Deveraux said, "Obviously I started out with the baseline assumption that Munro would be lying through his teeth. Job one for him is to cover the army's ass. I understand that, and I don't blame him for it. He's under orders, the same way you are."
"And?"
"I asked him about the exclusion zone. He denied it, of course."
"He would have to," I said.
She nodded. "But then he went ahead and tried to prove it to me. He toured me all over. That's why I was gone so long. He's running a very tight ship. Every last man is confined to quarters. There are MPs everywhere. The MPs are watching each other, as well as everyone else. The armory is under guard. The logs show no weapons in or out for two solid days."
"And?"
"Well, naturally I assumed I was getting conned big time. And sure enough, there were two hundred empty beds. So naturally I assumed they've got a shadow force bivouacked in the woods somewhere. But Munro said no, that's a full company currently deployed elsewhere for a month. He swore blind. And I believed him, ultimately, because like everyone else I've heard the planes come in and out, and I've seen the faces come and go."
I nodded. Alpha Company, I thought. Kosovo.
She said, "So in the end it all added up. Munro showed me a lot of evidence and it was all very consistent. And no one can run a con that perfect. So there is no exclusion zone. I was wrong. And you must be wrong about the debris field. It must have been local kids, scavenging."
"I don't think so," I said. "It looked like a very organized search."
She paused a beat. "Then maybe the 75th is sending people directly from Benning. Which is entirely possible. Maybe they're living in the woods around the fence. All Munro proved is that no one is leaving Kelham. He could be one of those guys who tells you a small truth in order to hide a bigger lie."
"Sounds like you didn't like him much."
"I liked him well enough. He's smart and he's loyal to the army. But if we'd both been Marine MPs at the same time I'd have been worried. I'd have seen him as a serious rival. There's something about him. He's the type of guy you don't want to see moving into your office. He's too ambitious. And too good."
"What did he say about Janice May Chapman?"
"He gave me what appeared to be a very expert summary of what appeared to be a very expert investigation which appeared to prove no one from Kelham was ever involved with anything."
"But you didn't believe it?"
"I almost did," she said.
"But?"
"He couldn't hide the rivalry. He made it clear. It's him against me. It's the army against the local sheriff. That's the challenge. He wants the world to think the bad guy is on my side of the fence. But I wasn't born yesterday. What the hell else would he want the world to think?"
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"What do you want to do?"
"He doesn't respect the Marines, either. Him against me means the army against the Corps. Which is a bad fight to pick. So if he wants rivalry, I want to give it right back. I want to take him on. I want to beat him like a rented mule. I want to find the truth somehow and stick it up his ass."
"Do you think you can do that?"
She said, "I can if you help me."
35
We sat in the idling Caprice for a long minute, saying nothing. The car must have had ten thousand hours of stake-out duty on it. From its previous life, in Chicago or New Orleans or wherever. Every pore of every interior surface was thick with sweat and odor and exhaustion. Grime was crusted everywhere. The floor mats had separated into hard tufts of fiber, each one like a flattened pearl.
Deveraux said, "I apologize."
I said, "For what?"
"For asking you to help me. It wasn't fair. Forget I said anything."
"OK."
"Can I let you out somewhere?"
I said, "Let's go talk to Janice May Chapman's nosy neighbors."
"No," she said. "I can't let you do that. I can't let you turn against your own people."
"Maybe I wouldn't be turning against my own people," I said. "Maybe I would be doing exactly what my own people wanted me to do all along. Because maybe I would be helping Munro, not you. Because he might be right, you know. We still have no idea who did what here."
We. She didn't correct me. Instead she said, "But what's your best guess?"
I thought about the limousines scurrying in and out of Fort Kelham, carrying expensive lawyers. I thought about the exclusion zone, and the panic in John James Frazer's voice, on the phone from the Pentagon. Senate Liaison. I said, "My best guess is it was a Kelham guy."
"You sure you want to take the risk of finding out for sure?"
"Talking to a man with a gun is a risk. Asking questions isn't."
I believed that then, back in 1997.
Janice May Chapman's house was a hundred yards from the railroad track, one of the last three dwellings on a dead-end lane a mile south and east of Main Street. It was a small place, set back in a wedge-shaped yard off of a circular bulge where traffic could turn around at the end of the street. It was facing two other houses, as if it was nine o'clock on a dial and they were two and four. It was maybe fifty years old, but it had been updated with new siding and a new roof and some diligent landscaping. Both of its neighbors were in a similar state of good repair, as had been all the previous houses on the street. Clearly this was Carter Crossing's middle class enclave. Lawns were green and weed free. Driveways were paved and uncracked. Mailbox posts were exactly vertical. The only real-estate negative was the train, but there was only one of those a day. One minute out of fourteen hundred and forty. Not a bad deal.
Chapman's house had a full-width front porch, roofed over for shade, railed in with fancy millwork spindles, and equipped with a matched pair of white rocking chairs and a rag mat in various muted colors. Both her neighbors had the exact same thing going on, the only difference being that both their porches were occupied, each by a white-haired old lady wearing a floral-print housedress and sitting bolt upright in a rocker and staring at us.
We sat in the car for a minute and then Deveraux rolled forward and parked right in the middle of the turnaround. We got out and stood for a second in the afternoon light.
"Which one first?" I asked.
"Doesn't matter," Deveraux said. "Whichever, the other one will be right over within about thirty seconds."
Which is exactly what happened. We chose the right-hand house, the one at four o'clock on the dial, and before we were three steps onto its porch the neighbor from the two o'clock house was right behind us. Deveraux made the introductions. She gave the ladies my name and said I was an investigator from the army. Up close the ladies were slightly different from one another. One was older, the other was thinner. But they were broadly similar. Thin necks, pursed lips, haloes of white hair. They welcomed me respectfully. They were from a generation that liked the army, and knew something about it. No question they had had husbands or brothers or sons in uniform, World War Two, Korea, Vietnam.
I turned and checked the view from the porch. Chapman's house was neatly triangulated by her two neighbors. Like a focal point. Like a target. The two neighbors' porches were exactly where the infantry would set up machine gun nests for effective enfilade fire.
I turned back and Deveraux ran through what she had already discussed. She asked for confirmation of every point and got it. All negative. No, neither of the two ladies had seen Chapman leave her house on the day she had died. Not in the morning, not in the afternoon, not in the evening. Not on foot, not in her car, not in anybody else's car. No, nothing new had come to either one of them. They had nothing to add.