CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Katherine O
’
Connell had been fifteen years old when her family immigrated from Ireland, and she had never been able to lose the accent. As if she didn
’
t have enough inherent obstacles to overcome simply by being a woman, she also had to deal with the issues that accompanied her status as an obvious immigrant. In most lines of work, such things wouldn
’
t matter, but as an agent within the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, she had to deal with soldiers on a daily basis. They tended to treat her like some spy from a foreign intelligence agency. She had to work twice as hard as a male agent in order to gain their trust and respect and then fight against the stigma of not being a natural born citizen. At least she didn
’
t trace her origins to a country hostile to the United States, otherwise she would never have been able to insert herself into the military culture.
But on some occasions, her long red hair and Irish accent gave her an advantage. Feminine charm could often break down the barricades erected by even the hardest soldier. In those instances, the men would hungrily glance at her body in much the same way as the man who was currently sitting in her office.
Jonas Black had demanded to speak with her and, after showing DCIS credentials and being allowed access, started fiddling with an iPad, trying to bring up some type of video call. She wondered if a gorilla would be making more progress. “You need a bit of help with that?” she asked for the third time.
“No, I think I
’
ve got it.” He turned the device to face her and the image of another man sitting in what appeared to be a hospital bed loaded onto the screen.
“
Hello, Agent O
’Connell,
” the man on the screen said. “My name is Deacon Munroe. I
’
m a special investigator with DCIS. I would have preferred to greet you in person, but circumstances dictated that our first encounter be facilitated through the miracles of technology.”
“Let
’
s not muck about, Munroe. What are you after?”
“Straight to the point. I like that. My associate, Mr. Black, and I need your assistance with a case on which you were the lead investigator.”
“Why?”
“Because I believe it to be tied to my current investigation.”
“In what way?”
“Do you remember the case involving Sergeant John Corrigan?”
“The man I put on death row? Yeah, it rings a bell or two. Corrigan waved all rights to appeals and confessed to the crimes. Why would DCIS show such a sudden interest in a closed case?”
“We believe his confession may have been coerced.”
She sat forward. “That confession was handled by the book. I did nothing—”
“I
’m sorry, Agent O’
Connell. I didn
’
t mean to imply any impropriety on your part. I believe that he may have been coerced by influences outside of the investigation.”
Munroe started at the beginning and laid out the information they
’
d uncovered to that point. Although she didn
’
t like the implications, she couldn
’
t fault most of his conclusions. Plus, the Corrigan case had never added up to her. The evidence was overwhelming, and Corrigan had confessed, but her gut told her that some aspect of the case had gone unnoticed.
She held her comments until Munroe had completed his story, and then she leaned back in her desk chair and steepled her fingers, letting the new information process. After a moment, she said, “So if I
’
m reading you right, you want me to drop everything, go back on a case I worked in which a Marine was sentenced to death, and check everything out again. A case, I might add, where the suspect confessed and the evidence overwhelmingly supported his guilt.”
The corners of Munroe
’
s mouth curled up into a large grin. “That seems to be the long and short of it.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Although Katherine hated taking the time away from her current caseload, she also didn
’
t want it to come back on her if something was missed during Corrigan
’
s original investigation. A few hours reviewing evidence was better than spending days having her every move dissected and second-guessed by some oversight committee. Plus, if there was even a small chance that Corrigan was innocent or that others were involved, she wanted to know. She had the files delivered to one of the conference rooms, and she and Black began the arduous process of laying out the documents across the surface of the twenty-foot maple conference table. The files carried a musty acidic odor that was at odds with the leather and vanilla scent of the meeting space. She dropped a file on the table and then washed down a king-sized Snickers bar with a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew. Jonas Black hadn
’
t said much, but she noticed him examining her from the corner of his eye more than once.
Finally, she said, “So what
’
s your story Black? I haven
’
t seen a lot of DCIS agents with tattoos on their knuckles.”
He shrugged. “I like to defy expectation.”
“
LIFE
and
PAIN
. Life is pain. Kind of a pessimistic and depressing thing to tattoo across your digits, don
’
t you think?”
Without looking up from the file he was reading, he said, “You
’
re reading it wrong.”
“How so?”
“You have it backwards. It doesn
’
t say, ‘Life is pain.
’
It says, ‘Pain is life
’”
“What
’
s the difference?”
He placed the file down on the table and met her eyes. “It
’
s a reminder that no matter how bad things may seem, I
’
m still kicking. Every moment you can say that is a gift. You have to take the good with the bad. And sometimes it
’
s those moments of pain that shape who we are and give us the strength to face what comes next. Like most everything else in life, it
’
s all in how you look at it.”
Black returned to the files, but Katherine stared at him a moment longer, noticing for the first time how attractive he was with his dark complexion and muscular frame. She realized that she had made the same mistake with Jonas Black that every chauvinist made when assuming that a woman couldn
’
t do anything that a man could. She had taken one look at Black
’
s size, muscles, and rough exterior and assumed that being big and being dumb were synonymous. The guilt over that stereotypical mental assertion forced her to see him in a different light. And a part of her had to admit that what she saw intrigued her.
Black
’
s phone rang. He put it on speaker and sat it in the center of the table. “Okay,” Munroe said from the other end of line. “Let
’
s run this thing down. Give me the details.”
“Corrigan was found cradling his family and crying while covered in their blood,” she said. “His DNA was collected beneath his wife
’
s fingernails, and the scratches on his neck match up. Corrigan claimed that he had blacked out and couldn
’
t remember the actual murders. Psych evals showed that he wasn
’
t suffering from any form of psychosis or PTSD that could have explained the blackout or the violence. The face of Corrigan
’
s watch was broken, and pieces of the glass were retrieved from his daughter
’
s cheek where he backhanded her. Bite impressions on his wife matched Corrigan
’
s teeth. His tox screens showed no drugs or illegal substances. Financials are all clear.”
“Did the blood tests show any presence of monatomic metals?”
Munroe asked.
“Hold on.” Katherine flipped through some of the files and said, “
I don’
t see anything on it, but they may not have tested for that.”
“Perhaps. What about motive?”
“We questioned everyone associated to Corrigan and the family. No indications as to why he would have done it. That was the one thing about the case that didn
’
t add up. According to everything we found, Corrigan was a loving husband and father.”
Black said, “Yeah, he was. When we were deployed, getting back to his family was all he talked about.”
“Hold on,” she said. “You served with Corrigan?”
“That
’
s right. He was my team leader in Recon.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So this is personal?”
Black
’
s gaze didn
’
t falter beneath her harsh stare. “It
’
s always personal to someone. If you
’
re asking if I care whether or not my old friend gets a needle in his arm and if I would stop that from happening if I could, then yeah, I guess it
’
s personal.”
“Let
’
s keep to the facts,” Munroe said, trying to defuse the interaction. “Maybe we
’
re looking at things all wrong. Reviewing evidence is like staring through a kaleidoscope. You have to twist everything up from time to time.”
Katherine said, “Okay, what do you want to
twist up
?”
“We need to stop wondering
if
he did it or
why
he did it and start asking what could have
made
him do it. What would cause a man who by all accounts is a loving husband and father suddenly snap and murder the people he loved most in the world? What did he see? What did he experience? What was he exposed to? Was the military experimenting on him in any way?”
“
I don’
t see anything like that in his file,” Katherine said.
“What was he doing when it happened?” Munroe said. “Where was he stationed?”
“At the time of the murders, Corrigan and a small group of Spec Ops soldiers from all the various branches were staying in temporary housing at Fort Meade in Maryland. Corrigan had traveled back to Camp Pendleton in California for the weekend, specifically for his daughter
’
s birthday.”
“Fort Meade?” Black said. “That doesn
’
t seem right. Meade is an Army base. I
’
ve never heard of Recon Marines being stationed or training there.”
“They surely participate in cross-training programs among the different branches?”
Munroe asked.
“Absolutely. Marines attend the US Army Airborne Course, Jump Master, HALO, SCUBA school, and a bunch of others. But there
’
s nothing like that at Meade.”
Katherine remembered reading something about the program at Fort Meade in one of the files. She rifled through the stacks and pulled out the folder she wanted. “It says here that they were at Fort Meade taking classes at the Army
’
s Defense Information School.”
Black shook his head. “That school
’
s for public relations and journalism. Why would a bunch of Spec Ops soldiers need that kind of training?”
“It was a course in handling cultural issues.”
Munroe asked Katherine, “Were all the other members of the class questioned?”
“They were, but we didn
’
t focus on the actual training that was taking place. Our inquiries mainly dealt with Corrigan and his state of mind.”
“Then that
’
s where we start. We need to find out exactly what those soldiers were doing at Fort Meade.”
Katherine leaned back in her chair and ran her hands through her long red hair. “Those men are probably spread all over the world by now. If you think I
’
m going to drop everything and go hoofing around the globe because you said so, then you
’
re daft.”
Black held up the file displaying the names of the other soldiers who participated in the so-called cultural relations class. “You won
’
t need your passport,” Black said. “I know one of these guys, and he
’
s less than an hour away.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
MCB Quantico rested on nearly one hundred square miles of land and had become known as the crossroads of the Marine Corps. It housed the Corps’ Combat Development Command, The Marine Corps Officer Candidates School, The Marine Corps Research Center, and The Marine Corps Brig as well as the famed FBI Academy. Black remembered the first time he had visited Quantico. He had expected something more urban simply based on depictions he had seen on TV, but in actuality, the area was very rural and had a small town feel to it. Daryl Gelman, the man they were coming to see, worked for Combat Development Command along with twelve thousand other military and civilian personnel living on the base.
As they drove beneath the red brick archway and sign marked with the Marine Corp seal, Jonas watched with intensity as Katherine O
’
Connell chugged the last of a two liter bottle of Mountain Dew and tossed it into the back of her black Dodge Charger. He turned to the back seat and stared down at the enormous collection of candy wrappers and soda bottles that filled the space. Then his eyes traveled back to Katherine
’
s slender form.
“What are you gawking at?” Katherine said.
“I
’
m just wondering how you eat like that and stay so thin.”
“High metabolism and exercise, I suppose. I try to run ten miles a day.”
“You eat a lot of junk food.”
Katherine drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in time with the song on the radio. “I
’
m a bit partial to my afters. You aren
’
t one of those health nuts, are you?”
“
I don’
t think so, but I also don
’
t think I
’
ve consumed as much sugar in my life as you have in the time I
’
ve known you.”
“What about when you were a boy?”
“We didn
’
t have sweets.”
“Were your parents communists?”
Black said, “Parent, singular. My mom. But no, we were just poor.”
“Candy bars and soda pop ain
’
t that expensive. Poor people enjoy them all the time. Someone should have called family services on your mum. I think that
’
s one of things a parent is required to provide: shelter, running water, and dessert.”
Black grinned. “I admire your passion on the subject.”
“Hey, what the hell
’
s the point in living if you don
’
t stop to have a piece of cake now and then?”
“I prefer a big steak myself.”
She looked him up and down. “I can see that.”
They passed through the security checkpoint, and Black read off the directions they had been given. Soldiers marched along concrete paths, and trees encircled nondescript brick buildings. Black considered that if you replaced the soldiers with backpack-carrying kids, the base would have been indistinguishable from a college campus. The car windows were open, and the breeze carried the smells of nature with an underlying hint of spent ammunition and burnt gunpowder.
“So how do you know this guy?” Katherine asked. “Was he on the same team with you and Corrigan?”
“No, we were on base together in Afghanistan. We both grew up in the St. Louis area, and so we knew a lot of the same places. It helps to be able to talk about home with someone. Of course, he was from a nice neighborhood in St. Charles, and I grew up in the hood in East St. Louis. He went to a private school, and I was the only white kid in my class.”
“It
’
s not fun being different. Being the outsider.”
He sensed that she was speaking from experience but didn
’
t ask. “It made me tough. I learned how to stand up for myself. Of course, that also led down some bad roads.”
She was quiet a moment as they slowly wound through the base, but then she said, “Can I ask you something? Something personal.”
“Since when are you shy?”
“What is it like over there? Being in combat.”
“It
’
s hard to describe. Why do you ask?”
Katherine twisted her hands on the wheel and chewed on her lower lip. “My baby brother
’
s currently deployed to Afghanistan.”
“What branch?”
“He
’
s part of the 1st Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood.”
“That
’
s a good unit. Did you know Oliver Stone is a veteran of the 1st Cavalry Division?”
“You
’
re avoiding my question.”
He took a deep breath. “You want the truth?”
“I think so.”
“I sort of feel like I
’
ve been in combat in one way or another my whole life, and so my experience may be different from someone that dropped in from the burbs. But descriptions ranging from boring to exciting and gratifying to depressing all seem to apply. It
’
s a roller coaster.”
He was quiet a moment as he thought back on his time overseas and tried to put a name to his emotions. Eventually, he said, “Honestly, if I had to sum it up in one word, it would be loneliness. That was the only emotion that remained constant, for me anyway. As a soldier, you have to accept that it doesn
’
t matter how good you are or think you are. You could be the bravest, most disciplined man on the battlefield and still get smoked. That
’
s just the way it is. You roll the dice and hope they don
’
t come up snake eyes. Facing your own mortality in that kind of unforgiving environment gives you a certain perspective on things, and you realize that no one back home will ever understand what that
’
s like. It separates you from them. Separates you from the person you were before.”
She pulled the car into the parking lot and turned off the engine. He turned to her and saw tears forming. “I
’
m sorry. I shouldn
’
t have—”
“No,” she interrupted and touched his arm. “Don
’
t apologize. I appreciate your honesty.” She wiped her eyes and added, “Let
’
s go talk to your friend.”