Casper stared at the Bibles, well aware of the answer. “Ziggy, maybe this isn’t the best fight for you to be picking right now.”
“So I’m supposed to just turn away and ignore it all?”
“No, you’re supposed to stay out of trouble, which I guarantee won’t happen if you keep digging into military secrets. For all you know, Mint’s a secret squirrel, and they’re just trying to keep his mission quiet.”
“You really believe that?”
Casper stayed silent. He’d been through enough secret squirrel cases to know their vibe. “Fine, I hear you—this one reeks. But if you’re not careful . . . Y’know how many cameras you passed coming in here? You need an actual plan.”
“I have a plan,” Zig insisted, rapping his knuckles against the screen. “I find out who these bones belong to, and once I have that—”
The office door swung open, revealing a petite woman. She had chestnut-colored hair and military posture. Zig knew her, though not from here.
“Sorry . . . oh, jeez . . . I’m interrupting, aren’t I?” she asked. “I’m Archie’s— I’m Colonel Mint’s— I’m his wife,” Tessa explained, holding up a manila envelope. “I’m looking for the chaplain. They said he was— Am I even in the right office?”
Zig froze, but not for long. “C’mon in,” he said, closing the laptop and motioning her inside. “This is absolutely the right place. Please. Take a seat. Welcome to the chaplain’s office.”
43
“Wait, I know you,” Mint’s wife blurted.
Zig started to speak but never got the words out.
“From the funeral,” Tessa insisted, stepping toward him, shutting the door behind herself. “You’re the guy. You worked on Archie . . . on his body. The mortician.”
“Zig,” he said, extending a handshake, which she gripped like a lifeline.
“You fixed his smile. I appreciate that.” She searched for more small talk, but that was all she had in her. Her eyes were puffy, her bottom lip showing signs of an emerging cold sore. At the funeral, she wore her public face—stoic and composed—but there’s only so long you can hold that in place. The fa?ade was fraying.
“Mrs. Mint,” Casper interrupted, “if there’s anything you need . . .”
“Archie used to say you should never trust anyone who doesn’t have family photos up in their office,” she said, forcing a laugh and looking around at the pale yellow walls, which, in addition to a Navy poster, held a simple crucifix as well as a framed Navy flag that looked like it was from Vietnam. “But I guess in here, you don’t want to—”
She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to. When you bury a family member and come to the chaplain’s office, the last thing you want to see is someone else’s smiling family.
“I got this letter,” Tessa added, holding up her manila envelope.
Zig knew what it was. When someone in the military dies, their family gets a packet notifying them of every available procedure and benefit, from how many honor guard will fold the flag at the funeral to how to get the autopsy report, which must be requested. On average, 85 to 90 percent ask for the autopsy, which came in the exact type of manila envelope Tessa was now holding. Inside was a cover letter that read in bold letters, “It is STRONGLY RECOMMENDED that you read this in the presence of people that can provide you with emotional support.” Families can also request the photographs that were taken of their loved one’s body. Only 10 percent ask for those.
Tessa was one of them.
“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?” she asked, pulling the report and a stack of about eighty photos from the envelope, the military still printing them out like it was the pre-digital age.