One Shot

lawyers and court reporters with them. But Hutton was on her own. She sat down alone on one long side of a large table and smiled as a microphone was placed in front of her and a video camera was focused on her face. Then Rodin came in and introduced himself. He brought a small team with him. An assistant, his secretary, a court reporter with her machine.
    “Would you state your full name and title for the record?” he asked.
    Hutton looked at the camera.
    “Eileen Ann Hutton,” she said. “Brigadier General, Judge Advocate General’s Corps, United States Army.”
    “I hope this won’t take long,” Rodin said.
    “It won’t,” Hutton said.
    And it didn’t. Rodin was trawling in a sea he hadn’t charted. He was like a man in a darkened room. All he could do was dart around randomly and hope he bumped into something. After six questions he realized he was never going to.
    He asked, “How would you characterize James Barr’s military service?”
    “Exemplary without being exceptional,” Hutton said.
    He asked, “Was he ever in trouble?”
    “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.
    He asked, “Did he ever commit a crime?”
    “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.
    He asked, “Are you aware of recent events in this city?”
    “Yes, I am,” Hutton said.
    He asked, “Is there anything in James Barr’s past that might shed light on the likelihood or otherwise of his having been involved in those events?”
    “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.
    Finally he asked, “Is there any reason why the Pentagon might be more aware of James Barr than any other veteran?”
    “Not to my knowledge,” Hutton said.
    So at that point Alex Rodin gave up.
    “OK,” he said. “Thank you, General Hutton.”

    Helen Rodin walked thirty yards and stood on the street for a moment outside James Barr’s house. It had police tape across the entryway and a plywood sheet nailed over the broken front door. It looked forlorn and empty. There was nothing to see. So she used her cell phone to call a cab and had it take her to the county hospital. It was after four o’clock in the afternoon when she arrived and the sun was in the west. It lit up the white concrete building with pale shades of orange and pink.
    She rode up to the sixth floor and signed in with the Board of Corrections and found the tired thirty-year-old doctor and asked him about James Barr’s condition. The doctor didn’t really answer. He wasn’t very interested in James Barr’s condition. That was clear. So Helen just walked past him and opened Barr’s door.
    Barr was awake. He was still handcuffed to the cot. His head was still clamped. His eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling. His breathing was low and slow and the heart monitor was beeping less than once a second. His arms were trembling slightly and his handcuffs were rattling against the bed frame. Quiet, dull, metallic sounds.
    “Who’s there?” he said.
    Helen stepped close and leaned into his field of view.
    “Are they looking after you?” she asked.
    “I have no complaints,” he said.
    “Tell me about your friend Charlie.”
    “Is he here?”
    “No, he’s not here.”
    “Did Mike come?”
    “I don’t think they allow visitors. Just lawyers and family.”
    Barr said nothing.
    “Are those your only friends?” Helen said. “Mike and Charlie?”
    “I guess,” Barr said. “And Mike’s more of a neighbor.”
    “What about Jeb Oliver?”
    “Who?”
    “He works at the auto parts store.”
    “I don’t know him.”
    “Are you sure?”
    Barr’s eyes moved and his lips pursed, like a man searching his memory, trying to be helpful, desperate for approval.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never heard of him.”
    “Do you use drugs?”
    “No,” Barr said. “Never. I wouldn’t do that.” He was quiet for a beat. “Truth is I don’t really do much of anything. I just live. That’s why this whole thing makes no sense to me. I spent fourteen years in the world. Why would I throw it all away now?”
    “Tell me about Charlie,” Helen said.
    “We hang out,” Barr said. “We do stuff.”
    “With guns?”
    “A little bit.”
    “Where does Charlie live?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “How long have you been friends?”
    “Five years. Maybe six.”
    “And you don’t know where he lives?”
    “He never told me.”
    “He’s been to your place.”
    “So?”
    “You never went to his place?”
    “He came to mine instead.”
    “Do you have his phone