

  “Sir,” Deveroux quickly interrupted, sensing that his patience was about to play out and that he might do something that both men would regret. “I can assure you that I need no instructions in anythin’ from you. Now, sir, we can do this one of two ways. You can either step aside and perhaps learn somethin’, or I can get on the phone to the provost marshal or the post commander and have you step aside. One way or the other…”

  “One way or nothing,” Walters responded angrily. “Here’re the two options as I see them. You either get your hick ass off my crime scene, or I’ll have you handcuffed to my bumper as a trophy. I’ve had about all—”

  “Captain, I wouldn’t advise either course of action,” Paul Fick said as he pushed his way through the crowd of wide-eyed spectators.

  “And who the hell are you?” Walters challenged. All he saw was a frail old man in civilian clothes.

  “I’m Brigadier General Fick. Paul Fick. And if Chief Deveroux can’t do it, I assure you that I certainly can make your life miserable.”

  Walters swallowed audibly and stood, eyes bouncing back and forth from Deveroux to Fick. He was preparing to make an ill-advised response when he was interrupted.

  “Captain,” a female soldier in full battle dress stepped forward. She rattled and clacked from all the belts and gear she had strapped on. She was holding a cell phone. “Sir, someone wishes to speak with you.”

  “Not now, Staff Sergeant,” Walters responded. He eyes kept shifting from Deveroux to Fick.

  “But sir…it’s him, sir.”

  “Him?” Walters turned to challenge the young woman. Whether he was up to taking on a BG and his sidekick warrant officer, he hadn’t decided, but Captain Walters was clearly up to the task of chewing up a female staff sergeant. “You have a hearing problem, Staff Sergeant? I’m busy. Who is it?”

  “Him, sir. The suspect. In the building,” she replied.

  Walters’s eyes narrowed. He looked at the building and then back at the staff sergeant. “He’s not a suspect. We know he’s in there, we don’t suspect he’s in there. Whoever he is, he’s a perpetrator.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young staff sergeant patiently acknowledged the semantic lesson. “Well, sir, the perpetrator wants to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

  Walters started to reach for the phone but Deveroux grabbed it first. “Goddammit Walters, we don’t have time for this,” Deveroux snapped. Even amid the adrenaline buzz of the moment, he realized that he’d cussed for the first time that he could remember in his adult life. Despite the shock, it felt good. “And remember to spell insubordination correctly in your report.” He kept eye contact with Walters as he held the phone up to his ear and paused, trying to modulate his voice, trying to resurrect a veneer of calm. “This is Agent Deveroux, army CID, to whom am I speakin’?”

  “Army CID?” said the voice. “Well, I guess I should feel honored. The Pros from Dover. From what I was watching, I assumed that it was a little more unorganized. Looks like an anthill out there; all the little ants crawling around. Are you a worker ant, or the queen, or maybe just a drone, Agent…what was it again?”

  “Deveroux.”

  “Agent Deveroux. You a Cajun boy, Agent Deveroux?”

  “I’m whatever you need me to be, Mr….” Deveroux’s inflection asked a question.

  “What I need, Agent Deveroux, is for you to answer my question. What kind of ant am I speaking to? You a worker? A queen? Or are you just a drone? Or is that only with bees?”

  “I’m the queen,” Deveroux responded. “At least for the day. We can talk. Now, sir, I believe I’ve answered two of your questions, how ’bout you answerin’ one of mine? Who are you?”

  “How about not.”

  “Your choice. You’re the one that called. Why’d you call if you don’t want to talk? How’d you know where to call?”

  “More questions, Agent Deveroux? All right, I’ll answer these. I do want to talk, and as to knowing where, I simply called the post operator and asked to be patched through to the fat-assed officer laying siege to the Alamo. They seemed to know who I was referring to right away, although I’m guessing that you’re not him. He didn’t seem like CID from what I could see of him. More like a chubby park ranger. Not sure what the army’s coming to these days. Are you?”

  Deveroux looked around at the reference to Walters, trying to spot him among the green suits, but the fat little MP had disappeared to lick his embarrassment in private. “Despite our agreement on that evaluation, you still haven’t told me why you called, or what you want.”

  “But I did tell you,” the voice replied. “I want to talk.”

  “That’s fine. You got somethin’ to talk about?”

  The voice chuckled. “Maybe I’m just lonely. My friend in here isn’t talking much, and it looks like a county fair out there; thought I’d get in on some of the fun.”

  “You have someone with you?” Deveroux looked around for Walters, wanting confirmation that there might be a second suspect or, even worse, a hostage.

  “So, are we going to talk?”

  Deveroux craned his body to look over the vehicles a
nd people at the barricaded front door of the multipurpose building. He thought of his conversation with Kel. He took a chance. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? At the risk of soundin’ like a bad movie, we’ve got the place surrounded…you can’t get out…Jimmy.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the phone, and Deveroux worried that the voice had hung up. Finally he heard a reply. “And just what did you call me, Agent Deveroux?”

  “Jimmy,” Deveroux answered. He scanned the front of the building looking for any sign of movement at the windows. “That’s your name, isn’t it? You are Jimmy Tenkiller, aren’t you?”

  There was another long silence.

  “You best come in,” the voice said quietly. “I do believe we need to talk.”

  CHAPTER 56

  Rolla, Missouri

  THURSDAY, APRIL 24, 2008

  Kel was standing in the front yard of Ngo Van Thu’s house, talking to the Phelps County coroner, when Deveroux and General Fick went screaming down the quiet tree-lined road headed for Fort Wood, a Rolla PD cruiser, its lights on, leading the way.

  “Somebody’s in a mighty big hurry,” Gary Hoey said. His smile was hidden by a brushy white mustache that matched his equally brushy and equally white head of hair. He was wearing a light-blue sport coat and a red-and-blue-striped tie and seemed tidy and proper in a manner wholly out of place amid the burned-out tumble and rubble that had been Ngo’s home.

  “Yes, sir,” Kel answered. “Sure seems to be. I guess they got a lead on who’s responsible for all this.” He stopped and used a nod to indicate the shell behind them. “Hope it pans out.”

  “You and me both, Dr. McKelvey. This is Phelps County, Missouri; we don’t get too many homicides like this—if that’s what it turns out to be. Mr. Thu, I think you called him Ngo, is that right? Mr. Thu was a prominent citizen around this town. Involved in lots of things. His construction company employs a whole slew of people. He’s got a couple of multimillion-dollar jobs going on right now, in fact. Just finished a big FEMA contract to build some trailer parks down in New Orleans; got another big contract down at Fort Leonard Wood; another for the university over in Rolla; even has some bids for work in Iraq. Yes, sir, I’ll be tickled to no end if we can wrap this one up quickly and quietly. I know old Lieutenant Rugelo, over there; he’ll be just as glad.”

  “I can imagine,” Kel replied. “Speakin’ of which, when do you think you’ll do the autopsy on this case? Any chance you’ll do it today?”

  Gary Hoey blinked several times in thought. He was a small man, and he had to look up at Kel when he responded. “Mind me asking why you care?”

  Kel shrugged.

  Hoey seemed to accept that response. “Ordinarily we’d do it tomorrow morning. I’m a coroner, not a medical examiner; I don’t do the autopsies, you see. Sign ’em, but don’t do ’em. We have a pathologist from the hospital who comes over and does them on contract to the county. He likes to work in the mornings, but in this case…well, I just know that we’ll be under a lot of pressure on this one given who’s dead and all. Especially once the fire marshal releases his findings. I’m thinking we’ll try and do it this evening, if I can get hold of the doctor.”

  Kel nodded. He kicked at a couple of blackened brick cobbles and tried to sound nonchalant. “I know this is a touchy case for y’all, but, ummm, you suppose there’s any chance we might take a look at the remains before then—you and me?”

  Hoey shook his head. “I don’t know…”

  Kel responded quickly. “All noninvasive, you understand? No cuttin’. Nothin’ that will interfere with your pathologist. Just a look-see, is all.”

  Hoey blinked again, in a manner that seemed to indicate that he was processing some information. “Perhaps if you could explain your interest. I’m still not clear on how you think this case relates to what you and your friends are interested in.”

  “Not sure that it does, Mr. Hoey,” Kel replied, “but I tell you what, if it does end up bein’ connected, your headache meter is going to peg slam out. That’s a fact, and the way I look at it, the sooner we know if there’s a connection, the sooner we’ll know if we need to take some aspirin.”

  “I still don’t understand, Dr. McKelvey, I don’t. How are you going to know if this is connected to your case?”

  Kel paused. “Let’s just say that the other cases had a common thread. A rather distinctive common thread.”

  Hoey shook his head and smiled. He looked up at Kel. “Can’t say that explains much, but one thing I do understand is that aspirin upset my stomach. Why don’t we go to my office.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Rolla, Missouri

  THURSDAY, APRIL 24, 2008

  The Phelps County coroner, like the one in Johnson County, operated the more stomach-churning aspects of the business out of a private funeral home.

  Hoey’s staff, understanding as well as their boss the outside interest that the death of Mr. Ngo Van Thu would inevitably generate in the community, had efficiently logged the case in, anxious to make sure there were no slip-ups or reasons to point fingers. By the time Hoey and Kel arrived at the Elysian Gate Funeral Home, Case PC08-0042 was already tagged, rebagged, and collecting a beaded film of condensation in the reefer.

  Gary Hoey was slow and pragmatic, a licensed funeral director wise in the practiced arts of comforting anguished survivors; he did nothing quickly or without proper deliberation. For Kel, practiced in the arts of chaos management and anxious to see the charred remains of Ngo, it seemed as if the transit from the front door to the embalming room was taking longer than had the drive from the murder scene. Hoey had stopped to talk to his office manager, stopped to check his mail, stopped to adjust the thermostat in the hallway, stopped to rearrange a vase of flowers in the entryway, stopped and ensured that Kel had met and shaken hands with everyone in the building, before leading the way to the white-tiled embalming room.

  Two of Hoey’s employees were lifting the body bag containing Ngo’s remains onto a stainless-steel embalming table when they walked in. After proper introductions and additional handshaking, one of the employees unzipped the bag and exposed the greasy, blackened remains. The smell of cooked meat and swollen viscera filled the room. No one flinched, all of them having seen, and smelled, much worse.

  Kel recognized the pattern immediately. Tongue swollen and protruding grotesquely as if mocking the living, arms drawn up in supplication or readiness for a fight—the result of the large muscles in the arms contracting in the heat, the brain case cracked and oozing soft, yellowish brain and cooked fat. Kel hadn’t dealt with many arson cases, but he’d seen enough victims of aircraft crashes to know the pattern of death by fire.

  “Remember now, Doctor, I can’t let you alter anything before the autopsy. Just look, please.” Hoey was walking around the table, bent over, hands behind his back, closely looking at the remains as he spoke.

  “Right, that’s all I’m fixin’ to do,” Kel answered. He too was circling the table, bent at the waist, looking closely at the remains. “Y’all got some gloves I could borrow?”

  “Prep or exam?” one of Hoey’s employees asked. They were both standing off to the side, hands in pockets, watching their boss and his visitor circling the body bag on the table like two wary wrestlers.

  “Exam will work. But whatever you got.”

  The man produced a box that looked as if it should hold tissues but instead was crammed full of purple nitrile rubber gloves.

  Kel rolled his sleeves back another full turn and snapped out two gloves from the box and wiggled them on. He looked over and saw that Hoey was picking away at charred tissue with his bare hands. Kel smiled as he bent over the head, gently wedging the tips of his fingers between the engorged tongue and the upper front teeth. “Shovel-shaped incisors,” he said, to anyone who was interested, referring to the cupping he could feel on the tongue side of the two central front teeth. “Typical mongoloid trait. Skull’s nice and round, too.” He stood up and looked at
the head from arm’s length. “Malars—the cheek bones—are very prominent. Nose is wide. Everythin’ consistent with an adult mongoloid male. Don’t see any obvious trauma, though, but given all this charred tissue and the way the skull’s cracked open from the heat, that may not be sayin’ much. I’ll be interested in what your pathologist says.” He waited until Hoey looked up and made eye contact. “If you could, you might have him look real close at the frontal bone, couple, three centimeters anterior to bregma, right around here,” he said, using a finger to make a circular movement at the crest of the forehead. “Looks like a small-caliber gunshot wound. Can’t really tell without gettin’ some of this charred tissue out of the way and gluin’ the fragments back together.”

  Hoey nodded and blinked but didn’t feel compelled to ask any questions.

  Kel began working his way down the body. He looked closely at the throat, but saw nothing amid the charred and weeping tissue. Likewise the chest wall. He was preparing to examine the abdomen, which had ruptured in the intense heat and spilled out the soft, colorful viscera, but Hoey was bent over it closely, blinking rapidly, probably calculating the best way to handle the embalming. Instead of crowding in, Kel moved to the foot end, stripped off his gloves, and crossed his arms while he thought. He looked at the broad cheekbones now blackened and burned to the consistency of greasy charcoal and the arms and legs, constricted by the shrinking muscle to the point where the bones had snapped. Guy was well muscled, he thought. And that’s when it hit him. Quickly Kel reached out and grabbed the feet.

  Hoey straightened up. “Now, wait there, Mr. McKelvey. You were just going to look—”

  Kel ignored him. He looked around for the box of gloves, but seeing none dove into the burned tissue with his bare hands. The body had been wearing athletic shoes and the synthetic material had melted and globbed and stuck to the bone and tissue. Kel tapped a blob of melted plastic on the right foot, listening to the hard sound it made. “Shit, shit, shit.”