Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (157 page)

To Green’s surprise, Blakeley shut his eyes and bowed his head. “Daniel Oliver. Yes.”

“I am required to warn you that—”

“I always knew that would come back to haunt me.”

“John,” Green interrupted, “it would be better if you didn’t speak until you’ve been formally processed and had a chance to consult an attorney.”

“I don’t need an attorney. I want to explain.”

And I sure want to hear your story, Green thought, but not like this. Not standing in a back alley where you can later claim you were threatened or coerced into admitting a pack of lies. “The faster we get through the formalities, the faster you can explain the whole story to us,” he said.

When they reached the police station, the media had already arrived and were lying in wait outside the entrance to the police parking lot. Blakeley ducked his head as the car zipped past and drove down the ramp into the prisoner’s bay, where Green handed Blakeley over to the duty sergeant for fingerprinting and processing. Blakeley looked wan and beaten, a shadow of the warrior they had met only hours earlier. He complied with orders like an automaton.

“Bring him up to the video interview room as soon as possible, Sergeant,” Green said before heading upstairs to prepare for the interview. He was expecting to do battle with attorneys, political spin doctors, the military and his own superiors in his attempt to get the truth out of John Blakeley, but he was wrong.

Nothing could have been easier.

TWENTY-FIVE

Sept. 14, 1993. On the road, Sector South, Croatia.

I’m trying to write in the
APC
and it’s noisy and hot as hell.We’re on the move again and this time it’s big. The whole
company is together and we’re going to a place called Medak,where the Croats grabbed a whole lot of land inside the
UN
pink zone and nearly got a bunch of our guys in CharlieCompany killed. It was the same offensive we experienced theother day but even worse up at Medak because they rolled theirtanks in and took over a bunch of Serb villages. Now thepoliticians are at the table again, making up another newceasefire deal.

Danny got the word to pack us up and in less than twohours we were rumbling down the road. The
OC
dropped byfor a pep talk to tell us this was the real thing. This was goingto be war and we should be prepared for anything. Some of theguys are really pumped, but I don’t know. I’m wondering howlong all of us can dodge the bullet.

Blakeley didn’t want a lawyer, he didn’t want all the protections the Charter of Rights and his political handlers thrust at him. He wanted to tell his story. When they finally began, seated opposite each other at a small interview table in the windowless recording room, Green realized why.

“I’ve lived with this for ten years,” Blakeley said. He was seated at attention, his back rigid and his gaze fixed on the wall behind Green. Sullivan sat in the corner, quietly taking notes. “It was a moment I could never take back, a moment of shame and weakness that I could never live down. All that I accomplished afterwards and all the good I did, could never make amends for that second when I lost control and killed a man. I don’t deny it. I don’t excuse it. And I always knew that somehow, someday, I’d be called to account.”

Green waited.

“When I told you this morning about the danger and brutality of the Yugoslavian mission and about how one momentary lapse in behaviour shouldn’t be allowed to destroy all the good that a soldier accomplishes, I wasn’t only talking about Ian MacDonald. I was talking about
me,
and trying to justify
me.
As I’ve done for the past decade.”

He flicked his gaze at Green as if gauging his response, then returned to his spot on the wall. Green kept his face neutral.

“I’ve worked hard for peace, doubly hard since that incident. I believe in peacekeeping and in providing support to the weak and victimized of the world, and I know more than most when and how that support should be deployed. I would have had something important to contribute at the cabinet table, an expertise that could save countless lives not only of those victims, but of our own soldiers as well. I believed that might balance the scales.”

Still Green waited, but his impatience with the rhetoric must have shown, because Blakeley glanced at him again, this time with a ghost of a smile.

“That’s what I told myself, and most times in the bustle of the day, I believed it. But in the dead of night, the truth comes calling. I had heard about critical incident stress, of course. It had been drummed into us at staff briefings and by the army padres all the time. I knew I was supposed to watch for signs of it in my men, and I knew what I was supposed to do to help them. Encourage them to talk about it, give them a few days of light duties, and refer them to the padres. But you know, we have hundreds of years of military conditioning working against that. There’s a tradition of soldiering on, of hiding the pain behind bluster and stoic good cheer, of sharing a cathartic belt of whiskey—or two or half a dozen—at the end of the day. The military still measures success by how well a soldier can do that, not by how well he asks for help or confesses to panic and sleepless nights.”

He paused and took a sip from the water glass on the table, licking his lips as he considered his next move. “I was ambitious. Croatia was my first real field command, and I was determined to prove myself. I accepted every mission and earned myself a reputation as a can-do guy. If you have a really tough assignment, and you want it done, give it to Johnnie Blakeley. I thrived on the challenge and came back from my first tour there raring to go back and prove myself again. And the military were only too happy. They were spread really thin, and they needed experienced field commanders, so they promoted me and sent me back, this time to Bosnia. More brutality, more danger.”

As he spoke, his eyes began to shine, and his hands swept in broad gestures, but Green sensed a manic edge to his excitement. “Again I sailed through it. I had endless energy and confidence. I volunteered my unit for every dangerous, gut-wrenching mission there. We worked against impossible odds, and we were stretched so thin on the ground that sometimes all we had were a couple of Iltis Jeeps and a lot of bluff against militias fifty men strong. A few of my men cracked, but by God, not rock-solid Johnnie Blakeley. I slept like a baby, drank only my two beers a day, and got so used to the sound of shelling that I didn’t even hear it any more.”

He shook his head in wonder and reached for his glass again. The glow had died from his eyes, and this time his hand shook slightly. Ah, thought Green, we’re finally getting to it.

“But when I returned home to Edmonton, I couldn’t come down. I was bored and out of sorts. I felt useless running drills and playing fake war games. I couldn’t relate to any of the concerns of my family; they felt trivial and extraordinarily petty. My wife—” he corrected himself, “my first wife said I’d changed. I had. I had bonded to a world outside my family. To my men, to the villagers of Yugoslavia, and to the harsh mountainous beauty of their land. My wife and I fought. She complained, and I told her most of the world had it far worse. When I was posted to Ottawa, she refused to move. I didn’t consciously leave her, I just ignored her ultimatum. In Ottawa, away from my unit and my family, I began to unravel, but I still didn’t see it. I met Leanne, who was working in communications in
DND
at the time. She was ambitious, adventurous and fearless—all the things my wife wasn’t. And more importantly, she admired my accomplishments. We kept it low-key, because our relationship could have jeopardized both our careers, until my wife got wind of it and filed for divorce. I didn’t think I cared.”

He stopped and looked directly into the camera. “Is that thing going to run out of tape?”

Green shook his head. He didn’t tell Blakeley that there were half a dozen people watching the digital image from the room down the hall, including Kate McGrath, who had been nearly apoplectic when she found out she was excluded. “I have a history with the guy,” Green had told her. “It’s me he’s expecting to talk to, me he feels a connection to.” “Oh, I see,” she’d retorted. “Man to man?” He’d said nothing, reluctant to be drawn into a dispute, whether over jurisdiction or the old boys’ club. In response, she had pointedly turned her back.

Blakeley pulled his gaze away from the camera with an effort and began to massage his forehead near his scar. He wet his lips. “But the next thing I knew, I’d booked myself a week off, ostensibly to return to Edmonton to work out the separation with my wife. But instead I flew to Halifax at the other end of the country, where no one knew me and no one would judge me if I drank myself into a stupor for a week. I hit the Lighthouse Tavern on my fourth night, hung over and plagued by nightmares and flashbacks. There in the Lighthouse was another officer from Yugoslavia, also quietly getting drunk, and on the
TV
in the background that damn witch hunt called the Somalia Inquiry. We commiserated about the lack of understanding and respect we’d encountered back in Canada, especially among the military’s senior admin and
JAG
staff, who’d never set foot in a foreign battle field in their entire careers.”

“You’re talking about Dick Hamm.”

Blakeley looked beyond surprise. He nodded with resignation. “You know that? Of course you do. Dick and I hadn’t been in the same company, but we’d still shared a lot of briefings together. Meeting him at the Lighthouse was like walking into the arms of an old friend. I started to let all my frustrations out, and at the height of it, I felt this dam inside of me begin to break open. I got up to relieve myself, and to get a grip too. Hamm was a tough soldier, and I had a feeling he’d never come apart the way I was close to doing.

“Anyway, that’s when Daniel Oliver accosted me and accused me of killing his friend.”

“How?”

“Not literally, obviously. By not giving him the support he needed when he was over the edge.”

“Was that true?”

Blakeley nodded reluctantly. “We had a difficult mission to do, and as it was, I had young, green kids puking their guts out as they dragged these bodies down for the medics. Men unable to sleep because of the stink and afraid they were bunking down on top of a mass grave. I told them all we had a job to do.”

“Where did Constable Jeff Weiss fit into this?”

Blakeley looked momentarily dismayed but seemed to resign himself to the fact Green had tracked the police officer down. He shook his head wearily. “He was a kid too, only five years on the job before they sent him over to help monitor and train the local police in Sarajevo. He was bright enough, and he spoke some Serbo-Croatian, so when our
CO
asked for police and forensic support during the Croatian withdrawal, they included him. He asked to go, if I recall, a request I’m sure he regrets to this day. He didn’t expect to be piecing together body parts.”

“Your wife mentioned a dispute between him and MacDonald over a cause of death?”

Blakeley looked impatient. “Two Croatian soldiers had been shot. Our unit was documenting and mopping up dozens of Serb deaths—combatants and civilians alike who’d been shot by the Croats—so frankly if a Serb got in some retaliation, I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it. Weiss was going around questioning Serb villagers, and naturally they lied. Why wouldn’t they?”

“They said it was MacDonald?”

“They said it was a blue helmet—that’s a
UN
peacekeeper. They didn’t say who, but Weiss narrowed it down to MacDonald.”

“And he came to you with this information?”

Blakeley nodded.

“What did you do?”

“I told him in no uncertain terms that this did not happen.”

“You told him to bury the report?”

Blakeley stiffened. “I told Weiss that before he impugned the reputation of the UN peacekeeping force, the Canadian army and a brave young man who was about to get a medal for rescuing civilian lives, he’d better be damn sure of his facts. That was the end of it.”

Green sat back, frowning at the blustering man sitting opposite him. “But if that’s what happened, why did Daniel Oliver accuse you of not supporting MacDonald?”

“I requested MacDonald in the first place. Oliver was his section commander and tried to veto the request. He didn’t say why, and I thought it was just because they were friends, so I went over his head to Hamm. I realize now that he vetoed it because he knew how close to the edge MacDonald really was.”

The explanation seemed credible enough, and yet the story felt incomplete. MacDonald had come home from Croatia haunted by something he had experienced there and unable to get beyond it, until he took the only way out he could think of. And Weiss, more than twelve years later, was implicated in some as yet unknown manner in the cover-up of Patricia Ross’s death.

Blakeley must have seen the skepticism on Green’s face, for he leaned forward intently to bolster his case. “I didn’t even see the warning signs in my own behaviour, let alone MacDonald’s. I believed in our capabilities and in getting on with things. That was the pride of the Canadians there. But in Halifax, it all caught up with me. I was waking up in a sweat, buried in body parts and gagging on the stink of corpses, fighting the haze of smoke and gunpowder from the burning villages. The Lighthouse bar stank, the smoke hung like a pall... Next thing I knew, I reached across the table, grabbed Oliver by the throat, and gave him a jab to the head. Just one. Before Hamm and Oliver’s buddies pulled me off.”

He broke off, dropping his gaze. In the quiet of the interview room, his breath grew ragged as he stared into the abyss of his memory.

Green shifted gently forward. “But one was enough.”

Blakeley managed a brusque nod. His jaw clamped and tears brimmed in his eyes. He jerked a desperate hand toward the camera. “Jesus, can we turn that thing off?”

Green didn’t reply, but watched in silence as the man struggled against the long buried past. After a moment, he resumed.