Part 82 (1/2)

”You betcha,” Devin said. ”Mother divorced the father when the son was eight, moved to some s.h.i.+tty subsidized housing in Lawrence. Restraining orders against the father follow. She drags his a.s.s into court a few times, and here's where it gets fun. She claims the father is using psych ops against her her, f.u.c.king with her mind, trying to make everyone think she was crazy. But she's got no proof. Father gets the restraining orders dropped eventually, gains bimonthly visitation rights with the kid, and one day the kid comes home when he's, like, eleven to find Mommy sitting on the living room couch with her wrists cut open.”

”Suicide,” Angie said.

”Yup,” Oscar said. ”Kid goes to live with the father on base, joins Special Forces when he turns eighteen, gets an HD after-”

”A what?”

”An honorable discharge,” Oscar said, ”after serving in Panama during that five-minute conflict over there in late '89. And this made me curious.”

”Why?”

”Well,” Oscar said, ”these Special Forces guys, they're career soldiers. They don't just do a couple of years and muster out like regular grunts. They're after Langley or the Pentagon. Plus, Pea.r.s.e should have come back from Panama in the catbird seat: He had honest-to-G.o.d battle time now. He should have been it it, you know?”

”But?” Angie said.

”But he wasn't,” Oscar said. ”So I called another of my my buddies”-he shot a look at Devin-”and he did some digging and essentially your boy, Pea.r.s.e, got s.h.i.+tcanned.” buddies”-he shot a look at Devin-”and he did some digging and essentially your boy, Pea.r.s.e, got s.h.i.+tcanned.”

”For what?”

”Lieutenant Pea.r.s.e's unit, under his immediate command, hit the wrong target. He was almost court-martialed because he gave the orders. In the end, he knew some bra.s.s with pull because he and his unit escaped with the military equivalent of a severance package. They walked with HD's, but no Pentagon, no Langley for those boys.”

”What target?” Angie said.

”They were supposed to hit a building allegedly housing members of Noriega's secret police. Instead they went two doors down.”

”And?”

”Wasted a wh.o.r.ehouse at six in the morning. Sprayed everyone inside. Two johns, both Panamanian, and five prost.i.tutes. Your boy then allegedly walked through the room and bayonetted all the female corpses before they torched the place. That's just rumor, mind you, but that's what my source remembers hearing.”

”And the army,” Angie said, ”never prosecuted.”

Oscar looked at her like she was drunk. ”It was Panama. Remember? Killed nine times as many civilians as military personnel? All to capture a drug dealer with former ties to the CIA during the administration of a president who used to run run the CIA. This s.h.i.+t was fishy enough without calling attention to your mistakes. The rule of combat's simple-if there are photographs or members of the press in attendance? You broke it, you buy it. But if not, and you cap the wrong guy or guys or village?” He shrugged. ”s.h.i.+t happens. Set the torches and march double-time.” the CIA. This s.h.i.+t was fishy enough without calling attention to your mistakes. The rule of combat's simple-if there are photographs or members of the press in attendance? You broke it, you buy it. But if not, and you cap the wrong guy or guys or village?” He shrugged. ”s.h.i.+t happens. Set the torches and march double-time.”

”Five women,” Angie said.

”Oh, he didn't kill 'em all,” Oscar said. ”The whole squad went in there and unloaded. Nine guys firing ten rounds a second.”

”No, he didn't kill them all,” Angie said. ”He just made sure they were all dead.”

”With a bayonet,” I said.

”Yeah, well,” Devin said, and lit a cigarette, ”if there were only nice people in the world, we'd lose our jobs. Anyway, Scott Pea.r.s.e musters out, comes back to the States, lives with his dad, who's retired, a couple years, and then his dad dies of a heart attack and a few months later, Scott wins the lottery.”

”What do you mean?”

”I mean, he won the Kansas State Lottery.”

”Bulls.h.i.+t.”

He shook his head, held up a hand. ”On my mother. I swear. Good news was he picked the winning six numbers, and the jackpot was for a million-two. Bad news was, eight other people picked the same numbers. So he collects his payout, which is like eighty-eight grand after the IRS gets through, and he buys a black '68 Shelby GT-500 from a cla.s.sic car dealer, and then shows up in Boston, summer of '92, and takes the postal exam. And from there on in, far as we know, he's been a model citizen.”