Bones of the Lost

been middle echelon. Nevertheless, he was accepted.” Hawthorn straightened the letter opener. “John’s status as a prior also worked to his disadvantage.”
    “A prior?”
    “An enlisted man applying for OCS. It’s tough to make the jump from the rank and file to officer class.”
    “But Gross managed it.”
    Hawthorn nodded. “Completed OCS at the top of his class, chose an infantry MOS, and volunteered for duty in Afghanistan. He was on his fourth tour when the incident at Sheyn Bagh took place.”
    “What did Gross’s fellow officers think of him?” I set my napkin and empty cup on the edge of the desk.
    “Hardworking, fair, cool under pressure. Excuse my French, but one called him a ‘gung ho mofo.’”
    I needed no translation.
    “So John was intense.”
    Hawthorn gave a half smile. “Some might say a marine can never be too intense.”
    “What about those under his command?”
    Hawthorn’s eyes flicked to the cup and napkin ruining the careful symmetry on his desk. Unconsciously, his fingers squared the already square blotter.
    “Opinions vary, of course. Most are positive.”
    “But not Grant Eggers.”
    “Corporal Eggers is the chief witness for the prosecution.” Enough said.
    “How is Lieutenant Gross handling all this?”
    “John loves his country and loves the Corps. But he feels betrayed. He hates being stuck in Jacksonville, and would prefer to return to Afghanistan. He is certain he will be vindicated. As am I.”
    Hawthorn smiled and pointed a finger at my offending debris. “May I?”
    “Yes. Thank you.”
    He tossed the cup and napkin into something at his feet.
    “So,” he said, straightening. “Let’s get into greater detail about your testimony.”
    For the next hour we went over the basics. Hawthorn listened, asked a few questions, made a few notes. When I’d finished, he rose and thanked me again.
    “If you need anything further, I’m staying at the Lejeune Inn,” I offered, sincerely hoping he wouldn’t call.
    Rigg met me outside with the van.
    As we drove across base, I thought over Hawthorn’s comments.
    Intense
was the word he’d used.
    How intense? I wondered.
    Rigg dropped me under the portico, said he’d collect me at oh-eight-thirty the following day. I went to my room and called Ryan. Got his machine. Although he’d responded to none of my earlier messages, I left another.
    Frustrated and hungry, I walked to a Wendy’s for a double with cheese and fries. God, it was good to be home.
    Back in my room, the humming clock said 1:15. Already regretting the quart of grease I’d ingested, I lay down on the bed. Outside, the sentry birds were now twittering like mad.
    I closed my eyes.
    Again I was awakened by a ringing phone. The room had gone dark.
    “Hello?”
    Silence.
    “Hello?”
    The silence sounded hollow, as though someone was listening. Or cupping the receiver.
    Click
.
    Apologies to you, too, shithead.
    I walked down the hallway, bought a vending-machine Diet Coke, returned, and booted my laptop. As I moved images into a PowerPoint presentation, my thoughts kept veering to Gross.
    Would bones dug from the Afghan desert hold the key to his fate?

THE COURTROOM WAS spartan: A raised bench stage center, defense and prosecution tables opposite, a witness stand adjacent to the bench and facing the courtroom, a court reporter’s desk in front of the witness stand, an empty jury box, a few seats for spectators at the rear.
    The investigating officer, Lieutenant Colonel Frank Keever, was a gray-haired guy, trim, with a no-nonsense air. Major Christopher Nelson had a blond buzz cut and what must have been a very long torso. The prosecutor looked much shorter standing than sitting.
    A man and a woman were the only people in the three rows of benches at the back of the room. The only ones wearing civvies. Diligent note taking suggested both were journalists.
    Lieutenant John Gross was already seated when I arrived, back rigid, fingers intertwined on the tabletop. He was built like a bulldog, compact but powerful, with a face that looked like chiseled granite. Every crease was sharp. Every hair was in place.
    Promptly at 9:30, Keever brought the hearing to order and asked Hawthorn if he wished to proceed with evidence for the defense.
    I was called to the stand.
    Gross’s eyes followed as I crossed the room. Otherwise, not a muscle, hair, or lash moved.
    Hawthorn began with a review of my credentials. Some questionswere the same as those posed