“Morning,” I said, or barked or growled. Whatever.
“Ouch,” said Morrow.
And wouldn’t you know that at just that moment the phone rang again.
“Hello,” I said, lifting it up.
“Major Drummond, this is Captain Smith. Remember me? We met yesterday.”
“Yeah, I think I remember you. You’re the short, chubby guy with the screechy voice, right?”
“I called Colonel Masterson, the military judge with jurisdiction over this command. I told him you blocked me from representing my client and asked for his judgment on this matter.”
“And he said?”
“That if you ever do that again he will personally register a complaint with the District Court back in D.C. and seek to have you disbarred.”
“I’m deeply ashamed of myself,” I boldly admitted.
“You should be. Now my client told me you taped the interrogatory. I would like a copy delivered to my office first thing this morning.”
“Did the judge say I had to do that?”
“I didn’t ask him. I will, if you insist.”
“I insist.”
“Have it your way,” he said, almost choking with anger, and then hung up.
Now it might sound perverse, but Smith’s call really brightened my mood. The thing about big investigations like this one is that you have to get people’s attention. You have to show people you’re a rampaging barbarian, and then anybody with any inkling of guilt immediately starts racing for the nearest lawyer and looking for protection. Lieutenant Colonel Will Smothers had done exactly that. His troops watched him like a hawk and by now there were very few people on this compound who did not know he’d been called in and interrogated. And Captain Smith was now doing more of my work, making sure the local legal community was aware that I play hardball. Pretty soon, everybody around here was going to be walking on eggshells. And when people walk on eggshells, if you listen real close, you can hear all those little cracking sounds.
“What was that about?” Delbert asked.
“Wrong number,” I said.
The door crashed open and in came the mobile hurricane known as Imelda, followed by two more assistants carrying trays piled high with steaming eggs and bacon, and something the troops disparagingly call shit-on-a-shingle, which truly does resemble its namesake but is actually a dried-out muffin covered with greasy gravy and chunks of ground beef. In the entire arsenal of Army foods, this is the one most likely to get you a quadruple bypass.
Imelda gave Delbert and Morrow a dreadful look and had her assistants carry the trays to a conference table that had been set up in a spare office. Morrow and Delbert traded conspirational glances, and I could tell they had cooked up something the night before. Wasn’t all that hard to figure out, either. They’d obviously considered the proposition that a unified front might be enough to overpower Imelda. She stared back at them through her gold wire-rimmed glasses and said not a word, but her tiny little fists began clenching and unclenching. It was kind of a watered-down version of the OK Corral.
I walked to the table and launched voraciously into my Army-prepared breakfast, watching out of the corner of my eye to see who’d crack first. Actually, that’s not true. I knew damn well who’d succumb. I just wanted to see how long it took Delbert and Morrow to figure that out and how ungracefully they extricated themselves: with their tails stuck between their legs, or dripping blood all the way to the conference table.
Imelda said, “Are you two gonna eat those damned breakfasts, or act like a coupla spoiled pussies?”
The good defense attorney acted as though she were speaking to nobody in particular. “I usually have yogurt, oatbran muffins, and juice for breakfast.”
Imelda said back to her, “You want me to tell that mess sergeant to whip you up a cup of that latte crap, too?”
Delbert started to open his lips, wisely thought better of it, and just stood there shuffling his feet.
Morrow’s eyes darted down in time to see Delbert’s feet do their little retreat dance, and then she covered her own defeat with a halfhearted, “But there was a time when I really loved eggs and bacon.”
“Then you learn to love it again, because that’s all that mess sergeant makes.”
Not two seconds later, Delbert and Morrow were seated beside me, taking mighty bites and silently praying Imelda would go away and die.
“What’s on for today?” Delbert asked, diverting his eyes from Morrow’s, which were at that moment bathing him with a world-class gutless weasel look.
I said, “I thought we’d spend our morning talking with the group chaplain, then the group commander.”
“The chaplain?” Morrow asked, still staring at Delbert.
“Sure.”
“Why the chaplain? When are we going to talk to Sanchez and his men?”
“Soon enough.”
They both nodded. They didn’t agree, but they nodded. That’s one of the things I love about Imelda. She sucked all the feistiness right out of them.
The chapel was located in a large tent, long and broad enough to hold about forty chairs. The group chaplain, Major Kevin O’Reilly, was actually on his knees, praying, when we came in. We waited patiently for about three minutes while he finished up, then he walked to the rear of the tent where we were gathered.
As one might anticipate from a Special Forces chaplain, he didn’t look much like a priest. He had a broad face, a pugilist’s nose, and big, strong hands that squeezed painfully when we shook and introduced ourselves. I couldn’t imagine that people were inclined to act real sinful in his presence. I didn’t want to even imagine what kind of acts of contrition he exacted in his confessions.
“Father, thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” I said.
“Would you like to do this here?” he asked, waving around the chapel.
“No. Why don’t we walk around?”
“Fine.”
So we began strolling through the dusty streets of the big Tuzla compound, where several thousand soldiers and airmen were at that moment in a frenzy of cleaning up and preparing for another day of waging a nonwar against the Serbs.
“How long have you been with the unit?” I asked.
“Four years.”
“That’s a long time. You must like it.”
“Sure.”
“What do you like about it?”
“These are good boys, Major. There’s an image out there of Special Forces troops being wild, rowdy hooligans that’s completely out of character. Most of these men are good family people.”
“I guess Captain Sanchez is Catholic, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is. A good one, too.”
I had already known his religion from his personnel file but wanted to lead into this obliquely.
“You know his family?”
“Very well. His wife, Stacy, and both kids. Mark is seven, and Janet is two. I baptized her.”
“Have you heard from his wife?”
“We’ve talked a number of times these past few weeks. It’s very troubling having Terry’s name splashed across the front pages as the man who commanded a massacre.”
“I imagine so,” I said, and I meant it.
“Three other members of that team were Catholic also, so I’ve been busy with all the families.”
“Of course. Now, Father, if you don’t mind, I’m going to ask a few questions. If you feel they’re too sensitive or I’m infringing on your clerical confidences, please feel free to tell me.”
“Okay, that’s fair,” he said.
“How would you describe the command environment here in the Group?”
He contemplated that a moment, and I sensed that his hesitation wasn’t obfuscation but because he wanted to get this just right. He finally said, “On the whole, pretty good. Special Forces soldiers, you know, are older than you find in regular units, and the men are rigorously tested before they get to wear the beret.”