The staked Goat

agree that when you put it that way, it sounds crazy. But I don’t have any other place to start.”
    ”Place to start?”
    ”Yeah, why I called you. I want to go back into all the records that someone must have at the Pentagon somewhere, the records of all of Al’s time there. Maybe I can make the same connection Al did.”
    J.T. frowned. ”A lot of that stuff gets asked for by writers, researchers, and so forth to make us look worse than they already did back then. We’ve kept a lot of it away from them, even with the Freedom of Information Act, on the grounds that the records are still part of an ongoing investigation. If I let you, an outsider, a civilian, see them, and the researchers found out, they’d scream bloody murder and it’d be my career.”
    I regarded J.T. very carefully. ”Are there still ongoing investigations, J.T.?”
    He opened his eyes a little too widely and quickly, then grinned. ”John, it was all over, basically, ten years ago. Most of the statutes of limitations have run out by now.”
    ”Are there still open investigations?”
    ”Oh, John,” said J.T., doing a half turn to his right. ”You know the army, there are always investigations of some kind going on.”
    ”J.T., look. Al and you and I were friends. We looked out for each other, saved each other’s butts a couple of times. Somebody killed Al, horribly, after torturing him, like the Vietnamese. You’re nobody’s fucking fool and not, even after all this time and a pension so close you can smell it, such a stiff that it doesn’t get to you. Somebody killed our friend. Somebody has to pay for that.”
    J.T. looked grave and sounded stern. ”You look, John. This isn’t Saigon, and it isn’t wartime. You can’t get away with things here, and neither can the guy who killed Al, whoever he was. He’ll be discovered eventually and—”
    ”Bullshit,” I said, a little too loudly, causing an elderly couple in front of us to jump. I lowered my voice. ”The police in Boston have chalked this up as a category crime, and the guy who did it was neat and careful enough so you can’t even blame them. I want at those records. If I find something, I’ll check it before I bring in the cops. But that’s all. If this guy could take Al, he can take me, and I’m only looking to even up the ledger. No blood feud, just let justice take its course.”
    J.T. didn’t believe me, but he said, ”I’ll have to think it over. I’ll be back in my office by thirteen hundred.” He pulled out a card with his name and a different direct dial number on it. ”Call me around thirteen-fifteen.”
    He turned and drifted off toward the door, stopping to read a plaque. I sought out a uniformed employee and was directed to the nearest spot for lunch. Soft ice cream and milk.
    I called J.T. at 1:10. He answered.
    ”J.T., it’s John.”
    ”It’s set. Be here by fourteen hundred hours. Use your name, my name, and the following three-digit number. The security guard at the first public barrier you come to will call for an escort who’ll bring you in.”
    ”Thanks, J.T.”
    ”See you at fourteen hundred.”
    I hung up and looked again at my watch. Time for a couple of quick drinks but I decided against it. I was about to do something that two drinks, two dozen drinks, wouldn’t ease for me. Something I never thought I’d do. Ever.
    I was going back to Vietnam.
     
    My escort was a young MP, slim, female, and black. She had smiled when her counterpart at the barrier had checked my ID and confirmed me to her. She introduced herself as PFC Waller, and off we went.
    She threaded us through seemingly endless hallways, small pockets of humanity appearing in various civilian and military uniforms. We took half-left turns at indistinguishable corridors and subcorridors. In less than three minutes, I was hopelessly lost.
    ”Should I be dropping a trail of pebbles?” I said, then dodged a navy officer whose head was buried in a file he was carrying, choirboy style.
    Waller laughed graciously. ”You get used to it after a while, sir.”
    ”How long have you been in?”
    ”A little over a year now,”
    ”Planning on making it a career?”
    She gave me a cautious sidelong glance to be sure I was serious. ”Probably not, sir. I’m more interested in data processing.”
    ”I see.” Whenever someone brings up computers, I tend to acknowledge the topic and then cease all conversation. My reticence was covered by her abrupt stop at a door