three other drivers with ex-military backgrounds, to determine if Rytter had any affiliation with American Centurion, or with any of its personnel through any military network or association.
Malloy had cleared a room for the two investigators who would talk to the guards one by one. Morrow flipped through the files. Ridley was up first, his attitude hardened by being in the crosshairs.
“Our apologies for putting your family through the wringer,” Morrow said.
“You assholes don’t care.”
“Hey!” Dimarco said. “You lied to us and gave us reason to look at you. You could’ve been charged with obstruction in relation to four homicides. Want to swallow that and cooperate? Now, do you know this guy?”
Dimarco slid Ridley photos of Erik Rytter: a recent one on a slab in Nebraska, in profile, without showing the damage from the bullet; a close-up of Rytter’s wrist with the cobra tattoo; and two others provided by German authorities.
Ridley shook his head.
“I never saw that guy or heard of him.”
“The tattoo?”
“Nope. Just like I told you before.”
Ridley had been with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, in Baghdad’s Green Zone.
“We were trying to rebuild their country in the middle of a war and people were trying to kill us. I got in and got out. There was so much crap going on. I did my duty and came home. And that tattoo… Hell, everybody had tattoos.” Ridley held out his arms, sleeved in them.
It was going to be a long day.
Dimarco got fresh coffee for Morrow and for himself. Next up was crew chief Cal Turner, aged thirty-six, who’d been with the 82nd Airborne.
“Is he the shooter?” Turner stared at the photos.
“That’s what we want to determine.”
Turner took a long look.
“I was in Afghanistan chasing the Taliban.” He shook his head. “I knew a few German soldiers but not your guy there. He doesn’t ring a bell. But out there, you never knew who the enemy was half the time.”
“Tell us about contractors,” Dimarco said.
“I never paid much attention to that,” Turner said. “Sure, there was a lot of money to be made, but to me it’s a death wish. Why would you sign on to that? Just for a few more bucks. I’ll tell you something, the guys that did it had different DNA. They were wild, crazy, some of the best soldiers in the world. But if you got home intact, you’ve won. So why would you go back?”
Morrow got up and paced a bit while kneading the back of his neck until the door opened.
Lori Schneider, a driver, was next. The thirty-five-year-old mother of three boys had served with the U.S. Army’s 507th Maintenance Company.
“I was a mechanic,” she said. “I helped support Patriot antimissile batteries in Baghdad.”
Schneider said that she didn’t know Rytter or his tattoo, had never seen or heard of him until now.
“You really think he did it? He’s one of them?” She gazed at his picture, her chin crumpling. “I was close to our guys, to Ross, Phil and Gary. Being dead is too good for this fucker, way too good.”
“What about contractors?” Morrow asked. “Lori, what’s your knowledge of them from your tour?”
“I just did my job.” She shrugged. “I heard the stories, how they were always getting into trouble and were exempt from prosecution. Cowboys with guns. I just did my job and looked out for my team.”
The day had passed in large chunks and Dimarco wanted more coffee. Dennis Hagler, a driver for American Centurion, was the last ex-soldier they needed to talk to. Hagler had been a sergeant with the First Battalion, 87th Infantry.
“Our squad had a lot of casualties—IEDs mostly—but when we tangled with insurgents near the Tajikistan border with Afghanistan, we wasted them. I saw a lot of guys blown to pieces, but I never questioned the mission. I understood why we put it all on the line to do what we had to do. I’m glad they got Bin Laden, wish I was there to pull the trigger.”
“Does Rytter look familiar to you?” Dimarco asked Hagler. “Had you ever seen him around the depot or on any routes?”
Hagler scratched his chin then shook his head.
“No.”
“Does his tattoo look familiar?”
Hagler shook his head.
“We understand Rytter worked in Afghanistan and Iraq as a contractor. What are your thoughts on this and what’s happened?” Dimarco asked.
“Over there you heard rumors of some illegal stuff—Special Ops, Black Ops, creepy CIA ghost friends, that’s about it. Just a lot of beer talk,” Hagler said. “With Rytter, you think that the people who did this were ex-military looking for a big payday?”
“What do you think?” Morrow asked.
“Maybe. That’s one theory.”
“Got another?”
“Well, maybe they hit us for the cash to fund something?”
Morrow and Dimarco exchanged looks.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. It couldn’t be for the Taliban or al-Qaeda, that’s what the sheikhs are for. It would have to be something personal, maybe? I don’t know, some cause or crusade.” Hagler shook his head. “I could be wrong, it might be some ex-mercenaries looking for a big payday. Who knows.”
It was midevening by the time Morrow pulled his car into the driveway of his home in Westchester County. His body felt as if his weight had doubled.
In the kitchen he made a chicken sandwich, which he ate with a glass of milk. Then he had a sliver of his wife’s homemade apple pie. Beth was in the living room on the phone to her sister. She nodded that Hailey was upstairs. Morrow went to check on her, but heard the shower going. He went to his study and started reviewing files.
Rytter had given them a major break.
They needed to advance it.
He got an email from Art Stein about another appointment, then went back to his files, scouring them for anything he’d missed until his vision blurred, his eyes closed and he drifted off.
He was dreaming about an ocean beach, when he felt a butterfly caress on his cheek and woke to see his daughter.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Dad.” She knelt before him, her face a portrait of sadness. “Dad, how can I graduate, how can I go to college, get married, have kids, without you there?”
Morrow pulled her to him and she sobbed in his arms.
As he held her he realized he was still gripping the file for Donna Breen, Moe Malloy’s cousin, who’d informed them about Gina Saldino. A light flickered in a corner of his mind, something that Breen had told him about Saldino.
That she had a boyfriend who had been in Pakistan or someplace like that.
