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Landstuhl Regional Medical Center
Landstuhl, Germany
March 2018
Determined to try to interview Army Second Lieutenant KD Whitcomb again, CID Warrant Officer Richard Murdock adopted a cheery expression as he walked into her hospital room. “Afternoon, Lieutenant. You’re looking better.”
Actually, she looked like shit. Yet despite the weary droop of her eyes—brown or black, he couldn’t tell—and the pinched tightness of her mouth—pain, probably—and the rat’s nest in her brown hair, her beauty was still there. With her looks and delicate frame, she should never have been in the army. Yet she had overcome the odds, graduating with a top rank from West Point, then suffering through boot camp and officer training to earn her right to be a soldier. From what he’d read in her file, she was determined and committed, headed for the top. Richard hated that he might be the tool used to bring her down.
He’d done a lot of thinking over the last few days—about this case, his future, how far he’d go to cover the army’s ass, and whether or not he’d be willing to ruin this woman’s career as a soldier to keep his job. Which is what would happen if he turned in the report his next-in-command wanted and bent the facts to avoid another Afghanistan scandal. A no-win situation for everybody but the army. And another reason for him to get out of the military before he lost all respect for the army and himself.
Pushing that thought away, Richard put on a smile. “Ready for a few questions, Lieutenant?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
And totally lacking in enthusiasm, it seemed. But Richard was accustomed to that. No one liked being interrogated by the Criminal Investigation Division.
He got out his notepad and pen and took a chair beside the bed. Hoping to put her more at ease, he said, “Again, I’m sorry about Captain Mouton. From everything I’ve heard, she was a fine officer.”
“And friend,” Whitcomb added, blinking hard.
To give her a chance to pull herself together—he hated when they cried—Richard shuffled through the pages a bit. When he figured she’d had enough time, he started with, “When did Captain Mouton decide to go to Farid’s quarters?”
“We were at mess. COM radioed two women were at the gate asking for her.”
“That would be your Afghan interpreter, Samira, and a local woman?”
“Yes. Azyan. I don’t know her last name.”
Richard jotted that down. “And what did they say to the Captain?”
“That Farid had taken Azyan’s eight-year-old son, and she wanted him back.”
“And Mouton agreed to go get him?”
“Not at first. Especially after she learned Farid was the ANP commanding officer. We have enough problems with the Afghan National Police without stirring up more. Mouton explained that we couldn’t interfere in local matters, and asked why Azyan couldn’t go get her son herself. Samira told us she’d tried, but Farid had hit her. Azyan showed us cuts and bruises on her face and arms.”
“And that’s when your captain decided to go to Farid’s?”
“Not until Azyan told us why Farid had taken her son.” A look of disgust crossed her face. “For sex. Captain Mouton made it clear that she could only ask Farid to return the boy. If he refused, there was nothing more we could do.”
Richard started a new page, wishing he’d brought new batteries for his recorder. “Did she order you to go with her?”
“No.”
“But you went anyway. Despite the noninterference policy in local matters.”
A hard look came over the lieutenant’s face, making her look older, less vulnerable. And definitely not broken. “She was my captain. I had her back. That was part of my mission.”
Instead of responding, Richard sat quietly and waited. After two years with the 8th Psychological Operations Group and six with CID, he’d found that silence often worked better than questions to keep a conversation going.
This time was no exception. “Actually, she didn’t want me going,” Whitcomb finally said. “She knew the risks, and didn’t want me to damage my career. I told her she wasn’t going alone.”
“So both of you knowingly disobeyed the Department of Defense policy of ignoring Afghan cultural matters?”
Emotion flashed in her eyes. Brown eyes, he saw now, showing flecks of yellow when she was mad. She studied him for a long time, her mouth set, her hands fisted against the sheets. She gave off an unbreachable aura of strength, as if showing weakness was the same as accepting defeat. She might be small, but she was tough. He couldn’t help but admire that.
“I think I see where this is going, Warrant Officer Murdock.” She spoke calmly. Precisely. Every word carefully enunciated. “The army is worried about an international shitstorm, so they’ve sent you to find a way to spin it so Captain Mouton takes the blame.” She smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile and did nothing to bank the fire in those amazing eyes. “You’ll get no help from me. Captain Mouton was an excellent soldier. Honest, fair, courageous. And I will never let anyone paint her differently.”
“I wasn’t trying to. I only want the truth.”
“Oh, really? Then here’s the truth. We went to Farid’s as a courtesy to a desperate mother. That’s why female soldiers are in Afghanistan. To offer help to the Afghan women wherever and however we can. Captain Mouton had no intention of doing
