The Summer House

Chapter 17

Lieutenant John Huang is sitting on a park bench across the street from the Ralston Police Department, just waiting. It’s been several hours since he and Allen Pierce visited the police department’s jail and were turned away, and when Allen said he was going to visit the district attorney, John said he would stay behind.

“And do what?” Allen asked.

“Talk to the Rangers.”

“How?”

And John said, “By using my wily Asian ways. How else?”

The day has been long, sitting here in the shade, reading articles on his iPhone from back issues of Journal of Psychiatric Practice, and once going into the nearby small convenience store to grab lunch. The young lady wearing jeans and a blue smock with ADDY on her name tag took his money and passed over a wrapped ham-and-cheese sandwich and a bottle of Lipton iced tea, then she said, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead,” he said, knowing what was coming next.

“What are you?” she asked. “Huh? Do you mind? Japanese? Korean? What are you?”

He scooped up his lunch and change and said, “Californian.”

Now he waits.

Earlier and separated by thirty or so minutes, two different sets of dark-blue Ford vans pulled up across the street, with film crews and correspondents tumbling out and, nearly just as quickly, tumbling back in, having been turned away by the ever-vigilant jail attendant and bikini inspector.

John sips from the now-warm Lipton tea.

The guy was doing a pretty good job.

A white Dodge Ram pickup truck comes down the road, turns into the lot, stopping next to the red Dodge Colt. A tall, thin woman gets out, wearing the same type of uniform as the male attendant, and she sprints to the rear door of the jail.

John checks the time. It’s 5:10 in the afternoon.

He’s thinking someone’s late and—

There goes the bikini inspector, into his Colt, and his tires squeal as he gets out onto the main street, back into whatever Sunday afternoon life awaits him.

John dips into his soft leather briefcase and pulls out a necktie, which he quickly secures around his neck.

Now it’s time to get to work.

It feels good to walk across to the jail, stretching his legs, and he goes up to the familiar door with the sign and rings the doorbell, and rings it once more.

A shadow appears as before, but it’s the woman attendant now, red hair tousled, face flushed and perspiring, and she says, “How can I—”

He grabs the door, opens it wider. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I’m here to see Specialist Tyler.”

“Hey, uh, what—”

He pushes past her and says, “Is he ready? I won’t take long.”

The woman steps in front of him. “Hold on. Just who the hell are you?”

John lets her stand for a few seconds and then shapes his face into surprised anger. “You don’t know? Honestly? Before he went hunting today, Chief Kane told me it was going to be all arranged. Hold on.”

He grabs his regular wallet, takes out his Virginia driver’s license, flashes it in front of the poor young woman, and says, “I’m Dr. John Huang of the US Army Medical Corps. I flew in a while ago from Washington, DC. I’m here to personally interview the four Rangers, starting with Specialist Tyler.”

The woman bites her lower lip. John chose Tyler for a reason, for according to the briefing he received last night at the motel, Tyler is the youngest of the four.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Ma’am, that’s medical information, and that’s confidential,” he says, putting an edge into his voice. “Now, will you bring Specialist Tyler to me, or are we going to have to wait here until Chief Kane returns from Sweeney’s Tract and have him order you directly? And then have another conversation with you later? Ma’am?”

Her shoulders slump. “Hold on.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” John says.

Ten minutes later, he’s in a small meeting room, with one-way glass built into the wall, a table bolted to the floor, and two black plastic chairs. He’s sitting in one chair and Specialist Vinny Tyler is sitting in the other, wearing an orange jumpsuit that says RALSTON PD JAIL in faded black letters on the back.

John is smiling and gracious with the young man, who’s got a lot of muscles and strength under that jail clothing. His red hair is trimmed short, and there’s stubble on his chin and cheeks. His eyes look green. His face is pale, but he constantly looks around the room with suspicion, like he’s waiting for a net to drop from the ceiling or for the sprinklers to start spraying out water.

John says, “Specialist, I’m Lieutenant John Huang, a psychiatrist with the Army’s Medical Corps. How are you doing? How’s the food? Are the staff treating you well?”

His eyes continue to flick around the room. “Doing okay. Food sucks, but I’ve eaten worse. And the staff seems to be just one guy or gal, so that’s about it. Why are you here?”

“Here to talk to you.”

“About what?”

John shrugs, leans back in his chair, and relaxes his legs and arms in an open position, wanting the Ranger before him to see John not as a threat but as a possible ally or even friend.

“About whatever you’d like,” he says. “Where you grew up. Why you joined the Army. Why you became a Ranger... I’ve seen the training courses you guys have to go through. Incredibly difficult, aren’t they?”

The specialist doesn’t take the bait. His eyes have stopped flickering. They’re boring right into John.

He continues. “Or you can talk about your deployments. The missions you were on. What you saw, what you did.”

Tyler moves his wrists, like he still can’t believe he’s manacled.

“Or why me and the team got arrested for what happened over in Sullivan,” the Ranger calmly says, like he’s reading out a map grid of numbers and letters. “You want me to talk about that?”

Defiance, John thinks. He’s talking but there’s will and defiance there.

“If you’d like,” he says.

“Sure,” he says. “Then you’d use it against me. Right?”

“Not exactly,” he says. “But I need to inform you, Specialist, that I’m here as a psychiatrist, attached to a special investigative CID unit. I’m not here to represent you as a patient.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that what I learn in talking with you will be part of the CID’s investigation into what might have happened that led to your arrest.”

“A cop.”

“No,” Huang says. “A doctor who’s looking for truth.”

“To use against me.”

“To be used in seeking justice,” Huang says. “To find out who you are, what you’re thinking, to see if there are any extenuating circumstances. To make this CID investigation fair and complete. You have my word.”

The young man’s eyes continue to drill into him. John doesn’t yet know the specifics of his service, but he knows from experience the outline of what this hard young man has done. Rangers are the proverbial tip of the spear. They go in hard and fast and get the job done. They are sent into the hottest and most dangerous places, and even though in another life Specialist Tyler could have been an automotive technician or a home contractor, John is under no illusions.

This young man before him has killed in the service of his country, and has seen friends of his wounded, maimed, and killed right beside him.

“Your word...” Tyler says, dragging the two words out. “You think I’d trust the word of a pogue?”

Pogue, John recalls — person other than a grunt.

“I would hope so.”

“What do you know about me, ’bout what I do?” he starts demanding. “You ever go overseas? You ever been in a pit in a forward base, hearing the mortars whistle in? You ever shove wads of combat gauze into a buddy who’s bleeding out? You ever been up against some sandbags, and all of a sudden sand pours down on your head and you hear the gunshot from the sniper who almost drilled one into your forehead?”

John says, “I don’t think that really—”

Tyler quickly changes the subject. “You a virgin, Doc?”

“That’s something I’m not here to talk about,” he says.

A jingle-jangle of the handcuffs as Tyler moves his hands. “Oh, yeah, it is. You know what I mean. There’s a whole lot of difference ’tween reading about having great sex with a hot chick and actually doing it. No books, no magazines, no porn videos, nothing is like the real deal. That’s the difference between you and me, although we’re both Army. You just don’t know what it’s like out in combat.”

John has heard this before, and he says, “Then why did you agree to talk to me?”

Tyler struggles, sits back in the chair, blinks his eyes, looks down at the dirty tiled floor, and then looks up again.

“Sometimes the guilt just gets so hot and raw you need to talk to someone other than your team buddies,” Tyler says, his voice softer. “When things don’t go right... when innocents pop up...”

His voice softly dribbles away to heavy silence.

“Please tell me more,” John says, putting as much sympathy and empathy as he can into his voice. We’ve made progress, we’re opening him up, this is going to work. He’s looking forward to reporting back to Major Cook what he’s about to find out.

“Please,” John repeats. “Talk to me.”

Tyler gets up, chair scraping, cuffed hands before him.

“No,” he says. “I’ve changed my mind.”