I asked, "Does Carter Crossing have a police department?"
Garber said, "Yes, it does."
"So let me guess. They're getting nowhere with their homicide investigation, so they want to go fishing. They want to list some Kelham personnel in their suspect pool."
Garber said, "Yes, they do."
"Including members of Alpha Company and Bravo Company."
Garber said, "Yes."
"They want to ask them all kinds of questions."
"Yes."
"But we can't afford to let them ask anyone any questions, because we have to hide all the covert comings and goings."
"Correct."
"Do they have probable cause?"
I hoped Garber was going to say no, but instead he said, "Slightly circumstantial."
I said, "Slightly?"
He said, "The timing is unfortunate. Janice May Chapman was killed three days after Bravo Company got back from Kosovo, after their latest trip. They fly in direct from overseas. Kelham has an airstrip. I told you, it's a big place. They land under cover of darkness, for secrecy's sake. Then a returning company spends the first two days locked down and debriefing."
"And then?"
"And then on the third day a returning company gets a week's leave."
"And they all go out on the town."
"Generally."
"Including Main Street and the blocks behind."
"That's where the bars are."
"And the bars are where they meet the local women."
"As always."
"And Janice May Chapman was a local woman."
"And known to be friendly."
I said, "Terrific."
Garber said, "She was raped and mutilated."
"Mutilated how?"
"I didn't ask. I didn't want to know. She was twenty-seven years old. Jodie is twenty-seven years old, too."
His only daughter. His only child. Much loved.
I asked, "How is she?"
"She's fine."
"Where is she now?"
"She's a lawyer," he said, like it was a location, not an occupation. Then in turn he asked, "How's your brother?"
I said, "He's OK, as far as I know."
"Still at Treasury?"
"As far as I know."
"He was a good man," Garber said, like leaving the army was the same thing as dying.
I said nothing.
Garber asked, "So what would you do, down there in Mississippi?"
This was 1997, remember. I said, "We can't shut out the local PD. Not under those circumstances. But we can't assume any level of expertise or resources on their part, either. So we should offer some help. We should send someone down there. We can do all the work on the base. If some Kelham guy did it, we'll serve him up on a platter. That way justice is done, but we can hide what we need to hide."
"Not that simple," Garber said. "It gets worse."
"How?"
"Bravo Company's commander is a guy called Reed Riley. You know him?"
"The name rings a bell."
"And so it should. His father is Carlton Riley."
I said, "Shit."
Garber nodded. "The senator. The chairman of the Armed Services Committee. About to be either our best friend or our worst enemy, depending on which way the wind is going to blow. And you know how it is with guys like that. Having an infantry captain for a son is worth a million votes to him. Having a hero for a son is worth twice that. I don't want to think about what happens if one of young Reed's guys turns out to be a killer."
I said, "We need someone at Kelham right now."
Garber said, "That's why you and I are having this meeting."
"When do you want me there?"
"I don't want you there," Garber said.
5
Garber told me his top pick for the Kelham job wasn't me. It was a newly minted MP major named Duncan Munro. Military family, Silver Star, Purple Heart, and so on and so forth. He had recently completed some good work in Korea, and was currently doing some great work in Germany. He was five years younger than me, and from what I was hearing he was exactly what I had been five years in the past. I had never met him.
Garber said, "He's in the air right now. Heading straight down there. ETA late morning tomorrow."
"Your call," I said. "I guess."
"It's a delicate situation," he said.
"Evidently," I said. "Too delicate for me, anyway."
"Don't get your panties in a wad. I need you for something else. Something I hope you'll see as just as important."
"Like what?"
"Undercover work," he said. "That's why I'm happy about your hair. Ragged and unkempt. There are two things we do very badly when we're undercover. Hair, and shoes. Shoes, you can buy at Goodwill. You can't buy messy hair at a moment's notice."
"Undercover where?"
"Carter Crossing, of course. Down in Mississippi. Off post. You're going to blow into town like some kind of aimless ex-military bum. You know the type. You're going to be the kind of guy who feels right at home there, because it's the kind of environment he's familiar with. So you're going to stay put a spell. You're going to develop a relationship with local law enforcement, and you're going to use that relationship in a clandestine fashion to make sure that both they and Munro are doing this thing absolutely right."
"You want me to impersonate a civilian?"
"It's not that hard. We're all members of the same species, more or less. You'll figure it out."
"Will I be actively investigating?"
"No. You'll be there to observe and report only. Like a training assessment. You've done it before. My eyes and ears. This thing has got to be done absolutely right."
"OK," I said.
"Any other questions?"
"When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow morning, first light."
"And what's your definition of doing this thing absolutely right?"
Garber paused and shuffled in his chair and didn't answer that question.
I went back to my quarters and took a shower, but I didn't shave. Going undercover is like method acting, and Garber was right. I knew the type. Any soldier does. Towns near bases are full of guys who washed out for some reason or other and never got further than a mile. Some stay, and some are forced to move on, and the ones who move on end up in some other town near some other base. The same, but different. It's what they know. It's what they're comfortable with. They retain some kind of ingrained, deep-down military discipline, like old habits, like stray strands of DNA, but they abandon regular grooming. Chapter one, section eight, paragraph two no longer rules their lives. So I didn't shave, and I didn't comb my hair either. I just let it dry.
Then I laid stuff out on my bed. I didn't need to go to the Goodwill for shoes. I had a pair that would do. About twelve years previously I had been in the U.K. and I had bought a pair of brown brogues at an old-fashioned gentleman's store in a village miles from anywhere. They were big, heavy, substantial things. They were well cared for, but a little worn and creased. Down at heel, literally.
I put them on my bed, and they sat there alone. I had no other personal clothing. None at all. Not even socks. I found an old army T-shirt in a drawer, olive drab, cotton, originally of a hefty grade, now washed pale and as thin as silk. I figured it was the kind of thing a guy might keep around. I put it next to the shoes. Then I hiked over to the PX and poked around the aisles I usually don't frequent. I found a pair of mud-colored canvas pants and a long-sleeved shirt that was basically maroon, but it had been prewashed so that the seams had faded to a kind of pink. I wasn't thrilled with it, but it was the only choice in my size. It was reduced in price, which made sense to me, and it looked basically civilian. I had seen people wearing worse things. And it was versatile. I wasn't sure what the temperatures were going to be, in March in the northeastern corner of Mississippi. If it was warm, I could roll the sleeves up. If it was cold, I could roll them down.