infantry division, four in an airborne division, four in a Ranger
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company, and four in Special Forces Detachment D. He was five
years older than me. He was a Sergeant First Class. There were
no theatre details and no mention of awards or decorations.
The second sheet contained ten inky fingerprints and a
colour 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. %Vho did it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Yet.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ the guy said, for the third time.
‘Next of kin?’ I asked.
The captain paused. Breathed out.
‘I think he has a mother somewhere,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you
know.’
‘Don’t let me know,’ I said. ‘You’ll be the one making the
call.’
He said nothing.
‘Did Carbone have enemies here?’ I asked.
‘None that I knew about.’
‘Any points of friction?’
‘Like what?’
‘Any lifestyle issues?’
He stared at me. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Was he gay?’
What? Of course not.’
I said nothing.
‘You’re saying Carbone was a fag?’ the captain whispered.
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I pictured Carbone in my mind, lounging six feet from the
strip club runway, six feet from whoever was crawling around at
the time on her elbows and knees with her ass up in the air and
her nipples brushing the stage, a long-neck bottle in his hand
ad a big smile on his face. It seemed like a weird way for a gay
man to spend his leisure time. But then I pictured the detachment
in his eyes and his embarrassed gesture as he waved the
brunette hooker away.
‘I don’t know what Carbone was,’ I said.
‘Then keep your damn mouth shut,’ his captain said. ‘Sir.’
I took Carbone’s file with me back to the mortuary and
collected Summer and took her to the O Club for breakfast. We
sat on our own in a corner, far from everyone else. I ate eggs
and bacon and toast. Summer ate oatmeal and fruit and glanced
through the file. I drank coffee. Summer drank tea.
‘The pathologist is calling it gay-bashing,’ she said. ‘He
thinks it’s obvious.’
‘He’s wrong.’
‘Carbone’s not married.’
‘Neither am I,’ I said. ‘Neither are you. Are you gay?’
‘No.’
‘There you go.’
‘But misdirection has to be based on something real, right? I
mean, if they knew he was a gambler, for instance, they might
have crammed IOU slips in his mouth or thrown playing cards
all around the place. Then we might have thought it was about
gambling debts. You see what I mean? It just doesn’t work if it’s
not based on anything. Something that can be disproved in five
minutes looks stupid, not clever.’
‘Your best guess?’
‘He was gay, and someone knew it, but it wasn’t the reason.’
I nodded.
‘It wasn’t the reason,’ I said. ‘Let’s say he was gay. He was in
sixteen years. He survived most of the seventies and all of the
eighties. So why would it happen now? Times are changing,
getting better, he’s getting better at hiding it, going out to strip
joints with his buddies. No reason for it to happen now, all of a
sudden. It would have happened before. Four years ago, or
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eight, or twelve, or sixteen. Whenever he joined a new unit and
new people got to know him.’
‘So what was the reason?’ ‘No idea.’
‘Whatever, it could be embarrassing. Just like Kramer and his
motel.’
I nodded again. ‘Bird seems to be a very embarrassing place.’
‘You think this is why you’re here? Carbone?’
‘It’s possible. Depends on what he represents.’
I asked Summer to file and forward all the appropriate notifications
and reports and I headed back to my office. Rumour was
spreading fast. I found three Delta sergeants waiting for me,
looking for information. They were typical Special Forces guys.