One Was a Soldier (27 page)

“Officer Knox.” When the chief greeted her, she turned to him. He gave her a nod and continued on toward the colonel. “I’m Russell Van Alstyne.” He held out his hand. “Chief of police.”

“Lieutenant Colonel Arlene Seelye, U.S. Army Military Police, attached to the 10th Soldier Support Battalion.” They shook hands. “I came here to pick up one of our soldiers who was absent without leave, but your officer here tells me we’re too late.”

The chief nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Can you tell me what your investigation has turned up so far, Chief?”

“Tally McNabb’s autopsy indicated death consistent with suicide by handgun, although we haven’t found any note. She seemed to be under some marital and job stress.” The chief glanced at the younger, armed soldier. “Of course, if she was hiding out from you folks, that would have been a whole other problem that we weren’t aware of.”

“Are you considering her death as a possible homicide?”

The chief shot a look at Hadley. She straightened. “Her husband’s been missing since before her body was discovered. We have a BOLO out on Wyler McNabb. I suspect that we’ll be able to clear the case pretty quick once we find him.” He looked assessingly at the house. “One way or the other. What’s the army’s story?”

The colonel shrugged. “McNabb went on leave in May, a couple months after her last deployment, and never came back. Her case kept getting shuffled to the bottom of the pile—you can imagine the sort of stuff we have to deal with when an entire battalion of young men and women get back to the States after a year. However, her company went back on alert this month, which shot her file to the top of our roster. So here we are.”

The chief nodded. “So here you are. Was there anything else going on with her? Was she in trouble?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like you said, we ought to at least consider the possibility that she was killed. If McNabb was involved with something criminal, that would open up some new lines of inquiry for us.”

Colonel Seelye smiled faintly. “I assure you, Chief Van Alstyne, as far as the army is concerned, not showing up for work
is
a crime. Let me ask you something. Other than the autopsy, what is your evidence for suicide?”

“Well”—the chief hitched his thumbs in his gun belt and spread his legs a little—“we checked for a note, like I said, and we went over her credit card statements and her mortgage book to see if she had money troubles.”

“Did she?”

“Not that we could tell.” He scratched the back of his head. In the two years she had been on the force, Hadley had never seen him do that. It made him look like a hayseed.

There was something wrong here. The chief was the original what-you-see-is-what-you-get guy. Why was he suddenly acting like an ignorant small-town sheriff?

“You know, it would be very helpful to us if we could take a look at her effects,” the colonel said.

“For someone AWOL?” The chief huffed a laugh. “Why on earth for?”

Colonel Seelye tilted her head. “She may have had help in keeping out of sight and off the battalion’s radar screen, so to speak. If she had any accomplices, we’d like to know.”

“Hmn.” The chief rubbed his chin. “Well, the problem with that is, this is Wyler McNabb’s house, and you’ve got no cause to enter a civilian’s home.”

“He’s wanted for questioning in a violent death.”

“Yeah, but wanted ain’t proved, as we say up here. If he checks out clean, my department could be in a heap of trouble if we let some army investigators paw through his things.” He grinned at the MPs. “Unless you think her being AWOL had some bearing on her being dead.”

Seelye shook her head. “No, of course not.” She smiled back at the chief. “Still, you can understand our position, can’t you? If we have soldiers evading their sworn duty, morale drops, training suffers, and eventually, you have men and women in harm’s way who know that their brother and sister soldiers have sold them out.” She clipped her jaw shut, as if she realized she had gone overboard.

“That’s a problem, all right.” The chief frowned. “Tell you what, let me run it by Judge Ryswick. If he says it’s okay, we’re covered. I wouldn’t have an answer for you until at least tomorrow, though. Are you staying in the area?”

Colonel Seelye unbuttoned her jacket and slipped her hand into an inside pocket. “Let me give you my cell number.” She retrieved a business card and a pen. She flipped the card over and scribbled on the back. “Just give me a call as soon as you know. Fort Drum isn’t nearby, but it’s not at the other end of the country.”

She handed her card to the chief, who took it, smiling. “I’ll do that.”

“Then we’re all set for now.” She looked at the private. “Let’s go.”

The younger man nodded. He headed for their car, the colonel two steps behind him.

“And let me just say, on behalf of my whole department”—the chief had the solemn sincerity of a six-dollar Hallmark card—“thank you for your service.”

Both the MPs paused. A twinge passed over Colonel Seelye’s face so fast Hadley would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching her closely. “Um. Thank
you,
Chief Van Alstyne.”

The chief stood there, a sticky-sweet smile on his face, as they got into the government car and as they drove away. When the MPs were out of sight, the smile dropped away. His face set in grim lines.

“What was
that
all about?”

“I’m not sure, but it wasn’t about Tally McNabb being AWOL.” He dug his phone out of his pants pocket. “When a soldier’s missing, the battalion’s military police post sends a couple low-level warrant officers out. Like you and Kevin hauling in someone who’s blown off a court date.” His eyes narrowed. “That colonel is an investigator. She doesn’t waste her time on fugitive specialists. She’s not attached to the 10th Soldier Support Battalion in Fort Drum, New York, either. She’s with the U.S. Army Finance Command. Which is based in Indianapolis.”

“How could you tell?”

He tapped his shoulder. “Her patches.” He flipped open the phone. Thumbed a number. “Hi, Lyle? Russ. I have a question about the paperwork you went through at McNabb’s house.” He paused. “You said she was pretty well organized, right? Did you see any documents related to her service? Could have been enlistment papers, evaluations—yeah? Okay, did you see anything indicating she had been discharged or separated?” He nodded to the phone. “Okay. Thanks.” Another pause. “I’ll catch you up at the five o’clock. ’Bye.” He flipped the phone shut. “Lyle says she had her whole service record in one folder. Including discharge papers from this past May.”

*   *   *

“Is it a bad time?” In the bright afternoon sunlight streaming through Will Ellis’s hospital window, Clare could see the white-coated outline of the man sitting next to the bed, but she couldn’t make out the details.

“No, it’s me.” Trip Stillman stood up. “I’m not officially here. I mean, I’m not here as Will’s doctor.”

Clare came into the room, half-closing the door behind her. “I’m not officially here, either.”

“Does that mean you’re not here as my priest or not here as my mom’s friend?” Will’s voice was weak but welcome. The fact that he had already been moved to a regular room was a testament to his physical strength.

“I guess I’m here as your brother in arms. Sister in arms?” She took Will’s hand. “How are you doing?”

“Better.” He gripped her hand. It felt like a small child squeezing a stuffed animal. “Really. Better. There’s this hospital counselor I’ve been talking to, and Sarah’s come to see me…” He took a breath, as if speaking two sentences in a row tired him out. “Mostly, I was finally honest with my parents about how freaking mad I’ve been.” He looked at Clare. “It was like you said, remember? Everybody wanted so much for me to feel better. It was like I was letting the team down if I felt pissed off or screwed over.”

“How do you feel now?” Clare asked.

“Like I want my damn legs back. Every minute of every day, I wish I was normal again. That’s not going to change.” He shook his head, a slow roll back and forth against the hospital pillow. “But, Jesus, I’m glad I’m not dead.”

Stillman leaned forward and awkwardly touched Will’s shoulder. “We’re all glad you’re not dead.”

Clare took a deep breath. “Listen. I’ve got something to tell you, and it’s not good news, but I think you should hear it first from me instead of stumbling over it in the paper or something.”

Stillman rose. “I’ll give you your privacy, then.”

“No, Trip, wait. This is for you, too.” The doctor sank back into his chair, frowning. Clare blanked for a moment. Then she remembered what Russ had said once about delivering bad news.
Get to the worst of it fast.
“Tally McNabb was found dead at her home yesterday afternoon.”

“What?” Both men spoke at once.

“She died from a single gunshot to the head. The police are investigating. They say it looks like suicide, but they can’t confirm it yet.”

“Oh, God.” Will shut his eyes. “Did I—do you think she got the idea from me?”

“No, I don’t. I was here the night they brought you in. I talked with her. There wasn’t anything in what she said or how she acted that made me think she wanted to do herself harm.”

Stillman had slid his PalmPilot from his coat and was tapping through screen after screen. “I don’t think she was suicidal,” he said. “I don’t see anything here suggesting that was an issue.”

Clare raised both eyebrows. “You keep notes on our therapy sessions?” Her voice was pointed.

“Yes. Not to show them to anyone.” He sat stiffly upright. “It’s an old habit instilled in medical school. Over the years, it’s been very useful. Lifesaving, at times.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little—” She cut herself off. One of their group was dead. Another hospitalized. Compared to that, a crack in the wall of confidentiality was nothing. “Never mind. I agree with you. About her frame of mind. I don’t think she killed herself.”

“You mean she was murdered?” Will’s shocked voice was a reminder of how young he really was.

“Do the police have a suspect?” Stillman asked.

“They’re looking for her husband. He hasn’t been seen since sometime before her body was found.”

Stillman nodded. “I’ve heard it’s usually the husband or boyfriend in situations like this.”

“In Tally’s case, you can take your pick. She had an affair with an MP when she was in-country. He came looking for her twice this past summer.” Clare’s shoulders twitched. “Maybe he finally caught up with her.”

They all sat with that thought for a while. Finally, Will said, “I feel like we let her down.”

Clare shook her head. “No. What could we have done? She didn’t show any signs that she was in an abusive relationship.” Even as she said it, she thought of Tally’s disappearance back in the summer. Moving from friend to friend, eating at the soup kitchen.

“She said she was tired of always being afraid. Remember?” Will looked to Stillman for confirmation.

The doctor bit the inside of his cheek. “That phrase suggests to me she was tired of the fear you bring back with you.” He spoke carefully, doling out his words one by one. “The stuff you know is foolish, but you just can’t put it behind you. Like trying to find a mortar shelter when the town fire alarm whistle goes off.”

“Or being afraid to fall asleep.” Clare didn’t realize she had spoken out loud until both men looked at her. She shrugged. “Nightmares.”

“Me, too,” Will said. “What if that wasn’t it, though? What if she was afraid of something going on in her life right here and now?”

“The MKPD is looking into it. They’ll get to the bottom of it.” She took his hand again and squeezed it, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of her head reminding her of how sure Russ had been that Tally’s death was a suicide.

A pretty young girl stuck her head in the door. “Bookmobile,” she sang. “Ready to pick out a good read?”

“I’d better go,” Clare said. “I don’t want to tire you out. I’ll be by tomorrow.”

“As will I.” Trip Stillman pocketed his PalmPilot as he rose. “Tell your mother I said hi.”

“Thanks. For coming to see me.” Will lifted his hand in a feeble salute.

The bookmobile girl rolled back to let them out of the room. Clare recognized her as one of the youngest and chattiest of the hospital’s aides. In her apron and ponytail, she looked like a nurse in a World War II flick, come to bring cheer to the wounded boys.

“I notice they’re not sending him the grandmotherly candy stripers,” she said.

“Might as well give him an eyeful of what he has to live for.” Stillman pressed the elevator button. “My niece used to volunteer here. She would have loved to spend time with a good-looking boy Will’s age.”

“Tell him that.”

“I will.”

Clare looked at her scratched and blurred reflection in the elevator’s doors. She was suddenly so tired she thought she might fall over. She leaned against the wall. “Do you think he’ll make it? Not now, I mean. In the long haul. Are his doctors just patching him up so he can try again?”

“I don’t think so. Will’s already done the hardest work of recovery.”

She made a little go-on gesture.

“His life’s been divided into before and after, and he’s in the after.” The elevator pinged, and Stillman held the door open for her. “I think he’s finally accepted that. That’s the first step toward going forward.” He stabbed the floor button.

The car jerked precipitously beneath them, and the lights dimmed.

Clare heard the sounds of the mortars in the distance as she looked frantically around the bunker. Dim emergency lights, and the smell of mouse shit and rotting wood, and
where
was the chem hazard locker and
where
was the bulkhead door and
where
was her mask and the blare of the klaxon and the thud of the shells getting nearer and the slosh of the river water rising higher and higher—

Clare found herself on the elevator floor, legs tucked, arms wrapped around her head. She opened her eyes. Trip Stillman was looking at her from exactly the same position.

The car jerked again, upward, quivered, and then began its descent. For a second, she couldn’t move.
It’s getting worse. It’s supposed to be getting better, but it’s getting worse.