EXFIL by Anthony Patton (best books to read non fiction TXT) 📗

who’d shaped history had no idea that they were doing so at the time. I imagined that many of the soldiers crossing the Delaware River with General Washington on Christmas Eve would sooner have opted for a hot meal and a sleep.

After the exit from I-66, I drove a county road for a few miles, entered a rural town, and saw three Army vehicles with flashing red lights parked outside a motel with a neon vacancy light and an otherwise empty parking lot. I selected a space away from the Army vehicles and paused to observe the scene. The CID special agent, lanky with a flattop, was wearing a black suit and talking to a man with long hair, flannel shirt, and a baseball cap, probably the motel owner.

A few uniformed soldiers were entering and exiting a room a few doors down from the lobby. A bright flash from the room suggested photographs were being taken. With a deep breath and a mental note to avoid exuding guilt, I exited my car and strode toward the CID special agent.

“Thanks again,” he said and turned to me as the motel owner returned to his office.

“Colonel Reed,” I said. “What’s happening here?”

“Special Agent Barry Johnson,” he said, a senior NCO with an off-the-rack black suit, white dress shirt, and a loosened knot on his skinny tie. “Thanks for coming on short notice, sir.” He closed his notepad, clicked his pen, and gestured to the motel. “Could you follow me, sir?”

I followed him with a pounding heart and entered the room to see a body bag on the bed and a half bottle of bourbon and an empty bottle of pills on the nightstand.

Johnson silently gestured for the three uniformed soldiers to leave us alone.

As he grabbed the zipper at the top of the body bag, I had no idea who was inside and couldn’t possibly have prepared myself for the horror I felt when he opened it to reveal Captain Tom Howard. I sank into a chair and hid my face in my hands, unable to speak or look up.

“Do you recognize this man?” he asked as he zipped up the bag and opened his notebook.

I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. I was shocked, unaware that Tom had traveled from Thailand. No matter what, I would have to keep this professional. I nodded, silent.

Then I managed to say, “Captain Tom Howard. He worked for me.”

Johnson signaled for two soldiers to enter. They wheeled in a stretcher with obscene efficiency, hoisted the still limp body, which suggested a time of death less than two hours ago, and rolled it out of the room and into the back of a vehicle before driving away.

I felt as though I needed more time with him.

“We found your name in his pocket,” Johnson continued, and jotted something in his notebook. “My men are tracking down his family.” He closed the notebook and clicked his pen again. “What was the nature of your work with the deceased?”

I stood and took a deep breath to gather my composure.

“We worked together at the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok, until about a week ago.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “What kind of work?”

I decided to continue being vague.

“The Defense Attaché Office,” I said, opting for silent eye contact to suggest the details were above his pay grade.

He clicked his pen and jotted a note, then nodded.

“Have you spoken with him during the past week?”

“I was planning to call him to discuss a work-related issue,” I said, assessing that this topic might surface during the investigation.

“Was there a problem?” he asked with pen to paper, the nib lightly contacting the surface.

I had to nip this in the bud, but couldn’t lie by saying no. “We can discuss the details of our work in another venue, if you have the proper security clearance.”

“Do you have a theory about why Captain Howard might have committed suicide?”

“Are we ruling out homicide?” I asked to deflect attention away from me.

Johnson looked around the room and shrugged. The CID guys were trained to detect lies, so I didn’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary. I honestly had no idea why Tom might have killed himself. I knew him well enough to know that sleeping with a Thai go-go dancer probably wouldn’t drive him to suicide, even if his wife and family had found out.

The third uniformed soldier entered. “There’s no sign of a note.” He handed Johnson a piece of paper. “We tracked down his wife.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got it from here.”

The soldier nodded, exited the room, and drove away.

As we walked to the parking lot, I finally wondered about the obvious. “Have you notified the police?”

Johnson waved to the hotel manager, turned to me, closed his notebook, and clicked his pen. “Sir, the U.S. Army has jurisdiction for this particular investigation. Please don’t discuss it with anyone until we release a public statement. I will personally notify the sheriff.”

My preference was to leave and let the investigation play out, but there was something I had to do, both because it was the right thing under the circumstances and because it might provide insights into why Tom had killed himself.

“I know Captain Howard’s wife, Donna. I could call her to break the bad news.”

Johnson looked me up and down, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag.

“I appreciate the offer, sir,” he exhaled, “but I’ll go with you.”

With hindsight, my offer had been a mistake. Rightly or wrongly, Johnson would assume that I wanted to meet Donna alone to tell her a version of the story I didn’t want him to hear.

Talking to the spouse after an apparent murder or suicide was job number one, so my offer was probably alerting.

Donna sounded pleased to hear from me on the phone, but given that Tom had been out of contact for several hours, she quickly went to a dark place. Now she was “getting the call.” I offered to meet her at