Shelves containing books covered two of the room’s walls. The other two walls were covered with pictures of Trimble with various political figures, including four past presidents as well as President Fitzhugh. Chaplain Trimble was obviously a man who liked to hang out his political connections for others to see. Only a handful of documents detailing his secular training held any space.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gander. Please, have a seat.” Trimble was in his early sixties and overweight. His army uniform was tailored to be gracious to the twenty pounds he carried that exceeded army regs. A few strands of silver hair stuck stubbornly to his pink scalp. His face was round and his cheeks showed signs of turning bulldoggish. Oval glasses sat at the end of his narrow nose and emphasized how close set his eyes were.
“Thank you.” Megan sat then noticed how Trimble gazed at her jeans a second too long. His dissatisfaction with her choice of dress was obvious. “Forgive the jeans,” she said. “I know this isn’t exactly professional attire, but a lot of the work I’m doing right now is hard physical labor.”
She had volunteered the teens to help with transporting and passing out supplies to the general population of the post. Giving them something useful to do in addition to their counseling and grief sessions was part of the overall mental wellness plan Megan and the other counselors had come up with.
More than that, dressing in jeans and loose pullovers helped the teens relate better to her. Right now, the post was filled with guys in uniforms and short attitudes telling everyone what to do and when to do it. Those orders were directed especially at teens because they didn’t have assigned duties and they tended to hang out in the middle of operations to find out more about what was going on. More now than ever, the teens felt ostracized amid all the military comings and goings.
Trimble held up a hand. “I’m not your supervisor, Mrs. Gander, and we’re not here to talk about fashion.”
Megan felt a little better.
“Although,” Trimble went on, “I would like to point out that a uniform, or a professional appearance, is put on for a reason. When you lead people, you need to look like a leader. Not like one of those who need leading.”
Megan bit back an angry retort. Chauvinism tended to thrive in certain pockets of the military. There was an upside to it. A lot of guys opened doors for her. The downside was that some military men felt like women were an afterthought to the overall effort.
“Sometimes,” Megan stated in an even voice, “it’s easier to lead people from within their midst rather than standing on the outside of a group. That way they don’t tend to view you as an outsider. The men you lead wear uniforms. The kids I’m helping don’t.”
Trimble frowned and leaned back in his chair. He put his hands together over his ample stomach. “I’m glad we were able to have this meeting this morning, Mrs. Gander.”
A wall of ice seemed to close around Megan, and she was suddenly not glad about the meeting at all. She waited, letting him take the lead. She wanted to see where he was headed.
“After the incident involving Holly—” Trimble rifled through a yellow legal pad on his desk.
“Hollister,” Megan said in as neutral a voice as she could manage.
“Leslie Hollister.”
Trimble looked up at her over his glasses, then let the papers fall back to the pad, settling in his chair again. “After the unfortunate incident involving young Leslie Hollister last night, especially given the intricacies of your involvement, I was planning on speaking with you anyway.”
Megan could feel her temper straining against the tight hold she was keeping on it. She wasn’t rested and she already felt guilty. The handling she’d received during the investigation by the provost marshal’s office, and then being kept under guard by MPs at the hospital, hadn’t exactly been positive experiences.
“Why were you planning on talking to me?” Megan asked.
Trimble blinked. He put his hands together, rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. The move was an attempt to threaten to invade Megan’s personal space, and she knew it.
Stubbornly, liking the chaplain less and less with each passing moment, Megan held her ground. Having her personal space invaded was hard on her. She liked having her boundaries. But that invasion technique was one of the first things people in command were taught. She had seen Goose do it with recalcitrant soldiers, but he had never done anything like that to her or the kids. However, when she had conferences with parents of troubled teens, the maneuver was one of the first things men tried to pull during a heated confrontation.
“As a friend and colleague, I would hope,” Trimble said.
Hope all you want, Megan thought, but I can’t see it happening. But she kept from saying that. She needed him to be on her side at least long enough to understand what she was going to say.
“You’ve had a rotten few days,” Trimble said. “I understand you had a daughter who is one of those missing.”
Megan forced the answer out. “A son, actually. Chris.”
“Of course. Pardon me. There’s just been so much going on.” Evidently realizing that his space invasion wasn’t going to work, Trimble leaned back in his seat again. “In addition to your own personal worries about your family, there was the debacle with the Fletcher boy—”
“Gerry,” Megan said, wanting the man to at least know the names of the people he wanted to use against her.
Trimble picked up a pencil and tapped it irritably against the legal pad. “His father—”
“Private First Class Boyd Fletcher.”
“—has chosen to pursue charges for dereliction of duty because you didn’t inform his wife or him that the boy was in the hospital.”
“Boyd Fletcher was the reason his son was in the hospital. He physically abused Gerry on a number of occasions. He’d done it before, and he did it
