ugly.
After the first pass, Delbert, Morrow, and I gathered in a small knot in the back corner and whispered among ourselves. Dr. McAbee and Dr. Whatever-osovich continued to traipse around and pick at pieces of wounded flesh. The Serb was obviously a pathologist, and the two of them were rubbing chins and chatting amicably, just having a gay old time.
“What do you think?” I asked Delbert and Morrow, waiting to see who would answer first.
Morrow quickly said, “It’s sobering.”
“Very sobering,” Delbert quickly one-upped her.
And indeed it was sobering. Both Delbert and Morrow had been through morgues before, so these were certainly not the first corpses they’d seen. Still, it’s a very breathtaking thing to see thirty-five of them all at once. I had the advantage of having been to war once or twice, but I’ll admit that the sight of lots of dead bodies still taxes my soul in strange ways.
“It doesn’t look good, does it?” Delbert asked.
“No,” I grimly admitted. “We won’t know for sure till McAbee’s done, but I’d guess most of the damage was done with M16s and claymores. There was a machine gun or two involved as well, but I can’t even hazard a guess what kind.”
“Some of them were little more than boys,” Morrow said.
“Right.”
“A few were just sprouting pubic hair,” she continued, not as a matter of prurience, but because it exacerbated the seriousness of this. Killing grown men was one thing. Killing teenage boys took it to another level.
On my first sweep through, I had deliberately ignored the faces. I had focused only on the wounds, because I didn’t want my reason clouded by emotion. Now it was time to go back and look at each corpse anew; to think of them as human beings rather than as butchered slabs of meat filled with clues. Perhaps some of these corpses had done some very nasty things to the Albanians they were herding out of Kosovo; still, I had to remind myself that they were also human beings. Besides, at issue here was not what crimes some, or maybe all, of these men had committed, but what crimes might have been done to them. So I spent another twenty minutes wandering through and trying to order my ever-pliant conscience.
Dr. McAbee had collected a number of specimens and was now taking photographs of each corpse. He worked efficiently and professionally and completed his work even before I was done.
He finally walked over to me. “It doesn’t look good, Counselor.”
“I can see that.”
“Our host gave me a collection of projectiles removed from the corpses.”
“Did you personally remove any?”
“A few.”
“And?”
“The bullets are 5.56. The pellets appear to be claymore.”
“So all the wounds were made by American weapons?”
“With thirty-five bodies, it would take three X-ray machines and a team of three assistants a full week to prove that beyond any shadow of a doubt.”
“But is that your general impression?” I asked him.
His bulgy eyes fixed mine, and he seemed to sigh. “Every wound I saw appeared to come from an American weapon.”
“What about the head wounds?”
“Most were shot from a distance of less than two feet. These fools washed the bodies, but I still found some gunpowder samples in their hair.”
“And how would you guess that happened?”
“That’s obvious, isn’t it? Someone walked through and made sure there were no survivors.”
“Nothing’s obvious,” I chided. “Be careful about assumptions.”
“Of course, you’re right,” he said, although we both knew that it still appeared obvious.
“Did you tell that Serb doctor to maintain these bodies until we’re done?” I asked him.
“I did. But he said he can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Milosevic has ordered a large state procession where the families of the dead are to be honored for their sacrifices. After the ceremony, the bodies are to be returned to their families for funerals.”
“Then the Serbs will create a vast problem for us and themselves.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“If I was the defense attorney for the accused, I would insist on equal right to examine the corpses.”
“Well, the corpses have now been examined by me.”
I gave him my best cross-examining look. “And could you tell me, Doctor, with complete certainty, exactly how many of these men were killed with American weapons?”
“We already went over that.”
“You’ll go over it on a witness stand, too. If the members of that A-team are charged with murder, how many counts do we charge them with? You have to list those things. Then you have to be able to prove that was exactly how many people they murdered.”
“Of course,” he sheepishly said. “I’m sorry. I’ve never handled a situation of this magnitude.”
“None of us have. But think this way from now on. What I want you to do is classify each corpse. I want to know how many died immediately, and how many were initially wounded, and then dispatched. Can you do that for me?”
He nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now, as the coroner of record, is there anything else you need from this place?”
“I’d love to have a couple of these bodies to carry back, so I can determine the exact circumstances of death, but that’s not going to be possible.”
“All right, the first thing you do when we get back is file an official request for just that. I’ll file one, too. We’ll inform Washington that this case could be jeopardized if we don’t have a few bodies.”
Chapter 5
We arrived back at Tulza shortly after three. Our stomachs had gone from queasy to growling, so I asked Imelda to scramble us up a meal. Sounds easy, but you have to remember that this was the Army, and the Army has mess halls, and the Army tells you when you can eat and not eat. Three o’clock is one of those “not eat” periods. But you also have to remember that this was Imelda Pepperfield, who can make rocks cry.
She came huffing back into my office, followed by two of her female legal clerks, both of whom were strikingly deficient on the looks side but undoubtedly had stellar clerical skills. Imelda snorted a few times as her assistants plunked down several trays loaded with meatloaf sandwiches and mashed potatoes larded with a thick, pasty, gravy.
“Any trouble?” I asked.
“Nope. That mess sergeant tried to say no, so I kicked his butt a little, and he snapped to.”
The thing about Imelda is that she was raised in the rural backcountry of Alabama and has all the inflections and manners of a poor, uneducated southern Black girl. And if you are too stupid for words, you buy into that act. I could have looked up her IQ in her military records, but I never bothered. The truth was I never wanted positive confirmation that she is much smarter than me. I did know one of her secrets, that she’d earned two master’s degrees, one in criminal justice and the other in English literature. She never went anywhere without a few thick books hidden in her duffel, usually written by some of those Russian writers with long, impossibly tongue-twisting names.
Delbert and Morrow were eyeing the meatloaf sandwiches with pure disgust, while I launched in with gusto.
