‘And in the long term?’

‘Well, in your case, how long has it been?’

‘Since the last time?’

‘There’s been more than one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Jesus. If I was dealing with a soldier in your position, I’d be making sure that he was undergoing intensive therapy.’

‘That’s reassuring to know. To get back to you…’

‘After my time in Abu Ghraib, I moved into counseling and therapy. It became clear at a very early stage that there were problems with stress levels, and those increased when the military instituted repeated deployments, stop-loss, and began calling up weekend warriors. I became part of a mental health team working out of the Green Zone, but with particular responsibility for two FOBs: Arrowhead and Warhorse.’

‘Arrowhead. That’s where the Third Infantry is based, right?’

‘Some brigades, yes.’

‘You ever encounter anyone from a Stryker unit while you were there?’

She set her cup aside. Her expression changed.

‘Is that why you’re here, to talk about the men of Stryker C?’

‘I didn’t mention Stryker C.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

She waited for me to proceed.

‘From what I can tell, three members of Stryker C, all known to one another, have died at their own hands,’ I said. ‘One of them took his wife with him. That sounds like a suicide cluster to me, which would probably be of interest to you.’

‘It is.’

‘Did you speak to any of those men before they died?’

‘I spoke to all of them, but Damien Patchett only inform ally. The first was Brett Harlan. He’d been attending the Veterans Outreach Center in Bangor. He was also a drug addict. For him, it helped that the needle exchange program was based next to a veterans center.’

I couldn’t tell if she was joking.

‘What did he tell you?’

‘That’s confidential.’

‘He’s dead. He doesn’t care any longer.’

‘I’m still not going to reveal the substance of my discussions with him, but clearly you can take it that he was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, although-’

She stopped. I waited.

‘He was experiencing auditory phenomena,’ she added, slightly reluctantly.

‘So he was hearing voices.’

‘That doesn’t fit with the diagnosis criteria for PTSD. That’s closer to schizophrenia.’

‘Did you investigate further?’

‘He discontinued treatment. And then he died.’

‘Was there a specific event that triggered his problem?’

She looked away. ‘It was… nonspecific, as far as I could ascertain.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘There were nightmares, and he was having trouble sleeping, but he couldn’t relate it to a specific occurrence. That’s all I’m prepared to say.’

‘Was there any indication that he might have been about to murder his wife?’

‘None. Do you seriously think that we wouldn’t have intervened if we thought that there was such a risk? Come on.’

‘Is it possible that the same stimulus could have led all three to act as they did?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Could something have happened in Iraq that led to a form of… collective trauma?’

Her mouth twitched slightly in amusement. ‘Are you making up psychiatric terms, Mr. Parker?’

‘It sounded right. I couldn’t think of any other way to explain what I meant.’

‘Well, it’s not a bad effort. I dealt with Bernie Kramer twice, shortly after he returned. He displayed mild stress symptoms at the time, similar to those being experienced by Brett Harlan, but neither referred to any common traumatic occurrence in Iraq. Kramer declined to continue treatment. Damien Patchett I encountered briefly after Bernie Kramer died, as part of my research, and, again, he spoke of nothing that might correspond to what you’re suggesting.’

‘His father didn’t mention that he was receiving counseling.’

‘That’s because he wasn’t. We talked for a time after Kramer’s funeral, and met subsequently once, but there was no formal therapy. Actually, I’d have said that Damien appeared very well adjusted, apart from some insomnia.’

‘Did you prescribe drugs for any of those men?’

‘It’s part of my job, when necessary. I’m not a fan of heavily medicating troubled individuals. It just helps to mask the pain, without dealing with the underlying problem.’

‘But you did prescribe drugs.’

‘Trazodone.’

‘For Damien Patchett?’

‘No, just for Kramer and Harlan. I advised Damien to consult his own physician, if he was having trouble sleeping.’

‘But that wasn’t the limit of his problems.’

‘Apparently not. It may be that Kramer’s death was the catalyst for the emergence of Damien’s own difficulties. To be honest, I was surprised when Damien took his life. But I approached a number of Kramer’s former comrades at the funeral, Damien included, and offered to help facilitate counseling services for them, if they chose to avail themselves of them.’

‘With you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because it would have helped with your research.’

For the first time, she got angry. ‘No, because it would have helped them. This isn’t merely some academic exercise, Mr. Parker. It’s about saving lives.’

‘It doesn’t seem to be working out so well for the Stryker C,’ I said. I was goading her, and I didn’t know why. I suspected that it was resentment at myself for opening up to her that I was now trying to throw back. Whatever the reason, I needed to stop. She precipitated it by standing, indicating that our time together was over. I stood and thanked her for her input, then turned to leave.

‘Oh, one last thing,’ I said, as she began to open folders on her desk and return to her work.

‘Yes,’ she said. She didn’t look up.

‘You attended Damien Patchett’s funeral?’

‘Yes. Well, I went to the church. I would have gone to the cemetery too, but I didn’t.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘It was communicated to me that I wouldn’t be welcome.’

‘By whom?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Joel Tobias?’

Her hand froze for an instant, and then continued turning a page.

‘Good-bye, Mr. Parker,’ she said. ‘If you’ll take some professional advice, you still have a lot of issues to work out. I’d speak to someone about them, if I were you. Someone other than myself,’ she added.

‘Does that mean you don’t want me to be part of your research?’

Now she looked up. ‘I think I’ve learned enough about you,’ she said. ‘Please close the door on your way out.’

22

Bobby Jandreau still lived in Bangor, a little over an hour north of Augusta, in a house at the top of Palm Street, off Stillwater Avenue. Once again, Angel and Louis stayed with me all the way there, but we reached Jandreau’s place without incident. It didn’t look like much from the outside: single-story, paintwork that flaked like bad skin, a lawn that was trying its best to pretend that it wouldn’t soon be overrun by weeds. The best that could be said about the exterior was that it didn’t raise any expectations that the interior of the house couldn’t live up to. Jandreau answered the door in his wheelchair. He was dressed in gray sweat pants pinned at the thighs and a matching t-shirt, both of which were stained. He was building up a gut that the shirt didn’t even attempt to conceal. His hair was shaved close to his skull, but he was growing a rough beard. The house smelled stale: in the kitchen behind him, I could see dishes piled up in the sink, and pizza boxes lying on the floor by the trash can.

‘Help you?’ he said.

I showed him my ID. He took it from me and held it on his lap, staring at it the way someone might examine the photograph of a missing child that had been presented to him by the cops, as though by gazing at it for long enough he might remember where he’d seen the kid. When he had finished examining it, he returned it to me and let his hands fall between his thighs, where they worried at each other like small animals fighting.