The Night Crew by Brian Haig Read Free Book Online Page A

West Virginia. I couldn’t imagine what her preacher thought, or for that matter, her parents, of their little girl engaged in such vulgar activities. I could guess, though, that they were angry—angry that the army had turned their little girl into a monster, angry that the army had gotten her into this mess, and angriest of all that the army was now trying to put their little girl in the slammer for life.
    Anyway, we continued the questioning in this perfunctory vein for about another twenty minutes. At one point, I asked about her MOS—her military occupational specialty—her military experience and training. To my surprise she informed me she was a 71 bravo—a personnel clerk—rather than a military policewoman or military intelligence specialist as I had assumed she would be. So what was a paper jockey, a fair-weather pogue in military parlance, doing in a military prison cellblock in a war zone? And why was a personnel clerk involved in prisoner interrogation?
    But the extent of her military training entailed a three-month stint on active duty at Fort McClellan at the start of her enlistment, where she was taught the fundamentals of the military personnel system and a few rudimentary clerking duties, typing, correspondence, and so forth. Afterward, as per the standard National Guard contractual obligation, twice each month she reported to her local armory for her required weekend drills. Depending on the Guard unit in question, that may have entailed two fast and furious days of meaningful training or an extended weekend beer bash.
    Her call-up for deployment to Iraq came at the last minute. After only one frantic week of country orientation and refresher training in basic combat skills, she found herself on a troop plane bound for war.
    I should mention here that National Guard people are, in the truest and noblest sense of the term, America’s citizen-soldiers. They are patriotic citizens with full-time civilian jobs, families, community responsibilities—a full and demanding life outside military service—the modern-day equivalent of revolutionary-era minutemen who, at the first bang of the claxon, rush off to the ensuing environmental apocalypse or the sound of the guns, whatever the situation dictates.
    But Lydia’s brief odyssey from peace to war stretched even that metaphor a bit; one Monday she was cramming letters into coded boxes in gentle, desultory Justin, trying to survive the ennui of small-time life; the next, she was holding her ass, dodging mortar rounds in Iraq.
    Katherine sat patiently throughout this dialogue, still and sphinx-like. I was sure she had asked Lydia many of these same questions, and I was equally sure that my military background opened a few lines of inquiry that might have escaped Katherine’s scope of prurience.
    Sometimes it’s the small things that break a case. You never know unless you ask.
    I eventually did ask Private Eddelston, “Do you mind if we shift into a few preliminary questions about what happened at Al Basari?”
    She smiled. “Guess that’s what we’re here to do, right?”
    Good guess. She was now leaning back in her seat, hands clasped behind her neck, comfortable with herself and, if not totally comfortable with me, she at least seemed to have fit me into some nonthreatening frame of reference. Actually, I did not want her that relaxed, but neither did I want to intimidate her, so, to put her in the right mood, I reminded her, “We’re here because you’re facing a general court martial, which is the highest level of military justice with the most serious consequences. And you have been charged with a number of offenses, ranging from conspiracy to commit murder, to abusing prisoners.”
    Her hands came down and a frown popped onto her face.
    I added, “These are serious charges, Lydia. Have you been advised of the possible punishments if you’re convicted?”
    She bit her lower lip. “Yes, sir. That other lawyer, Captain Howser, he tole