The Summer House

Chapter 38

It’s a grim meeting of my investigators when Huang arrives and tells us what’s just happened over at the Ralston jail. He’s followed by Sanchez, giving us an update about his missing witness. Then I ask Connie to brief the others about our funeral home visit — learning one of the victims had broken wrists — followed by a report on our earlier viewing of the convenience store’s surveillance tape, and I take over at the end, passing on that the four Rangers were accused of committing exactly the same type of civilian massacre in Afghanistan during their last deployment.

The room is quiet and the air thick with disappointment. York, Huang, Sanchez, and Pierce all are downcast, looking at the worn carpeted floor. Huang shakes his head, looks up, face drawn.

“Major, it was my fault,” he says. “I pushed Specialist Tyler too hard. His suicide is on me.”

I raise my voice. “Knock it off, Lieutenant. You were doing your job. That’s it. The specialist was fighting demons. You were trying to help him. Show him a way out. A chance to recover. This time, the demons won. Aided by a jail attendant who should have followed procedures.”

Huang’s expression doesn’t change.

“Captain Pierce,” I say. “The district attorney told you the Rangers are planning to represent themselves at the upcoming hearing on Thursday. Any details?”

“No, sir. He told me the Rangers would speak for themselves, and that was all.”

Huang lowers his head. I think I know what he’s feeling. In his own and final way, Specialist Tyler has already done that, spoken for himself.

“Sanchez,” I say. “Was there any evidence our dog-walking witness left that house under duress?”

“No, sir,” he says. “Door was locked and secured, like she left and expected to come back. The inside of the house was a mess, but no sign that items were tossed around, no sign of violence.”

York asks, “How did you get in, then?”

Sanchez shrugs. “The usual way. You got a problem with that?”

Before Connie can snap back at Sanchez, I say, “But her vehicle was still there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Neighbors?”

“None within easy walking distance, sir,” he says.

I heave myself off the chair, go to the whiteboard. The innocents on one side, the accused on the other. I uncap a marker, draw a line between Staff Sergeant Jefferson and the dead Stuart Pike, drug dealer and renter of the kill house.

“This is the connection,” I say. “The man who supplied the fentanyl that nearly killed Jefferson’s stepdaughter, Carol Crosby.”

I put the pen down, and then with my right index finger I erase parts of the marking so what remains is a dotted line.

“I don’t like it,” I say. “The man has two broken wrists. That I can see. But killing him and everyone else... a little girl, her mother, kids playing video games, dragging a woman from underneath a bed to put a round in her head?” I turn away from the whiteboard. “I don’t like it.”

I go back to my chair. “Huang, Pierce, go out to that coffee shop. See if you can find something for us to eat that isn’t deep-fried.”

Pierce says, “Yes, sir,” and Huang is quiet as they both step out of the room.

I say, “Sanchez, do what you do best. Go out and make friends with the news media, and make sure they leave us alone. With Tyler’s suicide, we’re going to have reporters dogging us every foot, every mile, every minute of the day. Get us some breathing room.”

“On it, boss,” he says, and leaves, and there’s just Connie and me.

I get my phone and dial a number. A sturdy male voice says, “Sullivan County Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Crane speaking.”

“This is Major Cook, Army CID. Is Sheriff Williams available?”

“Not at the moment, sir.”

“Please have her call me at her earliest convenience.”

With that task completed, I disconnect the call and sit still in the quiet room. Connie is quiet as well. I hear a few voices outside, think it’s Sanchez, on the job.

“Sir?” she asks.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to call Colonel Phillips?”

“Not at the moment,” I say.

“Why?” Connie asks.

“Because I’ll have to tell him that one of the four Army Rangers is dead, that we’ve got overwhelming evidence putting those Rangers at the scene of the murders, and that this evidence sucks. Too convenient, too helpful, and too screwy. I do that right now, I’ll be on the phone with him forever, and we don’t have the time. There are too many things moving too quickly.”

I turn at the sound of the door unlocking, and Pierce and Huang are coming in, hands empty. I’m wondering what went wrong when Sheriff Williams follows them in, with Sanchez right behind her.

Not a problem. Food can wait.

Williams is wearing a worn camo jumpsuit, zippered up the front, hands covered with black leather shooting gloves. She’s holding her carrying case in her right hand and says, “Major? Heard you were looking for me.”

I stand up, left leg complaining once more. “I am.”

“Good,” she says, holding up her bag. “Same here. And sorry to say, because I love the Army and such, I’ve got the final nails in those Rangers’ coffins.”