“How long have you been there?”

“Twenty-two long, disgruntling years.”

“Yes, well,” I said, having heard enough of his problems, “we each must serve our country in our own way.”

“Don’t patronize me, Drummond. I was a major when you were in diapers.”

“Very likely true,” I admitted, now fully understanding exactly why the folks who ran West Point did not want Gilderstone to be on the same planet with a journalist. Aside from whatever he might say that contradicted the party line about Whitehall, he was a whiny, bitchy, disillusioned old man. If it were me, I too would order him to hide in the attic while I strutted some gung-ho hard-cock with a Ranger tab in front of the press.

I decided to cut to the chase. “So, Ed, what can you tell me about Tommy Whitehall?”

“Thomas? What can I say about Thomas? Simply that he’s one of the most remarkable young men I ever met. Brilliant, poised, an extraordinary scholar, a great athlete. I tried to get him to go for a Rhodes Scholarship. Were you aware of that?”

“Really? A Rhodes? I had no idea. What happened?”

“Damned fool flatly refused,” Gilderstone moaned. “A crying shame, too. The boy stood a good chance.”

“No kidding? Why didn’t he do it?”

“He said that even if he could get it, he didn’t want to waste two more years at Oxford, feathering his resume. That’s how he put it. Can you imagine?”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“He was in a hurry to get to the field with troops.”

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“The poor boy was brainwashed by all the gung-ho propaganda they pump into these impressionable young cadets up here. Troop officers are a dime a dozen. You’re a lawyer; you know that. Thomas had so much more to offer. He was a vessel filled with so many remarkable talents. He could’ve come back here to teach.”

One of the things you learn to do as a lawyer is listen real closely. It wasn’t only what Gilderstone was saying, it was how he was saying it, like an ugly duckling describing a swan. There was a reason Ernie Walters had pointed me toward Gilderstone. That reason was beginning to grow legs, and hair, and warts.

Thinking I was being slick, I said, “So you were pretty fond of the kid, eh, Ed?”

For a very long time, Gilderstone did not answer. And I knew, after the first few seconds, that I’d underestimated him.

When he did speak, he erupted. “Drummond, there was nothing between us. Not a damn thing!”

“But Ed, who ever said there was?”

“I’ve already warned you, Drummond, don’t patronize me. Is this why you called me? How’d you get my name? Did Thomas give it to you? Is this one of those witch hunts? What? They’re promising leniency if he gives up some more gays in uniform? Is that what this is about?”

“Gilderstone, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you and Whitehall boffed each other in the commandant’s bed. I’m just trying to figure him out. That’s all. I’m trying to keep Whitehall out of the electric chair.”

There was another long pause. Then, still sounding grouchy as hell, he insisted, “I never slept with him. Never!”

“I told you, Gilderstone, I don’t give a damn.”

“Then what is this about?”

“Information. Anything you say is confidential. That’s on the record.”

“Nothing will be attributed?”

“Not if you don’t want it to, no.”

“Well, I don’t. Don’t think me stingy, Drummond, but I’m not coming out of the closet for Whitehall. You need to agree to protect me.”

It was damned hard to disguise my disgust. This contemptible old codger was sitting back in the nice comfortable little nest he’d built for himself at West Point, refusing to lift a finger for “the finest young man I ever met.” I guess that’s what happens to a guy who spends a lifetime hiding in shadows. Pretty soon he’s got no more character than the shadow he’s hiding behind.

Anyway, I simply said, “You got it.”

“All right. Tell me what you want to know.”

“To start with, did you know he was gay?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“You suppose so? You mean you never talked about it?”

“No, never. We… well, we gravitated toward each other, like two tourists in an alien land.”

“Then how’d you know he was gay?”

“A sixth sense, I suppose. No, that’s not completely true. You see, Drummond, when you’re a gay soldier, you learn to act in a certain way, and you learn to detect the same act in others. I just looked at Thomas in class, around his peers. I knew.”

“But you never talked about it? Never discussed it?”

“No, never. We both knew, though. Right off the bat, as they say.”

“So you weren’t his lover?”

“I already told you that. Why would I go near him? Do you have any idea what they’d do if they caught me?”

“Did he have a lover while he was there?”

“No. I’m nearly certain of it. West Point is… well, it’s the holy temple of the Army. Whatever traditions or taboos you find in the Army, magnify them tenfold at this place. Thomas was remarkably self-disciplined. He was determined to make it through, too. He wasn’t going to take unnecessary risks.”

I decided to keep fishing. “What made him so damned determined?”

“What makes anybody determined? A deprived upbringing. Exacting parents. Virulent sibling rivalries. Overheated genes, maybe.”

“Which of those was it with him?”

“How the hell should I know? I told you, he’s very reserved. Mysterious even,” he said, only now, instead of sounding bitter, he seemed wistful. “I never met his family, and he certainly never talked about them. They never even visited, to the best of my knowledge. Maybe that’s a clue in itself.”

“Okay. Now, do you think he could’ve slung a belt around the throat of his lover and strangled him?” I asked, deliberately putting a hard edge on it.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“Over what? Jealousy? Spite? Rage?”

“Nothing so tawdry, I assure you. As I said, he’s exquisitely disciplined.”

“Then what?”

Instead of answering, he asked, “Drummond, have you ever been in combat? Ever killed a man?”

Actually, before I became a lawyer, I’d spent five years as an infantry officer. In fact, I spent those five years in what the Army euphemistically calls a black unit, which means a unit so spectacularly clandestine its very existence is classified top-secret. The name of my particular unit was the “outfit,” which was shorthand for the 116th Reconnaissance Squadron. But what we did had very little to do with reconnaissance, and a lot to do with counter-terrorism during peacetime, and some fairly grisly, very hazardous things in wartime.

Gilderstone had no business knowing that, of course. I’d been in combat, though. Twice, in fact – in Panama and later in the Gulf. And I’d participated in a few interesting operations in between.

All I said was, “Yes,” and left it at that.

“Me, too,” he said. “A tour in Vietnam, a very long time ago. Until then, I’d never thought I could kill anyone. I thought I was above such primal savagery. I was too educated, too cultivated, too self-realized. Even when I got there, I thought I’d spend my tour with my M16 cradled in my arms, ordering others to kill. Of course it didn’t turn out that way.”

“No? How did it turn out?”

Instead of answering, he said, “Tell me about the first time you killed a man.”

I didn’t like this game, but since I was trying to coax him to trade confidences, I didn’t see that I had any choice but to play along.

“Okay, Ed. An open-and-shut thing. I had to get my team into a facility, and there was this guard, and he was in the way, so I killed him.”

“How?”

“That’s a stupid question, Ed. I killed him. End of story.”

“What weapon did you use?”

“A knife.”

“Did you sneak up from behind him?”

“Yes, Ed, I snuck up behind him.”

“Did you slap your hand over his mouth to keep him from yelling out?”