Detective Cross

Chapter 26

At 8:30 the next morning, Bree and I were at the front entrance of Veterans Affairs Medical Center. We went straight to the plastic surgery unit, asked for the chief resident, and soon found ourselves in the office of Dr. Richard Stetson.

We explained who we were looking for. Stetson began to explain the various reasons he couldn’t help us, starting with doctor-patient privilege, not to mention the HIPAA laws.

“We have reason to believe he may be involved in the Mall bombings,” Bree interrupted. “We have reason to believe that he is doing this because of Congressional gridlock over the veterans’ bill.”

Stetson frowned. “If it’s the man I’m thinking of, this is surprising. Stunning even. As for the gridlock, I condemn the bomber’s tactics, obviously, but the fact is that most of the programs in this building will shut down if that bill doesn’t cross the President’s desk. He’s not the only one with a grudge.”

“And if his next bomb kills someone?” I said. “Isn’t that against the Hippocratic oath — first do no harm? We need your help.”

Bree said, “We’ll find him sooner or later. If we find him sooner, we save lives.”

The doctor thought for a beat, then said, “You didn’t hear this from me.”

“Of course not.”

“I think the angry vet you’re talking about is named Juan Nico Vincente.”

Stetson would not give us Vincente’s address or any of his records without a subpoena, but he did say the veteran had survived a brutal IED explosion in Afghanistan, and suffered from head trauma and post-traumatic stress.

“He come to see you often?” I asked.

“Far as my area is concerned, there’s nothing more I can do for him. But he’s in the building a few times a week, sees a whole menu of docs and therapists. Hang out in the lobby long enough, I’m sure he’ll walk by.”

As we left the hospital, Bree was already running Vincente’s name through a law-enforcement database. He was on full disability from the Army and had several priors for drunk and disorderly, incidents occurring at bars around his government-subsidized apartment in northeast DC. We drove there, to a brick building off Kansas Avenue.

Mahoney met us out front.

“You really think this is our guy?” Mahoney said.

“By all accounts, he’s a very angry dude,” Bree said. “And he’ll probably get hurt big-time if the veterans’ bill doesn’t go through.”

Vincente lived on the fifth floor at the rear of the building. Most apartment complexes clear out during the day, with people at work and children at school. But with many residents of this building on disability, we heard televisions and radios blaring, and people talking and laughing.

But not behind Vincente’s front door. Before we could knock, we heard him ranting: “Senator Pussy, you evil, lying, son of a bitch! You never served! I swear I will come up there, get my rotted face in yours, and show you what this is all about! Right before I stick my KA-BAR up your asshole!”