The Unquiet Dead (28 page)

“Why not?”

“I thought there were other avenues. As a Canadian, I imagined I might have some recourse to justice.” He stressed the last word.

“You sent the letters to War Crimes,” Rachel concluded.

“Yes. Nothing came of it.”

“Yet you never accused Drayton directly.”

“I did not wish to precipitate his flight.”

“He might have fled if he'd known who you were.”

He flashed them a wolf's smile, his teeth small and dangerous. “It was one of the wonders of Poto
č
ari. Thousands of people desperate for security. How could Krstić notice them all the way we noticed him? He had no reason to know me. We'd never met.”

“But you knew him.”

“Wouldn't you like to ask me how?”

Rachel cleared her throat. “Will you confirm that he was in fact Dra
ž
en Krstić?”

Newhall laughed. “Does my confirmation matter? Have you not seen the tattoo on his hand? Are you asking me if Krstić was there? In Srebrenica, at Poto
č
ari? Is that what you want to know?”

She looked at Khattak. He motioned her on.

“Was he?”

“Ah. You are asking me how I recognized him. Was it from his Chetnik tattoo? His military haircut? His thick, squat neck? Was he there when they ordered my mother and father from the base at Poto
č
ari? Did he give the order to shoot my brother Mesha? Was he there when they took Ahmo away for questioning? Was it he who guaranteed our safety if our weapons were surrendered? Was it Krstić who promised a prisoner exchange?” He stared into the distance. “They gave us no prisoners, just bones. But not Ahmo's bones. Not Ahmo. No one can tell me where his bones lie.”

“Mr. Newhall—”

“Call me Damir, dear Sergeant. It must be confusing for you. Christopher, Krstić. David, Damir. I think on the whole I prefer my Bosnian name. They've erased everything else. But you haven't come about that, have you? You want to know how I recognized this man who lived here so safely, so sweetly undetected. Was he there at the base, is that right? Do I recognize him from the gate? Or is it from the execution sites that I remember him? Was he at the famous white house for the torture and beatings? Or was he with the bulldozers they brought in to cart away the corpses? Or at the factory during the night, smoking and laughing when they took away the girls for the evening rapes? Did I recognize him? Yes, I knew his face. I will never forget his face. What does any of it matter now? Didn't he fall from the cliffs? After his successful retirement in this safest of havens?”

How could we know that the little towns would fall and we would run out of these sacred havens?

Without a doubt, Newhall was the letter writer. She couldn't think what to say, so she left it to Khattak to ask, “Did he, Damir? Did Dra
ž
en Krstić fall to his death? Or did you help him?”

“I would not help him to anything.” His contempt was obvious. He'd said his piece. The energy drained out of him. He leaned back in his chair, his hands limp upon his lap. Rachel noticed a photograph on the table beside the lamp.

She gestured at it. “May I?” Newhall flicked the switch. He handed her the photograph.

An elderly couple sat on a sofa surrounded by their painfully thin sons. The father wore the kind of cap she'd seen Khattak wear at prayer. A kerchief was knotted over the woman's faded hair. The boys were watchful, hollow-eyed.

“My brothers. The last photograph. The last I have of anything. The bones of my parents were identified in 2010. I went home for the fifteenth anniversary of the massacre to organize their funeral prayers. You could see the green coffins for miles, it seemed. The earth was thick with them.”

He said it without blinking. His eyes were dry.

“Of Mesha and Ahmo, I have only this photograph. Their bones are cold. Where were they murdered? How were they killed? Where do they lie? This photograph cannot answer me. Beside my father and mother, their graves are waiting. Do you think Krstić knew? Do you think he could have told me?”

Is there any hope for at least that little child they snatched away from me, because I keep dreaming about him?

Why was she crying when Damir Hasanović wasn't?

“Did you ask him?”

He seemed surprised at her tears.

“He wouldn't have known. He gave orders, he supervised execution sites. He wouldn't have known a single one of our faces.
Balija
were all the same to him.”

She palmed her face with her hand, deeply embarrassed. “You wrote him letters,” she said. “In your letters, did you ask him?”

All the men of our family were killed. I can read you the list of their names.

I realized then that nothing good was in store for us in Poto
č
ari.

“What letters?”

“You sent letters to Dra
ž
en Krstić. Dozens of them. And you planted the Bosnian lily in his garden to remind him.”

“Ah. His garden. His small, safe haven.” When Newhall smiled his knife-blade smile, she felt her blood run cold. “Do you think a man with his finger on a trigger that killed thousands of Bosnians needed a reminder? Did he feel haunted? I doubt it, Sergeant.”

“You've admitted you sent letters to the Department of Justice.”

“Justice.” He rolled the word over his tongue. “How swiftly such a word loses its meaning.”

“Look, sir. I know you've spent nearly twenty years trying to get justice for your people. I know you've testified in case after case at the Tribunal. We know about your work with the Mothers of Srebrenica. You've brought lawsuits against the Dutch government. How could you throw that away for one man? Especially a man like Dra
ž
en Krstić.”

“
Your
government was never going to see justice done. You preached peacekeeping at us while practicing cowardice. We remember your secret pact to evacuate your battalion from Srebrenica by stealth, leaving my people defenseless. It was your representative, Mr. MacKenzie, whose claims about ‘ancient ethnic hatreds' satisfied so many. Let the savages fight it out. Except they wouldn't let us fight. They tied our hands and left us to die.”

“I'm not sure what you mean, sir.”

“The arms embargo,” he said wearily. “What else would I mean?” A brief hint of calculation appeared on his face. “Or is it possible you think I meant something else? The day of the fall. The day that dawned without the airstrikes the UN had promised when the Serbs rolled their tanks into ‘safe area' Srebrenica. The day the killing began.”

Where are the planes? When will they strike?

What further proof did she need?

“You sent the letters to Krstić.”

“Did I? Can you prove such a thing?”

“Are you denying it? Everything you've told us comes straight from those letters.”

“Does it? Do the letters mention Ahmo and Mesha? Do they tell you that Ahmo was only thirteen years old?”

“Well, no—but everything else.”

Hasanović shrugged. “As far as I'm aware, Christopher Drayton fell from the Bluffs, a dangerous place to walk at the best of times. I can't help you with anything else.”

“You moved here two years ago, is that correct?” Khattak interjected.

“Yes. As I said, I like this neighborhood.”

“Just after Drayton moved here,” Khattak noted. “Why did you leave the Bosnian community? You were heavily involved with the mosque in the past.”

Hasanović paused. “There's no law I'm aware of that requires Bosnians to live in ethnic ghettos or religious cantons. At least, not in this country.”

“Please answer the question.”

Hasanović sized him up, his hooded eyes sharp. “My community has rebuilt. They've found a place for themselves—a way to struggle back to some form of happiness. I have nothing to rebuild.”

“Where were you on the night that Drayton fell?”

“At a meeting about the museum. At Ringsong. Anyone will tell you.”

“Why did you change your name? Was it to hide your identity from Dra
ž
en Krstić until you could find an opportunity for vengeance?”

Hasanović stood up and took the photograph of his family back from Rachel. “Do you think my life's work has been about vengeance? That I feed myself on the same delusions as the fascists?” Misery twisted his mouth. “I changed my name so I could forget who I am. For some, memories are a homeland, a palace. For me they are a prison—a graveyard.” He touched his fingers to his youngest brother's face, his dark gaze turned inward. “It's my curse not to forget.” His face crumpled. “Will you go? Please just go.”

They left him in the shadows, the photograph clutched in his hands.

*   *   *

Rachel's hands shook as she let herself into her car. Khattak paused by her window.

“Was he telling the truth?” She looked up, but Khattak's face was in the shadows. “He never confronted Drayton? He never told him who he was?”

“The man I know Hasanović to be would not stand idly by if he learned a war criminal was living down the street from him. The name change suggests he was biding his time, hiding from Krstić.”

“He denies sending the letters.”

“I'm not sure that I believe him.”

“What about the lilies?”

“He didn't deny that.”

“He called the garden a haven. It wasn't his only use of the word.”

“He was mocking us. The same way he kept saying ‘safe area Srebrenica.' One of six safe havens.”

“Christ.”

“Indeed. We can't talk here. And we should talk to Nate about what we've learned.”

She perked up at once. She wanted to see Nate again, to see if that nebulous connection she'd imagined between them was anything more than wishful thinking on her part. She glanced sideways at Khattak, assuming a neutral expression. He wanted to say something to her, she could tell. And then her hopes were dashed as Khattak took a call, his shoulders tensed against the news. From two blocks away, she heard the sirens.

“Change of plans,” he said. “There's been an incident with Melanie Blessant.”

 

28.

Any rape is monstrously unacceptable but what is happening at this very moment in these rape and death camps is even more horrific.

Two cars were parked on the road outside the Blessant house. One belonged to Dennis Blessant. The other was a police cruiser. Khattak went over to talk to their colleagues. Melanie stood just outside the front door that hung askew in its frame, her arms crossed over her overflowing chest.

Dennis Blessant and the girls waited by his car with Marco River. There were scratch marks on the man's face, but he wasn't in handcuffs. Hadley stood in an unconscious imitation of her mother's posture, wrinkling the rose-colored dress she wore. Her hair was pinned up. Cassidy was similarly attired in blue. Both girls looked lovely.

“What's going on?”

“You're cops? Why do we need more cops?” Dennis Blessant asked them.

“We're here on another matter. We're investigating the death of Christopher Drayton.” She took note of Hadley's pallor, of Cassidy biting her knuckles. “You're Dennis Blessant?”

“I try not to acknowledge it on days like these.”

“Your wife called the cops on you? Did you get physical with her?”

“Good God, no.” He hesitated. “Just with the house.”

“I called them,” Hadley said. “He came to pick us up and give us a ride to our dinner. Mad Mel lost control of herself. She attacked him. I called them so we could get on with our night.”

“Hadley,” Cassidy whimpered. Tears slid down her face, leaving a trail through the powder she'd applied. “Don't say too much.”

Hadley bent down to adjust the strap on a high-heeled shoe. “I'm not letting people think Dad's a wife-abuser. That's exactly what Mad Mel wants.”

“Mum, Hadley. Mum.”

The gentle correction softened her older sister. She signaled to Riv. He put his arm around Cassidy's shoulder and led her across the street.

“Christ. She does this every time I come to get the girls.”

“You share custody, Mr. Blessant?”

His laughter was harsh. “I try to share it. She'd suffocate my girls if she could.” He said it loudly enough for his ex-wife to hear. Raging, she flew across the lawn at him. Khattak intercepted her, receiving the full impact of her overblown frontage.

“Inspector,” she bleated. “You have to help me—Dennis was threatening me.”

“God, Mel. More lies? I've warned you to be careful about Dad. You need to stop the lies.”

The woman would have jumped on Hadley if Khattak's grip had let her.

“You have to believe me, Inspector. He hates me and he hated Chrissie. They fought, did you know that? The night that Chrissie fell. Maybe Dennis pushed him just to get at me. Because he knew Chrissie loved me and wanted to take care of me like he couldn't.”

Khattak released her. “Is that true, sir?”

Hadley looked between her father and mother, her face ashen.

“Of course it's not true! That man was saving my life. He was taking this witch off my hands. No more alimony. No more child support.”

“I knew it!” Melanie shouted. “I knew this whole ‘I love my girls' thing was a lie! You wanted Chrissie to take them over. You wanted them off your hands!”

A tearing sob escaped Hadley's throat. She shoved past her mother into the house.

“You useless bitch. You don't know anything. I argued with Drayton because he wouldn't agree to marry you unless I gave you full custody of Hadley and Cass. I told him that would never happen. I begged him to marry you anyway.”

“You're lying!” she shrieked. If she could have bulldozed her way past Khattak, Blessant would have been on the ground, shielding himself from the fury of her nails. “The only thing Chrissie
wanted
was to marry me! You wouldn't let him. You wanted to keep me in this rathole forever.”