Jack Coughlin - Running the Maze

“Here,” he said and handed a plain manila file folder to Swanson. “Didn’t need any private face time for this, Kyle. I could have sent it by bike messenger. Nothing to it. We offered to help the Pakistani ISI investigate the ambush, give them access to Bureau forensic resources, and they almost laughed out loud. These raggedy-ass pictures of the scene are already on the Internet, and it’s all we’ve got.”

Swanson led them to a park bench beneath the shade of a big tree that broke the heat. “Pretty thin stuff, Dave,” he said, studying the half-dozen photographs. Nude bodies on the ground, swelling due to the heat. An empty truck. Just a normal slaughter of innocents. He had seen similar atrocities in different places all around the world.

“Well, after we got slapped around by our pals at the ISI, the State Department also decided to shut us out. I got a memo that the Pakistani government had taken appropriate action, found and disposed of the murderers, and that it was officially all over but for the burying. It was all very terse, very convenient. Since WikiLeaks, they’re scared shitless over there at State about writing anything down.”

Swanson drank his coffee. “I thought we were all supposed to be working together these days. The War on Terror ring a bell?”

“Yeah. Well, it ain’t happening. Why are you guys interested in this little scrape, anyway?”

Swanson handed the folder back to Hunt. “Some Coast Guard chick that knows Sybelle Summers came to town to shake some bushes because her doctor brother was among the victims. She’s got a lame story that he saw something that is possibly militarily important over there in Mudville, and that’s what got him shot. When she took her story up the chain, including to your FBI shop, she was ignored.”

Hunt shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything about any inquiry from a relative, but it’s a pretty routine situation. Some family members always see conspiracy in the violent death of a loved one. Did she have any proof?”

Kyle said, “A couple of messed-up cell phone photos that her brother had sent, along with a cryptic text message that she claims refers to the Viet Cong tunnels in Vietnam, back in the day.”

Hunt grunted. “Humph. And you think my file is thin? You’ve got nothing there.”

“I agree, but General Middleton has one of his feelings that something isn’t right and wants it checked out. We’ll keep it all in-house for the time being until we see if there’s anything worth following. I ain’t betting on it. The kid may just be a flake.”

Hunt flipped his empty cup into a trash can, then adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees. “She may not be such a flake, Kyle. In fact, she may be onto something. My opinion is, this thing deserves some investigation but is being stonewalled by somebody over in Foggy Bottom.”

Swanson looked hard at his old friend. Hunt was getting on in years, but he was still part bloodhound and part street cop. “Why? You having some old jealousy vibes because State won’t let you guys into a party?”

“Look at the pictures carefully, Kyle,” said Hunt. “Take them back and let your guy the Lizard work on them, make them clearer. Something important is missing.”

“What’s missing?” Swanson opened the folder again and studied the pictures more closely.

“The story is that they were shot up and robbed by some Taliban loonies, right? These photos supposedly represent the positions in which the bodies lay when Paki army troops found them.”

“Yes.” Kyle looked closer. What don’t I see?

“If their trucks had been stopped and they were forced out and murdered on that spot, then where’s the blood? There is blood around the bullet holes in their clothing but not around the bodies, Kyle. The guy with his head blown apart should be resting in a big puddle of brains. Get it now?”

Swanson did. Hunt was right. He knew from personal experience that nobody ever gets badly shot and keeps all of the blood inside. It leaks, gushes, oozes, sprays, drips, and floods, and it keeps coming out until the heart stops beating. In the photos, the ground around each of the bodies was trampled but unstained. “Maybe the rain washed it away?”

“It had stopped raining in that particular area two days before, and the sun dried it out. The floods had never reached that high ground. The dirt, the side of the truck, the foliage, those logs near the bodies—all devoid of blood.”

Swanson closed the folder. “You’re saying they were killed somewhere else, then moved to this place and dumped.”

“Exactly. Those bodies bled out, then were transported to this spot to be found, away from the actual murder scene. One other thing. Look at the ankles we can see. They’re all without shoes, which is not abnormal in a place filled with thieves. But those dark stripes look to me like rope burns, which had to be made while they were still alive. Our people down at Quantico say the bruising is consistent with a victim being hung upside down.”

“I thought you didn’t investigate.”

“Just called for a few observations by friends.” Dave Hunt grinned. “Nothing official. Your people will find the same thing. I think these poor people were captured, hung up like sides of beef, and shot to hell, and the blood emptied out by the barrel. Then they were brought to this place and dropped. Why? I have no idea.”

“Weird,” said Kyle.

“Indeed,” said Dave Hunt. “We may be stymied on our end, but you and Trident can go around the normal rules. Kick over some rocks on this one, Gunny Swanson. See what crawls out.”

The six o’clock meeting in General Middleton’s office at the Pentagon was a tense session that seemed to be taking them down a road they did not want to travel. Sybelle Summers reported that Beth Ledford had passed the polygraph examination and had been interviewed by a Marine Special Ops lawyer, under oath. Middleton had copies of the polygraph results and the legal statement.

Commander Freedman had produced a slick set of eight-by-ten reproductions from the grainy photographs that Ledford had brought, but they showed nothing more than the fallen railroad bridge, with one end sticking in the river, and another shot of a valley. He had examined her cell phone and said that it was clear. No one had hacked it.

Then Swanson gave a debrief on his talk with Special Agent Hunt of the FBI and added his photos to the growing stack of paperwork.

Middleton spread all of the photos side by side on his desk, the pictures the Lizard had enlarged next to the gruesome forensic-style pictures from the Pakistanis. “It’s not the same location. Both of Dr. Ledford’s pictures are from a low area, and the bodies are on dry ground, with completely different foliage,” he said. “Better if you not look at these, Petty Officer Ledford.”

“It’s all right, sir. I just want to know everything about what has happened. My whole theory is based on Joey having seen something that I would recognize. I have to look at everything if we want to figure it out.” She carefully took the pictures, forcing herself to stay calm. Joey would still be dead, no matter whether or not she saw the ugly pictures of his ravaged body.

Master Gunny O. O. Dawkins pulled at his cheek as he thought. “The fuckin’ State Department is covering this up?”

“We don’t know that for sure, Double-Oh,” replied Swanson, “but according to my Feeb, that is where the information funnel narrows. That way, the incident is moved out of reach of any investigating arm and disappears into the diplomatic arena. Cables will be exchanged saying it was a tragic situation. No fault to be assigned beyond the Taliban gunmen who are also now dead and cannot challenge any official version.”