There was a hallway off the foyer, and they could hear up-tempo hip-hop coming from somewhere down the hall. Brodie led the way, and about midway down the corridor was an open door with the music blaring from it.
They entered a common room lounge with couches, chairs, a large TV, a kitchenette, and foosball and pool tables. About thirty Rangers—most of them in T-shirts and jeans or cargo pants—milled around drinking and shooting the shit. They were all young men in their twenties or early thirties, muscular, lots of ink. It was a tough-looking bunch, at least as far as humans went.
The two CID agents immediately caught their attention. Brodie said loudly over the music, “Good evening, gentlemen.”
One of the guys near the speaker stopped the music, and the room fell silent.
Brodie and Taylor produced their creds and Brodie said, “I am Chief Warrant Officer Scott Brodie, Army CID, and this is my partner, Chief Warrant Officer Maggie Taylor. As I’m sure you’re aware, Ms. Taylor and I are here to investigate the death of Major Roger Ames of the DEVCOM team, and we appreciate your cooperation. Who’s the officer in charge?”
A mid-thirties man with dark-brown hair and stubble stepped forward. He was holding a bottle of Budweiser and wore jeans, boots, and a well-loved T-shirt. “Sergeant First Class Mike Miller.”
They led Sergeant Miller out of earshot of the other men, who got the music started again and went back to what they were doing.
Miller took a swig of his beer and asked, “Want a drink?”
Brodie replied, “We’re on duty.”
“Must be nice.”
Mike Miller was the senior noncommissioned officer for the Ranger platoon. He was lean and wiry, and handsome in a rugged sort of way. He looked like the kind of soldier who might get cast in one of the Army’s slick recruitment commercials—except for the stubble and the beer in his hand, and the thousand-yard stare of a combat vet who’d seen too much. Brodie wondered who Sergeant Miller had squared off against in his Army career before being tasked with this assignment at Camp Hayden.
Brodie asked the sergeant, “How are your men doing?”
“Bored. Pissed off. Wondering if the geniuses in DEVCOM are going to have to shitcan their toy soldiers over this.”
Brodie looked around the room. The Rangers were mostly going about their business while occasionally stealing glances at the new arrivals. Most of those glances were reserved for Ms. Taylor, a very attractive woman in a room full of isolated and frustrated young men. Brodie said to Miller, “We’re looking for PFC Thomas Greer.”
“Why?”
“Is he here?”
Miller shook his head. “Not his scene. You’ll find him in his room. Three-H.”
Taylor asked, “Do you know all of your men’s room numbers off the top of your head?”
“No, ma’am. But I’ve visited Greer’s room more than most. He has required special attention.”
Brodie asked, “For what reason?”
Sergeant Miller hesitated. Then he said, “Some of the guys are handling this assignment better than others. I’d say Greer’s been the worst off in the entire platoon. Stress, paranoia, anger issues.”
“Drug use?” asked Taylor.
“Do I have to answer that?”
Brodie asked, “Do you wish to comment on the death of Private Justin Beal?”
Miller looked at Brodie a moment, poker-faced. He took a swig of beer, then said, “You guys have no clue what you’re dealing with here.”
“Enlighten us.”
Miller kept his eyes on Brodie. “Beal pushed himself to the limit, and when he reached his limit, he tried to go further. And then he broke.”
Taylor asked, “And Private Greer?”
“Greer cracked in a different way. A couple months ago, he assaulted his roommate in the middle of the night. Private Sam Kowalski. Went into Kowalski’s bedroom and started whaling on the guy. Kowalski fought him off. No serious injuries. I talked Greer down after. He kept saying Kowalski wasn’t real. Wasn’t human. He eventually settled down and realized he was whacked out of his head. Claimed sleep deprivation.”
Brodie asked, “What disciplinary action was taken?”
