The blog entries ended there, a week before the news report of the incident on the road to Kufah. I couldn’t figure it out. The archive list down the right-hand column showed thirteen more weeks of posts, but when I clicked on them, only a blank page came up.
I did as many searches as I had the skills to figure out, but I couldn’t come up with Chad’s post about the battle he’d survived.
It was going on ten p.m., but I called the client, anyway, to ask him if he remembered Chad’s blogs.
“I’m trying to read about the battle where he lost all the men in his unit, but all his posts after October second that year have disappeared from his website. Did you or Mona print them out? Or do you remember what he wrote in them?”
“Why does it matter?” John Vishneski asked. “That was almost two years ago now. What does that have to do with this dead gal?”
“Maybe nothing. But Tim Radke says Nadia’s paintings were giving Chad flashbacks to the road to Kufah. The dead woman’s sister also died in Iraq when an IED exploded. I’m wondering if the sister was present at the battle for some reason.”
Vishneski sighed heavily. “I read his blog, of course I did, but I never printed them out. You think, with a computer, it’ll always be there. So, no, I don’t remember, except he was trying to give first aid to these guys who had phosphorus burns on them. And I think that’s when he really started to fall apart, he felt so helpless. Helpless! I felt so goddamn helpless myself.”
His voice suddenly cracked. “I called him every day. I could tell he was hurting and I couldn’t get anywhere near him to help. That’s why that prison hospital just about did me in. At least now I can sit with him. Believe me, I am real grateful to you for making that happen even if you can’t figure out why someone framed my boy for killing that woman. I went over and played my clarinet for Chad for an hour, even though I expect the other patients thought they were hearing a cat being tortured.”
It was a gallant effort on his part not to break down on the phone.
“Bet if you played like Larry Combs, Chad wouldn’t know it was you, would he?”
He gave a little laugh. I thanked him for the tulips before he hung up. Another gallant gesture on his part.
I lacked the computer skills to figure out what had happened to Chad’s more recent blog postings, and I haven’t found a reliable computer forensic expert yet. I used to turn to Darraugh Graham’s son, MacKenzie, but he’s working in Africa these days.
I wandered restlessly around my living room. I dug through my old LPs until I found Edwin Starr’s 1972 album with “War” on it. It ain’t nothing but a heartbreaker / Friend only to the undertaker. I didn’t realize how loudly I was playing the cut until my phone rang. Jake Thibaut was calling to say he’d tried knocking on my door, but I hadn’t heard him over the music.
“How come you’re having a party and didn’t invite me?” he demanded. “This sounds like sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.”
I lifted the phonograph arm from the turntable.
“Rock ’n’ roll. You could come over and add the sex and drugs, if you’d like.”
When he came to my door holding a bottle of wine, I tried to keep up a light tone, but Chad’s blog postings and John Vishneski’s anguish lay heavy on my mind.
“Web pages are disappearing all around me,” I said. “I wanted to look again at the Body Artist’s site, but she’s taken it down. And now I can’t read Chad’s blogs, either.”
Jake Thibaut read the postings over my shoulder.
“Maybe you can track down this guy Jesse Laredo that he mentions. It sounds as though they were close. They might have kept in touch.”
“Now, that gets you the biggest smooch in Chicago,” I said. “First good idea I’ve had all day, and I didn’t even think of it myself.”
I put Starr’s Involved back on the turntable while Jake poured some wine. It made me feel young again, the wine, the black vinyl spinning on the turntable, though I have to admit Jake’s cabernet was better than what I drank in college. And adult sex was so much better than teenage fumblings that it almost made up for growing older.
In the morning, after Jake left for his first student of the day, I lost some of my optimism. I tracked Jesse Laredo down at his mother’s home in Albuquerque, but Jesse had died five months ago. His wounds had taken too great a toll on his heart, his mother said.
I commiserated with her, and told her some of the details of the trouble Chad was in.
“Jess loved Chad. I sure am sorry to know he’s having problems,” she said after I explained why I was calling, “but you’ll never make me believe he murdered anyone.”
“When Chad lost his unit on the road to Kufah, did he call or e-mail anything to Jesse?” I asked. “I’m trying to find the blog postings he put up then. And the ones he’s done this year. Maybe Jesse printed them out.”