Lee Child - The Enemy

The right-hand table was clean and empty. The left-hand table was surrounded by people. There was a pathologist and an assistant and a clerk taking notes. Summer was there, standing back, observing. They were maybe halfway through the process. The tools were all in use. Some of the glass jars were filled. The drain was sucking loudly. I could see the corpse’s legs through the crowd. They had been washed. They looked blue-white under the lamps above them. All the smeared dirt and blood was gone.

I stood next to Summer and took a look. The dead guy was on his back. They had taken the top of his skull off. They had cut around the center of his forehead and peeled the skin of his face down. It was lying there inside out, like a blanket pulled down on a bed. It reached to his chin. His cheekbones and his eyeballs were exposed. The pathologist was dissecting his brain, looking for something. He had used the saw on his skull and popped the top off like a lid.

“What’s the story?” I asked him.

“We got fingerprints,” he said.

“I faxed them in,” Summer said. “We’ll know today.”

“Cause of death?”

“Blunt trauma,” the doctor said. “To the back of the head. Three heavy blows, with something like a tire iron, I should think. All this dramatic stuff is postmortem. Pure window dressing.”

“Any defensive injuries?”

“Not a thing,” the doctor said. “This was a surprise attack. Out of the blue. There was no fight, no struggle.”

“How many assailants?”

“I’m not a magician. The fatal blows were probably all delivered by the same individual. I can’t tell if there were others standing around and watching.”

“Best guess?”

“I’m a scientist, not a guesser.”

“One assailant only,” Summer said. “Just a feeling.”

I nodded.

“Time of death?” I asked.

“Hard to be sure,” the doctor said. “Nine or ten last night, probably. But don’t take that to the bank.”

I nodded again. Nine or ten would make sense. Well after dark, several hours before any reasonable expectation of discovery. Plenty of time for the bad guy to lure him out there, and then to be somewhere else when the alarms sounded.

“Was he killed at the scene?” I asked.

The pathologist nodded.

“Or very close to it,” he said. “No medical signs to suggest otherwise.”

“OK,” I said. I glanced around. The broken tree limb was lying on a cart. Next to it was a jar with a penis and two testicles in it.

“In his mouth?” I said.

The pathologist nodded again. Said nothing.

“What kind of a knife?”

“Probably a K-bar,” he said.

“Great,” I said. K-bars had been manufactured by the tens of millions for the last fifty years. They were as common as medals.

“The knife was used by a right-handed person,” the doctor said.

“And the tire iron?”

“Same.”

“OK,” I said.

“The fluid was yogurt,” the doctor said.

“Strawberry or raspberry?”

“I didn’t do a taste test.”

Next to the jars of organs was a short stack of four Polaroid photographs. They were all of the fatal wound site. The first one was as-discovered. The guy’s hair was relatively long and dirty and matted with blood and I couldn’t make out much detail. The second was with the blood and dirt rinsed away. The third was with the hair cut back with scissors. The fourth was with the hair completely shaved away, with a razor.

“How about a crowbar?” I asked.

“Possible,” the doctor said. “Maybe better than a tire iron. I took a plaster cast, anyway. You bring me the weapon, I’ll tell you yes or no.”

I stepped in a little and took a closer look. The corpse was very clean. It was gray and white and pink. It smelled faintly of soap, as well as blood and other rich organic odors. The groin was a mess. Like a butcher’s shop. The knife cuts on the arms and the shoulders were deep and obvious. I could see muscle and bone. The edges of the wounds were blue and cold. The blade had gone right through a tattoo on his left upper arm. An eagle was holding a scroll with Mother written on it. Overall, the guy was not a pleasant sight. But he was in better shape than I had feared he would be.

“I thought there would be more swelling and bruising,” I said.

The pathologist glanced at me.

“I told you,” he said. “All the drama was after he was dead. No heartbeat, no blood pressure, no circulation, therefore no swelling and no contusions. Not much bleeding either. It was just leaking out by gravity. If he’d been alive when they cut him, it would have been running like a river.”

He turned back to the table and finished up inside the guy’s brain pan and put the lid of bone back where it belonged. He tapped it twice to get a good seal and wiped the leaky join with a sponge. Then he pulled the guy’s face back into place. Poked and prodded and smoothed with his fingers and when he took his hands away I saw the Special Forces sergeant I had spoken to in the strip club, staring blindly upward into the bright lights above him.

I tooka Humvee and drove past Andrea Norton’s Psy-Ops school to the Delta Force station. It was pretty much self-contained in what had been a prison back before the army collected all its miscreants together at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. The old wire and the walls suited its current purpose. There was a giant WW2-era airplane hangar next to it. It looked like it had been dragged in from some closed base and bolted back together to house their racks of stores and their trucks and their up-armored Humvees and maybe even a couple of fast-response helicopters.

The sentry on the inner gate let me in and I went straight to the adjutant’s office. Seven-thirty in the morning, and it was already lit up and busy, which told me something. The adjutant was at his desk. He was a captain. In the upside-down world of Delta Force the sergeants are the stars, and the officers stay home and do the housework.

“You got anyone missing?” I asked him.

He looked away, which told me something more.

“I assume you know I do,” he said. “Otherwise why would you be here?”

“You got a name for me?”

“A name? I assumed you had arrested him for something.”

“This is not about an arrest,” I said.

“So what’s it about?”

“Does this guy get arrested a lot?”

“No. He’s a fine soldier.”

“What’s his name?”

The captain didn’t answer. Just leaned down and opened a drawer and pulled a file. Handed it to me. Like all the Delta files I had ever seen, it was heavily sanitized for public consumption. There were just two pages in it. The first was a name-rank-and-number ID sheet and a bare-bones career summary for a guy called Christopher Carbone. He was an unmarried sixteen-year veteran. He had served four years in an infantry division, four in an airborne division, four in a Ranger company, and four in Special Forces Detachment D. He was five years older than me. He was a sergeant first class. There were no theater details and no mention of awards or decorations.

The second sheet contained ten inky fingerprints and a color photograph of the man I had spoken to in the bar and just left on the mortuary slab.

“Where is he?” the captain asked. “What happened?”

“Someone killed him,” I said.

“What?”

“Homicide,” I said.

“When?”

“Last night. Nine or ten o’clock.”

“Where?”

“Edge of the woods.”

“What woods?”

“Our woods. On-post.”

“Jesus Christ. Why?”

I put the file back together and slipped it under my arm.

“I don’t know why,” I said. “Yet.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said again. “Who did it?”