Terminal City by Linda Fairstein

the storm, she flew out. Didn’t know the first thing about saving lives, but they taught her everything from CPR to getting blood to people who needed it.”
    Mercer threw in all the platitudes about the good dying young. How violently she died was better left unspoken.
    We let Thatcher talk about Corinne’s work for as long as he wanted to, his wife occasionally blotting her tears and adding a few words about her child’s extraordinary kindness to others.
    I waited until he seemed to have exhausted himself listing her good acts. We needed to know whether anyone in her orbit could have been responsible for this tragedy. “What did she do for the Red Cross, exactly?”
    “The disaster relief work took her all over the country. All over the world, actually. Anywhere there was a flood or a cyclone or a fire that destroyed a community. Supplying people with food and shelter and medicine, that’s the kind of thing that Corinne did.”
    “Not tonight, of course, but can you put together a list of the places she lived and some of the people at her job?”
    Thelma Thatcher spoke. “My son can do that.”
    Corinne’s father started reeling off a list of cities in the Midwest and on both coasts.
    “What did she do abroad?” I asked.
    “She lived in Okinawa for a while. It was Red Cross work, but it was with the air force in particular. I think it was called communications liaison.”
    Mercer took over. “So she had to handle emergency messages between military personnel on the island and their families back home?”
    “Yes. She didn’t mind it that much, but when there was a death that she had to report—like telling an officer that his dad had died, or even an ill soldier needing to reach out to relatives, it really took a toll on her.”
    “I understand.”
    “From there she went to Dubai.”
    “Really?”
    “It was a promotion, actually. Corinne learned how to issue grants to families to get them immediate assistance in an emergency.”
    “Related to war in the Middle East?”
    “Some of that, Mr. Wallace. Yes, sir. But she was pretty miserable living there, so she asked to come back home.”
    “Is that when she quit?” I asked.
    “No. No, it wasn’t. She got assigned to the support resources operations for postdeployment.”
    “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not familiar with what that is.”
    Thatcher sighed as he began to explain the duties to me. “Obviously, ma’am, there are always challenges when service members come home from war. Their spouses may have assumed new responsibilities or taken jobs. Some adjust quickly and easily, but many have trouble reestablishing relationships or handling depression.”
    “I thought those were issues for the military to deal with.”
    “I don’t know for how long the Red Cross has been involved, but they are very much in the mix. That was Corinne’s job.”
    “Here in New York?”
    “Yes, most of her work was here in the city.”
    “Did she have direct contact with ex-military men?” I asked.
    “And women.”
    “One-on-one?”
    “Some individually, others with their families. She had to deal with post-traumatic stress issues and often with TBIs.”
    “I don’t know—”
    Bill Thatcher cut me off. “Traumatic brain injuries. A lot of our soldiers have long-term health problems. There’s a good bit of reunion adjustment.”
    “You said that Corinne became—well, overwhelmed by the work, is that right?”
    “Yes, ma’am. It got to her, seeing how much some of these young people gave to their countries and how hard it was for them to get on with their lives.”
    Mercer followed with a list of questions that suggested we were both on the same wavelength. Were there any ones in particular with whom Corinne had bonded? Or about whom she was most worried? Or who had threatened her well-being? We also needed to know if she had become intimate with any of them.
    The answer to every question was no.
    “Who knew Corinne best?” I asked.
    Bill Thatcher