The Kill Room

“But, look, I just found out that Shreve–”

“Barry,” Rothstein said in a low voice. “I’m advising you to be quiet. It’s very important.” He waited a moment then added, “We want to make sure you and your family get the best counsel you can have.”

“My family ?”

Hell. That’s his game. Laurel said firmly, “The state has no case against your family, Barry. We have no interest in them at all.”

Rothstein turned to her and his round, creased face offered a perplexed look. “We’ve hardly scratched the surface of the case, Nance.” He looked at Shales. “You never know the direction a prosecution will take. My theory is to provide for every eventuality. And I’ll make sure you and anyone else involved in this prosecution…” His voice grew indignant. “…this misguided  prosecution is looked after. Now, Barry?”

The pilot’s jaw quivered. He looked at Nance quickly then lowered his eyes and nodded.

Rothstein said, “This interview is now terminated.”

CHAPTER 79

Morning sunlight filled Rhyme’s town house.

The windows faced east and bands of direct light, filtered through many leaves, fired into the parlor in flickering streams.

The team was gathered here, Cooper, Sellitto, Pulaski. Sachs too. And Nance Laurel, who’d just returned from detention with the disappointing news that Shales had been about to confess and give up Metzger when a lawyer that NIOS or someone in DC had hired arrived and scared him into silence.

But she said, “I can still make the case work. Nothing’s going to stop me this time.”

Rhyme happened to be glancing at his phone when it rang and he was pleased. He answered. “Corporal, how are you?”

Poitier’s melodic voice replied, “Good, Captain. Good. I was happy to get your message this morning. We miss the chaos you brought with you. You must come back. Come back for holiday. And I appreciate your invitation too. I will most certainly come to New York but that will have to be as a holiday as well. I’m afraid I don’t have any evidence for you. There was no luck at the morgue. I don’t have anything to deliver to you in person.”

“No glass shards from de la Rua’s body?”

“I’m afraid not. I spoke to the doctor who conducted the autopsy and there were no splinters left in the bodies of either de la Rua or the guard when they were brought in. Apparently they had been removed by the medical technicians trying to save the men.”

But Rhyme recalled the crime scene pictures. The wounds had been numerous, the blood loss massive. Some shards must have remained. He now eased close to the whiteboards and examined the autopsy pictures of the victims, the crude incisions, the skull cap placed back after the saw work, the Y incision decorating the chest.

Something was wrong.

Rhyme turned to the room and shouted, to no one in particular, “The autopsy report. I want de la Rua’s autopsy report, now!” He couldn’t juggle the phone and work the computer at the same time.

Mel Cooper complied and in a moment the sca

This victim exhibited approximately 35 lacerations in various sites of the chest, abdomen, arms, face and thighs, primarily anterior, presumably caused by shards of glass from a window that was shot out at the crime scene. These lacerations varied in size but the majority were approximately 3–4mm in width and 2 to 3 centimeters in length. Six of said lacerations were in this victim’s carotid and jugular vessels and femoral artery, resulting in severe hemorrhaging.

Rhyme was aware of faint breathing on the other end of the line. Then: “Captain Rhyme, is everything all right?”

“I have to go.”

“Is there anything more you need me to do?”

Rhyme’s eyes were on Nance Laurel, who was sca

“What is it, Rhyme?” Sachs asked.

He sighed. When he spun around he looked to Laurel. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“What do you mean, Linc?” Sellitto asked.

“De la Rua wasn’t collateral damage at all. He was the target .”

Laurel said, “But, still, Lincoln, we know Shales intended to shoot Moreno. It was the glass shards from the bullet Shales fired that killed de la Rua.”

“That’s the point,” Rhyme said softly. “No, it wasn’t.”

CHAPTER 80

“UAV eight nine two to Florida center. Target identified and acquired. Infrared and SAR.”

“Roger, Eight Nine Two…Use of LRR is authorized.”

“Copy. Eight Nine Two.”

And six seconds later Robert Moreno was no more.

Barry Shales was in the holding cell, alone, hands together, sitting hunched forward. The bench was hard, the air stifling and sour human smelling.

Recalling the Moreno task, thinking particularly of the disembodied voices from Florida Center. People he’d never met.

Just like he’d never actually seen the UAV he’d flown on that mission, never run his hand over its fuselage the way he had his F 16. He never saw any of the UAVs in person.

Remote.

Soldier and weapon.

Soldier and target.

Remote.

Remote.

“There seem to be two, no, three people in the room.”

“Can you positively identify Moreno?”

“It’s…there’s some glare. Okay, that’s better. Yes. I can identify the task. I can see him.”

Shales’s thoughts were in turmoil. Like an aircraft in a spin: The horror of learning that he’d killed three i

Which all brought home to him that fundamentally what he was doing for NIOS was wrong.

Barry Shales had flown combat missions in Iraq. He’d dropped bombs and launched missiles and had some confirmed kills, supporting ground operations. When you were in live combat, even if the odds were in your favor, as with most U.S. military ops, there was still the chance that somebody could bring you down – Stingers, AK 47 fire. Even a single bullet from a Kurdish muzzle loader could do it.

This was combat. That was how war worked.

And it was fair. Because you knew the enemy. They were easy to identify: They were the ones who wanted to fucking kill you right back.

But sitting in a Kill Room, thousands of miles away, padded by layers of intel that might or might not be accurate (or manipulated ), it was different. How did you know the supposed enemy really was just that? How could you ever  know?

And then you’d go back home, forty minutes away, surrounding yourself with people who might be just as i

Oh, and, honey, get some kids’ Nyquil. Sammy’s got the sniffles. I forgot to pick some up.

Shales closed his eyes, rocked on the bench.

He knew that there was something off about Shreve Metzger – the temper, those moments when control left him, the intel reports that just didn’t seem right, the lectures about the sanctity of America. Hell, when he started a pro U.S. tirade he sounded an awful lot like the flip side of Robert Moreno.

Only nobody pumped a.420 boattail into the NIOS director.

And to order in a specialist for clean up, to set IEDs and kill witnesses.

Torture …

Suddenly, sitting in this grim place, wafting of urine and disinfectant, Barry Shales realized he was overwhelmed. Years of hidden guilt were flooding in to drown him, the ghosts of the men and women in the infamous queue, people he’d killed, were swimming toward him now, to drag him under the surface of the inky blood tide. Years of being someone else – Don Bruns, Samuel McCoy, Billy Dodd…Occasionally, at the store or in a movie theater lobby, when Marg called his real name, he hesitated, not sure who she was talking to.