The 56th Man (33 page)

"What's wrong?" Sandra asked with mock
innocence. "Isn't it what you wanted?"

"These are report forms from Officers Jackson
and Mangioni. I've already spoken to them."

"So you told me."

"Where is Detective Carrington's report?
Where is the autopsy?"

"Autopsy? You didn't say anything about
getting technical. Listen, I jumped through a lot of hoops to get
even this much."

Ari glanced through the forms and came up
with four spreadsheets.

“
Matrix worksheets,” said Sandra when
he held them up. “One for each victim. Usually they work those up
when there’s a legitimate suspect. Compare the suspect’s story
against the evidence. There’s no suspect, but this will come in
handy if they nab someone.”

Nothing varied from what the two policemen
had told him. Saturation stains, the positions of the victims, the
extensive spatter patterns indicative of death at close range.
Everything consistent with the thin gruel of police theory, lethal
harm inflicted by person or persons unknown. It was grotesquely
meager.

“’
Ghosting pattern’…” said
Ari.

“
That’s a gap in a splatter
pattern.”

“
You mean, no blood where you would
expect blood.”

“
Right. Sometimes you can see the
outline of the killer from the back-spatter on the wall. Sort of
like leaving a stencil of himself. A lot more spooky,
though.”

“
There was an indication of a ghosting
pattern on Joshua’s clothing.”

“
That means someone lifted something
off the poor boy after he was shot.”

“
I see…” Ari paused. “There is no
indication of spatter on any of their sleeves,” he mused out
loud.

“
Why should there be?” Sandra crunched
through the last bite of her sugar cone, obviously aware of his
growing agitation. She stood. "I want to try some
pistachio."

Ari was able to finish the very brief--too
brief--reports while she was at the counter. He closed the folder
and thrust it angrily into the pouch. The back of his hand brushed
against something rough inside and he widened the pouch. There was
another zipper. He opened it. At first he saw nothing, but when he
reached inside his fingers encountered a small square that felt
like plastic. He removed it quickly and tucked it into his shirt
pocket. He zipped up the inside pocket as Sandra turned the corner
and took up her seat.

"I'm pleased to see that you're not chewing
gum today."

"I didn't want to risk getting my jaw
broken," she said with a scowl before digging her tongue into the
green mass atop her cone. Ari did not see much improvement over the
gum.

"This report gives me less information than
the newspapers. I want to see the chief investigator's report, the
coroner’s report, the pictures, the toxicology report."

"In your dreams." Sandra wiped away a small
green moustache with the back of her hand. "What were you overseas,
anyway? Some kind of CSI guy?"

"I was with Special Security," Ari said after
a moment's thought.

"That sounds like a cheap comic book!" Sandra
laughed disparagingly, then resumed working on her cone.

"Is it the city police who are withholding
this information, or is it you?"

"I've done all I can," Sandra answered with
surprising earnestness.

"Why would they do that?"

"You mean why would they want to withhold
confidential files from a complete stranger who has nothing to do
with the investigation? Why would they withhold evidence from
someone who might be a foreign agent?"

"What did you tell them about me?"

"Actually, nothing," Sandra sighed. "But
that's how they'd react if they knew. As it stands, they don't like
the Marshals Service butting its nose into their business. It's a
Federal-local thing."

"You mean like the interdepartmental rivalry
that allowed the September 11 attacks to happen."

Sandra blushed. "Well, that was more
Federal-Federal, actually. But it's the same principle."

"I understand," said Ari. And he did, all too
well. "But I find myself asking why certain items have been
excluded. For example, the officers' reports make no mention of
what the neighbors heard that day and night."

"They didn't hear anything."

"That's not true. The day of the murders
there was a tremendous row just before nightfall."

"At the Riggins house?"

"Yes. Their neighbor, Howie Nottoway, claims
not to have heard it, but I believe he had a front row seat."

"What do you think it means?"

"That the back door to the Riggins house was
smashed in at that time."

"That doesn't make any sense." Sandra gave a
startled jerk. "I mean, the news said they were murdered around
midnight."

"One of them was." Ari leaned forward. "That
is why the toxicology report is all-important. I need to
know--"

"Which one of them was killed at
midnight?"

"One of the parents."

"And the others? Before or after? It couldn't
be five in the evening. The coroner wouldn't make a mistake like
that."

"Soon before the parent was killed. I've done
some informal timing of kayakers on the river during the day. They
must go much more slowly at night, and since sound carries so far
at that time--"

"I suppose you know you've totally lost
me."

Ari nodded, as though with nervous
excitement. Sandra now knew as much as she needed to know. And so
did he. Her eagerness and her annoyance betrayed her interest in a
case over which she had zero jurisdiction. He splayed his fingers
across the table in a display of self-control.

"I've said enough. This is idle speculation
on my part." He nodded at the pouch. "With so little information,
how can I reach any conclusions?"

"Right..." Sandra did not look convinced.
"You know...if you found out something by chance...I mean about
Moria and her family..."

Moria
....

"I mean, maybe this copy is incomplete
because there’s something personal about them in the report and the
police don’t think it’s relevant."

"Something that might besmirch their good
name?"

"Where did you say you learned your English?"
Sandra waved the question away. "They were killed. All of them. It
was unfair. Even worse, it was totally unexpected. Every family has
its secrets, and maybe they had some..."

"They did not have the opportunity to brush
up their image for posterity."

"Yeah..." Sandra practically jumped forward.
"But that doesn't mean there was anything--"

"This censorship doesn’t surprise me. There
are very few places on earth where 'freedom of speech' exists in
fact as well as theory. Your country isn't one of them."

"Like where you come from?"

"Iraq, Ms. Sandra. Iraq."

"Keep your voice down," Sandra hissed.

"Saying what was in your mind in Iraq was a
very dangerous proposition."

"Until we came."

"Before, we worried about government
informers. Now we worry about everyone. Is that the meaning of
democracy, Ms. Sandra? Everyone has the right to inform on the
other? Is that little child over there going to run screaming to
the authorities if she overhears my conversation?"

"Only if you patted her on the head, too,"
said Sandra, exaggerating a point to disprove it.

"Really?" Ari said, surprised. "Why?"

"What? The patting? Are you kidding? You'd be
a pervert."

"But she's only a girl."

"Exactly."

"But...of course, if she was a young lady, I
wouldn't think of it." Ari was momentarily stumped. "But a
child?"

"You're not a friend or relative. If you
touched her in any way everybody here would damn straight report
you."

"Amazing. And if my wife..."

"Same thing." Sandra leaned forward and
lowered her voice. "That little business with the gum would've
landed anyone else in jail for a few nights, believe you me. I'dve
liked nothing better than to see you..." Sandra sat back, deciding
she had made her point.

Ari dwelled on this for several moments.

"Drawing profound conclusions?" Sandra
asked.

"Not very profound. Only that it seems that
it is the bitter and self-hating countries that go to war against
each other."

"You're comparing the U.S. to Iraq?"
Sandra crumpled the empty paper sleeve that had held her cone, took
up the pouch, and stood. "I was told to vet that email from your
wife for any hidden codes. You know what I saw? Nothing. And I
mean
nothing
. 'Hi hubby.
Everything's fine. Your wife.' Boy, you could bury the Manhattan
Project in all that lovey-dovey, without even a 'wish you were
here'. How do you even know that
was
your wife under that gook suit you make your women
wear?"

"An abaya and niqab," said Ari lowly. Sandra
was not looking at his eyes. If she had, she would have
stopped.

"You couldn't even see her eyes! No thanks.
You see me, you see what you get. I'm going. Don't send any more
crappy demands to your boys on the glass ceiling. I'm not doing you
any more favors."

She turned and stormed down the length of the
ice cream parlor, ignoring the bemused glances of parents and
children. This was the last place they would have expected to see a
domestic spat.

Ari followed her into the parking lot.
Hearing him behind her, Sandra turned, saw the killer in his eyes,
and dropped the pouch. Ari easily parried her kick and used her own
leg to vault her to the ground. He grabbed her by the scruff as she
began to roll away.

"You listen!" he shouted.

"What," she gasped. "You're going to kill me
with a sob story? I don't want to hear--"

He gripped the back of her small neck and
lifted. She was a toy.

"Don't do this," she said. "Someone will
call--"

He whirled her around. She brought up a knee
and he knocked it aside. Taking her under the chin, he slammed her
against a black SUV and raised her off her feet. His fingers dug
into the fine bones of her jaw.

"Are you listening to me?"

He nodded her head for her.

"Do you hear?"

He repeated her nod.

"Excellent. Because you must understand, if
you speak disrespectfully of my wife again, I will kill you. Do you
understand?"

He nodded for her.

"Your masters have not fully informed you of
the situation, or else you would not have spewed such filth.
Yes?"

He forced another nod.

"My wife is the most beautiful woman in the
world. Wouldn't you agree?"

A vigorous nod.

"She never before wore the abaya and niqab.
She is a devout believer, the best woman, the most wonderful
mother, but she did not feel the need to hide her beauty, for which
I thank God daily. Don't you thank God?"

Nod.

"Choking..." Sandra's protest was a harsh
squeak.

He squeezed her mandible harder. He felt her
jaw hinge shift.

"You are not speaking, Ms. Sandra. Your words
are filth. Can you still hear me?"

Nod.

"When the Americans invaded my country, they
used many CBU’s. Do you know what those are?"

He shook her head for her.

"Cluster-bomb units with anti-personnel
submunitions. They contain hundreds of bomblets. The bomblets are
indiscriminate and scatter across a wide area. To children they
look like toys. Many children tried to play with these toys. They
were either killed or maimed by the thousands. By the thousands,
Ms. Sandra. Would any civilized nation use a weapon such as
this?"

A vigorous shake of the head.

"I agree. Only savages with peasants for
leaders would employ such things. My eldest boy was killed by a
bomb. But he died on the field of battle, honorably and heroically,
while trying to blow up one of the machines you sent to conquer us.
Isn't that magnificent?"

Nod. Then another nod. Then another.

"My youngest son was at home with his mother
and my middle son. He went outside to play. He saw a bomblet. He
thought it was a toy. His mother saw what was about to happen and
raced out to save him. But it was too late. He was killed in the
explosion. And my wife...my wife...would you like to know what
happened to my wife?"

Sandra's feet were well off the ground. When
he nodded for her, her head thudded loudly against the window of
the SUV.

"Yes! You want to know!"

More concussive nodding.

"She was wounded grievously in the explosion.
Do you want to know how badly she was injured?"

Nod. Thud. Nod. Thud.

"Her left arm was completely taken off.
Whoosh! A miracle, a vanishing act! Her chest was filled with
shrapnel. What remained of her breasts was cut away by the surgeon.
Isn't that terrible. Don't you weep at this?"

Nod. Thud.

"Oh. Are you dying? I'm so sorry. But let me
finish my 'sob' story. Do you want to know why my wife now wears
the holy garment that hides her face and eyes? Yes? Then listen,
you filth. It is because my wife no longer has a face! She has no
eyes! She has no face! She has no eyes! She is hidden forever! You
filthy..."

Ari let go. Sandra dropped to the
pavement.

SIXTEEN

They were not fifty yards beyond the wire
when there was a loud metallic rap on the side of the Bradley. The
men on the benches jerked. They knew the sound all too well.

The private seated next to Ghaith had not
even properly settled in. Like all the other members of the squad,
he had been uneasy around the translator ever since the day he had
publicly removed his balaclava after chasing down the IP
impersonators and gone postal in the middle of one of the most
dangerous neighborhoods in the entire country. If they had been a
little nervous around him when his face was hidden, they were
practically crossed-eyed with the willies now that the mask was
off. While Ghaith was no Hunchback of Notre Dame, an unhooded
collaborator stood out like a four star general in any AO. It was
like having some guy wearing a 'shoot me' Post-it on his back in a
ballroom filled with homicidal maniacs, and anyone standing near
him was bound to become the collateral catch of the day. The
private next to Ghaith in the fighting vehicle did not want to be
rubbing thighs with Bad Ass Luck in the flesh, and was trying to
put some air between him and the translator when the first bullet
struck.