Read One September Morning Online
Authors: Rosalind Noonan
Tags: #Fiction, #Domestic Fiction, #Disclosure of Information - Government Policy - United States, #Families of Military Personnel, #Deception - Political Aspects - United States
One September Morning (43 page)
“I don’t feel so good. Better lie down.” Abby feels Emjay collapse onto the mat at her feet. “He was trying to inject me, but Abby took the hit for me. Probably would’ve killed me with everything he’s sunk into me.”
Flint’s face looms before Abby. Honest brown eyes and strong lips, all framed by crazy dark curls. “Abby…” His long fingers cup her jaw. Fit so well there. “How you doing? How you feeling?”
“Sleep.”
“It’s okay, you can sleep now. You got him, kid. You snagged Jump.”
“He killed Joh…” she mutters, wishing her mouth would wrap around the words properly. “Emjay saw ’im.”
“We’ll get that all wrapped up with the police,” Flint promises. “We’ve got time, now that he’ll be restrained from hurting anyone else. We’ve got time.”
He squeezes her hand and Abby tries to squeeze back, but all she can do is bask in the warm energy of his touch as her world goes black.
Fort Lewis
Jim
W
ell, at least his name is Charles.
Jim Stanton stands at attention, his chin and shoulders squared, his eyes on the back of Charles’s head. Today is a preliminary stage of the court-martial, the Article 32 hearing in which the charges are read and the defense counsel gets a chance to learn the specific evidence and testimony the military has gathered against the defendant.
Charles Turnball stands at the front of the courtroom as the court officer reads from a long list of charges.
“Article 82, Fraudulent Enlistment, Article 118, Murder…”
Of my son. You killed my son, then swooped in and tried to take over the life he built. And when that didn’t work, you tried to systematically disassemble it.
A soft hand clasps his, and he squeezes back. His wife. He marvels at her resilience, her undaunted spirit and strength after everything they’ve been through. John, Noah, Madison. Abby, nearly lost to this man who stalked her.
And me, believing in him, trusting him, letting him guide me.
Jim lifts Sharice’s hand and presses it to his heart. He never would have made it without this woman. He thinks of the matching gold bands waiting for him at the engravers, a gift he’s planned for their thirtieth anniversary but never got around to purchasing. When they got married back in 1976, Jim didn’t get a wedding band because he never wore jewelry. Now, knowing how much it will mean to Sharice, he’s willing to bite the bullet and keep the symbol of marriage around one finger. Inside each band are the words:
Now more than ever…
Jim’s party takes up nearly an entire row at the court-martial proceeding, and most of them will be called as witnesses during some stage. Beside Sharice, Abby sits quietly, her hair pulled back from her face, freckles bolder than ever. She’s looking a little more solid these days, finally getting some meat on those bones. Suz Wollenberg sits next to Abby, nervously twitching her sandaled foot. High energy, that girl, but a big heart, and her little one is a doll.
On Jim’s left are two soldiers from John and Noah’s platoon who have been subpoenaed to testify. Emjay Brown will be a key witness in Turnball’s court-martial, as both a witness to John’s murder and a victim of abuse by Charles Turnball at Lakeside Hospital. Brown was honorably discharged last month and is now attending school on the GI Bill, actually looking to be a counselor like Abby. Emjay wants to reach out to other soldiers who suffer from PTSD. A good man, Emjay Brown.
And Luke Spinelli, the kid, has become a fixture around the Stantons’ house. When he returned from Iraq, the kid sought out Jim and Sharice, wanting to share some memories about John. “I didn’t know your son long,” Luke told them, “but he looked out for me when I really needed it, and I’ll always be grateful for that.” After they got to talking, they found they had a common interest in cryptology, the study of creating and breaking down codes. Jim took the kid under his wing, tried to show him some of the ways the army could offer him a career. Since then, Spinelli has been reassigned to the U.S. Army Signal Corps, where he’s got a good shot at attending cryptology school and working with the National Security Agency in Maryland. He’s a good kid, and Jim likes the feeling of carrying on the goodwill his son initiated.
The army’s investigating officer also issued a subpoena for Noah to testify, but he is staying in Canada, probably for the long haul. Last week, Jim actually spoke with him on the phone for the first time since he went AWOL. A little awkward, mostly because Jim has never been a phone person, but it was good to hear his son’s voice. Madison and Sharice plan to head up that way this summer, when school is out. Madison e-mails Noah every day and is always reporting on what seeds are sprouting or the purchase of a new milk cow. Noah’s defection is still a source of discomfort for Jim, but he’s learning to separate his feelings about going AWOL from his feelings about his son. Something to work on.
“Article 120a,” the court clerk reads on, “Stalking one Abby Fitzgerald. Article 123, Forgery.”
Standing at the front of the room, Charles raises his cuffed hands to scratch near his face, then turns back toward the rows of seats, searching the crowd casually…for what? Jim would love to know. The look in Charles’s eyes isn’t evil or contrite. He seems bored.
How could someone so normal wreak havoc in the lives of so many?
And I’m the biggest sucker of all,
Jim thinks, though he’s trying to get past it. Dr. Berton, his new therapist, who’s an old veteran like Jim, keeps reminding Jim not to blame himself. “For all his insanity, Jump got you on the right path in therapy,” Dr. Berton keeps telling him. “Let’s not discount progress you made, personally, because of circumstances beyond your control.”
Some days Jim wants to beat himself up over his own stupidity, but Dr. Berton cuts the pity party short. “There are things that you cannot control, things that you cannot blame yourself for, difficult things that you need to have the grace to accept,” Berton says. “And beyond that, you’re allowed to make a few mistakes. We’re all human.”
Mostly, Jim tries to focus on moving ahead one day at a time.
“Your honor, I’d like to say something,” Charles Turnball interrupts the investigative officer. “I don’t understand what any of these charges are about. My guess is that they’re the result of jealousy and vindictiveness from the military community—the military that I served so bravely. Do you know that I received a Purple Heart?”
“Actually—” The judge advocate flips through a folder—“That medal is listed as stolen property in these charges, so I’d advise you to refrain from speaking during these hearings, Mr. Turnball.”
“No, Judge, that’s wrong,” Charles insists. “That medal is mine. I could show it to you, but those leathernecks took it away from me when they brought me in.”
The judge is shaking his head. “Please, Mr. Turnball, defer to your lawyer.”
“The problem is that I’m dismissing my lawyer, who’s done a hell of a lot of nothing so far.”
Camera flashes fill the room as an excited murmur rises from behind Jim, causing the judge advocate to bang his gavel. “Order, please.”
“I intend to defend myself and prove that these charges are a bunch of lies. This case is a conspiracy against me brought on by the military community I served for years.”
Abby leans closer to Sharice and Jim and confides in a low voice: “And right now, he probably believes that’s true. Sociopaths don’t accept blame and often blame others for acts they obviously committed.”
The click and whir of expensive cameras fills the back of the room. The media.
Dave Flint is back there somewhere, taking notes. His unique insight gives him an edge over all the other reporters, but Jim doesn’t begrudge him that. In Jim’s opinion, everything Flint has written about the case so far has been true and sympathetic toward the victims. You can’t ask for more than that. And in his investigations, Flint uncovered a trail of crimes perpetrated by Charles Turnball throughout Missouri, Illinois, and Alaska, where he had apparently faked his way into the military at a small recruiting office in Nome.
Born into a middle-class family outside Kansas City, Missouri, Turnball showed signs of personality disorder as a child when he killed the family dog at the age of thirteen. His parents had tried therapy, but Charles did not respond, adamant that he did not have a problem.
“Mr. Turnball, it’s always advisable to retain a defense advocate,” the judge tells Charles. “Especially in a General Court-Martial where the punishment for the charges spans from life in prison to death.”
Charles glances over at his lawyer, then flicks him off with one hand. “I don’t need him. You’re fired,” he says flatly.
As the noise in the courtroom rallies once again, Jim’s gut clenches with dread at the court-martial ahead. It’ll be a real courtroom circus if Charles represents himself.
Will it snap his patience? Will he lash out at Charles Jump when he has a chance to testify?
Jim Stanton will simply deal with that when he gets there.
One day at a time.
U.S. Army Regional Confinement Center, Fort Lewis
Charles
“Y
ou have a visitor,” the officer tells him.
A visitor? Who might that be?
As Charles follows the guard down the corridor and through locked gates of the army’s Regional Confinement Center, he tries to calculate who’s come to see him.
When he finally hits on the answer, he grins.
Abby.
She’s come to ask forgiveness, to tell him that she’s always wanted him and that she’ll wait for him. Maybe they can even get married while he’s detained and get one of those sex visitation dates.
And once he gets Abby, he’ll eventually win back Jim and Madison and Sharice. They screwed up, mistaking him for some black-hearted villain, but they would learn the truth. He’d show them. And they’d get the army to reverse the charges against him, and finally he’d be free of this place.
But when he gets to the visitation room he pauses in the doorway, pissed.
Abby isn’t here. The only open booth faces some middle-aged man with acne and a cowlick.
Lifting his cuffs toward the man, Charles snaps at the guard. “What am I here for? I don’t know him.”
“He’s your brother,” the guard says. “Have a seat and visit with him, or you go back to your cell.”
Goddammit. Gritting his teeth, Charles slides onto the bench.
“Hey, Chucky.” Cowlick Boy has a smooth voice, like a radio host. “You botched things up again. Heard all about it. But you got pretty far this time. Really had people thinking you were a doctor. Unbelievable.”
Charles lets a smile curl the corner of his lip. “I’m good at what I do.”
“Yeah, until you screw it all up. But really, to think that you had them believing you were a shrink. A mental patient treating mental patients. Isn’t that ironic? Cracks me up. I can’t believe they didn’t see you were a retard.”
Fury skitters up Charles’s spine. “Who the hell are you?”
“Your big brother, Chucky. Don’t you remember your long-lost brother?”
“Don’t call me Chucky,” he snarls, wanting to lash out and whip this oaf with his cuffed hands. How could it be that his brother John is standing right here?
But I killed you,
Charles thinks.
Shot you dead in the dark warehouse.
How could he have done all that work for nothing? If he killed his brother, why is he sitting on the other side of the glass booth?
“You’re not real,” Charles says, nodding as it begins to make sense. “You’re not real, John. You’re dead.”
“John?” The oaf chuckles. “My name is Pete, Chucky. Your big brother Pete.”
“Don’t call me Chucky,” he growls, looking down at the counter. He’s sick of looking at this overgrown troll. He already killed him, dammit. Die, already!
“Aren’t you going to thank me for coming to visit you?” Pete asks. “You better look at me, Chucky, ’cause it might be your last chance. The way I read it, you’re either going to prison for life or getting executed, so you better say your good-byes now.”
Charles shakes his head, turning away. He has no need for this moron. He’s in the process of crafting a brilliant defense, an airtight argument that demonstrates how they’ve all been conspiring against him, how he has been the victim all along.
“Hey, Chucky, wait!”
But Charles is already on his feet, walking to the door. “Take me back to my room, James,” he orders pompously.
Might as well make the most of things.
Until he wins his freedom, he’s all squared away here. Three meals a day, his own room—a free ride. Nobody looking over his shoulder, no time card to punch.
“Lucky for me,” he mutters as he is shown to his room. He’s not a mouse on a wheel running nowhere like the rest of them. “Lucky me.”
With a deep sigh, Charles stretches out on his cot and folds his hands behind his head. Yup. Once again, he’s found the easy way out.