The Night Crew, page 15
part #7 of Sean Drummond Series
“How do you know he didn’t put himself in the bag?”
“Simple deduction. The beating Palchaci took was too severe.”
“Explain that.”
“Both his legs were broken, one snapped in multiple places, both kneecaps shattered. Six, maybe seven ribs were fractured. His face was so destroyed, it was if he’d been hit by a truck. Most of his fingers were broken, as was one elbow.”
I had already read the autopsy results and his inventory of injuries accorded with that report, minus a few additional injuries to his internal organs and a number of contusions. But I had a reason for taking him down this path, getting him into the routine of automatically answering my questions. “So you’re assuming he was too physically damaged to maneuver himself into a sleeping bag.”
“I’m assuming the pain was excruciating . . . more than enough to prove disabling. Two ribs were sticking in his lungs. Two of the leg breaks were compound fractures. The man died in agony.”
“And you’re assuming it was torture?”
Without hesitation, he said, “Torture . . . yeah, certainly. The man was beaten methodically, and deliberately pummeled with a blunt object that might’ve been a baseball bat. Why? You got another name for it?”
I ignored his obvious attempt at sarcasm and suggested, very coldly, “So based upon the extensive damage to his body, you’re suggesting his death was a premeditated and controlled act. Torture in your words.”
Tommy Rienzi was a senior CID officer with long experience dealing with lawyers. He did not like me putting words into his mouth, though in this case, I was merely repeating his own words, and he instantly objected, saying, “That’s not what I said. I told you—”
“You said it was torture.”
“I said it might’ve been tor—”
“No, Chief, your stated conclusion was unequivocal. Torture, without hesitation or doubt. And more specifically, you described it as methodically applied, as in, the damage done to Palchaci wasn’t haphazard or impulsive. It was cool and systematic, the product of hard logic.” I allowed him to digest his own words, then said, “Torture. How did you arrive at that causative noun?”
“That’s the way it looked to me.”
“I see. Not the way it was, the way it looked. Not an objective description, more like a half-assed subjective conclusion based on how you felt that morning.”
“Do you have a problem with the word torture?”
“I do, as will you, on the stand. It’s too late to change it now, because that’s the exact noun you used repeatedly in your crime report. But you don’t really know it was torture, do you, Chief?”
“I know it sure as shit wasn’t suicide.”
“Since we’re into conjecture, let’s try out a few other theories. Try revenge. Or uncontrolled fury or rage. Or, if you don’t like those, try the act of a fellow prisoner, somebody totally deranged and unhinged from reason. You said yourself that the prison at Al Basari was full of nuts, schizos, and psychopaths.”
Chief Rienzi was now annoyed enough to begin rubbing his forehead. He’d just gone from a fairly content man with his tummy stuffed with free pizza to a distinctly unhappy individual holding an untenable position. He had made a kingsize blunder—the cardinal sin of conjecture—and just been given an alarming preview of how that gaffe would be shoved up his ass at the trial.
Worse, it would be a legal gang rape as all five of the accused were tried and all five of the defense lawyers copycatted one another.
Trying to look composed, he said to me, “Why are you bringing this up now?” as in, why are you firing your big gun prematurely? He knew, as did I, that I could’ve withheld this ammunition till the trial and used it to discredit him on the stand.
“Honest answer?” This query, of course, is always the prelude to a lie.
“Sure.”
“You were doing a hard job in difficult circumstances and I have no interest in burying you on the stand. What would that help?”
He did not appear to buy this claim; he seemed, in fact, to assume I was jerking him off. Smart guy. After a moment’s hesitation he said, “And you’d like a favor in return?”
“How understanding of you to ask, Chief.”
“All right, what is it?”
“You did the investigation and had the first look at the crime scene and suspects. Who did you think did it?”
“I had no idea.”
“Go on.”
“How much do you know about General Palchaci?”
“Assume I know nothing,” I replied, failing to clarify what an excellent assumption that was.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Palchaci was one of Saddam’s favorite generals. He was from the region of Tikrit, Saddam’s home town, and commanded one of the revolutionary guard divisions, a singular honor reserved for Saddam’s most trusted lieutenants.”
“So he was not one of the good guys?”
“Oh, he had quite the well-deserved reputation as a miserable bastard. Over the years, he’d done a lot of dirty work for his patron. And by dirty, I mean that in every literal sense of the word. He was particularly hated and feared by the Shiites and Kurds. He was a key figure after the first Gulf War, putting down the insurrections. The record indicates he obliterated three entire Shiite villages, then had them flattened and buried in dirt—not because they were guilty or implicated, just to dissuade others from rising up in opposition. An example. Old men, women, children—he buried all of them. That gives you an idea of his style.”
“So he had a lot of enemies?”
“A lot?” he mimicked. “Try about three quarters of the country. After the invasion he went underground. The intel folks surmised he was designated by Saddam to help inspire, organize, and lead the insurgency. That’s what he was doing when he was captured. Not number one, but certainly top ten.”
“How was he captured?”
This question seemed to amuse Rienzi because he chuckled. “His own cousin turned him in.”
“Family always comes first.”
“He was using the cousin’s house for a hideout, and he raped his host’s daughter. Dumb shit. The girl was only twelve, and she was his blood relative, for God’s sake.” He added, in a sentiment I probably agreed with, “Palchaci deserved to die the way he did.”
This of course was very valuable knowledge, as it would go a long way toward persuading the court martial board that Palchaci was a murderous monster long before he became a murderer’s victim. Murder is murder, in theory, but in reality it comes in many flavors. It did not in any way alleviate the fact of Palchaci’s murder, but offered a powerful argument in favor of leniency—after a conviction, that is.
Unfortunately I was no closer to knowing my client’s guilt or innocence, and in that light, I asked, “Do you think any or all of the accused guards had anything to do with his killing?”
He gave me a long hard stare. “Understand, Colonel, that at the time I was investigating the crime I was unaware of the . . . well, the extracurricular activities of your client and her friends. But knowing what we all know now—that Elton and his crew were going collectively nuts in there—yeah, I’d put them near the top of my list.” After further reflection he got a little more specific. “The very top.”
“There’s a big difference between sex games and murder. There was no physical evidence connecting them to his death.”
“Not exactly accurate. There was proximity, there was motive, and there was the unusual fact that he died in a prison block they controlled. Remember, they had the keys to his cell. And they certainly were displaying . . . behavioral issues.”
“All of which falls under the heading of circumstantial.”
“You asked what I think and I’m telling you. You’ve seen the pictures. Things were spiraling out of control in that cellblock. Compare the activities of night one to the shit happening on night twenty, and you get the distinct impression that it was getting harder for this happy little band to get their rocks off. Look at those pictures—study their faces, Colonel.”
“And what will I see in their faces, Chief?”
“Look, if you haven’t read a book called Lord of the Flies, I highly recommend you do. That’s what was happening in that cellblock. A bunch of kids were marooned in there, absent any adult supervision, and away from civilization. They reverted to their own rules. The more they got away with, the more they tried, and . . . Look, based on the stuff they were doing in the last pictures . . . yeah, I could see them taking the next step up the ladder of insanity.”
I wanted to disagree with this logic, but the truth was I found myself in total agreement. And the larger truth, I thought, was so would a board of good and earnest soldiers in a military courtroom. It was the same unsettling thought that had kept me awake the night before after reviewing the whole disgusting tableau of pictures.
As a group, and as individuals, Lydia and her friends had gone on a journey together, a journey into darkness—a journey that escalated without any moral breaks or intervention by the authority figures above them. Rienzi was right—they were like kids breaking the rules, surprised they were getting away with it, and thus, they acted as though they created the rules.
But did they break the cardinal rule, the sixth commandment? I wasn’t yet willing to accept that they did.
But neither would I rule it out.
I thanked Rienzi for his clarifications and candor, then said, “I may want to talk to you again.”
“Whoopee. I’ll look forward to it.”
Actually he looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. I went to the door and left Chief Rienzi and the smell of overbaked anchovies that now permeated his small office.
It occurred to me that a lot of careers were hanging on this case, the five accused certainly, but also those in the chain of command, those who investigated the crimes, and probably the lawyers on both sides of the docket—and last, though certainly not least, the attorney I care most about.
In fact, the asses on this post were so tight you could ship in a little coal and run a diamond factory here. But I was relieved to learn that I probably didn’t have to worry about the murder charge. Rienzi had as much as admitted that the government lacked anything beyond broad circumstantial evidence, and certainly there was nothing directly connecting my client to the death of General Palchaci.
My cellphone rang. I checked the incoming number and it was Katherine, obviously checking on my whereabouts. I punched receive and said, in a mildly aggrieved tone, “I just finished with the investigating officer. Where were you?”
“What? . . . What are you talking about?”
“I just talked to Rienzi. Once again, where were you?”
“You . . . what? Obviously without me. That’s—”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
This of course was not a lie but a lawyer’s nimble way of not telling the truth.
“Don’t try that bullshit on me.”
Well, time to change the subject. “I have happy news to share with you.”
“Don’t try to change the subject. I won’t have you freelancing—”
“Rienzi doesn’t know who committed the murder. They have no physical evidence.”
There was a brief pause, then Katherine asked, “What?”
“All they have is that Lydia and her friends were the guards, they had the keys, and were already behaving badly. It’s circumstantial with a large C.”
“Rienzi said that?”
Note that she had forgotten her little problem with moi. I can be very clever. “Nearly word for word.”
“Then what’s it doing on the charge sheet?”
“Don’t ask questions that have obvious answers.”
“Make it more obvious for me.”
“It would’ve been impossible not to include it, Katherine. A senior Iraqi officer died in a horrible way in a cellblock controlled by a few soldiers who were about to become pinup idols for the Marquis de Sade star of the month club. The army couldn’t shove his murder under a rug, and our clients had already signed up to be perfect suspects.”
There was a long break in the conversation as she thought about this. “But . . . if the charge is this weak, they risk undermining the other charges, right? No competent prosecutor would take such a dumb risk.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Don’t play stupid, Sean. If a jury sees that the prosecution case for murder is sloppy and flawed, that bleeds over. They could discredit their entire case.”
She was getting it. “It certainly would, and my bet would be that the prosecutors were dragged into it kicking and screaming. But the commanding general wanted to avoid a public relations flogging by allowing a murderer to go free, insisted on throwing it into the mash, and left the prosecutors no choice but to proceed.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe.”
“So are there other options?”
“One, and it’s not necessarily exclusive, is that they have no intention of dragging the murder charge into court. It’s a ruse—leverage they’re holding as barter for a deal.” I added, “If nobody bites, they drop the charge before they embarrass themselves in front of the court martial board.”
“Which works only if we don’t know it’s a bluff, right? What’s two?”
“An ongoing investigation. They’re still digging, still hoping for a break, or a Hail Mary, before it gets to trial.”
“Not likely. If they haven’t found a smoking gun yet, they won’t.”
“You might be right, Katherine.”
“It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ to that sentence.”
“Here’s a novel thought. You also might be wrong.”
“You know . . . that is a novel thought.” I think she was being tongue in cheek, but with Katherine, you can never be sure.
“Well, for the sake of our client, let’s consider it.”
“Because you believe in the possibility that our client or one of her friends killed Palchaci?”
“Don’t you?”
I found it interesting that she failed to answer that portentous question. She asked me, instead, “What more could they be looking at? What other leads do they have?”
“Katherine, I’ve been on this case two days. I don’t even have dirty laundry yet.” I suggested, “Maybe it’s something we should talk to our client about.”
“That’s a good idea. Just not today.”
“Why not? I’d like to get this out of the way. If we can discount the murder charge, we can focus our energies on the lesser charges.”
“She’s got her pysch exam with the government expert today.”
“And you don’t want to overload her mental circuits, right?” I asked, without mentioning that this could probably be accomplished by asking her if there was a state in the union called Montana.
“Well, to be frank . . . she has a limited ability to concentrate on more than one issue at a time,” Katherine admitted, then added, more curiously I thought, “Like somebody else I know.”
There was a subcurrent to that statement but I didn’t pick up on it: perhaps I didn’t want to.
Chapter Thirteen
I made the five-minute drive back to our home/office, picked up my cocounsel, and drove her back to the front gate. The same young MP was back on duty—he took one look and frantically waved us through with an expression of immense relief when we obeyed his instruction. I think he wanted to avoid Katherine. She can be tiresome.
From there, we drove back to the cadet area, and I parked on the same rooftop again.
We then hoofed it back to the same building where we had earlier met LTC Paul Eggers, but we moved up the stairs to a different floor, a different conference room, and a different prosecution witness, Captain Nate Willborn.
I pushed open the door and ushered Katherine inside, then, a beat behind, I entered. Captain Willborn was seated at the long table, right next to a lovely female JAG officer, and I didn’t even have to check the rank on her collar or the letters on her nametag to know she was titled and named Major Mary Ingle.
I had met Mary twice before, once in a courtroom encounter that led to her defeat, and once on a dance floor, that led to dinner, and that led to drinks, and that led to . . . well, a real gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.
But, yes, it led to that, too.
Apropos of that night, I recalled Mary’s rather brusque revelation to me over coffee in her townhouse the next morning: “My fiancé, Pete, is coming over any minute.” She further revealed, “He’s a member of Delta, one of their top gunslingers.” She then asked, “Would you care to stick around and meet him, or be a perfect gentleman and slip out the back door now?”
I hadn’t seen an engagement ring, and apparently informing me about this little detail must’ve slipped her mind, so I had done nothing wrong and had absolutely nothing to fear from Deadeye Pete—though I wasn’t betting he’d see it that way. Anyway, never let it be said that Sean Drummond is not a perfect gentleman, when the situation calls for it.
If you’re interested, this was one of those occasions when a gentleman is not expected to send flowers or chocolate the next day.
Anyway, Mary was smiling as I entered the room and it was obvious she was expecting me, though I had no foreknowledge that she was involved with this case. I had studied the roster of opposing counsel and was confident her name wasn’t on the list.
Also, it was interesting that Captain Willborn had chosen to arrive for this meeting lawyered-up, for, as I mentioned, he was merely listed as a witness.
Katherine introduced herself to Nate Willborn and to Mary, then said, “And this is my cocounsel, Sean Drummond.”
Willborn rose like a proper gentleman and we exchanged brisk handshakes. He was slight of build but made an obvious effort to produce a strong grip. Mary chose to remain seated and mentioned in a forthright manner, “Sean and I are already acquainted.”
