The Summer House

Chapter 25

The drive goes smoothly after that, with the not-so-friendly lights still behind us, and as we near our destination, I roll the window up. When Connie gets us back to the Route 119 Motel and Coffee Shop, there’s a huddled group of men and women outside our room 11. Connie parks our damaged Ford as close as she can, and she says, “Sorry, boss, the Fourth Estate has arrived, in all their assumed glory.”

Damn it, I think, because I wanted to get to my room first to secure some painkillers, but I’m not in the mood to maneuver my way twice through that enthusiastic mob. No pain relief any time soon.

“As before, Connie,” I say, grabbing my cane. “I’ll take the lead.”

She unsnaps her seat belt. “You’ll take the lead in answering questions, sir. I’ll take the lead in blocking us a path.”

The next few seconds are a mess as I stay close behind Connie while she forces her way through the dozen or so men and women, dressed in everything from jeans and T-shirts to carefully styled suits, for the network correspondents, and lights from three television cameras glare at us as we get to the door.

“Are you the Army investigators here about the murders?”

“No comment,” I say.

“Are the four Rangers being defended by the Army?”

“No comment.”

A younger voice screams out, “You’ve got blood on your hands, killers! Blood on your hands!”

That doesn’t deserve any kind of response, so I keep my mouth shut and we finally get into our meeting room.

The room is still small, still crowded with furniture. I find the first available chair and sink heavily into it. Up on the whiteboard are the list of civilian victims and the booking photos of the four Rangers.

“Before we start,” I say, “just a reminder when it comes to talking to the news media. Don’t.”

My crew all nod, and Captain Pierce comes over with a cardboard cup of coffee, which I sip. It’s cold. No surprise.

Connie takes a chair, joining Special Agent Sanchez and Dr. Huang.

“We’ll go first,” I say. “Connie?”

Connie removes a legal pad from her shoulder bag and starts off.

“Major Cook and I met this morning with Major Frank Moore, the executive officer for the Rangers’ Fourth Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield. He was stunned that these four would have been arrested for such a crime. He said Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team are known as the Ninja Squad, for their ability to enter a house full of hostiles and kill them all.”

Captain Pierce frowns. “That’s a hell of a precedent. I mean no disrespect, Major, but if that’s what they’re known for in Afghanistan, it certainly complicates things.”

I say, “It certainly does. Connie?”

She nods, flips a page. “After meeting with Major Moore, we had a brief session with their CO, Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Marcello. He also repeated Major Moore’s point, that these are highly skilled, professional, and decorated soldiers. But he would not go out of his way to praise them. He said that while on post, out of a combat zone, they can be a disciplinary problem, even though no law enforcement agency has officially filed a complaint against them.”

“Anything more than that?” Sanchez asks. “Can we talk again to the colonel?”

I say, “Marcello is currently airborne with three companies of the Fourth Battalion, heading out for a deployment. The best we can do is talk to a Captain Rory O’Connell. He’s the rear detachment commander, handling battalion affairs while they’re deployed, but he’s gearing up for ETS, so we need to get to him quick.”

Huang looks around, looking embarrassed, and says, “What’s ETS, Major?”

“Expiration of term of service,” I explain. “Meaning Captain O’Connell is a few months away from being discharged.”

Connie continues with another flip of a page. “The major and I also went to the convenience store the four Rangers visited prior to the killings. The worker said we need to talk to the store’s owner before viewing any surveillance recordings.”

When Connie pauses, I say, “We also visited the coroner’s office to examine the victims. In this county, the coroner is an elected position. And he’s also the local funeral director. His son was working alone tonight and refused us entry. We’ll try again tomorrow. And just so all of you know, Agent York and I were followed after we left that funeral home. No big surprise, some folks around here are curious about what we’re doing. Anybody else encounter anything similar?”

Sanchez quietly says, “A truck with its lights and engine switched off tried to scare me away while I was out working on Route 119 at the driveway to The Summer House. Sped by so quick I could feel its breeze.”

This gets everyone’s attention. I say, “You all right?”

He shrugs. “I’ve experienced nastier work in the Rampart Division. It’s okay.”

I make it a point to give everyone a quick look so I know they’re paying attention. “All right, folks, stay alert out there, and make sure all of you have your tac vests handy. And, Pierce and Huang, I know lawyers and psychiatrists don’t always walk around armed, but make sure you carry your service weapons. Lieutenant Huang?”

My psychiatrist says, “This morning Captain Pierce and I tried to gain access to the Ralston town jail. The attendant wouldn’t let us in. I stayed behind while Captain Pierce went to visit the district attorney. At about 1715 hours I got into the jail and interviewed the four Rangers.”

Pierce looks impressed. “Doc, when I left, you were taking it easy in the park across the street. How the hell did you get in?”

Dr. Huang seems pleased with himself. “Trade secret. Anyway, I got in, and I interviewed two of the Rangers — Corporal Barnes and Specialist Ruiz — and they stuck to a script. Mostly name and rank, and that Staff Sergeant Jefferson is the best leader they’ve ever served under.”

Sanchez nods. “Hanging together. Big surprise.”

Huang says, “But I started off with the youngest squad member, Specialist Vinny Tyler. The other two were calm and collected. Tyler... he was defiant. But he wanted to talk, especially about the difference between frontline troops like him and rear-echelon soldiers like us. But before he left... there was guilt there. Serious guilt. I plan to go back tomorrow, see if I can take that further.”

I ask, “And Staff Sergeant Jefferson?”

Huang pauses, then says, “He was the surprise. I didn’t expect him to talk to me, but he did... and he wasn’t happy I was there. Threatened to hurt me if I came back and talked to the Rangers again. But he let something slip in our talk, when he was getting angry with me. Major, he practically admitted he and his Rangers were there that night.”

We all get quiet. Someone’s pounding at the door, claiming to be from the New York Times. Or the Washington Post. I’m not sure and I don’t care.

“Go on,” I say.

“I told him that we were here to find out the truth, especially if it might be able to help him and his men,” Huang carefully says. “And he threw that right back in my face. Said something to the effect that the families of those who resided in that old historical house wouldn’t forget what happened that night.”

Silence in our little room.

Huang shakes his head. “Major, they’ve been there. They know what the location looks like. Sir, based on what we’ve learned so far, the matched empty shell casings and the fingerprints, I think they were at that house and slaughtered those civilians.”

That hangs in the air for a moment, and then my cell phone rings. ANONYMOUS CALLER, the screen states.

“Cook,” I answer.

The man’s voice is low and to the point. “Your goddamn killers butchered our neighbors. You think you’re going to help ’em get away with it, you’re wrong. Pack up and go back to DC, assholes.”

I say, “We’re actually from Quantico.”

By then the man has hung up.