In the Name of Honor

by Richard North Patterson

  “They can,” Flynn allowed. “But we think the bullet in D’Abruzzo’s back was the last shot McCarran fired. Of course, he ‘doesn’t remember,’ so he can’t help us. But one interpretation is that D’Abruzzo was trying to escape and McCarran executed him.”

  Terry restrained himself from objecting. “Do you know which wound caused D’Abruzzo’s death?”

  “The chest wound.” Flynn’s tone held a trace of anger. “Or maybe he died from neglect. Some of us wish that McCarran hadn’t paused to call his sister.”

  With unsettling clarity, Terry grasped another source of Flynn’s disdain. “You’re assuming a lot,” Terry argued. “Did the ME have the body tested for blood alcohol content?”

  Flynn nodded. “D’Abruzzo was intoxicated. But query whether a man who was drunk could be as lethal as McCarran asserts. Or whether D’Abruzzo was impaired enough to be an easy victim.”

  Terry shook his head. “That’s where your thesis breaks down. Brian didn’t get D’Abruzzo drunk, and couldn’t have predicted it—”

  “Unless Mrs. D’Abruzzo called to tell him.” Flynn twisted the pen in his fingertips. “If she did call McCarran, maybe she told him that her husband was drunk, susceptible to goading. After all, she knew McCarran had her husband’s gun.”

  “That would make them co-conspirators in murder,” Terry countered in a clipped voice, “and turn Joe D’Abruzzo’s widow into Lady Macbeth. That’s a far bigger stretch than to believe that they’re telling the truth.”

  “Only if you do believe them. So let’s go on. McCarran claims to have fired the first shot because D’Abruzzo was attacking him. But there was no residue of gunpowder on D’Abruzzo’s clothing.”

  “Beyond three feet,” Terry pointed out, “there might not be. There’s nothing to say that D’Abruzzo wasn’t four feet away, and moving forward.”

  “Or fifteen feet away and moving backward.” Flynn’s voice was cold. “There’s also nothing to say what caused your client to fire. Nothing and no one—except McCarran, the only witness. Who, as we discussed, has conveniently ‘forgotten’ the somewhat crucial details of how he killed D’Abruzzo. You can pick at each piece of evidence, Captain Terry. That’s your obligation. But together the pieces start to form a very troubling mosaic.”

  “Mosaics can be arranged,” Terry rejoined, “or rearranged. Right now, you and I can change the pattern at will.”

  “But only to a point. Here’s another piece. From Brian McCarran’s phone records, he called the D’Abruzzo home at seven-fifteen, supposedly returning Kate’s call. The call lasted one minute, at which point—or so McCarran says—D’Abruzzo arrived.” With deliberate effort, Flynn slowed the tempo of his words, speaking softly but emphatically. “McCarran’s next-door neighbor, a major, heard what sounded to her like firecrackers. She remembers the time because she’d been watching Jeopardy and had just turned off the TV. We called the local station: Jeopardy ended at seven twenty-nine. Which suggests that McCarran and D’Abruzzo chatted for ten minutes.”

  Terry thought swiftly. “We don’t know when D’Abruzzo arrived. But a leisurely chat discredits your suggestion that Brian invited D’Abruzzo over to—as you put it—execute him.”

  To Terry’s utter surprise, Flynn flashed a sardonic grin. “It also discredits the idea of D’Abruzzo in a frenzy. But if what McCarran’s neighbor heard were gunshots, the suggestion of an execution stands.” His look of amusement vanished. “McCarran didn’t report the shooting until seven forty-one. All that time, D’Abruzzo was alive.”

  “If Brian was in shock,” Terry answered, “he wasn’t considering time. And if he was as clever as you say, he wouldn’t have forgotten the shooting itself. As the only witness, he’d have concocted a convenient story.”

  Flynn slowly shook his head. “If McCarran was really clever, he’d know better than to concoct a story on the fly that a medical examiner or ballistics expert could refute—far better to say nothing until the facts emerge. And he certainly grasps that he’s innocent unless the army can prove him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Not to mention that, as you intimate, no one would lightly prosecute Anthony McCarran’s son.”

  Terry let a moment pass in silence. “I have one question, Major. Why?”

  Flynn cocked his head. “Motive, you mean?”

  “Among other things. Why would Kate D’Abruzzo lie about almost everything: that her husband beat her; why Brian took the gun; the nature of her phone call the night D’Abruzzo died. And how did both Kate and Brian, questioned separately, synchronize their lies so well?” Terry’s tone was etched with disbelief. “To pull that off would have required more rehearsals than a Broadway play, with risks far worse than bad reviews. What would make them chance a life in prison?”

  “And yet,” Flynn countered, “they claim that this tragedy occurred because D’Abruzzo beat his wife. But Kate never asked for help from anyone. That troubles me, Captain Terry.”

  At that moment, Terry absorbed Flynn’s certainty that some concealed truth awaited his discovery. “So there we are,” Terry said.

  “There we are.” Flynn paused a moment. “At least for now.”

  The clear intimation was that the case would not end easily, if at all. For the first time, Terry imagined Brian McCarran facing a court-martial, his sister—now separated from her life and career—at his side. Standing, Terry said, “Thank you for your candor, sir. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Do that, Captain.” From behind his desk, Flynn regarded Terry with the cool eyes of a recording angel. “Once I find the motive, I’ll call you.”

  six

  TERRY SPENT SEVERAL HOURS REVIEWING THE BARE BONES OF Brian’s service record, then arranged to see General Anthony McCarran the next morning. At seven-thirty, he met Meg for dinner at a French restaurant in Old Town Alexandria.

  The room was quiet and intimate, white tablecloths and candlelight adding to its serenity. Terry hoped that the change of scene would help—he had much to learn about Brian, and troubling news to convey. When the waiter inquired, Terry ordered Irish whiskey; Meg, a glass of red wine. For a time, Terry tried to learn a bit about the life she had led before Brian had interrupted it.

  She had attended law school at the University of Virginia, she told him, then had moved to San Francisco without the prospect of a job. This seemed so unlike Terry’s conception of her that he bluntly asked why.

  She gave him a look of surprising candor. “I wanted to own my life,” she said simply. “The McCarrans are from Virginia; I was born at Fort Bolton. I’d begun to feel claustrophobic. Moving to San Francisco was like opening a window.”

  Her response, Terry noted, mentioned places but not people. Lightly, he asked, “You never thought of entering the army?”

  The small smile at one corner of her mouth seemed to reflect some unexpressed thought. “I’d already served,” she answered.

  “What about Brian? Is this the career he wanted?”

  Her blue eyes grew somber. “Brian is a male McCarran, our father’s son. ‘Want’ implies choice. I don’t think my brother knew he had one.” She paused a moment, studying Terry’s face. “You chose to volunteer, even if your reasons involved financial hardship. Brian was born into the army. So now we’re here.”

  The last phrase, tinged with resignation, implied that she and Brian were bound by ties more profound than her wish for independence. “I met with Flynn today,” Terry said. “It was grimmer than I’d hoped. One scenario he’s considering is that Brian’s loss of memory is a sham, and that he and Kate have constructed an edifice of lies.”

  Meg cradled the wineglass in her hands, never taking her eyes off Terry. “Why would they do that?”

  “Flynn hasn’t figured that out.”

  Meg shook her head. “You met them both,” she said after a time. “What do you think?”

  Terry considered his answer. “I’m inclined to believe the essence of their story, especially because of Kate. She paints a compelling picture. But Flynn�
��s a prosecutor, and not easily impressed. I’d be willing to bet that some of the wife beaters you prosecute are gifted liars and loaded with charm.”

  Her eyes froze in an expression of challenge. “Are you saying that’s my brother?”

  “Sometimes the charm is missing.” Terry softened his tone. “Yesterday I asked about all the ways that Brian had changed. Are you ready to get into that?”

  The combativeness in her eyes receded. “Yes. I spent the morning making notes.”

  She took a brief sip of wine, reflective gaze refocused on the yellow-orange flame of the candle. “My first intimation,” she began, “was a phone call two months or so after he arrived in Sadr City. His voice was flatter, and he refused to talk about the fighting, or even what his days were like. Instead, he kept trying to deflect the conversation back to my life in San Francisco. Even then, it worried me lot. Now it reminds me of how Kate describes Joe’s phone calls from Iraq.”

  Terry nodded. “I thought that, too. From the records, Brian’s platoon took heavy casualties. Did he tell you about being wounded?”

  “No. But for the rest of his tour he was like a robot—flat, uncommunicative, asking rote questions.” Her voice lowered. “I didn’t even know about the wound until after he got back, when I came out here to stay with him. When I asked about it, he was curt to the point of rudeness. ‘I’m still alive,’ he told me, as though he felt less relief than contempt—for the wound, or for himself.”

  “Do you think that was ‘survivor’s guilt’?”

  Meg moved her shoulders. “I don’t know. He’d just come from visiting the wife of a man in his platoon—the soldier had died just before their child was born. All Brian said about it was ‘She named the kid Brian. Funny, huh?’ ”

  Sadness softened her face, Terry noticed, hinting at a vulnerability beneath her willful impassivity. “Did he say who this man was, or how he was killed?”

  “No. The way Brian was acting, I was afraid to ask.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Meg stared at the wineglass, as though searching for her reflection. At length, she said, “It happened the first night I was here.”

  MEG HAD TAKEN HIM to dinner outside the post, hoping that he would open up. But Brian refused to talk about the war, even how it felt to be back in the States. Nor did the other difference she noted—that Brian, who drank sparingly, had consumed most of a bottle of wine—make him any more voluble.

  Reaching across the table, she touched his arm. “I feel like I’m losing you,” she said. “It’s as if we’re still talking on the telephone, and you’re ten thousand miles away.”

  Brian’s lips formed the briefest of smiles. “Fifteen thousand,” he corrected her. “But thanks for coming, sis.”

  His attempt at lightness renewed her hope. It did not last the night.

  His couch was Meg’s bed. She lay awake in the darkened living room, unable to put aside her worries. The sudden sound she heard was so unlike him that at first she thought it was someone else’s television. Then she remembered Brian’s nightmares after their mother’s death.

  She sprang up, wholly alert, hurrying to his door. She knocked twice, then cracked it open to softly call, “Brian?”

  In the darkness, Meg could not see him. She crept softly to the bed and sat at its edge, one hand reaching out to find him. Her heart was still pounding.

  She heard a startled cry of fear or anger; suddenly viselike fingers grasped her neck. He began to strangle her, pressing her windpipe with frenzied strength. “No—” she cried out.

  As Meg began to gag, her brother’s hands loosened. “It’s Meg,” she croaked.

  Still she could not see his face. “Meg,” he answered in a strange voice.

  Meg breathed deeply. She tasted bile in her mouth, and swallowing felt painful. “I’ll turn on the light,” she managed to say, much as she had when Brian was nine and, still feeling their mother’s haunting presence, he had slept on her bedroom floor. Fumbling for the wall switch, Meg felt suspended between past and present.

  The ceiling light made Brian start. He sat up, his bare torso rigid, his forehead glistening. His tangled sheets were soaked with sweat.

  Shaken, Meg asked foolishly, “Are you all right?”

  Brian nodded, unable to speak. Meg waited for the film of unreason to vanish from his eyes.

  Quietly, she said, “You had a nightmare, Brian.”

  He got up and walked slowly to the living room. Following, she saw him investigating objects: a table, a framed picture of both of them from Meg’s college graduation. “Look at us,” he murmured. From his tone and manner, he did not remember strangling her.

  Meg drew a breath, absorbing that this was her brother’s new reality. “Sit with me on the couch,” she requested.

  With affecting docility, he did that, still studying their picture. “Nights are the worst part,” he murmured.

  Lightly, she touched his bare shoulder. “Do you talk to anyone? Friends, or maybe a girlfriend?”

  Brian laughed softly. “Girlfriend?” he repeated. “I have to change my sheets every morning. It would be like sleeping with a bed wetter.”

  “You need help, Brian.”

  “It’ll pass,” he insisted. “Just don’t talk about this, especially to Dad. Meanwhile, just try not to startle me, okay?”

  Without another word, Brian got up and returned to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Alone in the living room, Meg could not sleep.

  THEIR WAITER RETURNED. ORDERING, Meg sounded as though food held no appeal. “Maybe dinner out was a bad idea,” Terry ventured.

  Meg shook her head. “At least it’s a distraction. And we have to talk about this, don’t we?”

  Terry nodded. “Did you talk with General McCarran?” he asked.

  “In a way,” she answered. “The next night we met Dad for dinner in D.C. Brian drove us in. He’d always been a very good driver—calm and competent, which was Brian’s way. Now he drove too fast, switching lanes and constantly looking from side to side. But the worst part was when we got stuck in traffic.

  “ ‘Move, you fuckers,’ he kept shouting through the windshield.” Meg glanced around at the other diners—a young couple, two business types with synthetic smiles—then continued in a softer tone. “A motorcycle began trying to edge between the cars. Its motor backfired. Suddenly Brian pushed me down by the back of the neck as though we were being shot at.

  “I cried out for him to stop. Right away, he snapped out of it, though for an instant his hands seemed to tremble on the wheel. Within seconds he was utterly calm.”

  “Did he say anything?” Terry asked.

  “A single word: ‘Reflexes.’ Like what had happened was normal.”

  “How was he at dinner with your father?”

  Pondering the question, Meg seemed to struggle for an answer. Softly, she said, “I wish you could have been there.”

  AT DINNER, THOUGH PRETENDING not to, Meg watched her brother closely.

  Their father sat between them; Meg faced Brian. The first thing she noticed was that her brother had maneuvered to sit so that he could scan the restaurant, as if preparing for the unexpected. The second troubling oddity was that neither Brian nor their father spoke about his time in Iraq.

  Instead, the conversation meandered from Meg’s job, to Brian’s new responsibilities as executive officer of Charlie Company, to their father’s long days as chief of staff and his worries about the problems of an evolving army faced with a two-front war. These exchanges disheartened Meg. They seemed like a tour of life’s surfaces, meant to consume an hour and a half, while Brian silently suffered from something he chose to conceal. It was, she thought sadly, the McCarran way.

  Her father was unreadable. Though Meg loved him, he was often like this. She had given up on trying to penetrate the qualities so many admired—intelligence, ambition, courage, faith, a certain sweetness, a stoic dignity under pressure. She did not know what her father thought or felt; perhaps h
e did not know himself. Anthony McCarran was a soldier.

  Throughout dinner, their father was soft-spoken and attentive—perhaps, Meg thought, he was more interested in her work than he had managed to convey across the miles. He asked good questions, his incisive mind cutting to the core of a matter. Though Brian watched him with a clinical eye, like an anthropologist observing the representative of a unique people, Meg began to sense that her brother felt a terrible anger.

  All this beneath the surface.

  As dessert arrived, they heard a sudden crash of shattering dishes. Brian flinched, ducking in his chair. At once he caught himself, giving their father a surreptitious glance. Unruffled, Anthony McCarran watched a mortified Hispanic busboy kneeling over the ceramic wreckage. “Poor guy,” he remarked. “These days, jobs are hard to come by.”

  Brian excused himself, heading for the bathroom.

  Watching him, Meg perceived how her brother was getting by. Few people saw him outside work: as best Brian could, he limited his environment, avoiding surprises, while maintaining an apparent self-control at great internal cost. No one but Meg had seen him late at night.

  Quietly, she told her father, “He’s not right.”

  “I know.”

  His tone was at once sad and certain, as though Anthony McCarran had known how Brian would be before he returned from Iraq. Or perhaps before he went.

  Absorbing this, Meg felt more desperate for her brother. “What should we do?” she asked.

  For a moment her father’s eyes were bleak. “Nothing. With enough time and space from us, he’ll get through it. Good officers do. They better understand what happened to them.”

  His calm acceptance upset her. “I’ve been staying with him, Dad. I’m not sure that’s true.”

  He gazed at the table. “After Vietnam,” he said at length, “I wasn’t always present. That was hard, particularly on your mother. Yet there was no way out but forward. After a while, the past recedes.”

  Meg was surprised; for her father to mention Mary McCarran was even rarer than his allusions to Vietnam. Glancing up, she saw that Brian was returning. “Respect his privacy,” her father admonished gently, “and don’t mother him. Let Brian be strong on his own. There are things about this you don’t understand.”