The Enemy

“You think he was?”

“OK, he was.”

“Who else knew?”

“All of us.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I thought you should know, is all.”

“You think it has a bearing?”

He shook his head. “We were comfortable with it. And whoever killed him wasn’t one of us. It wasn’t anyone in the unit. That’s not possible. We don’t do stuff like that. Outside the unit, nobody knew. Therefore it wasn’t a factor.”

“So why tell me?”

“Because you’re bound to find out. I wanted you to be ready for it. I didn’t want it to be a surprise.”

“Because?”

“Then maybe you can keep it quiet. Since it’s not a factor.”

I said nothing.

“It would trash his memory,” the sergeant said. “And that’s wrong. He was a nice guy and a good soldier. Being gay shouldn’t be a crime.”

“I agree,” I said.

“The army needs to change.”

“The army hates change.”

“They say it damages unit cohesion,” he said. “They should have come and seen our squadron working. With Carbone right there in it.”

“I can’t keep it quiet,” I said. “Maybe I would if I could. But the way the crime scene looked, everyone’s going to get the message.”

“What? It was like a sex crime? You didn’t say that before.”

“I was trying to keep it quiet,” I said.

“But nobody knew. Not outside the unit.”

“Someone must have. Or else the perp is in your unit.”

“That’s not possible. No way, no how.”

“One thing or the other has got to be possible,” I said. “Was he seeing anyone on the outside?”

“No, never.”

“So he was celibate for sixteen years?”

The guy paused a beat.

“I guess I don’t really know,” he said.

“Someone knew,” I said. “But I don’t think it was a factor. I think someone just tried to make it look like it was. Maybe we can make that clear, at least.”

The sergeant shook his head. “It’ll be the only thing anyone remembers about him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I’m not gay,” he said.

“I don’t really care either way.”

“I’ve got a wife and a kid.”

He left me with that information and I went back to obeying Willard’s orders.

I spent the time thinking. There had been no weapon recovered at the scene. No significant forensics. No threads of clothing snagged on a bush, no footprints in the earth, none of his attacker’s skin under Carbone’s fingernails. All of that was easily explicable. The weapon had been taken away by the attacker, who had probably been wearing BDUs, which the Department of the Army specifies very carefully just so that they won’t fall apart and leave threads all over the place. Textile mills across the nation have stringent quality targets to meet, in terms of wear-and-tear standards for military twill and poplin. The earth was frozen hard, so footprints were impossible. North Carolina probably had a reliable frost window of about a month, and we were smack in the middle of it. And it had been a surprise attack. Carbone had been given no time to turn around and claw and kick at his assailant.

So there was no material information. But we had some advantages. We had a fixed pool of possible suspects. It was a closed base, and the army is pretty good at recording who was where, at all times. We could start with yards of printout paper and go through each name, on a simple binary basis, possible or not possible. Then we could collate all the possibles and go to work with the holy trinity of detectives everywhere: means, motive, opportunity. Means and opportunity wouldn’t signify much. By definition nobody would be on the possibles list unless they had been proved to have opportunity. And everybody in the army was physically capable of swinging a tire iron or a crowbar against the back of an unsuspecting victim’s head. It was probably a rough equivalent of the most basic entry requirement.

So it would end up with motive, which is where it had started for me. What was the reason?

I sat for another hour. Didn’t go anywhere, didn’t do anything, didn’t call anyone. My sergeant brought me more coffee. I mentioned that she might call Lieutenant Summer for me and suggest she stop by.

Summer showed up within five minutes. I had a whole raft of things to tell her, but she had anticipated every one of them. She had ordered a list of all base personnel, plus a copy of the gate log so we could add and subtract names as appropriate. She had arranged for Carbone’s quarters to be sealed, pending a search. She had arranged an interview with his CO to develop a better picture of his personal and professional life.

“Excellent,” I said.

“What’s this thing with Willard?” she asked.

“A pissing contest, probably,” I said. “Important case like this, he wants to come down and direct things personally. To remind me I’m under a cloud.”

But I was wrong.