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“Oh Christ, spare me the psychobabble. If you’ve come as Dr. Cross the psychologist, you can turn around and leave right now. You’ll bore me to tears.”
“I was talking as a homicide detective,” I said.
“That’s a little better, I suppose. I can stomach you as a sanctimonious cop. You’re not much of a shrink, but then again it’s not much of a profession. Never did anything for me. I have my own philosophy: Kill them all, let God sort’m out. Analyze that.”
I didn’t say anything. Kyle had always liked to hear himself talk. If he asked questions, he often wanted to ridicule whatever you said in response. He lived to bait and taunt. I doubted that anything had changed with him.
Finally, he smiled. “Oh, Alex, you are the clever one, aren’t you? Sometimes I have the terrifying thought that you’re the one who’s always a step ahead.”
I didn’t take my eyes away from his.
“I don’t think so, Kyle.”
“But you’re persistent as an attack dog from hell. Relentless. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t think about it much. If you say so, I probably am.”
His eyes narrowed. “Now you’re being condescending. I don’t like that.”
“Who cares what you like anymore?”
“Hmmm. Point taken. I must remember that.”
“I asked before if you could help me with Tran Van Luu, the murders he’s involved in. Have you changed your mind? I suspect there’s still one murderer out there.”
Kyle shook his head. His eyes narrowed. “I’m not Foot Soldier. I’m not the one trying to help you. Some mysteries just never get solved. Don’t you know that yet?”
I shook my head. “You’re right,” I said. “I am relentless. I’m going to try to solve this one too.”
Then Kyle slowly clapped his hands, making a hollow popping sound. “That’s our boy. You’re just perfect, Alex. What a fool you are. Go find your murderer.”
Chapter 109
SAMPSON WAS RECUPERATING on the Jersey Shore with Billie Houston, his own private nurse. I called him just about every day, but I didn’t tell John what I’d heard about Sergeant Ellis Cooper and the others.
I also called Jamilla every day, sometimes a couple of times a day, or she’d call or e-mail me. The distance separating us was becoming more and more of an issue. Neither of us had a good solution yet. Could I ever move the family to California? Could Jamilla move to Washington? We needed to talk about it face-to-face, and pretty soon.
After I returned from Colorado, I spent a couple of days working in Washington. I knew that I had one more important trip to make, but I needed some more preparation first. Measure twice, cut once. Nana had always preached that to me.
I spent countless hours on Lexis, but also the military database, ACIRS, and the law enforcement system, RISS. I made a visit to the Pentagon and talked to a Colonel Peyser about violence against civilians committed by American soldiers in Southeast Asia. When I brought up the An Lao Valley, Peyser abruptly cut off the interview, and then he refused to see me again.
In a strange way, that was a very good sign. I was close to something, wasn’t I?
I talked to a few friends who had served in Vietnam. The phrase “if it moves, it’s VC” was familiar to most of them. Those who knew about it justified it, since violent outrages were constantly being committed by the North Vietnamese. One army vet told this story: He’d overheard other soldiers talk about a Vietnamese man, in his mid-eighties, who’d been shot down. “Got to hand it to him,” a gunnery sergeant had joked, “man his age and he volunteers for the Viet Cong.”
And one name kept coming up whenever I talked about the An Lao Valley.
In the records.
Everywhere I looked.
One name that was a link to so much that had happened — there, and here.
The fourth of the blind mice?
I had to find that out now.
Early on Thursday morning, I left for West Point. It would be about a five-hour drive. I was in no particular hurry. The person I wanted to see there wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t think he had any reason to run and hide.
