The Summer House

Chapter 14

At hunter army airfield — just south of Savannah — Special Agent Connie York parks their Ford rental in front of a three-story brick building, headquarters for the Fourth Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, and home to the four Rangers who are in a town jail in Ralston, nearly an hour away. The water tower for the post is visible nearby, and while most of the facility is open land with palmetto trees and southern oaks draped with Spanish moss, the Ranger complex is a post within a post, with high brick walls enclosing it, complete with wire and spikes on top to discourage any unofficial visitors.

Next to her, Major Cook stays silent. He’s been quiet on the drive over here after that horrid search of the kill house, although he was quick and pleasant during their earlier meeting on post with Colonel Brenda Tringali, head of the Third MP Group of the CID. She gave them additional information about the four Rangers — the usual and typical complaints of them being drunk and disorderly while off duty, though the initial complaints were never followed up because local law enforcement agencies didn’t want to get the Rangers into trouble. When they left her office, Connie said to Cook, “She seemed fairly cooperative, Major.”

And he said, “Of course she was cooperative. This case is white-hot and is going to cause one hell of a mess for the Fourth Battalion here and everybody else on post. Better we outsiders take the heat than her and her MPs.”

Connie switches off the car engine. Cook remains quiet, holding his cane in his hands.

“What are you thinking about, sir?” she asks. There have been times when she’s felt comfortable enough to banter and joke with him, but not this time.

“I’m thinking about what Sanchez asked, back at the murder house.”

Connie says, “About the civilian, Stuart Pike? The one found dead in his bed?”

“That’s right,” Cook says. “Sanchez made a good point. Why was he still in bed?”

“Maybe the sheriff is right,” she says. “Maybe he was drugged, drunk, or passed out.”

“Passed out enough so he doesn’t at least get off the bed when his girlfriend runs screaming into the bedroom, after the front door gets blasted open?” Cook replies, opening the door. “Come along. We’ve got work to do.”

An hour later, she and Major Cook are still waiting outside the office of Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Marcello, commanding officer of the Fourth Battalion. They are in a small outer office, sitting on a black leather couch, while at his desk an apologetic Major Frank Moore keeps on making excuses for his commanding officer.

Moore says, “I’m sure he’ll be free in just a few minutes, Major. I’m so sorry for the wait.”

Cook says, “No apologies necessary,” but Connie knows exactly what’s going on. She and Major Cook are just Army cops, dressed in civilian clothes, and the commanding officer here is putting the two of them in their place. All around them on the walls are photos of the Rangers with the Fourth Battalion, in action in places like Iraq and Afghanistan as well as earlier deployments to Panama and Grenada.

Several helicopters thrum overhead, and not for the first time as a CID agent, Connie thinks of herself as a fraud. She’s a tough cop, a good investigator, but she’s not a real soldier. She knows that. She and Sanchez are both warrant officers, an odd and mostly overlooked rank between an NCO and an officer, and even though they’re supposed equals, Sanchez always likes to rag on her that he’s got more field experience with the LAPD and six months more in the CID than she has.

This airfield and those photos and the men and women out there in this hot Georgia heat, they’re the real Army. The records of the four Rangers they all examined this morning were certainly eye-opening, with the listings of their duty stations, schools attended, and deployments conducted. The records also displayed what the four accused Rangers overall have achieved: Combat Infantry, Pathfinder, Parachutist, and Air Assault badges, ribbons denoting the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star Medal, plus various other recognitions.

At the time, Connie felt embarrassed. She’s known as a slick sleeve, her uniform bare of service medals and overseas campaign ribbons. Waiting now for Lieutenant Colonel Marcello, that feeling comes back, of being an imposter among these real soldiers.

Major Moore is wearing camouflage fatigues, and his ink-black hair is closely trimmed. He says, “I still can’t believe you’re here, and that Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team were arrested. It must be some kind of mistake.”

After seeing and hearing all the evidence this Sunday morning, Connie doesn’t want to burst the major’s bubble, but Cook says, “That’s what we’re hoping, too. Tell me, do you know them well?”

Moore shakes his head. “They’re in Alpha Company. I never interacted much with them, but, man, the stories about them... They’re called the Ninja Squad.”

“Really?” Cook asks. “Why’s that?”

Moore says, “They’re superb at moving at night. I mean, everyone can move at night; with NVGs on, it’s hard not to. But Sergeant Jefferson and his crew, they take it a step further. It’s like... like they’re goddamn shadows or something. And Sergeant Jefferson, he’s tight with his men. All teams are tight, but Jefferson, his men trust him and follow him, no questions asked. Once I heard how he weeds out newbies who want to be in his section. They go on a night hike, through some deep woods, and Jefferson marches right off a cliff... into a swamp. Fall isn’t much, but for Sergeant Jefferson, those who fall with him into the swamp with no hesitation, no questions, they get in. The others... don’t.”

Connie says, “Sounds impressive... for training.”

Moore shakes his head. “Same thing out on deployments. His fire team always gets the tough jobs because they can get them done, no bullshit. He and his team can approach a target farmhouse, even with dogs and Taliban guards around, and they can still slip into a compound without anyone noticing, breach the door, and kill everyone before someone can pick up a weapon.”

Shit, Connie thinks, doesn’t that sound familiar, and Moore says, “Thing is, when they get stateside, wow, can they get into—”

When his phone buzzes Moore gives the two of them a big smile. He picks up the receiver and says, “Moore,” and after a few nods, he says, “Yes, sir, straightaway.”

He hangs up the phone.

“The lieutenant colonel will see you now.”

Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Marcello is standing behind his desk, an impressive piece of furniture that Connie thinks is bigger than her bed back at Quantico. The desk is brightly clean, and Marcello continues to stand as he looks down upon a piece of paper. There are the typical in and out baskets, two telephones, and a computer monitor. It’s a corner office, filled with light, and souvenirs, plaques, and photos are up on the wall.

Marcello is huge, bulky, like under his camo uniform there are slabs of muscle, and he’s bald, the only hair being two bushy black eyebrows.

Without lifting his head, he says, “Major Cook, why are you here?”

After half a beat, Cook says, “Colonel Marcello, my team and I were ordered here to conduct an investigation into—”

“I know that, Major,” he cuts in, voice louder, head still bowed down. “But I have a very competent investigator here, Colonel Tringali of the Third MP Group. I trust her and her CID investigators. She even has a positive working relationship with Sheriff Williams over there in Sullivan County, the scene of the crime. So why are you here?”

“Orders, sir.”

Marcello finally lifts his head. There’s a pink scar running down his right cheek. Connie is suddenly glad that her boss is the focus of the colonel’s anger and attention.

“A special squad for a special case?”

“You could say that, sir. We investigate those matters of high priority and high attention, to make sure the accused’s rights are preserved but also to ensure that justice is done. Sir.”

Marcello stares at her boss. “In other words, you big-foot right in and take over the investigation.”

“Not entirely accurate, sir.”

“If you say so.”

Marcello picks up a pen, signs the document before him. “Well, you’re here. You have questions, I’m sure. Ask away.”

“Sir, we’d like to interview fellow members of their platoon, to see if—”

“Not going to happen.”

From Connie’s vantage point, it seems like Cook is really leaning on his cane. The pain in his left leg must be awful this afternoon, with all the walking and standing.

“Sir?” Cook asks.

“Oh, didn’t I make myself clear? You cannot and will not interview members of that team’s platoon.”

“May I ask why, sir?”

“Certainly,” Marcello says, opening his center drawer and carefully putting his pen inside, then closing the drawer. “Because we are this nation’s firefighters, ready to go anywhere when the president tells us to go. We’re trained and equipped to deploy to anywhere in the world within eighteen hours. And in approximately” — he glances at a large watch on his large wrist — “two hours Alpha Company is boarding C-17s to go overseas. And those men don’t have time to talk to you. Nor do I, for you see, Major Cook, I’m leaving with them, to join them and Bravo and Charlie Companies.”

Connie is growing angrier and angrier with each passing second, hating how the lieutenant colonel is completely ignoring her.

Cook says, “With your deployment, sir, who will be assigned as rear detachment commander?”

A long second or two passes. Marcello says, “Not bad for a former NYPD cop. The rear detachment commander will be Captain Rory O’Connell. He has a few months left before his ETS, so he’ll be handling personnel issues and other routine matters for the battalion.”

“I’d like to arrange to interview him, sir,” Cook says.

“You don’t need my permission, Major. But he’ll be a busy man, dealing with the battalion’s affairs.” Another glance at his watch. “You have time for one more question, Major. Make it a good one.”

Cook says, “Sir, these four men under your command, they are in serious trouble, having been arrested in connection with the violent deaths of seven civilians. At some point in our investigation would you consider being a character witness for them?”

Connie is surprised at how quickly and violently Marcello delivers his one-sentence answer. “Not on your life.”

Cook says, “Sir... if I may... why is that?”

Marcello looks at his watch one more time. “In the field, there is no squad that I’d rather have at my back than Sergeant Jefferson’s. But we’re not always in the field. Since they’ve been CONUS, they’ve been a constant pain to me. Some years ago, Major, a predecessor to my battalion command saw his career ruined because his Rangers acted wild on post and off. That’s not going to happen to me. As far as I’m concerned, the quicker those four are convicted and sent off to prison the better.”

Cook says, “I see, sir.”

“Glad you do,” the colonel says.