“Shireen?”
“Puller? How’s it going?”
Shireen Kirk had formerly been a JAG, or Judge Advocate General’s, lawyer representing those in uniform. She had recently left the military and gone into private practice in northern Virginia. She had the rep of being a scorched-earth lawyer. And that’s exactly what Puller required.
“I need a lawyer.”
“Okay, so I guess it’s not going too well.”
“Well, my father needs one.”
“I thought he was in a care facility with Alzheimer’s?”
“Dementia, but yes, he is.”
“If he did something that someone found out of bounds I think he’d have a pretty solid diminished capacity defense.”
“It’s not like that. This is from about thirty years ago when he was still in the military.”
“Okay, what happened?”
Puller filled her in on the situation and the letter that Demirjian had sent to CID.
“That really sucks. You say they want to interview your father?”
“Yes.”
“If he’s been diagnosed with dementia he should have counsel there with him. I could even make a case that they can’t question him because of his condition. He’s liable to say anything and we don’t want him to inadvertently incriminate himself.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I can take the case.”
“That’s great, Shireen. But can they even charge him if he’s not competent?”
“They can charge anybody, Puller. Competency is a matter for a court to determine. And even if he’s not competent to stand trial they can hold the prosecution in abeyance until he becomes competent, if that ever happens. But that may be worse than him being tried for the crime.”
“How do you mean?”
“At least if he’s tried he can defend himself and maybe be acquitted.”
Puller slowly nodded. “But if he’s not tried because he’s incompetent, people may assume he’s guilty and is just getting off because he has dementia.”
“Exactly. Being tried in the court of public opinion is often far worse than having your day in court. At least in the latter you get a judgment one way or the other. What’s the name of the CID agent on the case?”
“Ted Hull out of the Twelfth MPs, JBLE.”
He could hear her writing this down. “I’ll contact him and tell him of my representation. I’ll need you to sign a retainer agreement if your father can’t. And I’ll need to meet with your father at some point.”
“I’m not sure how helpful that will be.”
“I still need to do it. I can’t rep someone without meeting them.”
“Okay, I’ll arrange that.”
“Are you his guardian, Puller? Do you have a power of attorney?”
“Yes. We did that when my dad came to the VA hospital.”
“Good, that simplifies matters. I’ll have to request the CID file from the investigation they did back then. They must have talked to people, and I can get those statements, plus information on any theories or leads they might have been trying to run down.”
“I want a copy of it when you do.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“You shouldn’t go there.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
Her next statement surprised him.
“Did you ever look at any of the case files when you got to CID?” she asked.
“I tried to, but they wouldn’t let me access them. Because of my personal connection to the case.”
Puller had just told the woman a lie. He had never tried to access the case files. And right now he didn’t really know why.
Shireen interrupted these thoughts. “What does your brother think of all this?”
“He’s more analytical about these things than I am.”
“Meaning he doesn’t necessarily believe your father didn’t do it?”
Puller had no response to that.
“I have some forms I need you to fill out so I can get going on this,” she said. “I’ll email them to you and you can sign and email or fax them back, okay?”
“Got it.”
Puller went online and accessed a secure military database. He entered the name Stan Demirjian. There was only one since the last name was not common. Demirjian had retired as a sergeant first class. He had his military pension. It was mailed out to his home like clockwork. His address was in the file. They lived on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia.
In his mind’s eye Puller recalled a barrel-chested bald man with a gruff manner. But what sergeant first class didn’t have a gruff manner? Your job was to mold men and women into fighting machines. You weren’t there to be anyone’s friend.
Puller hadn’t had much contact with Demirjian when his father had been in uniform. Now that he thought about it, he had seen far more of Mrs. Demirjian than of her husband.
It was a two-hour drive from where he was to where the Demirjians lived. Should he go there and talk to them?
No one had told him to back off the case. And he could go and talk to them in a civilian capacity, not as a CID agent. It wasn’t the best position, but at least it was something.
And maybe he should before someone told him not to.
The email with the forms to sign popped into his mailbox.
He drove to the CID offices at Quantico, printed them out, signed them, and faxed them back to Shireen. Now the legal ball could get rolling.
He drove home, threw a few things in to a bag, gunned up with his twin M11s, snagged an investigation duffel he kept in his apartment, changed the litterbox and filled the food and water bowls of his cat, AWOL, and hit the highway.
When he was on a case Puller always had a battle plan of how he was going to approach things. Now he had no idea what the hell he was going to do.
And if his father was guilty?
He shook his head.
I can’t deal with that now. I can’t deal with that ever.
And yet if it came to it, Puller knew he would have to.
7
PAUL ROGERS HAD risen early and driven across the West Virginia border. He had stopped for dinner at a Cracker Barrel. There were big buses parked in the lot, and when he went inside he saw that the place was mostly filled with senior citizens, perhaps on some sort of tour or pilgrimage.
Pilgrimage. He could relate.
He ate alone at a table near the back of the rustic-inspired space.
The weather was clear now, but he had heard on the radio that a storm front was approaching and that it would bring rain and strong winds later that night.
He looked at his map and calculated that he would arrive at his destination in the afternoon, late or early depending on how soon he got on the road and how bad the traffic was.
He ate breakfast for dinner, cutting the sausage patties into four equal pieces and running them through his dense grits before putting them in his mouth.
In his mind he was placing his plan into quadrants too and then prioritizing each one. Military precision. If he ever needed his training, he needed it now.
He rubbed his head. It had become a habit so ingrained that sometimes he didn’t even know he was doing it.
He looked around the large dining room once more and noted that many of the men had World War II caps on with stitched lettering signifying the military branches they had served in during the war. Some had pins on them representing specific units. They were all very old now, the youngest of them in their late eighties. Almost all were in wheelchairs or used walkers or canes to get around. They were gray, bent, but their features were proud, animated. They had fought the good fight and survived to have families and retirements and tour bus rides augmented with Cracker Barrel feasts.
Rogers thought, I fought the good fight too. And I have nothing.
Except he had a chance to make it all right. And he intended to give it the best shot he possibly could.
He finished his meal and hit the highway, driving right into the building storm.