Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (22 page)

Babocci nodded. He was still looking at the little girl and marveling at the way a child can warm your heart. “Yeah, I refilled my canteen. I’ll be all right.”

“You’re a good man, Tommy,” the transport driver said. “These rabbis risk their lives for us. This one would have become a martyr if you hadn’t found them.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Babocci a pack of gum. “Here, enjoy. I’ll see you back at camp.”

Rabbi Borach and his family were still waving to Babocci as the transport disappeared into the distance.

Babocci continued to look out at the horizon long after the transport was gone. He was reaching for his canteen when a sniper round hit him in the chest. The velocity of the bullet knocked him to the ground. He was still dazed when the Iraqi sniper raced over to him and leveled his rifle to finish the job.

US Military Hospital, Balad, Iraq, November 30, 2004.

Major
General Randolph Clemmens, the head of Joint Special Operations Command, followed Brigadier General Ralph Totem through the hospital complex on their way to the pulmonary care unit. Totem stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he hit the area. “Here it is. See for yourself,” Totem said. “Every bed is full. I’ve got others spread out all around the hospital.”

Clemmens rubbed his chin. “Look, Ralph, are you absolutely sure that all of these cases are coming from the burn pits?”

“With all due respect, General, we use an area the size of a football field to burn waste for a thirty-thousand-soldier military base. We’re using jet fuel to burn plastics, truck batteries, chemicals, tires, munitions, mess hall waste, and every other possible kind of garbage imaginable in an open-air pit. What did you think was going to happen?”

“Are you sure that some of them aren’t malingerers? You know how it goes. Every goldbrick knows how to play the game. They hear how a couple of troops got sick, and they jump on the bandwagon.”

“Malingerers? No, they’re not malingerers. If you like, I can take a few of them off their oxygen and you can listen to them wheeze.”

“You’re out of line, Ralph. You see me standing here. I know that you’re serious.”

“Randy, I’ve been petitioning to close the burn pits since the day I got here. You’re exposing tens of thousands of military personnel to dangerous airborne toxins every day. The troops have asthma, emphysema, and COPD. Stick around and watch. The sky fills with black acrid smoke, and we’re all breathing it in . . . including me!”

“And I’ve been trying to allocate the funds to replace them, but it hasn’t been easy. We have eighty goddamn burn pits in operation throughout the Middle East, and it will cost millions to replace them with high-temperature incinerators.”

“What do you think it will cost when the class action lawsuits start rolling in? These kids are over here risking their lives. They have to survive enemy attack day after day. They’re lucky enough if they make it out of the desert alive. It’s not right that their own government puts them at risk over something like this. I don’t give a shit that these burn pits are operated by giant defense contractors with half of the US Senate in their pockets. This-has-got-to-stop.”

Clemmens came face to face with Totem, his eyes were red with anger. “I-have-got-the-message. Now unless you’re ready to be relieved of your command—”

“I’ve had enough. I’m putting in for a transfer,” Totem said.

“And I’ll approve it. I’m doing the best I can.” A tense moment passed. “I want to see the boys that have been injured in the field.” Clemmens walked off. He came upon Babocci’s bed. Babocci was unconscious and on life support. His amputated arm and leg stumps were visible for Clemmens to see. “What happened to this soldier?”

Totem still looked angry as he read Babocci’s chart. “PFC Tommaso Babocci—I heard about this one. He took a sniper round in the chest. He had just rescued an Israeli family who had been imprisoned by the Iraqis.”

“Israeli intelligence?”

“Ya, the Mossad plants families behind enemy lines. They act to inform the US military and keep the opposition from taking root.”

“This man is a hero. I’ll see that he’s decorated for his valor.”

I’m sure he’d rather have his limbs back. Don’t say that, Ralph. Keep your mouth shut.

“You said he took a round in the chest. What happened to his arm and leg?”

“The sniper was a real motherfucker. Babocci was alone. He came back and made chop meat out of his arm, leg, and genitals.” Clemmens winced. “We had no choice but to amputate. He’s lucky to be alive. We’re keeping him under heavy sedation until he gets stronger. He’s still critical.”

Clemmens covered his mouth and was silent for moments. He leaned over and stroked Babocci’s hair. “I’m sorry this happened to you, son. I’m truly sorry.”

“He took eighteen rounds, one in the chest and seventeen in his left arm and leg. He was conscious when his troop picked him up.”

“Eighteen? Why eighteen? The Iraqis use Russian Tabuks, don’t they?”

“That’s right, Randy, they do.”

“Well, don’t the Tabuk magazines hold twenty rounds? I can’t believe the son of a bitch didn’t empty the clip.”

“That’s right, the clip holds twenty,” Totem said. “Every Arab knows that eighteen is the Jewish number for good luck.”

Gus
and I stopped for a dinner break. We found this enormous diner on Highland Boulevard. Now diners aren’t normally my thing, but this one was a real find. The service was quick, the food was fresh, and the portions were large enough to choke a horse . . . or a ravenous pregnant woman. The diner looked like it had recently been redecorated. My maternity-heightened senses were still hard at work. I took a whiff and determined that the vinyl the booth was upholstered with was brand spanking new.

The place was packed. I wasn’t surprised. The prices were dirt cheap. My tuna melt came with an avalanche of toasty golden onion rings. Onion rings are like heroin to me—deep-fried, batter-coated heroin. “Want some?” Gus reached for one but I blocked him with my hand. “I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m hoarding these.” Gus snatched one and smirked while he chewed it. I picked up a butter knife. “I wouldn’t try that again if I were you!”

The guy sitting across the way from us was bald but had a huge wad of hair growing out of his ear. He slurped his soup so loudly I wanted to hand him a straw. “Jesus,” I said to Gus. “Please, put me out of my misery.”

“Relax, it’s only a cup of soup—he’s almost done.”

I glanced over at his cup of soup and did a quick calculation. “He’s got about ten spoonfuls left. I’ll never make it.”

Gus held my hand and pretended to be serious. “You can do it. Stay with me, Stephanie. I’ll talk you through it.”

Our tableside guest did it again—he emitted a slurp so loud that the window shades rattled. “I can’t take it, I tell you. I’ve become intolerant of bad manners.”

“Easy girl.”

I reached into my bag and found my Etymotic shooters plugs. I stuffed them in my ears.

“Now that’s ridiculous,” Gus said.

“What?”

“I said
that’s ridiculous
.”

“I still can’t hear you.” I started to giggle. The waitress came over with two plates of baklava. I removed the earplugs. Her name badge read Cathy. “Are those for us, Cathy?”

“On the house,” she said.” “She leaned over the table. “It’s the least I can do. Old Stavros over there slurps so loudly it makes me feel like I’m at the dentist’s office. You know, when they stick the suction tube in your mouth so that you don’t drool on yourself.”

I glared at Gus. “See, I told you it was bad.” Cathy put the dishes down in front of us. “Gee, this looks awesome. Thanks.”

“You’re cops, right?” Cathy asked.

“It’s that obvious?” Gus said.

Cathy nodded. “Can I ask you a question? What the hell is going on around here? I read all the papers. Staten Island is starting to sound like Fort Apache. There are bodies turning up all over the place . . . another one this morning, floating in the narrows, right?”

I nodded as I took a forkful of baklava. “I won’t lie to you, it’s not good, but I think we’re getting close. Oh wow, this is delicious.”

“We do all the baking on premises,” Cathy said. “So you’re looking for this guy Tillerman, right?”

“That’s right.” I sensed that Cathy had something to tell us, and that perhaps her need to chat was the real reason for the free dessert. “You want to sit down?”

Cathy looked toward the front counter, presumably to see if her boss was watching. “Okay, only for a moment. Scoot over.” I made room for Cathy but took my dessert with me. I can eat and listen at the same time—I’m a magnificent multitasker. “I used to live on Arden Avenue. I knew his wife, Barbara. We used to volunteer at the JCC soup kitchen on Manor Road.”

“Did you ever meet him?” Gus asked.

“Sure. Big guy. Didn’t talk much though. They have two adorable little boys, Mark and Stephen.”

“How long ago was that?”

Cathy shrugged. “I don’t know . . . several months, a year maybe?”

“So what happened?”

“She stopped coming down to the JCC. The next thing I knew they were boarding up the house. Times are hard—I figured they couldn’t afford the upkeep on the house. I guess the bank owns it now.”

“Actually the house used to belong to his parents. He took it over. There’s no mortgage. He’s in arrears on the taxes, but you know how quickly the county moves,” I said facetiously. “I’m afraid that house will be an eyesore for a long time to come. It was boarded up to keep out looters.”

“Too bad,” Cathy said. “Barbara kept a loving home.”

“So you never stayed in touch?” Gus asked.

“No,” Cathy said. “I feel guilty about it because Barbara was such a lovely woman. I hope she’s all right. I can’t believe her husband is a murderer.”

“Actually, Cathy, he’s only a suspect at this moment, but I know what you mean,” Gus said. “I guess you just never know.”

“Well, thanks for the dessert.” It seemed as if Cathy was just being nosey and didn’t have anything else to contribute to our investigation. I handed her my business card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help.”

Cathy got up just as my cell phone rang. “Good luck, detectives. I hope you catch him soon.”

“Another medallion,” Ambler said over the phone. “The forensic odontologist has already examined the teeth which were used to make the medallion and compared them to the impressions he took from the mouth of the woman found in the narrows this morning—he believes they came from her mouth.”

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t. Was this one delivered in the same way?”

“Yeah. Someone paid a kid to drop it off in the lobby,” Ambler said.

“Same useless description?”

“Yeah, an average-size white guy in a hoodie and sunglasses,” Ambler said. “Gave him twenty bucks to walk the envelope across town to the FBI building.”

“And no fingerprints?”

“Clean as a whistle,” Ambler replied.

“So whomever is handing off these packages is not Tillerman. I think it’s fair to say that Tillerman is not an average-size white guy. Besides, there’s no way he’d take a chance on being seen in the vicinity of your office, not a gargantuan hulking character like that.”

“So who’s his accomplice?” Ambler asked.

“And that’s one to grow on.”

“Thanks, Chalice you’re a big help,” Ambler said. “Later.” I disconnected.

Gus had a puzzled expression on his face. “And that’s one to grow on? Where in God’s name did that come from?”

“Oh come on, Gus, they used to play that public service announcement in between the Saturday morning cartoons. You don’t remember?”

“I guess now that you mention it.” Gus smiled after a moment. “God love ya, you’re strange.”

I patted the back of Gus’ hand. “Buckle up, baby, there’s more to come.”

Okay, so there was someone else in the picture, a delivery boy if nothing else. The new information did not get me excited. I knew that we had to find Tillerman before he struck again. The burning question was why had Tillerman gone to such great lengths to kill Jane Doe. She was his first female victim and that was also a deviation from his MO. It did not explain why he had devised such a devious method to kill her. I drummed my fingers on the table. “It’s right there, Gus. I feel like I should get it, but I don’t.”

“You’ll figure it out. I have faith in you.”

I pushed my dessert plate to the center of the table. “I can’t eat anymore.”

Gus’ mouth dropped. “For real?”

“Yes, for real. And don’t bother asking; I feel all right.”

Giacomo
Babocci zipped his leather jacket and looked in the mirror to check his hair. He began to turn gray before he was thirty, but his hair was still dense and lustrous. He smoothed the hair on the side of his head with an open palm.
You’ve got a few more wrinkles since Angela died . . . but your hair still looks good.
His wife’s picture hung on the wall nearby. He kissed it. “I still love you, babe.”