Ryan and I shared a drink on the lanai, Perrier for me, Big Wave Golden Ale for him.
Ryan apologized for Lily’s insolence. She’d resisted making the trip. He’d insisted, gotten no support from Lutetia. He suspected a love interest, perhaps a man from Lily’s drug rehab group. Or, worse, from her past as a user.
I explained that Katy was still dejected over Coop’s death, but that she seemed to be on the mend.
We agreed that our daughters were champs at the use of the sugar-coated dig. And that my sisterhood- bonding therapy did not look promising.
I brought Ryan up to speed on developments at the CIL. The Mongoloid craniofacial traits of 2010-37. Spider Lowery’s Native American ancestry. Luis Alvarez, the maintenance specialist who went down with Spider in ’68. 1968-979, the decomposed body found near Long Binh eight months after the crash. Spider Lowery’s dog tag in 1968-979’s box.
Ryan filled me in on developments in Montreal. And Lumberton. Turned out my suggestion about Beasley, though a good one, was nonproductive. The sheriff was cooperative but, to date, had offered nothing of value.
Listening to Ryan describe his exchange with the sheriff triggered a
“Ryan, listen. Spider’s mother died of kidney failure five years ago. It’s a long shot, but maybe the hospital where she was treated still has some samples on file, you know, a path slide or something. And Spider had a brother who was killed a couple years before that.”
“A long shot is better than no shot at all. I’ll call first thing tomorrow, ask Beasley to poke around.”
Ryan proposed taking Katy and Lily to Pearl Harbor the following day. I wished him luck.
At eleven, we too retired to our separate rooms.
Through my wall, I heard Lily talking on her cell.
THE SUNSHINE SISTERS WERE STILL SLEEPING WHEN I ENTERED the kitchen at eight the following morning. Ryan was lacing on Nikes for a run on the beach. The plan was that he and our daughters would spend the day at Pearl Harbor, visiting the USS
Dimitriadus was on my bumper as I turned in at JPAC. We crossed the lot together. In silence. I wondered how an examiner of unidentified bones could miss a dog tag in a box. Ten feet from the building, he accelerated his pace and shot inside, letting the door slam in my face.
Last night, Lily’s cold shoulder. This morning, Dimitriadus. I was beginning to feel like the class pariah.
Danny was in his office.
“Dimitriadus is acting like I killed his puppy.”
“Come in.” Danny’s smile faded. “Close the door.”
Puzzled, I did.
“We’re cutting Dimitriadus loose.”
“Jesus. The guy’s been here, what, twelve years? Why?”
“A number of reasons. Most recently, he failed his ABFA exam again.” Danny referred to the American Board of Forensic Anthropology examination for certification, a credential essential for qualification in the field.
“The dog tag?”
“The decision was made before that came up, so no.”
“What will he do?”
Danny spread both hands. Who knows?
“That info is for your ears only. So far only Dimitriadus, Merkel, you, and I know.”
I nodded.
A beat passed.
“Today’s
J-2, the joint command records section, has access to information on deceased personnel going back to World War I.
“I was just about to walk over and pick it up. Jackson asked about you. Come along, make the man’s day.”
“Corporal Jackson? The guy who convinced everyone the phone lines were scheduled for cleaning by a steam blast, and that all handsets had to be sealed in plastic bags for an hour?”
“It’s Sergeant Jackson now.”
“He’s been here a long time.”
“He’s just been reassigned back, actually.”
“I no longer have clearance to J-2.”
