Chapter 10 - The Missing Page
Elaine met me at a diner an hour from the base. She was sixty-seven, neatly dressed, and looked as though sleep had become an occasional inconvenience.
She set a plain paper envelope between the sugar bowl and my coffee.
“I didn't steal government property,” she said immediately. “These are personal copies of documents I worked on. Ortiz should establish whether the originals exist.”
I nodded and waited.
The envelope held a carbon copy of an interview summary. At the bottom, beside my signature, someone had written: Subject was unable to review the accompanying chronology owing to medication and treatment. Recommend follow-up interview.
“No one followed up,” I said.
“I requested it twice,” Elaine replied. “Both requests were marked closed.”
“By whom?”
She pointed to a line initialed W.H.
It was not a signature proving malicious intent. Warren Hollis had supervised the operation, and closing a request might have been routine. Still, the initials brought back the antiseptic smell of the hospital room and his hand resting too firmly on the end of my bed.
Elaine pushed over another page. It contained questions that never appeared in my final signed statement. One asked whether Mason had brought casualties through the south gate after 04:00. The box beside it read: Witness heard his radio identifier but did not observe entry.
“That is what I said,” I whispered.
“I know.”
I studied Elaine. “Why didn't you speak sooner?”
“Because I told myself that the Army had the full files. Then I joined the foundation and told myself good work came from a difficult story. Every year it got harder to admit I'd helped give them an easier version of the truth.”
“Were you paid?”
“A salary. A good one. I resigned last spring.”
For the first time that day, her eyes filled.
“I don't want your forgiveness. I want you to take these to the people who can verify them. And I want you to know I watched your husband come out of that building once. He was carrying a child. Your signed statement never said he didn't.”
I reached for the envelope with my prosthetic hand and missed its edge. Elaine steadied it without comment.
Outside, I sat in my car looking at the missing page. It repaired part of my history. It also made my silence at the original inquiry harder to explain.
That night I told June everything, including the fact that I'd once accepted Hollis's assurance that correcting the record would cause more pain than leaving it alone.
She heard me through, then asked the one question I couldn't answer.
May you like
“If he knew they needed another interview, why did he make sure nobody asked you again?”
