Bones of the Lost

shooters?”
    “There is no evidence that either Aqsaee or Rasekh was armed.”
    Blanton slumped back, shaking his head.
    Fisher had one more query.
    “Could he have shot him both in the chest and in the back?”
    “That is theoretically possible, if he’d been spun around by continued bullet strikes, but I found no indications of back entry or front exits.”
    “So Gross may be innocent.” Noonan’s tone was flat, no surprise, relief, or skepticism.
    “Please understand me,” I cautioned. “All I am saying is that Mr. Aqsaee was either facing or approaching Lieutenant Gross when shot.”
    Gross’s innocence or guilt was another matter, one involving variables not recorded in bone. Did the men behave in a threatening manner? Did Gross have a reasonable belief that he was in imminent danger? But that was for the lawyers, not for me.
    Fisher said, “We appreciate your quick turnaround on this. Since the incident, relations with Sheyn Bagh have been shaky at best. If done poorly, this exhumation could have torpedoed what little goodwill we’ve reestablished.”
    “I doubt the villagers will take comfort in my findings.”
    Fisher thought about that. “No, they won’t like the outcome. But, sadly, the Afghan people know the price of war. They will acceptthat, under duress, a soldier was forced to make a life-and-death decision. That, under threat, he acted to save himself and his men.”
    Perhaps. But I wondered what spin she and her team would use.
    “You’ve done remarkable work here, Dr. Brennan. And it is truly appreciated. But I’ve been asked to impose upon you further. As you may or may not know, Second Lieutenant Gross’s Article 32 hearing was suspended to allow for this operation. Your presence at Lejeune is requested.”
    I’d been anticipating this. “When?”
    “Immediately.”
    Crap.
    “I’ll be there.”
    “Arrangements for your transport have already been made. The Marine Corps thanks you. As do I.”
    We all rose, shook hands, and went our separate ways.
     
    Katy couldn’t join me for dinner, so we’d made plans the previous night for a shopping trip.
    As I walked the short distance from my B-hut to the PX, an exuberant sunset turned the snowcapped mountain peaks fiery red. The prefab buildings I passed glowed more warmly than during the day, and shadows split the ground into patches of sunlight and dark.
    The store was packed. I scanned, but didn’t see my daughter in the sea of camouflage.
    “Hoo, boy.” I felt a double tap on my backpack. “You’d make a lousy surveillance officer.”
    I turned. Katy was two feet behind me.
    “Gotta watch your flank, Mom.”
    “Technically, you’re not on my flank.”
    Katy smiled. She wore fatigues and boots. And an M16 slung over one shoulder.
    So strange to see my daughter packing heat.
    “Grab some caffeine?” she asked.
    “Sure.”
    The Green Bean’s interior looked like any café you’d find back home. A wall menu offered a zillion variations on coffee and tea. An espresso machine hissed intermittently in the background. Or was it cappuccino?
    “What’s your poison?” I asked. “I’m buying.”
    “Regular, just milk.”
    Another surprise. My daughter’s preference in coffee now matched her new hairstyle. Simple and practical.
    We settled into chairs by a wall covered with military patches. The leitmotif was all about combat: skulls, swords, iron crosses. The 335th FTR SQDN called themselves the Chiefs.
    Katy noticed me eyeing the assemblage. “A lot of units have their own badges. They’re kind of like family crests.”
    I knew that, but let her explain. I didn’t care the topic of conversation, was just happy to be spending time with my kid.
    At one point Katy asked about my investigation.
    “It went well,” I said.
    “So you’re done?”
    “I leave tomorrow.”
    Katy didn’t respond. I wondered. Was she sad I was going? Relieved? Had I invaded a world she wished to keep as her own?
    “I met two women in Manas.” She spoke after a pause that seemed to go on forever. “At Pete’s Place.”
    “What’s that?”
    “A bar on base. At Manas, service members are allowed two drinks every twenty hours. Or something like that. Except marines.”
    “Why not marines?”
    “I guess a few got overserved and blew it. I don’t know the whole story. Anyway, it’s much more civilized there than in Afghanistan.”
    “Not loving the no-alcohol policy?”
    She rolled her eyes. “So these women were a