I went around the table, took another chair, and got out a legal pad and pen from my bag.
I wrote, “Master Gunnery Sergeant Chorey, my name is Alex Cross. Can you hear with your hearing aids?”
Chorey brought his head close over the tablet when I spun it. He blinked, shrugged, squinted at me and in a weird, hollow nasal voice said, “I don’t know.”
“Did you have them in when you went in the reflecting pool?” I wrote.
“Been two and a half years since I’ve had them. I think. Time goes by and…”
He stared off into the middle distance.
“What happened to them?”
“I got drunk, heard voices and that damn ringing in my head, and I don’t know, I think I crushed them with a rock.”
“Get rid of the voices and the ringing?”
He laughed. “Only if I kept drinking.”
“Would it help if we got headphones and an amplifier for you?”
“I don’t know. Why am I here? Is it that big a deal to protest in Washington? I’ve seen films of hundreds of peaceful protesters in that reflecting pool back in the sixties. Hell, they were in it in Forrest Gump, right? Jenny was, anyway.”
I smiled because he was right. Before I could scribble my response, a knock came at the door. An FBI tech entered with headphones, amplifier, and a microphone.
The tech put the headphones on Chorey, and turned on the amp. He turned the sound halfway up, and told me to speak. Chorey shook his head at each hello. It wasn’t until the amp was at ninety percent of capacity that he brightened.
“I heard it. Can it go louder?”
The tech said, “At a certain point it could further damage your ears.”
Chorey snorted and said, “I already know what the silence is like.”
The tech shrugged and turned the volume up again.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
Both eyebrows rose and he said, “Huh, yeah, I heard that in my right ear.”
I set down my pen and leaned closer to the microphone the tech had set up on the table. “Going in the water, dismantling your weapon, you did that as a protest?”
“Destroying my weapon as protest. Beating swords into ploughshares, and baptizing myself in the pool of forgiveness. It was supposed to be a new beginning.”
He said this with earnestness, conviction even.
“You ran from the police.”
“I ran from shapes chasing me,” Chorey said. “My eyesight sucks now, except right up close. You can check.”
“What about the bombs?” I asked. “The IEDs?”
Chorey twitched at the word bombs, but then appeared genuinely baffled.
“IEDs?” he said. “What IEDs?”
Chapter 8
Forty minutes later, I entered the observation booth overlooking the interrogation room where Chorey was still in restraints, sweating and moaning with his eyes closed. Ned Mahoney’s arms were crossed.
“You believe him?” Mahoney asked.
“Most of it,” I said. “You saw his hands there at the end. I’d say it would be impossible for him to build a bomb.”
“Your wife saw him dismantle a Glock in under thirty seconds,” Mahoney said.
“Once it’s unloaded, a gun’s no threat. Building a bomb, you can cross wires and blow yourself to kingdom come. Besides, you heard him, he’s got an alibi.”
“Bree’s checking it.”
“Doc,” Chorey moaned in the interrogation room. “I need some help.”
“I’d like to get him to a detox,” I said.
“Not happening until we get a firm—”
The observation booth door opened. Bree came in.
“The supervisor at the Central Union Mission vouches for him,” she said. “Chorey slept there last night, and left with the other men at 7:30. The super remembered because he tried to convince Chorey to stay for services, but Chorey said he had to go make a protest.”
Mahoney said, “So what? He leaves the mission, picks up pre-made bombs, goes to the Mall, and—”
“The timing’s wrong, Ned,” Bree insisted. “The bomber called me at 7:26 and again at 7:28, after he’d planted the bombs. The Mission supervisor said he was with Chorey between 7:20 and 7:30. During that time Chorey never asked for or used a phone, because he’s, well, deaf. He left the mission on foot.”
“The supervisor know about the gun?”
She nodded. “Chorey evidently turned it in whenever he came off the street to spend the night.”
In the interrogation room, Chorey rocked in his chair. “C’mon. Please, Doc. I got the sickness, man. The creepy-crawly sickness.”
“He’s not your bomber,” I said.
“He could be a diversion,” Mahoney said. “Part of the conspiracy. Besides, he had a loaded weapon in a national park, which is a federal offense. The Park Police will want him for that.”
“The Park Police can get him for that once he’s dry. They’ll know exactly where he is, should they decide to press charges. Or you can send him to the federal holding facility in Alexandria, which is ill-equipped to handle someone with advanced delirium tremens, and you risk him dying before he can get clean.”
The FBI agent squinted one eye at me. “You should have been a lawyer, Alex.”
“Just my professional opinion on a vet who has had a tough go of things.”
Mahoney hesitated, but then said, “Take him to rehab.”
“Thanks, Ned,” I said, and shook his hand.
Mahoney shook Bree’s hand, too, saying, “Before I forget, Chief Stone, you impressed a lot of people this morning. Word’s gotten around how cool you were under pressure.”
She looked uncomfortable at the praise and gestured at me. “You live long enough with this man and his grandmother, you can handle anything thrown your way.”
He laughed. “I can see that. Especially with Nana Mama.”
Bree and I lingered in the hallway. She was returning to DC Metro headquarters to brief Chief Michaels, and to buy a second phone.
“I’m proud of you, too,” I said, and kissed her.
“Thanks. I just wish we’d been able to get the mats on that second bomb before…it will be interesting to see if it was a radio-controlled detonation.”
“I’m sure Quantico’s on it.”
“See you at dinner?” she said, as I went back to the interrogation room door. “Nana Mama said she’s creating a masterpiece.”
“How could I miss that?”
Bree blew me a kiss, turned, and walked away.
I watched her go for a moment, more in love than ever. Then I turned the door handle and went inside, where retired Marine Gunnery Officer Tim Chorey continued to suffer for his country.
Chapter 9
I got home around seven to find Bree sitting on the front porch, looking as frazzled as I felt.
“Welcome home,” she said, raising a mug. “Want a beer?”
I sat down beside her and said, “Half a glass.”
She set the mug down, reached down by her side and came up with a second mug and a growler from Blue Jacket, a new brewery in a formerly industrial area in southwest DC.
“Goldfinch,” Bree said. “A Belgian blond ale. It’s good. Nana bought it.”
She poured me half a mug and I sipped it, loving the cold, almost lemony flavor. “Hey, that is good.”
We sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the street, and to the rattle of kitchen utensils from inside.
“Tough day all around,” Bree said.