Bones of the Lost

it.
    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off,” I said.
    Pete leaned back. Changed his mind and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
    “There’s a way you can see Katy.”
    “We were supposed to Skype—”
    “In person.”
    “What? She gets leave? Already?” My donut froze in midair. “Oh, God. Is she hurt?”
    “No.”
    “Has she been hospitalized?”
    “No. Christ. Stop overreacting.”
    “Tell me the truth.”
    “I have no reason to believe that our daughter is anything but healthy and happy.” Überpatient.
    I studied Pete’s face. Saw no deception. But a boatload of doubt.
    Janis Petersons? Man of glib tongue and cast-iron nerves?
    “What’s going on, Pete?”
    He lifted his mug. Set it down without drinking.
    “You can go to her.”
    “Go to her?” I’d missed a connection somewhere.
    “To Bagram.”
    “Bagram. Afghanistan?”
    “Right.”
    This was not making sense.
    “I know you worry, sugarbritches. I worry, too. Especially when days pass without word. I can’t let on, of course, being manly and all.”
    Another old joke unacknowledged by laughter.
    Pete continued, his tone different now. Deadly serious.
    “I don’t want to manipulate you. But I do want to persuade you.”
    Persuasion. The lawyer’s stock in trade.
    “Persuade me.” Again I parroted, totally confused.
    Pete drew a deep breath. Let it out. Laced his fingers.
    “Okay. You remember my friend, Hunter Gross?”
    I shook my head.
    “The one I mentioned at dinner on Wednesday?”
    At the bar with its volume on blast. “He’s a marine,” I said. “His nephew’s a marine.”
    “Yes. John Gross. I’ve known Hunter for years.”
    “From your days in the Corps.” I could never keep Pete’s old marine buddies straight.
    Pete nodded. “Hunter called me again. He’s truly concerned about his nephew.”
    “Go on.”
    “I think I told you John’s at Camp Lejeune awaiting an Article 32 hearing.”
    An Article 32 is the military equivalent of a grand jury. The purpose is to determine if sufficient evidence exists to proceed to court-martial.
    “John’s been accused of killing Afghan civilians.” The story was coming back to me. “Which he denies.”
    “A court-martial will ruin the kid’s career. Though that’s the least of his worries. If found guilty, he could serve life in a federal penitentiary. Or worse.”
    “What’s he supposed to have done?”
    “According to the charge sheet, he shot two unarmed villagers during the search of a compound.”
    “What’s his version?”
    “It was dusk. The scene was chaos. The men came at him screaming about ‘Allah!’ One made a move as though reaching for a firearm. He claims he shot in self-defense.”
    “Turned out the men had no weapons.”
    “You’ve got it.”
    I thought about that.
    “Gross is holding, what, an M16? The victims are unarmed? Yet they rush him? It doesn’t make sense.”
    “Heat of the moment? Personal jihad?” Pete shrugged. “Who knows?”
    “There has to be more to the story.”
    “Here’s what I know. As a lieutenant and platoon leader, John had to make a lot of difficult decisions. With serious consequences.”
    Pete paused, perhaps recalling his own difficult choices while in service.
    “One such decision involved a corporal named Grant Eggers. After repeated corrective interviews, John was forced to remove Eggers from his position as fire team leader. Eggers was furious, apparently bad-mouthed John at every opportunity, but never confronted him.”
    “Let me guess. Eggers is the one making the accusation.” I went for a powdered-sugar frosted.
    “Yes. He says the men weren’t running toward John, but away from him. He claims John shot them in the back.”
    “Jesus.”
    “Yeah. Crazy ten ways to Sunday. Hunter is convinced his nephew is being railroaded.”
    “Why?”
    “Uncle Sam isn’t exactly beloved over there. Two unarmed civilians dead. An American marine the shooter. The locals want blood.”
    “Politics.”
    Pete shrugged. Who knows?
    “The solution couldn’t be simpler.”
    Pete reached over and brushed a thumb across my upper lip. I batted his hand away.
    “Sugar mustache,” he said. “Go on.”
    “The medical examiner checks the bullet entry and exit points.”
    “That’s been impossible.”
    “Why?”
    “The men are buried in a Muslim cemetery. NCIS has repeatedly tried to get access, but the Afghan authorities have repeatedly refused to allow either an exhumation or an autopsy.