“Something we may have missed,” said Brodie, meaning, Somethingyoumay have missed.
Simpson did not reply, and Brodie thought that the former NCO was not completely comfortable talking to two officers who were also cops. So Brodie reassured him of his civilian status by saying, “Mr. Simpson, just tell us what you told the other two men.” He added, “The Army is grateful for your assistance.”
Simpson nodded again, and began to recount the same story they’d read in the report, that he was sitting in the Marriott lounge with his American colleague and a group of reps from the state oil company when he spotted Kyle Mercer at the bar.
“How did he look?” asked Brodie.
“A hell of a lot better than the last time I saw him on TV, kneeling in the dirt in front of a line of ragheads. He’d bulked up. Ripped, like how I remembered him from training. He had a beard, but it was trimmed.”
“Okay,” said Brodie. “So you’re sitting with these clients, you look up and see him at the bar. And he sees you.”
“Yeah,” said Simpson. “I knew it was him, he’s staring at me. And I said his name.”
“Did you say his name while still sitting with the other guys in the lounge?” asked Brodie. “Or did you get up and approach first?”
Simpson hesitated, realizing that his story wasn’t matching up with what he’d told the other CID guys. He glanced at his wife, who put a supportive hand on his shoulder.
“Wait. Sorry. It’s been a couple weeks. He didn’t see me at first, actually. Because he wasn’t facing me. He was facing away, at the bar. I saw his tattoo first. Of the snake.”
Brodie had caught him—and importantly, Simpson knew he’d been caught. He proceeded to tell the same story he’d told the other agents, that he saw Mercer from behind, recognized the tattoo, approached the bar, and said his name. Then they made eye contact. Brodie decided to proceed as if nothing had happened, rather than call him out in front of his wife. “Sonowyou’re looking at each other,” said Brodie. “Then what happened?”
“He just kinda stared at me. Cold. Pissed, maybe. My colleague, Pete, and the oil guys were looking at me, and then back at Mercer, and it felt kind of awkward and tense. Then Kyle just gets up and walks out of the bar.”
“That’s it?” asked Taylor. “You just let him walk off?”
“What was I supposed to do? We’d just closed this big deal, we were celebrating. That’s where my head was at.”
“Did Pete ask you about who you saw?” asked Taylor.
“No… yes, and I said case of mistaken identity, or something.”
“Okay,” said Brodie. “And what was he wearing?”
Simpson thought a moment. “A dark T-shirt and jeans.”
“What was he drinking?” asked Taylor.
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Where were you before the hotel?” asked Brodie.
“A restaurant in the area.”
“What was it called?”
“I don’t remember. Spanish name.”
“How many drinks did you have before seeing Mercer?” asked Taylor.
Simpson again looked at his wife. This was taking on the tempo of an interrogation, not a friendly and voluntary interview. Brodie needed to pump the brakes.
“Let’s step back a minute,” he said. “How well did you know Kyle Mercer?”
“We went through basic and advanced infantry training together,” replied Simpson. “So, I’d say well, but it’s been awhile. Kinda lost touch after he went to OCS and I got assigned to the Fourth Brigade at Fort Carson.”
“What kind of man was he?”
Simpson thought on this. “Kyle was intense. Some guys grew up hunting, some came from military families, but he was none of that. I mean, he didn’t know shit about how to shoot a rifle or follow orders. But he wasjacked, you know, really strong and fit, like he’d been training for this. This kid from SoCal who’d lifted weights every day and learned everything he thought he knew about war from watching movies and playing Call of Duty.”
