He decided to extend the moment. “From all that I know, General, your first combat experience was hard. How did you get through it?”
Briefly, McCarran closed his eyes. When they opened, his expression was distant. “My father and grandfather died in combat. Before my first battle, I told myself I was already dead. That way I could dull extraneous emotions, like fear or horror or even misplaced compassion. All that’s left is for you to carry out the mission and save what men you can. If you’re already dead, your own fate doesn’t matter.”
That this remarkable statement was delivered without discernible feeling gave Terry a chill. “Did you say this to Brian?” Terry asked.
“No. Because he was my son.”
But perhaps a piece of Brian McCarran, Terry thought, was already dead. He did not say this. Instead, Terry thanked Anthony McCarran for his time, and left.
eight
ON HIS WAY TO MEET MEG AT DR. BLAKE CARSON’S OFFICE IN Bethesda, Terry reviewed his encounter with Brian’s father. Anthony McCarran impressed him as both steely and complex, with a layered persona that concealed from others—and perhaps sometimes from himself—the thoughts and feelings at his core. Unlike many parents he had seen, the general had not protested his son’s innocence. General McCarran, Terry judged, knew that hardships do not yield to outrage or dismay.
He found Meg in Carson’s waiting room. Swiftly, Terry summarized what he knew of the psychiatrist: an expert in the treatment of PTSD, Carson had left the Veterans Administration because, as he’d put it to Terry on the phone, “we were fucking over the guys Iraq fucked up.” Carson had sounded young—hip, slangy, and funny—and his résumé suggested that he was under forty. But Terry was unprepared for the boy-faced man who came through his office door, with the blond mane and bright, adventurous blue eyes of a surfer, his jeans and work shirt faded. Reading Terry’s expression, he told him with a grin, “I don’t look much older in court. But I get myself a haircut and a suit.”
He ushered Meg and Terry into his office, a bare-bones room with a chair, a couch, and a poster of the Grateful Dead. Taking the chair, he abruptly told Meg, “I don’t know your brother from Adam. But Paul mentioned that Brian hates the VA. No surprise—the VA is paranoid and secretive in direct proportion to its incompetence. They’re lousy at screening soldiers for PTSD, and when they get one right it’s like ‘take a number.’ They’re looking at a mental health tsunami, and they haven’t got a clue.”
“Then it’s really as bad as Brian says.”
“Worse. The stats on suicide among Iraqi vets are so shocking that the VA tries to hide them. By the time this stupid war is over, we’ll have hundreds of thousands of guys semi-incapacitated by trauma, and the VA will have denied treatment to far more of them than they’ve helped. It’s criminal.”
Terry caught Meg’s look of worry. With renewed force, he saw that—given Brian’s self-destructive quality—she lived in constant fear that he might take his own life. But Terry also wondered how Carson would fare as an expert witness; beneath the man’s laid-back facade was an angry energy. In part to test this, Terry asked, “Is Iraq worse for soldiers than any other war?”
Carson’s eyes darted from Meg to Terry, as though seeking to engage them both. “Different,” he answered. “At least in Vietnam you had cities like Saigon, where you could get drunk and laid without risking death. In Iraq there’s nowhere to hide, and no safe place to blow off steam.” He paused, as though perceiving Meg’s need to understand the change in Brian. “Sadr City was particularly brutal—it was hostile, and densely populated by civilians you couldn’t tell from members of the Mahdi Army. And the mission was schizoid: playing with Iraqi kids by day, storming their parents’ homes at night, looking for militiamen or weapons. Not to mention RPGs and IEDs—”
“You’re talking about homemade bombs?” Meg interrupted.
“We call them improvised explosive devices. The bad guys plant them where our guys will be, hidden in ditches by the road or under a pile of garbage. RPGs are rocket-propelled grenades. Either can blow you to pieces, like whatever nearly took your brother’s head off. What do you know about that?”
“Zero,” Meg said slowly. “As though it never happened.”
A somber look crossed Carson’s face. “God knows what your brother experienced in a year. In Sadr City, our soldiers couldn’t control their environment and couldn’t escape it. On the worst days there was carnage all around you—not just dead but dead friends in pieces. And you never knew if the can of Pepsi that cute Iraqi kid was holding was a soft drink or an IED. Or whether the Iraqi woman you shot for driving through a checkpoint was pregnant and desperate to get to a hospital. Or maybe you were trapped for days in a building surrounded by Iraqi militia, and your dead had started decomposing. I’ve heard all those stories, and more. And now we’re sending the guys who told them back for a second tour.”
“Among other things,” Terry said, “Brian can’t handle being stuck in traffic. How does that fit?”
“In the greater sense, being trapped and unable to escape is a metaphor for everything I’m telling you. But for our purposes, I’d have to know the specifics of what happened to Brian McCarran.” Turning back to Meg, Carson inquired, “Does he tell you anything at all?”
Meg shook her head. “Brian won’t talk about Iraq. To anyone.”
“Typical. From what Paul told me on the phone, he’s also hypervigilant and easily startled, treats driving like combat, doesn’t sleep well, and suffers from recurring nightmares. Right so far?”
“Yes. He also tunes people out, like his soul has suddenly left his body.”
“Dissociation,” Carson said crisply. “Another symptom. So are depression, substance abuse, spousal abuse, alienation from family, sudden rage, unpredictable violence, and suicide.” He paused for an instant, seeing Meg wince. In a softer tone, he added, “Some of these guys have a kind of death wish, a gravitational pull toward reckless behavior. Like letting a guy in your apartment who may want to kill you.”
“Or going there,” Terry countered, “when you know the other guy has your gun.”
“That, too.” Carson angled his head toward Meg. “What do you know about D’Abruzzo’s combat experience?”
“Also nothing. And now he can’t tell us.”
As though absorbing the death of another husband and father, Carson was quiet for a moment. “That’s a problem,” he said at last. “I can tick off symptoms in the abstract. As to your brother, I can even guess that he feels a deep responsibility for whatever befell his men. But I can’t interpret Brian’s behavior—let alone this shooting—unless I know what happened to him.”
“Our father never spoke of his own experiences in Vietnam,” Meg said. “Much less expressed any feelings about it, even though his closest friend died there.” She paused, her tone becoming both melancholy and ironic. “That’s how we grew up. It seems that Brian has become a true McCarran.”
“This may involve more than your family,” Carson told her. “However enlightened the army may try to become about PTSD, there’s a warrior ethic which holds that combat stress is a form of weakness. A lot of guys like Brian worry that seeking help may be a career killer. So they try to hide it. Which brings me to an important question: Is there anyone but you who can testify to how much Brian has changed?”
Meg flicked back her auburn bangs, her thoughtful expression darkening. “Maybe our dad, to a limited degree. But outside the predictable office environment Brian has clung to since Iraq, he’s tried to isolate himself. And as far as I can tell, I’m the only person who’s seen him late at night.”
Carson frowned. “Too bad. The cause of PTSD is a scarifying experience of combat that the soldier keeps reliving. But that damage is intensified by the failure to seek help, or even to acknowledge there’s a problem. Instead, these guys will try to build a wall around the traumatic event. When they sleep, the wall breaks down. But we don’t know what Brian’s nightmares are about.”
<
br /> The reference seemed to deepen Meg’s sadness. “Flynn,” Terry told the psychiatrist, “suggests that Brian’s claimed loss of memory about the shooting is a ploy. Is there a more appealing way to explain that?”
Carson shook his head. “Not unless I learn more about his experience in Iraq. I can rationalize Brian’s lack of emotion after the shooting, and even his delay in calling the MPs. But if you’re using PTSD to knock murder down to manslaughter or seek a lesser sentence, I’ll need a helluva lot more material than you’ve got.” He angled his head toward Meg. “Maybe you or your father can describe the symptoms. But only Brian can say what caused them.”
Terry, too, faced Meg. “That brings up another issue,” he told her. “If this comes to a trial where we rely on PTSD in any way, I think you’ll have to testify.”
Meg gave him a look of puzzlement. “As defense counsel, I can’t.”
“Someone else can defend a homicide, Meg. You’re far more valuable as a witness than as an active participant at trial, and Brian will need all the testimony he can get.”
Meg was briefly silent. “Isn’t there a problem with raising PTSD at all? On the one hand, we’d be claiming classic self-defense—that Brian acted reasonably. In contrast, the idea of relying on PTSD is to argue that killing D’Abruzzo was reasonable only in Brian’s mind, but reduces his culpability. It seems like one theory undermines the other. Brian’s defense could look desperate and confusing, especially to a jury inclined to think the PTSD defense is sophistry.”
Meg might not try homicide cases, Terry thought, but she had the practicality of a good trial lawyer. “Maybe so,” he conceded. “Brian’s lawyer would have to be careful. But I’d feel better about relying on straight-out self-defense if the physical evidence weren’t ambiguous and Brian had a better story about the shooting. Which brings us back to the real problem: Brian.
“In theory he’s his own best witness. But he claims not to remember firing the last three shots, and he won’t say a word about Iraq. That makes him iffy on self-defense, and completely useless on PTSD.”
“Which means that I can’t help you,” Carson put in. “You want me to interview him, and I will. But to testify in court, I’d need to relate the events of the shooting to a combat event so horrendous, yet so similar, that I can ask a military jury to believe that Brian killed D’Abruzzo not knowing if he was in Virginia or Iraq. And at least for the moment, he can’t tell us what happened in either place.”
Meg, Terry saw, looked deflated. “Flynn still doesn’t have a motive for murder,” she finally said. “Unless he finds one, Brian may not have to tell us anything. Right now that’s my hope.”
nine
TERRY AND MEG STOOD OUTSIDE THE BUILDING, EACH ABSORBing what Carson had told them. It was June, and summer heat made the humid air feel as searing as a sauna. “Can you get Brian in to see him?” Terry asked.
The look Meg gave him was troubled and uncertain. “You think Brian’s facing charges, don’t you?”
Quiet, Terry tried to sort through his confusion to give Meg the answer she deserved. “It’s more a feeling of disquiet. Flynn believes there’s a missing piece that can explain why Joe D’Abruzzo died. All I’m sure of is there’s too much I don’t know—”
“Brian’s not a murderer,” Meg insisted.
“But he is an enigma, you’ll admit. So are the circumstances of the shooting.” Terry put on his hat. “It’s human nature to want certainty. Flynn won’t rest until he makes the pieces fit or believes he never can. The time that takes won’t matter.”
Terry watched Meg contemplate the prospect of being trapped at Fort Bolton, and perhaps in her own past, without a certain future waiting on the other side. “It does for you,” she answered. “In a few short weeks we won’t be your problem anymore.”
Terry did not answer. When his cell phone rang, it took him a few seconds to respond.
“Captain Terry?” The woman’s voice was tentative. “My husband got your name from Colonel Dawes.”
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Lauren Scott.” Her speech was rapid yet tentative. “You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Kate D’Abruzzo’s. CID’s been talking to other friends of Kate’s, and I’m worried they’ve got my name.”
Terry glanced at Meg. “Does that concern you?” he asked.
The woman was momentarily silent, then responded in a hesitant voice, “I think there’s something you should know.”
There were moments when instinct told Terry that his conception of a case, and perhaps the people enmeshed in it, was about to be upended. From her expression, Meg read this on his face. “I’d like to meet with you,” he told Scott.
THEY FOUND HER IN a grassy park near Fort Bolton Elementary, watching her three-year-old daughter and a playmate scamper from slide to swings to sandbox. Lauren Scott was blond and plump and harried-looking; in the heat, damp tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead, and the cooler beside her on the wooden bench was filled with ice and bottled water. “I try to keep them hydrated,” she explained.
Terry and Meg sat on either side of her. Meg’s impassivity barely disguised her concern; when she had asked Kate to list her women friends, Meg had told Terry, Lauren Scott was not among them. In a conversational tone, Terry asked her, “How do you know Kate?”
“The usual way of moms—our kids.” Delivered in a nasal voice, the phlegmatic answer bespoke a life in harness. “My son Jason has learning issues and Kate teaches him remedial reading. I’m new at Bolton, like her, and pretty much home all day. So now and then we’d have coffee or watch each other’s kids.”
“Did you ever see each other socially?”
“As couples?” A small frown appeared. “I kind of thought we might. But Kate never seemed that interested. When I talked about Tom, she barely mentioned Joe at all.”
“Did you think there was trouble in her marriage?” Meg put in.
Scott folded her hands, watching the two girls skitter down a miniature slide. At length, she answered, “That’s what I called to tell you.”
KATE AND LAUREN SAT on the same bench in the same park. But that late-spring morning was mild and pleasant, and Lauren had brought a thermos of coffee. As always, they chatted about their kids, the army, movies old and new, and the various activities Bolton afforded families; as always, Lauren wondered why Kate D’Abruzzo, so smart and poised and self-contained, had turned to her for company. She had begun to wonder if Kate’s silence about her marriage reflected a solitude deeper than Lauren knew.
This morning Kate seemed unusually preoccupied, glancing at her watch as though afraid of missing an appointment. Lauren was edging toward another inquiry about her new friend’s husband when Kate’s cell phone rang. With a jumpiness that seemed unlike her, Kate snatched it from her purse. She listened with what Lauren thought of as a mother’s alertness, brow furrowing, and then her slender body seemed to slump. “I’ll come get her,” she said tiredly. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”
Shutting off the cell phone, Kate put it back in her purse, more slowly than she had retrieved it. She looked so distressed that Lauren, certain that the call concerned Kate’s daughter, worried that Kristen D’Abruzzo had some serious health problem. “Is everything okay?” Lauren asked.
This commonplace inquiry seemed to startle Kate. “You mean Kristen? It’s just a stomachache—she’s been having them lately, for whatever reason. She seems to be going through a phase.”
Her tone was odd; though Kate impressed Lauren as a caring mother, she could have been discussing someone else’s child. It struck her that Kristen’s stomachache might reflect some emotional difficulty that Kate D’Abruzzo was reluctant to acknowledge. Abruptly, Kate turned to her. “I need a favor, Lauren. Could you watch Kristen today? I wouldn’t ask, but I’ve got an appointment.”
Combined with Kate’s distractedness, the urgency of this vague request piqued Lauren’s curiosity. Perhaps Kate and her husband had sought out marriage counseling.
“When would you need me?” Lauren inquired.
Kate still looked flustered. “The middle of the day. From eleven-thirty to maybe a little after three.”
This was not an appointment, Lauren realized. Nor was it an extended shopping trip—improbable, given the stores that Bolton offered on site—anything a mother would not postpone. Watching Kate’s expression, Lauren said slowly, “I’d like to help. But Annie and I are meeting Tom for lunch at the Officers’ Club. It’s such a treat for her.”
Kate glanced at Annie and her little friend, as though rediscovering their presence. With a somewhat desperate air, she said, “Would it be possible to take Kristen to lunch with you? I promise to make it up to you.”
To Lauren, the request revealed a surprising obliviousness—to the Scotts, whose family time would be disrupted; to Kristen, six years older than Annie, who would bring a stomachache to lunch with three near strangers. More sharply than she intended, Lauren asked, “What’s wrong, Kate?”
Kate’s face, usually so lovely yet so unrevealing, seemed frozen with mortification. “I’m meeting someone, off the post,” she said in a parched voice. “All I can tell you is that I need to do this.”
Her meaning seemed as unmistakable as it was shocking: Kate D’Abruzzo was having an affair, and felt so alone that she was begging for help from Lauren, a Mormon, knowing that it violated her moral code. Silent, Lauren searched her conscience. But all she felt was a swift dart of empathy she did not fully understand, followed by pleasure that Kate D’Abruzzo—who had so much Lauren lacked—needed Lauren’s indulgence for her sin. In a grudging tone, Lauren answered, “I guess we can take Kristen with us. If she’s too sick, Tom can take Annie alone.”
Kate gave her a quick, silent hug, and rushed off to get Kristen.
MEG STUDIED LAUREN SCOTT closely. “Did Kate say she was having an affair?”
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