Wrongful Death by Robert Dugoni

“Didn’t I just speak to you?”
    “I was in the area.”
    The processing center had connected Sloane to a paralegal, Sergeant Bowie, who said Ford’s claim had been assigned to a Captain Thomas Pendergrass.
    “I’m not familiar with that name from the file,” Sloane had said.
    “Captain Pendergrass just recently rotated in,” Bowie explained. He told Sloane that Pendergrass was at a dental appointment, but expected back at any moment. Sloane apologized for the late notice, and told the sergeant it was urgent he speak with the captain. The sergeant said he’d fit him in.
    Jenkins and Sloane peeled the backing from visitor passes and stuck them onto their jackets as the soldier behind the desk provided directions to the judge advocate general’s office. They got back into the car and drove through the security checkpoint, which involved another review of their driver’s licenses, passes, and car registration while another security officer walked around the car using a mirror to look beneath it.
    Entering the base, Sloane drove through what appeared to be Everytown U.S.A., with a Chevron gas station and an assortmentof businesses, including a Starbucks. Moments later the scenery changed. They drove past three-story, red-brick buildings with white wood trim and dormer windows. Maple trees lined spotless sidewalks and well-manicured lawns.
    “Looks like an Ivy League campus,” Sloane said, except that every man and woman wore the same green-and-beige camouflage combat uniforms, some with black berets.
    Jenkins pointed out the two polished bronze cannons on the lawn in front of a building. The soldier in the processing center had given them the cannons as a landmark. Sloane turned into a parking lot just past the building.
    “I think I’ll take this alone, lawyer to lawyer,” Sloane said.
    Jenkins shrugged. “Have at it.”
    Sloane entered the building through oak doors, took half a flight of stairs, and found the judge advocate general’s office. Sergeant Bowie turned out to be a burly man with a firm handshake and warm smile. He led Sloane to an office with a low tiled ceiling.
    Captain Pendergrass stood behind an L-shaped desk, the word “Pendergrass” stitched on his uniform over the right breast, “U.S. Army” stitched over the left. The tops of several pens protruded from a pocket on his right-forearm sleeve. With the low ceiling, Pendergrass looked huge, but was actually perhaps five foot seven in his combat boots and military-fit. Irish or Scottish, he had a fair complexion, red hair, and boyish features. He looked to be fighting a headache.
    Sloane thanked Pendergrass for seeing him. “I understand you just had dental work.”
    “A root canal. I thought I was just coming in to pick up some files,” he said, implying that he had not appreciated Sergeant Bowie setting a meeting. Sloane didn’t have a lot of time.
    “I had one last year—they’re a bitch. I promise not to take too much of your time.”
    Pendergrass gestured to one of two chairs. As the captain slid behind his desk Sloane glanced at his credentials hanging on the wall. A brown flag hung near the framed certificates indicating Pendergrass had been the Combat JAG for the 81st Brigade Combat Team in Operation Iraqi Freedom, which explained the well-worn desert combat boots propped on a box near his desk.
    Sloane gestured to the boots. “You don’t find those in every attorney’s office.”
    Pendergrass smiled, though only the right side of his mouth rose. “I wore those out of Iraq. I hope I never have to put them on again. You told my sergeant this was urgent?”
    Wanting to gauge Pendergrass’s reaction before he could look up the status of Ford’s claim, Sloane had been deliberately vague with Sergeant Bowie about the specifics for his visit. “I represent the family of a national guardsman killed in Iraq.”
    “My condolences.” Pendergrass turned to his keyboard.
    “I was hoping you could tell me the status of the