The Night Crew (13 page)

Well, the flaming lefties were having a good old time at the expense of yours truly, and they continued in this vein for a while, tossing around jokes.

But it suddenly struck me that perhaps I was being too harsh, possibly even unfair. Mel and Katherine, after all, were dealing with some serious displacement issues. I mean, sometimes you have to put yourself in their shoes, empathize, try to understand their feelings. Here they were, brothers and sisters in leftie arms, trapped behind enemy lines, so to speak, in West Point, the citadel of military correctness and professionalism, literally and figuratively the birthplace of all they detest about the green machine. Really, it was only natural for them to blow off a little steam, and I should be man enough to swallow my pride.

As I said, they
were
being complete assholes.

And at the first pause, I asked Melvin, “Are you really the one who first broke the story?”

“I was,” he replied in a tone that revealed a gargantuan ego. “I published the first article and distributed the pictures.”

It was time to teach Katherine a lesson and I knew how to do it. “Could I ask how you got the pictures?”

“Of course.”

“Good, then . . . who gave them to you?”

“I said you
could
ask, Drummond. Didn’t say I’d answer.” He cackled so hard I thought he was choking. That would be a treat.

I smiled back. “Good one, Melvin. Were they e-mailed to you?”

He decided to humor me. “Might’ve been.”

“From Iraq?”

“Possibly.”

“From a guy or a girl?”

He shook his head. “Don’t bother asking, Drummond.”

“From someone in their chain of command?”

“Stop wasting my time.”

“Did you get any additional information from this source?”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda.”

I hate that phrase. Strike Two. “Do you know
why
they were e-mailed to you?”

“Well, I suppose I have a certain . . . well, a reputation for pursuing and exposing the truth.” He assumed an air of false modesty. “I like to believe that’s why I was chosen.”

“But there could have been other motives?”

“How would I know? I can’t account for what’s in the minds of my sources.”

“So who sent you those pictures? And what additional information and insights did they give you, Melvin?”

“There you go again, Drummond. The First Amendment, try reading it,” he answered with a smug smile and a light flip of the hand. Strike three.

“Oh, I have, Melvin. I also read the rest of the constitution.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Fifth and Sixth Amendments. Freedom from unfair prosecution. The right to a fair trial, the right to directly cross-examine their accusers. Chain of evidence issues. So you got this packet of pictures and then you did your best to get them, and yourself, on every front page in the world. And only you know where they came from. Do you see where I’m going with this, Melvin?”

“I’m not sure I do.” In fact, Mel in the rumpled safari jacket now was shifting his feet and looking at his watch as if his underpants had just shrunk three sizes.

Katherine took my arm and started to protest my boorish behavior, but I ignored her and leaned forward until I was about six inches from his face. “It’s very simple, Melvin. You’re their main accuser—you put them in their cells, and you placed them on the court docket. Without you, nobody would ever have known about their activities. You fingered them and you provided the evidence that will get them hung. So I’m asking if you’ll be a man and come forward to clarify how you got those pictures, from whom, why, and what else you were given.”

Melvin now looked as if he just remembered an overdue White House scandal he had to attend to—and was edging away from me.

I grabbed his arm. “Tell me you’re not going to be the little chickenshit I think you are and hide behind the First Amendment. I mean, gee, Melvin, you probably notched another Pulitzer, and maybe a book deal, and with any luck a movie deal, and, as the price of getting you a little more fame and cash, five young people are facing life in prison. Is it right to throw them to the wolves without knowing who ratted them out and why? Is it really right to throw out the Fifth, Sixth, and Fourteenth Amendments, just to protect the First? You wouldn’t be such a total selective prick, would you, Melvin?”

Katherine released my arm and said to me, “Back off, right now Sean. He has every right to protect his sources.”

But Melvin had heard enough, and he jammed his face forward. “Listen to me, Drummond. I was spitting out punks like you when you were still in diapers.”

I said, “You know what bothers me most about guys like you?”

“I really don’t care.” He tried to loosen himself from my fingers, so I tightened my grip and pulled him closer, almost on his tiptoes.

“That’s right—you
don’t
care,” I told him. “You lit the match that ignited this bonfire, and now you’re sneaking around watching the bodies being thrown into the flames, acting like your only responsibility is to record the mayhem. You get your story, another notch on your legend, and screw them. You trample on their rights to protect yours. You’re a chickenshit, Melvin.”

On that note, I released his arm, and Melvin scampered away, rubbing his arm, and sort of stomping, or doing some kind of silly half step. I wasn’t expecting an invitation for drinks any time soon, unless a tasty cup of hemlock was involved.

Katherine and I stood in silence, quietly nursing our separate grudges. Finally, she said to me, “That was totally uncalled for. You were incredibly rude.”

I faced her. “How do you know him?”

“He covered some of my trials, and wrote excellent, very accurate stories about them. He’s a great reporter. You acted like a horse’s ass, Drummond.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that he knows facts about our case that might benefit our client and that he’s too much of a selfish prick to tell us?”

“No. Why should it?” she replied, in a self-righteous tone. “This is exactly what the First Amendment’s about and for. It serves the greater good by protecting the anonymity of the sources.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Here’s a newsflash—the Supreme Court said it first. Mel is under no obligation . . . No, in fact, he has the honored duty not to disclose privileged information. You’re asking him to betray his professional ethics.”

“Have you thought how hypocritical you are, Katherine? It’s fine for some reporter pal of yours to withhold vital information that might benefit our client. But if an army officer does it, for reasons every bit as valid and even more noble and defensible, you want to gouge his eyes out.”

“It’s not at all the same thing.”

“The problem with you, Katherine, is you can’t even see the double-standard.”

“It’s still not the same thing,” she reiterated.

“You’re right, it’s not. His right to fame and fortune behind the shield of the First Amendment, versus protecting vital national security secrets. The obligations of a reporter as opposed to the disgraceful obligation and loyalty an officer feels toward his comrades, his service, his nation.”

Well, it was déjà vu all over again. We hadn’t resolved this problem in three years of law school nor in all the years I had known her. It did not look like we were solving it now.

She gave me a cold look then walked away, leaving me alone in the long hallway. Two points for Drummond.

I smiled at her back.

I had the car keys. Three points.

Chapter Twelve

As soon as we got back to the house, after a short, tense drive during which neither of us spoke to the other, I went into my bedroom and called Terrence O’Reilly, the watchdog protecting my and her highness’s asses.

I identified myself and inquired, “Where are you now?”

“Across the road from you, right across. We rented a small room in the ratty-looking bungalow with ugly blue shutters.”

I pulled aside the window curtain, quickly picked out the only house with blue shutters, and O’Reilly waved at me from a second-story window. I responded to his gesture by giving him the bird.

He laughed. “I always said lawyers got class.”

“So have your boys been keeping an eye on us?”

“Every minute.”

“I haven’t seen them.”

“They’re good boys, you’re not supposed to. They drop off when you go through the front gate—the MPs on post pick you up there—but they’re on your ass every minute of everywhere else. How was dinner at McDonald’s? A Big Mac, right? Watch your arteries.”

“I’m reassured,” I told him. “Any updates on the murders?”

“Not really. Everybody’s frustrated and tossing theories around.”

“What’s the most popular theory?”

“That would be the Arab-with-the-hard-on hypothesis. Y’know, like these five kids insulted the faith and degraded a bunch of Mohammad’s boys, so, since the five kids are too protected to whack, their lawyers pay the price.”

“Do you like that theory?”

“What’s not to like? Kill all the lawyers. Shakespeare, right? Literary justice.”

To be polite, I laughed.

“Thing is,” he continued, “this theory posits that they snuck in an assassin, or activated a sleeper, to handle this holy revenge mission. If it’s the right theory, you’re all toast.”

I thought I knew the answer but asked, “Why?”

“Cuz then this guy’s a pro, possibly with a suicidal disposition. He’s a guided missile. He’s gonna be a bitch to stop. He won’t make no stupid mistakes. He’ll have a great legend, perfect creds, possibly some help here in-country from a terrorist cell. Add all that up and he’ll be a bitch to find.” He then added, unnecessarily, “And even harder to stop.”

“Do you give it credence?”

“Two perfect murders, no clues, no witnesses, no leads . . . just that note left at Major Weinstein’s murder site that suggests some kind of religious grudge. Hey . . . looks pretty good to me.”

I observed, “I don’t like that theory.”

He laughed.

“Try another.”

He laughed again. “Well, here’s theory two. It might help you sleep better.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“We call it the nut-chasing-the-flame. Your more-or-less typical serial killer looking to make a big splash, instant fame. I mean, here we got the biggest story on the planet, these kids molesting prisoners, right? So the idea is, some whacked-out ghoul decides to hitch a ride on the publicity train.”

“Who came up with that idea?”

“FBI profiler folks down in Quantico.”

I considered this theory a moment. “Do you know the old story about the two hunters out to shoot some deer and one of them falls over, apparently dead?”

“Nope, tell me.”

“Okay, so the other hunter scrambles for his cellphone and frantically calls 911. He screams that he thinks his friend is dead, and the lady on the other end tells him to take a deep breath, and, first thing first, make sure his friend is dead. After a moment there’s the sound of a rifle going off, then he gets back on the phone and says, okay, I just blew his fucking head off so I
know
he’s dead. Now what?”

O’Reilly chuckled. “Okay, I know, it sounds a little fizzy, but think about the nutjob who killed John Lennon, or that lunatic punk who nailed Reagan to show off to some lady movie star he had the hots for. These serial killer guys, by definition, they’re nuts. Who knows how the marbles align inside their heads, right?”

I replied, “Any other theories?”

“Plenty. And if you don’t like that one, believe me, you don’t want to hear ’em.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Trust me, Colonel. Everybody’s throwin’ crap against the wall to see what sticks. Frankly, they’re all so loopy, you’ll lose confidence in the people protectin’ you.”

“Who said I had confidence?”

There was a long moment of silence then O’Reilly yelled, “Hey . . . who the fuck is that?”

“What?—Who?”

“Listen, you guys are supposed to inform us when you’re expectin’ a visitor.”

“I wasn’t . . . What are you talking about?”

“On the front porch . . . dark, swarthy guy . . . Oh shit . . . he’s got a gun.”

My heart jumped through my chest, and I pushed open the curtain and peeked down at the porch, but saw nobody there. I looked across the street and saw a single finger pressed against the window.

He laughed and I joined him. I mean, it was funny, right? I said, “You know a guy named Chief Rienzi?”

“Tommy? Sure, I know ’em. Why?”

“He handled the investigation into the death of General Palchaci, the corpse found in the cell at Al Basari. What’s the read on him?”

“Good guy. Older, by the book, always been on the criminal end of things.”

“He got a brain?”

“Not Einstein . . . but yeah, Tommy’s got a head on his shoulders. Why . . . you meetin’ with him?”

“About thirty minutes from now.”

“Here’s a tip. Tommy loves pizza. Anchovies and pineapple.”

“Seriously?”

“I know. A goombah but he’s got a Hawaiian grandmother. Weird, right?”

We exchanged farewells and I hung up. Katherine and I did not seem to be on the same page when we conducted our interrogatories and, as I said, our approaches to the trial strategy appeared to be wildy divergent, so I thought I would conduct this interview alone. I knew it would piss Katherine off if she discovered my freelancing, but I needed to get the straight story out of Chief Rienzi without Katherine veering into her favorite territory—how the army screwed up.

Thirty minutes later, I was back at the same red brick building Katherine and I had visited the day before. Rienzi was waiting for me on the front steps when I parked and got out carrying two big pizza boxes from Domino’s.

I had also ordered six pizzas with everything for delivery to O’Reilly and his crew. It’s never a bad idea to make sure the guys protecting you are happy and content. Incidentally, Nelson was paying for it.

We shook hands and he led me inside and down a hallway to an office on the back side of the building. It was an antiseptic office, furnished rather sparsely, a temporary place to hang his hat while he waited for the trials to begin. He settled in behind the gray metal desk, I pulled a gray fold-out metal chair to the front of the desk, I straddled the chair, and we both opened our pizza boxes.

He appeared surprised and mildly delighted at the anchovies and pineapples. “Wow. How did you know?”

“O’Reilly is my security guy.”

He stuffed half a slice in his mouth and between chews asked, “You got Terry, huh?”

“He any good?”

“Yeah, he’s okay. “Between noisily chewing and swallowing, he looked thoughtful for a moment. “He’s only lost two . . . no, make that four protectees.”

I looked to see if he was joking, but he maintained a perfectly straight face. He said, “Terry did two years of protection duty in Baghdad.” He tackled another slice. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Speaking of which, how were you notified about the body in Al Basari?”

“Late night call.” He took another large bite and talked as he chewed. “My office was located in the Green Zone . . . ordinarily about a thirty-minute drive from Al Basari . . . assuming you had an escort convoy, and there were no known bombs en route.” He took a moment to swallow, then observed, “Iraq poses lots of unique traffic issues.”

“Who notified you?”

“Commandant’s office.” He finished off a slice, then overlapped two more together and resumed eating. He seemed to know where I was going with this and explained, “The body was discovered by a Sergeant First Class Haley. He was making the rounds, looked in the cell, and at first he thought Palchaci was asleep. Lots of those prisoners slept nearly all the time . . . but then he noticed Palchaci’s hand hanging out the sleeping bag, and the smell . . . I mean, the whole place reeked like old shit, but this odor was even worse.” He looked at me. “The guy had been dead two days.”

“Did Sergeant Haley touch anything?”

Rienzi knew this question was coming and suggested, “You don’t wanta go there, counselor. Everything was handled by the book. Haley’s a career MP . . . this wasn’t his first homicide. He unlocked the cell and entered, felt the wrist, confirmed that Palchaci was dead, then backed out, posted a guard, and arranged for us to be called.”

Now halfway through the pizza—it was a large—he closed the lid on the box and leaned back into his chair, wiped his lips on a paper napkin and patted his stomach. Watching this guy eat was not a pretty sight. “Could you please describe what you did when you got there?”

“First, I went to the commandant’s office and reported my presence. This was about the fifteenth killing I’d had to investigate at the prison, so everybody was familiar with the—”

“The fifteenth?” I interrupted. “Is that what you said?”

He nodded. “Look, Al Basari was a real mess. Almost indescribable. It’s an insult to call it a prison. For one thing it was mortared and shot at every week. The majority of prisoners lived in tents, outside. Sometimes they’d lose five or ten prisoners in a week to mortars that crashed through their tents. Then there were plenty of prisoner-on-prisoner homicides.”

“What caused those?”

“Lots of reasons. Some of ’em probably got it cuz the insurgency ordered the hits. Like, maybe a guy was ratting out his buddies, or was a member of some competing jihadi faction, or he knew too damned much and they were just generally worried that he’d spill his guts. Not unlike our own prisons, the Iraqis organized themselves in gangs and cliques, and it was easy enough to smuggle word into the inside—and even easier to find someone willing to do the hit. I’ll tell you, the price of a hit in Iraq is dirt cheap, a few hundred dollars. Some of it was just the typical vendetta crap you always get in prisons. But this is Iraq, a society founded on grudge justice, so it was even more prevalent than you’d find here. A few times, a prisoner just went nuts and started killing guys. Remember, Al Basari was a mess, so you had total crazies and certifiable psychopaths mixed in with the normal population.”

“So is that what you thought when you first entered the prison?”

“Yeah, pretty much. That was usually the case with my earlier visits.”

“Can you describe the scene when you entered the cell?”

“Godawful,” he said, grimacing to underscore that assessment. “No other word will explain it. There was the stink . . . by then . . . My God, the corpse had been there almost three days. In that heat . . . in a closed room, the gases had already blown the stomach open exposing the intestines . . . and . . . uh . . . just say it was as bad as any corpse I ever smelled.” His face was contorted from the memory, or maybe the aftertaste from the pizza. For a guy who likes anchovies with his pineapple, the smell must’ve been monumentally nasty.

I asked him, “Did you know who the victim was?”

“At first, I didn’t have a clue. The commandant’s office just said it was a body.”

“So what next?”

“Warrant officer Lennie Blazer was with me. She handled the forensics while I interviewed the personnel.”

“And what did she find?”

“The victim was wrapped in a US Army–issue sleeping bag. He was dressed in underwear that was heavily bloodstained. Jenny took samples . . . all the blood was his. Indentations and scrapes on his wrists and ankles indicated he’d been tied up with a coarse rope when he died. Whoever put him in the sleeping bag had removed the restraints, postmortem.”

“How do you know he didn’t put himself in the bag?”

“Simple deduction. The beating Palchaci took was too severe.”

“Explain that.”

“Both his legs were broken, one snapped in multiple places, both kneecaps shattered. Six, maybe seven ribs were fractured. His face was so destroyed, it was if he’d been hit by a truck. Most of his fingers were broken, as was one elbow.”

I had already read the autopsy results and his inventory of injuries accorded with that report, minus a few additional injuries to his internal organs and a number of contusions. But I had a reason for taking him down this path, getting him into the routine of automatically answering my questions. “So you’re assuming he was too physically damaged to maneuver himself into a sleeping bag.”

“I’m assuming the pain was excruciating . . . more than enough to prove disabling. Two ribs were sticking in his lungs. Two of the leg breaks were compound fractures. The man died in agony.”

“And you’re assuming it was torture?”

Without hesitation, he said, “Torture . . . yeah, certainly. The man was beaten methodically, and deliberately pummeled with a blunt object that might’ve been a baseball bat. Why? You got another name for it?”

I ignored his obvious attempt at sarcasm and suggested, very coldly, “So based upon the extensive damage to his body, you’re suggesting his death was a premeditated and controlled act. Torture in your words.”

Tommy Rienzi was a senior CID officer with long experience dealing with lawyers. He did not like me putting words into his mouth, though in this case, I was merely repeating his own words, and he instantly objected, saying, “That’s not what I said. I told you—”

“You said it was torture.”

“I said it
might’ve
been tor—”

“No, Chief, your stated conclusion was unequivocal. Torture, without hesitation or doubt. And more specifically, you described it as methodically applied, as in, the damage done to Palchaci wasn’t haphazard or impulsive. It was cool and systematic, the product of hard logic.” I allowed him to digest his own words, then said, “Torture. How did you arrive at that causative noun?”

“That’s the way it looked to me.”

“I see. Not the way it
was
, the way it
looked
. Not an objective description, more like a half-assed subjective conclusion based on how you felt that morning.”