“What?” I answered, standing and preparing to leave.
“We didn’t murder those Serbs. I swear we didn’t. When we left, there were still some of them alive.”
I nodded. It wasn’t a nod of agreement, just acknowledgment.
Chapter 9
An envelope had been slid beneath the door to my room when we returned to the hotel, and that irritating little red message light was blinking on the phone. I opened the envelope as I dialed the number for my messages, which was no easy thing with only two hands.
The envelope contained a fax that had been forwarded by Imelda. She had appended her own little note, which read, “Bastard!!” I couldn’t tell if that was directed at me or mankind in general, so I read on.
The fax was a copy of a Washington Herald story from the day before. It was written by none other than Jeremy Berkowitz, the same fella I’d hung up on, and it exposed the shocking revelation that the Army had turned over the investigation of perhaps the most serious criminal case in its history to a lowly Army major and two captains. The implication was that if the Army genuinely wanted to get to the bottom of this case, it would have appointed some heftier, more qualified officials to handle the investigating. My name was even mentioned a few times in the story-spelled wrong, which struck me as adding insult to injury.
Now I could’ve decided that Jeremy Berkowitz was a vindictive prick who was trying to get even with me for hanging up on him, but that would’ve implied a disturbing lack of professionalism on the part of a very famous journalist. And as it was, the story was pretty weak. I mean, really, who cared if the Army appointed a major to head up this investigation? If that’s the best Berkowitz could do, then bring him on.
There were three phone messages. One was from the same pushy, antsy special assistant to the President I met before I left Washington, and the second was from General Clapper, the chief of the JAG Corps. I was not about to call the White House operative. The way those guys are, you call them once and they never get off your back. Like a bad date that just won’t go away.
I asked the operator to connect me to General Clapper’s number immediately. I didn’t really want to talk with him, either, but if I didn’t I was likely to get another of his late-night, cheery calls.
His dry-voiced, ever-efficient secretary answered on the first ring, and a moment later I heard his voice.
“How’s it feel to be famous?” He chuckled, which was easy for him, because nobody had bent him over and let him have it on the front page of a national newspaper that morning.
“I liked it better yesterday, when nobody ever heard of me.”
“What did you do to piss Berkowitz off?” he asked in an impressive display of worldliness.
“Does hanging up on him count?”
“It’s not the way I would’ve recommended you handle him.”
It wasn’t the way I wished I’d handled him, either, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Only the communists practiced public confessions, and look where it got them.
“So how’s the weather in Washington?” I asked.
There was a brief pause, then, “Hot as hell, frankly. Some folks are having second thoughts about having you head up this investigation. Nothing against you personally, Sean, but Berkowitz’s article struck home in certain quarters.”
“Anybody in particular having second thoughts?” I asked, biting my lip.
“I haven’t talked with him directly, but I’m told the President read the article and had to be peeled off the ceiling.”
“Oh, him,” I said with as much phony sangfroid as I could muster. “Anybody else? I mean, anyone important?”
“The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs doesn’t sound too happy, either. And him, I did talk to.”
The phone went silent, and there was one of those long pauses that could only be termed as strained. Apparently Berkowitz had fired a much better-aimed shot than I’d thought. The moment of silence dragged on a little too long, until I finally figured out that it was Clapper’s subtly polite way of allowing me to make the choice of voluntarily turning over the reins of the investigation to someone else, presumably someone with a little more consequence on their shoulders. And I have to admit I seriously considered it, because no matter how you looked at it, there was no upside for me in this thing.
I couldn’t tell what Clapper was thinking, but I knew what I’d be thinking if I were him. I’d be praying the guy on my end of the line would say, hey, look, maybe this thing is a little over my head, and I’ve given it the old college try, but don’t you think it might be time to appoint a whole new posse, possibly headed by a general with lots of high-ranking deputies. Clapper, after all, was the poor sap who’d recommended me. It didn’t take a genius to know he was probably getting his ass whipped pretty hard right about now. To put it another way, General Clapper’s career was suddenly in my hands, and I can’t imagine that was a very reassuring thought for him.
Finally, I blurted out, “Look, General, I’ve started this thing, and I’d like to see it through.”
Without pause or hesitation, he said, “All right, we’ll try it that way. One thing, though, Sean. You work on how you deal with the press.”
“That’s fair,” I said, wondering why I hadn’t gracefully backed out. Berkowitz had unconsciously given me a painless opportunity, and it was a sure bet that no more of that variety was going to come along.
The next phone call was the one I least wanted to return, but I knew I’d better. I asked the operator to dial the number, and it was answered with “Drummond speaking,” in his normal, gruff voice.
I said, “Hello, Dad.”
“How ya doing?” he asked.
“Fine,” I answered very simply. “Just fine.”
“Saw your name in the paper.”
“I figured you would.”
“I didn’t know you’d been appointed to head the investigation,” he said, and while there was no recrimination in his tone, the statement stood on its own merits.
“I guess I forgot to tell you. I’ve been kind of busy.”
“Want some advice from an old soldier?” he asked.
“I guess that can’t hurt,” I said, which was a bald-faced lie. His advice usually stung like hell.
“Don’t lead with your chin. Oh… and watch your flanks.”
“Yeah, sure, Dad,” I said. This is the way Army fathers speak to their kids, in soldierly parables that actually sound kind of ridiculous.
“Well, I gotta run,” he grunted. “Your mother wants me to cut the lawn again. Third damned time this week.” Then he hung up.
Maybe I should explain a little bit about my father at this point. My mother didn’t want the grass cut. No way in hell. My father mowed and trimmed his lawn at least three times a week. He treated it like a brigade of little green troops that required his unyielding attention. It was the best-tended lawn in the neighborhood, if not the universe. If so much as one weed appeared, he pruned it out like an unruly soldier just begging for discipline. If even a single blade of grass had the temerity to rise above the others, the whole lawn got a punishing shave, with a pushmower.
He had been a hell of an officer in his day. He was tall and handsome and manly, and Jesus, was he tough. When I was a kid, even on Sundays and holidays he rose every day at five o’clock sharp, did about two hundred push-ups and sit-ups, ran about five miles, then made sure his larynx was in good working order by bellowing at my brother and me. He then marched purposely out of the house for another day of soldiering. There were years when we never saw him, like when he went to Vietnam, not once, not twice, but three times, which could only happen to a guy who was screaming and begging to go back there. Every time he left, a huge vacuum was created, which was instantly and happily filled by Mother, my brother, and myself. A year later he’d return, his chest heavier with more medals, and bludgeon his way back into the family.