Duplicity (14 page)

“But if Hackett requests an autopsy, then one will be done, correct?”

Dr. Kane nodded.

“Do you think he will make a request?”

“I’m sure he won’t.” The doctor looked away, to the children’s photograph. “The colonel has already authorized release of the body to the family for burial. Chaplain Rutledge is contacting them now, notifying them of the accident and death.”

“Released?” Surprise shafted through Tracy. Burke’s body wasn’t even cold yet. He’d barely been dead three hours. “Already?”

“Already,” Dr. Kane said, still unwilling to meet her eyes.

He too thought this was extraordinary, though wild horses couldn’t drag that admission from him. Tracy stood up. “Thank you for your kindnesses.”

As she walked out of the morgue, she gave the cooler housing Adam Burke’s body one last look. Had the men’s bodies been intact when he had -seen them in Area 14. When Dr. Kane had received them in the morgue? If not, what had happened to them between the time Adam saw them and they arrived at Dr. Kane’s? The bomb had already been dropped, and there had been no reports of a second bomb. If those bodies had been intact on arrival at the morgue, then why hadn’t autopsies been done on them? Why had the families refused? That. didn’t make sense. Unless the families were convinced that refusing would be in the country’s best interests. That could have happened. After all, the men were Intel operatives.. But why wouldn’t Hackett request an autopsy on Adam immediately? His crimes were public, his case volatile. Hackett couldn’t afford any speculation or uncertainty about Adam’s death.

None of this felt right. Intuition or instinct, the feeling had engaged and it drummed out a warning: Someone has a lot to hide.

I’m banking on you to survive and find the, truth … Why hadn’t Adam banked on someone else? Someone with the skills to do this right? He was Intel, for God’s sake. He had to know people who were more capable. To her, Intel was an alien world. She was in over her head and drowning.

Tracy stepped out into the sultry night. She had failed Adam before and she feared she’d fail him again. How in heaven was she going to face his family and explain his bequest? She’d refuse it, of course, but they would still be hurt that he had excluded them. And how much was it going to cost her to legally insist his body be autopsied?

She stepped off the curb, down into the street. Did it matter? Whatever the costs, she had to pay them.

The woman in the mirror demanded it.

Chapter 8.

It was after nine-thirty when Tracy got home.

The last thing she felt like listening to was the sound of airplanes flying a routine exercise mission from the base to Area Fourteen, firing loud gun blasts that had her walls reverberating and her windows rattling. But they were, and she was.

She showered, then put on her “attitude” Pooh slippers and her old flannel “comfort” robe, which necessitated knocking the air conditioner down a couple degrees. August nights were notoriously hot and humid in Grandsen, but tonight she needed the support more than the cool.

Knowing a cup, or even two, of Earl Grey tea wouldn’t give her the courage needed to call Adam’s family, she poured herself a healthy glass of Scotch and then sat down at the kitchen table with his file and the phone. His parents were her only hope of getting the autopsy done without further risks to her career.

The Scotch burned going down her throat and warmed the hollow in her stomach. When she’d consumed half, she read the names of Adam’s emergency contact: his parents, Ruth and Gabriel Burke. Their address was in Georgia-Eastern time zone versus Tracy’s own Central. It was late, but with the news of their son’s death being so fresh, they would still be awake. Tracy had been awake all night, suffering through the inconsolable sense of loss.

I never even got to hold her. Not once.

Her throat tight, she gulped at her Scotch and forced thoughts of Abby out of her mind. Right now, she couldn’t afford them. Slit lifted the phone, but hesitated to dial. God, but she hated to intrude on Adam’s family’s grief.

you wait, you could be too late.

if Adam’s voice, nudging her. But he was right. Once he was buried, having his body exhumed could create a horrendous legal tangle and public stir. Worse, his family could have him cremated like his team, and then there would be no hope of ever having an autopsy done. As much as she hated intruding on his family now, she had to call. Surely when they understood the reason was to find out the truth about their son, they’d forgive her. What parent wouldn’t yearn for the truth about their son?

Before she could talk herself out of it again, Tracy dialed the phone.

I On the second ring, a woman answered. “Yes, what is it?, I . Awake, irritated, and far from inconsolable. Her antagonism caught Tracy off-guard, and she stammered. “Mrs. Burke?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Captain Tracy Keener. I’m Adam’s attorney.” Using his given name aloud seemed unfamiliar and strained.

“Haven’t they told you yet? Adam is dead.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m aware of it.” A sudden image of his charred body filled her mind, startled her. Shivering, she shut it out.

“Then what do you want?”

Everyone reacts differently to grief. Evidently, Ruth Burke reacted in anger. “I realize this is a difficult time, Mrs. Burke. I just wanted to offer my condolences.”

“Don’t waste them on the likes of him. Adam’s always had a streak of bad blood. I warned him he would pay the price, but no one ever could tell him anything. He got what he deserved for what he’d done.”

This coldhearted bitch was Adam’s mother? Tracy’s nerves blistered. “He wasn’t adjudged guilty of doing anything, Mrs. Burke.”

“He would have been. It was just a matter of time. He never brought anything but shame to this family.”

No grief? No compassion? No loyalty? The woman’s son was dead. Her own flesh and blood. Where in God’s name was her grief? Needing fortification to continue, Tracy reached for her glass. “I called to ask you to request an autopsy on Adam.”

“No.”

No? Tracy couldn’t seem to recover from one shock before Ruth Burke belted her again. “Why not?”

“We’re having nothing to do with him. We haven’t for years. I already told that chaplain so. He’s handling the burial. If you want anything, you’ll have to ask him.”

Good God, his own family wouldn’t even bury him at his home or attend his funeral? What kind of hellish life had Adam had as a child? “The chaplain can’t request an autopsy. Only a family member can. It’s essential, Mrs. Burke, to prove that the body is in fact your son’s.”

“They’ve matched his dental records,” she said without emotion. “It’s him.”

“But there is still the matter of whether or not he was alive at the time of the fire.”

“Dead is dead, Captain. You’ll have to think what you want without any more proof. My husband and I have no intention of getting involved. Let the dead bury their dead, the Bible says. Adam shamed us in life, he’ll not shame us again in death.”

Regardless of actions or accusations, Adam was their son. How could they justify treating him this way? How long had they been treating him this way? “Does your attitude about this have anything to do with Adam leaving his assets to someone else?” She couldn’t bring herself to say “to me.” She tried, but she just couldn’t do it.

“It’s blood money. We don’t want it-or him.”

Sick. These people were twisted, and they damn sure weren’t going to intercede. After talking to Ruth Burke, Tracy was relieved to hear it. She ended the call in a cold fury. If Abby had lived, Tracy never would have abandoned her. Never. How could the Burkes rationalize this cold and callous treatment of their own son?

Tracy mulled and muttered, downed the rest of her Scotch, and seriously considered having a second glass of it to calm down. But more depressants were the last thing she needed. Feeling desolate and alone, and more than a little pity for the boy Adam had been-and for the man he’d no doubt become because of it-she forced her mind away from family-his and hers-and back to what she could do for Adam. God knew he had no one else.

She glanced at the clock. Nearly eleaven. Colonel Jackson wouldn’t appreciate being awakened, but he was her last chance for getting an autopsy. Odds were against him supporting her, but she had to try. If she honored Adam’s will, then she could request an autopsy. But she couldn’t honor it, and in refusing to-which of course she had to do, even though the idea of everything he’d worked for going to his family made her nauseous-Jackson was her only option.

Swallowing hard, she dialed her boss at home. He answered on the third ring, sounding sleepy and grouchy at being disturbed. “Colonel Jackson, this is Tracy Keener.”

“I’ve heard about Burke, Captain, and about your requesting an autopsy. No, I won’t support your requisition.”

He’d obviously expected her call. But who’d forewarned him? Dr. Kane?

Sergeant Maxwell? Colonel Hackett himself? Jackson hadn’t mentioned the bequest, so she doubted Maxwell had called him, though she felt sure Maxwell had read the documents before resealing the envelope and giving it to her. And it was too soon for Hackett to be running interference. Another couple of hours and maybe, but not yet. That left Dr., Kane.

Trust no one else.

She buried her disappointments. “May I ask why you won’t support me on this, sir?”

“At midnight? No, you may not,” Jackson said sharply. “Just let the nightmare end, Captain.” He hung up the phone.

Just let the nightmare end? Tracy stared at the receiver, dumbfounded. How could it end? Without knowing the truth, how could it ever end?

Didn’t Adam, an officer with an unblemished record until now, deserve better than this? He’d served his country well for seven years. How could his country justify sacrificing him and just let the nightmare end before it found out the truth?

Tension knotted her muscles. Tracy rubbed at them. It was time to fall back and regroup. Get some rest. Then she’d think more clearly and escape this surreal dream.

She dumped her glass in the sink and then went to bed, slippers, robe, and all. The mattress sank under her weight, and she tugged the sweet-smelling coverlet up under her chin, curled her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes. In her mind, she saw Adam, sitting across the rickety table from her in the attorney/client room, again telling her he had learned the hard way not to trust anyone.

With his parents, she could certainly understand why. And yet he had come to trust her-at least to the extent of telling her his side of things and banking on her to find out the truth ‘. Out of necessity, he’d had to trust someone. But he hadn’t had to choose her. “Amazing that he had, considering she’d already let him down twice by not anticipating the beating or getting a stay order to prevent Alpha team’s cremations.

Now Adam was dead. And no one seemed to care.

She mentally walked around the wobbly table and cradled his head to her breast, stroked his shoulders, his broad back, that godawful yellow stripe of paint in his hair, offering him comfort. “I care, Adam,” she whispered softly over and over again. “I care.”

He wound his arms around her waist, squeezed her hard, and feeling tremors ripple through his body, she held him tighter, doing her damnedest to soothe him and absorb his pain, to dissolve the emptiness inside him she knew from experience was clawing at his soul. And with him, for him, she mourned.

Sometime before dawn, the phone rang.

Blindly reaching through the darkness, Tracy snagged the receiver, then mumbled into it. “Hello.” Her voice sounded scratchy and her head ached from crying herself to sleep. Whether she had cried for Adam or for herself, she wasn’t sure. Probably both.

“Tracy, it’s me-Paul.”

She opened her eyes and stared at the shadowy ceiling. “What’s wrong?”

Her former brother-in-law still called often, but seldom during the middle of the night.

“I’m worried about you,” he said. “The headlines on the Burke case are merciless.”

So follow-up coverage on the case had spread from Mississippi to New Orleans. Well, it wouldn’t be long until it went national. Probably by morning. Unfortunate, but predictable. Even more predictable was her suspecting Randall Moxley had phoned Paul and asked him to bring her to heel before she embarrassed them both. In that way, those two were just alike. “My defending Adam won’t be a problem, Paul.”

“Don’t be naive, darling. Of course it’ll be a problem.”

Her voice went deadpan flat. “Adam Burke is dead.”

“Dead?” A deep sigh that could only be relief sounded through the phone. “Well, thank God for that. Did the other prisoners kill him, or did the bastard commit suicide?”

“He burned to death in a fire.” She slammed down the phone, her throat thick, her gritty eyes filling with more tears. Even Paul, a tower of strength and comfort to her, had been totally devoid of compassion for Adam.

A man had died. No one knew for certain whether he was guilty or innocent, and yet all condemned him. He had been mocked, ridiculed, degraded, humiliated, and deserted by everyone-even his family. In light of that unpardonable cruelty, his guilt or innocence in his case suddenly seemed secondary, if not insignificant, and again she wept. This time, for him and for herself, and for the tragedy of what society had allowed itself to become.

Colonel Jackson seemed agitated.

He kept the JAGS’ morning briefing abnormally short, and he didn’t mention Adam or his bequest once, which disappointed the office troublemakers, Richard and Samuel, as much as it relieved Tracy. She’d awakened to a hellish downpour, and had had to fight the urge to crawl back into bed and pull the covers up over her head. Ted, sitting across the conference table and leaveling a ticked off expression on her head, made her wish she had just stayed in bed. What bone could he have to pick with her?

Colonel Jackson assigned a couple of new cases, then closed the meeting without his usual pep talk. He was either still ticked about her calling him so late last night and wanted to chew her out in private, or he was craving a cup of coffee as desperately as she was.

Swearing to kick the caffeine habit soon, she went back to her office, poured herself a cup of coffee, and then sat down with the morning paper, eager to see what the press had made of Adam’s death. Maybe public opinion could force an autopsy. God knew, she’d exhausted all other Options, unless she kept his bequest, which she just couldn’t do. But odds were against the public helping. Like Paul, the public would be more apt to celebrate Adam’s death.