Four Blind Mice

said. “I am relentless. I’m going to try to solve this one too.”
    Then Kyle slowly clapped his hands, making a hollow popping sound. “That’s our boy. You’re just perfect, Alex. What a fool you are. Go find your murderer.”

Chapter 109
    SAMPSON WAS RECUPERATING on the Jersey Shore with Billie Houston, his own private nurse. I called him just about every day, but I didn’t tell John what I’d heard about Sergeant Ellis Cooper and the others.
    I also called Jamilla every day, sometimes a couple of times a day, or she’d call or e-mail me. The distance separating us was becoming more and more of an issue. Neither of us had a good solution yet. Could I ever move the family to California? Could Jamilla move to Washington? We needed to talk about it face-to-face, and pretty soon.
    After I returned from Colorado, I spent a couple of days working in Washington. I knew that I had one more important trip to make, but I needed some more preparation first.
Measure twice, cut once.
Nana had always preached that to me.
    I spent countless hours on Lexis, but also the military database, ACIRS, and the law enforcement system, RISS. I made a visit to the Pentagon and talked to a Colonel Peyser about violence against civilians committed by American soldiers in Southeast Asia. When I brought up the An Lao Valley, Peyser abruptly cut off the interview, and then he refused to see me again.
    In a strange way, that was a very good sign.
I was close to something, wasn’t I?
    I talked to a few friends who had served in Vietnam. The phrase “if it moves, it’s VC” was familiar to most of them. Those who knew about it justified it, since violent outrages were constantly being committed by the North Vietnamese. One army vet told this story: He’d overheard other soldiers talk about a Vietnamese man, in his mid-eighties, who’d been shot down. “Got to hand it to him,” a gunnery sergeant had joked, “man his age and he volunteers for the Viet Cong.”
    And one name kept coming up whenever I talked about the An Lao Valley.
    In the records.
    Everywhere I looked.
    One name that was a link to so much that had happened — there, and here.
    The fourth of the blind mice?
    I had to find that out now.
    Early on Thursday morning, I left for West Point. It would be about a five-hour drive. I was in no particular hurry. The person I wanted to see there wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t think he had any reason to run and hide.
    I loaded up the CD player with the blues mostly, but also the new Bob Dylan, which I wanted to hear at least once. I brought along a thermos of coffee as well as sandwiches for the road. I told Nana that I would try to be home that night, to which she curtly replied, “Try harder. Try more often.”
    The drive gave me time to think. I needed to be sure that I was doing the right thing by going to West Point again. I asked myself a lot of tough but necessary questions. When I was satisfied with the answers, I gave some more thought to taking a job with the FBI. Director Ron Burns had done a good job showing me the kind of resources I’d have at the Bureau. The message was clear, and it was also clever:
I would be better at what I did working for the FBI.
    Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted to do, though.
    I knew that I could make it in private practice as a psychologist now, if that was what I really wanted. Maybe I could do a better job with the kids if I had a regular job instead of
the
Job. Use those marbles wisely, savor those precious Saturdays. Make a go of it with Jamilla, who was constantly in my thoughts, and should be.
    Eventually, I found myself on Route 9W, following road signs for Highland Falls and West Point.
    As I got close to the Point, I checked my Glock and put a clip in. I wasn’t sure I’d need a gun. Then again, I hadn’t thought I’d need one the night Owen Handler was murdered near here.
    I entered West Point through the Thayer Gate at the north end of Highland Falls.
    Cadets were all over the Plain parade drilling, still looking beyond reproach. Smoke curled lazily from a couple of chimneys on top of Washington Hall. I liked West Point a lot. I also admired most of the men and women I’d met in the army. But not all of them, and everybody knows what a few bad apples can do.
    I pulled up in front of a redbrick building. I had come here for answers.
    One name was left on my shopping list. A big name. A man beyond reproach.
    General Mark Hutchinson.
    The commandant of West