Chapter 5 - THE BLACK MEDICAL CASE|
The photograph showed three young men standing beside a military jeep.
One was Edward.
One was Thomas Mercer.
The third had a square jaw, dark hair, and an easy smile.
I recognized him.
"Lieutenant Peter Reese."
Edward nodded.
"That's right."
I studied the face.
Peter had been a young intelligence officer assigned temporarily to our medical evacuation team.
He was polite, clever, and constantly carrying a notebook.
He used to say that the Army had enough rifles but never enough pencils.
I remembered teasing him about it.
"Peter Reese was killed in 1970," I said.
"That's what they told you."
My heart sank.
"Edward, don't tell me another dead man is alive."
"No."
He lowered himself into the chair beside the bed.
"Peter really died."
I looked from the photograph to Colonel Mercer.
"Was he related to Sergeant Reese?"
Mercer reached for his phone.
"I can check."
Edward raised a hand.
"No need."
He turned to me.
"Peter had a son."
I remembered.
A baby boy born in Georgia while Peter was overseas.
His wife had sent photographs in every letter.
Peter carried one in his wallet until the edges wore through.
"That boy grew up and had children," Edward continued.
"One of them is named Tyler Reese."
The name struck me.
"Staff Sergeant Tyler Reese?"
Edward nodded.
"His grandson."
I sat down heavily on the edge of the other bed.
The young sergeant who had mocked me in the dining hall was the grandson of a man I had once known.
"Does Tyler know?" I asked.
"Not everything."
"What does he know?"
Edward looked at Mercer.
"That depends on what Major Voss has told him."
Mercer stiffened.
"Voss?"
Edward opened the black medical case.
Inside were documents wrapped in waterproof cloth.
A small camera.
Several faded identification tags.
A bloodstained notebook.
And a metal cylinder no larger than a flashlight.
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Edward touched the notebook.
"Peter Reese kept records of supply deliveries and evacuation orders."
"Why?" Mercer asked.
"Because medical supplies were disappearing."
I felt an old memory stir.
We had run out of antibiotics twice that summer.
There had been morphine shortages.
Bandages arrived in boxes that were supposed to contain surgical instruments.
Nobody seemed to know why.
At the time, we blamed the chaos of war.
Edward looked at me.
"You remember the shortages."
"Yes."
"Peter discovered they weren't accidents."
Mercer leaned closer.
"What happened?"
"An officer was diverting supplies through unauthorized channels."
"Who?"
Edward looked down.
"Major Richard Bell."
The name seemed to drain the warmth from the room.
I remembered Bell vividly.
A handsome man with polished boots and a voice that never rose above a calm, reasonable tone.
He was the kind of officer everyone described as dependable.
He had signed commendations.
He had attended funerals.
He had personally informed me that Edward Holloway was dead.
"Bell was stealing medical supplies?" I asked.
"Among other things."
Edward slid a photograph across the bed.
It showed crates being unloaded beside a warehouse.
Several men stood nearby.
One wore Bell's uniform.
Another wore civilian clothes.
"Peter photographed the operation," Edward said.
"He believed the stolen supplies were being sold."
Mercer examined the image.
"Was this investigated?"
Edward laughed bitterly.
"We tried."
I felt something tighten inside me.
"What happened?"
"Peter sent a report through the chain of command."
"And?"
"The report disappeared."
"Then he made another copy."
"Yes."
Edward touched the black case.
"And he gave it to me."
I stared at him.
"Why you?"
"Because you were the only officer we knew who wouldn't look away when somebody got hurt."
The room became quiet.
I thought of all the wounded men we had treated with inadequate medicine.
I thought of young soldiers asking whether the pain would stop.
I thought of the terrible helplessness of reaching for a bottle that wasn't there.
"People died," I whispered.
Edward nodded.
"Yes."
Mercer looked at the documents.
"How many?"
"We don't know."
I looked at the photographs again.
"And the twenty-fourth man?"
Edward's eyes filled.
"His name was Corporal Samuel Whitaker."
I closed my eyes.
Samuel.
I hadn't spoken that name aloud in years.
He was twenty-two.
He had a wife in Ohio.
He used to carry a small wooden cross in his pocket, although he never spoke about religion.
During the evacuation, he had been hit by shrapnel.
I had treated his wounds.
He was alive when we loaded him onto the helicopter.
I remembered that much.
Edward's voice became soft.
"Samuel knew what Peter had found."
"Why?"
"Because he'd helped move the crates."
I opened my eyes.
"He was involved?"
"He didn't know what he was carrying until he recognized the medical markings."
Mercer frowned.
"So he became a witness."
"Yes."
Edward placed another document on the bed.
It was a statement signed by Samuel Whitaker.
My stomach turned.
The handwriting was shaky.
The final paragraph described how he had been threatened after questioning the missing supplies.
"Who threatened him?" I asked.
Edward looked at me.
"Bell."
I gripped the edge of the mattress.
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
"Edward, tell me what happened after the helicopter left."
He stared at the floor.
"I woke up in a field hospital."
"You were wounded?"
"Badly."
"How did you get there?"
"Someone brought me."
"Who?"
"I never learned his name."
Edward pressed his fingers against his chest.
"When I became conscious, a man was standing beside my bed."
"Bell?"
"No."
He looked up.
"A civilian."
My skin prickled.
"He told me Samuel Whitaker was dead."
"And you believed him?"
"At first."
Edward swallowed.
"Then I heard Samuel screaming through the wall."
Nobody moved.
"I tried to get up," Edward continued.
"The civilian held me down."
"Did you see Samuel?"
"No."
"But you heard him?"
"Yes."
Edward's voice broke.
"He was begging them not to kill him."
I covered my mouth.
For a few seconds, I couldn't breathe.
I had spent fifty-six years remembering Samuel as a casualty of war.
Now I was hearing that he had survived the battlefield only to be killed because he had seen something he shouldn't have.
Mercer slowly stood.
"We need to report this."
Edward nodded.
"I know."
"Why didn't you come forward decades ago?"
Edward looked at the black case.
"Because I tried."
He reached inside and removed a thick envelope.
On the front were several government mailing labels.
Some dated back to the 1970s.
Others were much more recent.
"I sent copies," he said.
"To investigators."
"To veterans' organizations."
"To anyone who might listen."
He looked at me.
"Most never answered."
Mercer studied the envelopes.
"And the ones who did?"
Edward's expression darkened.
"They told me the records were classified, incomplete, or impossible to verify."
"That doesn't explain why you remained legally dead."
Edward touched the scar beside his eye.
"Because somebody arranged it that way."
I stared at him.
He had spent fifty-six years living under another name.
He had built a life outside the official record.
He had grown old without the recognition owed to him.
And all the while, his name had remained on a wall in Kentucky.
Until someone removed it.
"Why now?" I asked.
Edward looked toward the window.
"Because Peter Reese's grandson started asking questions."
I thought of Tyler's anger in the dining hall.
Of the way he had glared at my pin.
Of the fear on his face as we left.
"What questions?"
Edward reached into his jacket.
He removed a folded newspaper clipping.
It showed Sergeant Reese receiving an award for leadership.
Standing beside him was Major Andrew Voss.
Edward tapped the photograph.
"Tyler discovered his grandfather's old notebook."
My heartbeat quickened.
"And Voss found out."
Edward nodded.
"Three weeks ago, the notebook disappeared."
He looked directly at me.
"Then somebody started sending messages to my house."
"What messages?"
Edward opened a drawer.
Inside was a photograph of my yellow house in Clarksville.
Someone had taken it from across the street.
May you like
On the back were six words.
SHE CAN STILL BE MADE SILENT.
