My eager-beaver associates not only taped their interrogations, but also scrawled lots of lengthy, detailed notes on yellow legal pads. Law schools emphasize that technique, and I somehow wasn’t surprised that Delbert and Morrow proved to be such conformists. The truth is, when you’re busy making notes, you’re not paying attention to the subject, who could be transmitting thousands of nonverbal clues, which are completely wasted on an attorney whose eyes are glued to a yellow sheet of paper. Some day, when I get to be dean of Harvard Law School, I’m going to start a movement to put an end to that stupid advice.
“Did you hear anything exciting?” I asked Delbert, who of course had to review his notes before he gave his summary.
“I spent two hours with Butler, and one hour with Graves. Both were cooperative and open. Their testimonies corresponded in nearly every way. However, neither Butler nor Graves were involved in any of the key decisions. They were essentially along for the ride.”
I was astounded that he had to check his notes to make that summary. “Did they contradict anything Sanchez said?” I asked.
“Not in any significant way.” Delbert studied his notes again. “Graves said he didn’t see the ambush. Because he was the medic, he was positioned about a mile south of the ambush. He said he heard about seven or eight minutes of intense fire, including a couple of large explosions, but he wasn’t a direct witness.”
“That would make sense,” I said.
According to the laws of war, medics have to act as noncombatants unless they are killing in self-defense.
“That limits what he can be charged with,” Delbert continued. “Conspiracy, at most, maybe obstruction, but not murder or manslaughter.”
“How’d they strike you?”
“Oddly enough, Graves was the tougher of the two. Butler is your good ol’ southern boy, nice-looking, but there’s something soft about him. Maybe even a little effeminate. Personally, I’d love to get him on a stand.”
This is the kind of macho side comment some prosecutors are wont to mutter. Sort of like professional boxers at those orchestrated press conferences doing all that bombastic posturing about how they can’t wait to get their opponent in the ring so the whole world can see who the real man is. From a purely technical standpoint, since boxers hurl big, beefy fists at each other, that brand of bellicosity might require a modicum of real guts. Delbert sounded more like a castrated squirrel mumbling about going out and finding some nuts to chew on.
“How about you?” I asked Morrow. “What did you get from the Moore twins?”
She twiddled her pencil and very conscientiously refused to study her notes. “It was weird,” she answered. “I did Brian first, and when James walked in, I thought somebody screwed up and brought me Brian again. They’re completely identical, even down to their voices. It was uncanny.”
“And did that carry over to their statements?”
“Yes, but again, like Butler and Graves, neither was involved with the decisions. All they could do was describe the events.”
“All right,” I said, “here’s what we’re gonna do. This afternoon, I’m gonna take Perrite, while you two double-team Machusco. Perrite and Machusco were the eyes and ears of the team. They seemed to have been involved in everything.”
We then quickly finished our meals, dashed off, and got ourselves repositioned in the interview rooms.
Sometimes you look at a man and just know he’s a killer. That was Francois Perrite, a lean, swarthy Cajun with the most frigid eyes I ever saw attached to any breathing thing. Added to that, there was no break between his eyebrows. It was just one long streak of dark hair that stretched completely across his narrow forehead, running almost perfectly perpendicular to the thick black mustache above his lips. Hollywood would take one look and immediately typecast him as a bloodthirsty buccaneer.
He moved so quietly that I didn’t even hear his footsteps as he walked in. I think he knew the effect he had on people, because there was this slight upward curl on his lips, like a taunting sneer.
He came without a lawyer, which I guessed was because he considered himself to be the strong, self-reliant type.
“You know the rules of this session?” I asked.
“No, tell me,” he ordered as though he were talking to a waiter.
I didn’t answer, but just stared at him coldly, hoping to make him uncomfortable. I didn’t. He just stared back, even more coldly. I wasn’t going to be able to rival those eyes of his. A man is born with eyes like that.
I very politely said, “Let’s start over, Sergeant Perrite. I’m Major Drummond, the investigating officer. I’m used to being addressed by my title, or as sir.”
“And I guess that’s rule one, right?”
“You’re catching on. Now rule two stipulates that anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. That extends to any mistruths, as those would fall under the heading of obstruction of justice and lying in an official investigation. Are you sure you don’t want an attorney present?”
“I’m sure. I don’t really like lawyers… sir.”
“No? And why’s that?” I asked, instantly wishing I could take that question back.
“Because they’re mostly a bunch of overeducated, lying fat-asses who’d diddle their own mothers just to be able to brag they got laid once in their life.”
Well, I’d asked the question, and I’d gotten a frank response, so I really had no reason to take offense. Besides, I knew my ass wasn’t fat. Women were always telling me it was skinny, in a cute little way.
I leaned toward him and smiled. “Now rule three. Don’t screw with me, Perrite. You’re implicated in the possible murder of thirty-five men, so park your macho horseshit in a box.”
I’d like to say Perrite turned red or shuffled his hands, or blinked a few times. He didn’t. He gave me this look I knew I’d seen somewhere before. It took me a moment to place it. It was that squinty tightness a sniper gets just before he pulls the trigger.
I continued. “Let’s start with the seventeenth, when you and Sergeant Machusco reported that you saw Serbs watching your team. Could you describe that event?”
He leaned back with an amused expression, but his lips stayed tightly shut.
I leaned toward him. “Oh, did I forget to mention rule four? This is an official investigation and I am ordering you to answer. So far, you’ve been convicted of nothing, but if you refuse to answer my questions, I’ll convene a summary court-martial tomorrow and convict your ass for refusing a lawful order. Then we’ll just start over.”
He casually scratched his chin, a facile motion meant to communicate he really didn’t give a damn about my threat.
But he apparently did, because he then leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. “Machusco and I were on security for the team, and we saw a bunch of Serbs on a hill staring down at our patrol base.”
“And did the Serbs see you and Machusco?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“’Cause Machusco and me don’t make stupid mistakes,” he replied, which I guessed was probably true.
“How many Serbs did you see?”
“A few.”
“Was that two? Three? Four?”
“Maybe three.”
“Was it maybe three, or was it three?”
He gave me the kind of shrug a man might give who wanted to get under your skin. “Make it three… but then again, it might’ve been two… or four.”
“And what were they doing when you spotted them?” I asked, pretending his smart-assed response didn’t bother me, which fooled neither of us.
“Watching.”
“Watching your team’s patrol base?”
“Right.”
“How far away were you?”