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  “Most of the time.”

  After they’d exchanged contact information, Richard put his pen and notebook away. “I’d best examine Farid and talk to the medical officer so we can release the body.” Richard would rather get something to eat, but knew better than to go into a morgue on a full stomach. “I appreciate your help, Captain.” He started to rise.

  “There’s more.”

  Shit. Richard sat back down, fingertips pressed against his throbbing temple.

  “Ever heard of bacha bazi?”

  Taking his hand away, Richard looked up. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Could be. Sometimes at night, we hear kids crying at the ANP barracks. Our men hate it. But all we can do is send complaints to Kabul.”

  “Shit.” Richard shared the captain’s obvious disgust at the barbaric practice of powerful Afghan men using young boys as sex slaves. Dancing boys, they were often called, because they were trained to put on makeup and women’s clothing and dance at all-male parties where they were expected to perform sex acts with the guests. In many Muslim cultures, homosexuality and sodomy were punishable by death. But in remote tribal areas of Afghanistan, the saying went, Women are for childbearing, boys are for pleasure. Pedophilia was acceptable.

  Richard didn’t try to make sense of it. This country was so fucked up, he wouldn’t know where to start. But if the confrontation between Mouton and Farid had been about bacha bazi, then Richard could understand why it might have escalated into a gunfight. Despite the DOD policy that American personnel were to ignore the sexual abuse of Afghan children because it was considered a “local cultural issue,” most soldiers found the practice repugnant.

  Was he supposed to look the other way, too?

  “If there’s nothing else,” Vocek said by way of dismissal, “I’ll let Dr. Erickson know you’re coming,”

  Richard stood. “Thank you for your help, Captain.”

  “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

  On his way out, Richard stopped at the MP sergeant’s desk and gave her the list of names Captain Vocek had provided. “If these guys are on base,” he told her, “have them report to me in the mess at eighteen hundred hours. I’ll be the one eating alone.”

  As he headed across the inner compound to his temporary quarters, Richard battled a growing sense of unease. He was beginning to suspect that no matter what his findings were, the DOD would figure out a way to blame this fiasco on the only survivor of the incident, Second Lieutenant KD Whitcomb. And Richard’s report would be the weapon used against her.

  Shit. It made perfect sense—why Stranton was so anxious to send his lead investigator—a man he neither liked or trusted—into a no-win situation.

  The DOD couldn’t let it be known that it was unable or unwilling to control the ANP—a police force trained and weaponized by the United States—a force whose members routinely engaged in sexual abuse of kids without consequence. The army had been down this road before. After stripping a decorated Special Forces officer of his command for trying to intervene in a similar incident, the public and political fallout had been horrific. The pentagon would do anything to avoid another major international scandal.

  This was more than simple damage control. It was a full-blown cover-up. And they were using Richard to find a way to incriminate a soldier who had only been trying to do the moral thing. If his report exonerated the lieutenant, his career was over. But if he defused the situation by dumping all the blame on Whitcomb, his career would be safe, the chief would look like the golden boy, the army would be blameless, and the political hacks in the DOD could avoid further scrutiny of a despicable practice and their controversial policy toward it. A win for everyone.

  Except Second Lieutenant KD Whitcomb.

  The idea made Richard furious. He was trapped. Either fall in line and lie, or tell the truth and end his career.

  Fuck that. The army had the UCMJ—Uniform Code of Military Justice. Richard had a code, too. He wouldn’t lie, not to protect Lieutenant Whitcomb or the army. She might have made a misstep, but he wouldn’t spin the facts so that she carried all the blame. The rot had started well before KD Whitcomb arrived, and Richard was determined not to add to it. He’d just have to figure a way to do the right thing without ending his military career along with hers.

  CHAPTER 3

  Major Erickson, the Hickock FOB medical officer, was a white-haired short-timer counting the days until retirement. He even had a short-timer’s stick hanging on the wall—a tradition dating back to the Vietnam War when soldiers would notch off the last sixty days until their release from service.

  As Richard settled in the only chair not loaded with medical books and dogeared folders, he studied the array of dated photographs pinned to the wall behind the doctor’s cluttered desk.

  The major was obviously a man of vast experience throughout the Middle East. Iraq, Syria, Yemen, Afghanistan, even one dated 2005 taken in the Kashmir Mountains of Pakistan. It was all there in the smiling faces staring back at him. Different backdrops, same giant cross on army green tents and trucks. It was a chronology of the doctor’s life that showed little change except in the face he presented to the camera. That he had stayed in the army all these years said a lot about the doctor’s sense of commitment. That he was ending his long career as a major told Richard that, at some point during all that time, the doctor had done something to piss off the army. Richard hoped it wasn’t alcoholism, drugs, or general incompetence.

  “I see you studying my gallery,” the major said with an over-the-shoulder gesture at the wall behind him. “And I’m guessing you’re wondering why I’ll be terminal at major instead of a higher rank.”

  Luckily, he didn’t wait for Richard to respond.

  “The fact is, son, I’m not a good enough bootlicker to make it through the promotion boards. Even went backwards a time or two. But since I’m damned good at my job, the army keeps me around.” He gave a bark of a laugh, and waved a hand in dismissal. “I prefer being where the action is anyway, rather than hanging out with the REMFs in the Pentagon, getting rich off kickbacks, and having my ass kissed by those lobbying leeches in Washington.”

  Richard hid his surprise. Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers? Harsh maybe, but accurate. Not many officers dared refer to the Pentagon’s military elite as REMFs. Which could explain why the doctor might be terminal at major.

  Richard could really like this guy.

  “I had hoped to walk out of here with my pension intact,” Erickson went on, “but that might be questionable if I’m expected to shade my findings in this Farid mess.” His smile faded. Age-dimmed blue eyes studied Richard over the rim of his wire glasses. “And if you don’t watch your words, Murdock, it could be the same for you, too.”

  Richard sensed he might get the truth from this man, rather than a honey-coated version of events the army could easily swallow. Investigations were always harder when the story presented to him was less fact than whitewashed bullshit. Seeing in this crusty old man a possible ally, rather than an adversary, Richard tested the waters. “I’ll admit, Major, I have concerns about where this investigation is headed.”

  “You should be concerned, boy. A clusterfuck is what it is. Totally FUBAR. But I suspect you’re already figuring that out.” There was a slyness to the older man’s grin that made Richard wary. “I looked you up. Lots of investigations. All clean. In fact, you’re considered a bit of a hotshot, Warrant Officer Murdock. But there were also a couple of subtle hints that you don’t always play by the army’s rules. Makes me wonder why they sent you to run this investigation and not some mealy-mouthed ass-wipe. Credibility, maybe?” Grinning, Erickson pushed back his chair and rose. “Come on. I’ll take you to Farid’s body so you can do what you need to do and we can get him out of here. Bastard’s starting to stink up the place.” He headed down the hall with long, purposeful strides.

  Richard hurried
to catch up. Despite his age, the man could move. “You’ve finished examining him?”

  “I’ve finished examining them all, and completed the tasks you so graciously listed in your e-mail.” Erickson gave him a sarcastic smirk. “Thanks for the reminders . . . Warrant Officer Murdock.”

  Richard took the gentle reprimand in stride. “Anything stand out?”

  “Toxicology indicates Farid was a habitual cocaine user and had taken a substantial amount before his death.”

  “And your ruling?”

  “Other than him being an addict and a pederast with a bad case of clap?”

  “I was thinking cause of death.”

  “GSW. Gunshot wound. All three, if the lieutenant dies of her injuries. Hold your nose.” Erickson pushed open a door marked exam 1. “Gloves and mask on the table to your right.”

  Asef Farid’s body was unremarkable except that it was covered in black hair, carried at least forty pounds too many for its five-foot-nine frame, and was missing the back of its head. In addition, there were several gouges and cuts on the face and the side of the head, but they hadn’t bled much, so were possibly made during transport after he was dead.

  The small hole below his chin was consistent with the entry wound of a 9mm bullet, but the extensive damage at the back of Farid’s head might indicate an expanding round, maybe a hollow point—which the army normally didn’t issue.

  Holding the mask over his nose and mouth, Richard bent closer to look at the entry and exit wounds and the facial lacerations. “One bullet did all this?”

  “ ’Course not. When he fell backward, he hit the edge of a table and knocked out a chunk of his skull. The round wasn’t hot. Standard army issue—124 grain full metal jacket. The damage to his face was probably postmortem. I also ran trajectory. The bullet traveled from low to high at a fairly severe angle. The shooter either fired from the hip, or while lying on the ground.”

  “Already injured when he fired the kill shot?”

  “She,” the doctor corrected. “Second Lieutenant Whitcomb killed him.”

  Erickson stepped over to a counter loaded with medical equipment, boxes of medical supplies, and stacks of papers. He pulled out a thick folder and handed it to Richard. “Here’s your copy of my report. Take your time.”

  Richard opened the folder. On top were drawings of the crime scene.

  Two rooms, the outline of a body in the front room, the outlines of two bodies in the second room. There were also photographs of the rooms and bodies from several angles. Richard studied them for a long time as the doctor filled in the gaps.

  “The body in the first room was that of Captain Mouton, a thirty-three-year-old African-American woman. The first round hit her in the upper torso, which threw her backward. We dug a 9mm bullet out of her vest. She took the second round in her forehead while she was down. We dug that bullet out of the floorboards. Her sidearm was still holstered. Notice anything else?”

  Richard took his time, mentally cataloging all the details he could see and making suppositions about those he couldn’t. “There’s an open drawer on the desk. Probably where Farid kept his gun. Mouton was facing the desk when his first shot hit her. There’s also a damp stain on the upper left quadrant of the door and broken glass below it. A few damp spots on her vest. I’m guessing there was more glass under her body.”

  “There was. Farid threw a glass of water at her. What else?”

  “The way her arms are thrown wide makes me think she had the breath knocked out of her by the first bullet, which was why she didn’t draw her gun. Were there any other marks on the body?”

  “Nothing recent.”

  “Any blood spatter besides on the floor and around her body?”

  “None. And no other blood present anywhere in the room. First thoughts?”

  “Mouton confronted Farid. He was high on cocaine. In the heat of argument, he threw a glass at her to distract her and grabbed his gun from the drawer. Before she could draw her own weapon, he shot her in the chest, which knocked her down. While she lay stunned, he walked over and shot her in the head, execution-style. No indication he was harmed in any way.”

  Erickson smiled. “Homicide. Very good. And in the second room?”

  Richard felt like he was back in a classroom being schooled by his professor.

  A drape separated the two rooms. The second room was smaller in size, maybe ten feet by twelve. An unmade bed, a small, high window with open shutters, clothes hanging on hooks, an overturned table near the entrance into the room, and a small cabinet with a mirror above it. The doors of the cabinet were open and there was a chain attached to the leg of the bed.

  Richard grimaced in disgust.

  Farid lay on his back, his feet just past the middle of the room, his head a couple of feet or so from the draped opening into the front room. He wore a robe and sandals. The overturned table by his right shoulder was what had probably split his head open when he fell backward. Near his right hand was a handgun. Looked like a Russian-made Makarov 9mm.

  There were mostly drawings, rather than photographs, of Lieutenant Whitcomb, since she’d been treated on site before the crime scene was processed. The few photos included were poorly framed, probably taken in a hurry with a cell phone. Which meant Richard would have to rely more heavily on eyewitness observations than he would have liked.

  The drawings indicated that Farid’s bullet had thrown her against the wall opposite the door and below the window. There was a blood smear down to where she had fallen. She lay on her left side, her right arm across her body, an army standard-issue Beretta M9 held loosely in her slack right hand. The amount of blood near her abdomen was probably from an exit wound, which told him she had been shot in the back. Had she been trying to escape through the window when Farid came in?

  She was a small woman. Caucasian. Young. Surprisingly delicate, for a soldier. But he knew all that. Had seen it firsthand. “She was shot in the back?”

  Erickson nodded. “Low. Below her vest. Through the pelvic bone and out by her hip. Shattered the hip joint. Some internal damage. All I could do here was get her stabilized and send her on to Landstuhl with a critical care team.”

  Richard thought of her pain-stricken eyes filling with tears when he told her Mouton was dead. Too young and pretty to die. “What are her chances?”

  “Good. She survived transport and surgery. She’s small but tough.”

  “Was she conscious? Did she say anything?”

  The doctor shook his head. “She was intubated and put into a medical coma. Easier if they’re out during transport.” He nodded toward the file in Richard’s hands. “So? What happened in the back room?”

  Richard slid the drawings and photographs back into the folder and closed it. “The lieutenant was facing the window when Farid came in. Since Farid’s death was instantaneous, and there was no way she could have shot herself in the back, that means Farid fired first, wounding her. She went down. Then he walked to within a few feet of where she fell, probably to make sure she was dead. Instead, she fired a single shot, which killed him.”

  “Actually, she fired twice. Missed him with the first shot. We found the bullet in the ceiling and ballistics confirmed it. They faxed their report an hour ago. It’s in the file. Your deductions?”

  Richard saw it play out in his head. “Farid shot Captain Mouton in the front room—murder. Then he went to the bedroom, where he shot and wounded Second Lieutenant Whitcomb—attempted murder. Then before he could finish her off, Whitcomb shot and killed Captain Farid in self-defense.”

  “Exactly!” The doctor all but patted Richard on the back. “So there’s no way Lieutenant Whitcomb can be charged for Farid’s death, even though she fired the round that killed him.”

  Richard felt a rush of relief. Immediately, it faded. “Except for one thing. The reason why she and Captain Mouton were where they s
houldn’t have been, confronting a coked-up ANP captain they had no authority to confront, about an issue they had been told by DOD to ignore. It’s called disobeying a direct order.”

  “Semantics, son. But that’s not my problem. I’ve done my part.” Erickson took the file from Richard, slipped it into an oversized courier envelope, and handed it back. “You’re smart. You know your way around all the bullshit legalities. Study this report well, then find a way to shape it into a narrative that we can all live with. Especially that pretty little lieutenant.”

  Pretty? Maybe when she wasn’t vomiting or crying.

  He and Erickson were discussing the protocol for releasing Farid’s remains, when Richard’s cell phone buzzed.

  Vocek.

  “Khalil Farid is on his way to Medical,” the MP captain said. “Worked up, as usual. Two MPs are escorting him. They’re to remain with him until he exits the inner gate.”

  “Understood. The doctor and I were trying to figure out the procedure for releasing his son’s body. We’re done with him.”

  “I’ll send over a vehicle. The MPs can help load him and transport him to where he needs to go.”

  “Yes, sir.” As they exited the exam room, Richard told Erickson that Farid’s father was on his way and Captain Vocek was sending a vehicle to deliver Farid’s body to his family. “Since I may have dealings with the father, I’ll stay to meet him. But this is your show.”

  “It always is.”

  Khalil Farid was everything that had been advertised, and then some. Early sixties, short, heavy, bearded like his son, but much louder. But then, anyone would be, considering Asef Farid’s condition. As soon as he saw Erickson and Richard in the hall, the Afghan charged toward them, yelling in a thick accent. Richard didn’t need to speak Dari or Pashto to know the guy was pissed, and judging by the puckered scar that sliced through one dark eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose, he had violence in his past. He was also high. Excitable and jittery, his small, dark eyes never still. Cocaine, Richard guessed.