Trinity Baptist ChurchIvy CityWashington D.C.5:20 PM“I tried to talk to someone at the social security office the other day, but all they could do is just put me on hold. You believe that? I spend two years in goddamn Iraq, in a tank, for this country and all they can do is just but me on hold for three fucking hours--”
Steel stared absentmindedly at the Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. He was only half listening to Broderick bitch and piss and moan. Even barely paying attention, Steel could tell it as the same list of grievances he always brought into the meetings. After two years of this he'd discovered that group therapy was just one long vent sessions, especially considering what they were there for. This wasn’t AA or anything where you gave yourself over to a higher power in hopes of not relapsing. This was all about putting your stories out there instead of keeping it in. You had to share and let it all out, you had see you weren’t the only one fucked up in the head by what you’d seen and done. That was the only way to beat PTSD.
He looked up and took in the usual surroundings in the church basement. The dull concrete walls with affirmational posters taped to them, a table with a coffee pot resting on it filled with the worst coffee known to man and a half eaten box of stale Krispy Kreme donuts. They were gathered in a circle of squeaky metal folding chairs. Each chair was currently filled with the ass of the same old fuck-ups. Each and every one of them were like Steel, flotsam and jetsam from the great liberations of Iraq and Afghanistan.
Maybe not the same old fuck-ups, thought Steel. There was a new face at the group today. Steel looked at him at the corner of his eye. He wore a suit, a decision that made him stick out among the jeans and heavy metal t-shirts most members of the group favored. Even Steel looked dressed down in comparison. He still wore the dress shirt and dark jeans from his morning meeting, but he’d taken off the tie and rolled up the sleeves to the elbows for a more casual look. He normally didn’t roll up the sleeves. Doing so exposed his metal hand and the strap around his wrist that secured the prosthetic in place. But he was in good company. He wasn’t the only man here short a limb or appendage.
“Sarge,” Dr. Weiss said softly after Broderick’s ramblings had finally petered out. “Anything you’d like to share about your week?”
Steel shrugged and finished off the last of his coffee with a grimace. “Not really. Started a new case today.”
He saw some of the other group members perk up at the mention. They knew that Steel worked as a PI and although he never revealed details of his work to them, they always hoped he might let something occasionally slip.
“Any trouble sleeping or dreams?”
Two nights ago he’d dreamed of Fallujah and woken up in a cold sweat screaming. Almost sixteen years since that brutal house to house fighting and Steel couldn’t shake the images of him running down a narrow alley as bullets whizzed and snapped over his head. Nor would he ever forget the shock of impact running up his leg as he kicked in a door and cleared a small house of combatants. And hearing Lance Corporal Stevens gasping for his last shallow breaths and calling out for his mother as he died. That, he knew, he'd take to his grave.
“No,” Steel lied. “Business as usual this past week.
Steel was on his way to his car when he saw the new guy leaning against a Chevy truck smoking a cigarette. The guy perked up as Steel passed by. He pulled a pack of camels out of his breast pocket and shook it at Steel.
“Want one?”
“No thanks. Used to smoke, but that was a long time ago.”
He was intent on not stopping until he was in his car, but the new face had other ideas. He stepped away from his truck and followed Steel.
“Probably impolite to ask, but how did you lose the hand?”
Steel stopped just short of his 4Runner and turned to face the stranger. He crossed his arms and looked the guy over.
“Who do you represent?” Steel asked.
He saw a look of confusion pass along the guy’s face. He was either a damn good actor or genuinely confused. He wouldn’t put it past him to be a good actor. The recruiter types were always damn good salesmen.
“You wouldn’t be the first headhunter to some around a PTSD support group, trying to scrape the bottom of the barrel for some PMC or security firm. Think you can tempt some lost soul into merc work. Usually Doctor Weiss gets them the out of there before group stars.”
“Look, I’m legit.” He said that as he shoved the cigarette in his mouth and searched his pockets. “Got assigned to the group. Look, I’m still active duty.”
He pulled out his wallet and passed Steel his DoD identification. It showed that Richard Flag III was an OF-5 in the US Army and still active duty. Steel handed it back after he was satisfied.
“Colonel Flag,” he said. “You’re a bit overdressed in that suit and tie.”
“Yeah, I know,” Flag said with a shrug. He leaned back and exhaled a column of smoke into air. “I’m stationed at the Pentagon and didn’t want to come in my ASU--”
“Yeah that wouldn’t go over well with this crowd.”
“--and the suit was all I had.”
“Word of advice?” Steel said with a playful smirk on his face. “Don’t go around telling other people in the group you’re a colonel or that you work at the Pentagon. You’ll get guys like Broderick trying to pass you letters and trying to ask for favors on every little thing.”
“Duly noted.”
Flag flicked the stub of his cigarette on the ground and stomped it out.
“Who assigned you to the group?” asked Steel. “This thing is run through the VA so we don’t get much active duty types here.”
“It’s part of my transition into civilian life,” said Flag. “As is the new job in the Pentagon. Got to town about a month ago and I was recommended to attend group therapy if I want to retire from active duty and take on my new job.”
“I’d ask,” said Steel. “But…”
“Yeah,” Flag said with a laugh. “Classified stuff.”
Steel leaned against the hood of his 4Runner and started to roll his sleeves down.
“You seem to be in a better place than I was when I left the service,” he said without looking up.
“What branch?”
“Marine Corps,” said Steel. “Left as an O3.”
“I’m sorry?” said Flag.
“Marines,” repeated Steel. “Medical discharged as a captain.”
“No, I meant I’m sorry for you,” Flag said with a grin.
“I’m gonna let that go because you outrank me,” Steel said with a sideways glance at Flag.
“I thought you were enlisted. They kept calling your 'sarge' in the meeting.”
“Sargent is my first name,” said Steel. “So Captain Sargent Steel. A bit confusing.”
“Thank god you weren’t an enlisted,” said Flag. “First Sergeant Sargent Steel? Like something out of
Catch-22.”
The two men shared a laugh that lapsed into an awkward silence that usually accompanies a first time conversation when it reaches a lull.
“You know you never told me about your hand,” said Flag.
Steel let the silence linger. He looked down at his feet before looking up at Flag.
“All due respect, Colonel, there’s a time and a place.”
Flag held his palms up in a gesture to acknowledge he was backing off.
“You’re right, Sarge. Time and a place.”
“Tell you what, though,” Steel said as he crossed his arms. “Since you’re new to the area and probably need to meet some people, I’ll tell you about it if you come out to my local VFW. Post 341 near the Maryland line, only about five miles from here on Kenilworth. Me and a few other guys, not the ones from the meeting, get together and have some beer on Thursdays.”
“Why not?” Flag asked, clearly to himself. “Are they all marines?”
“Afraid so.”
“Well, good. It’ll be a change from the Pentagon being the smartest one in the room…’
Georgetown 6:34 PMSteel started up the stairwell to the apartment complex’s third floor. The building seemed to be one of the typical apartments that sat in the shadow of a major university and catered to its students. No doorman or any real security because guests and residents were coming and going at all times. The cracked paint on the walls and stained floors showed that it wasn’t that well maintained, but its occupants really didn’t care about that kind of stuff. Even in the early evening the air was already filled with the smell of marijuana and the sounds of loud rock and hip-hop music. Steel had no doubt this place would turn into one raucous party within the next few hours.
He felt a small pang of sadness. Steel never went to college. He’d enlisted in the Marines straight out of Woodrow Wilson High in Northwest DC. He had the grades for college, but not the money. At most he could have done community college. A place like Georgetown was so unattainable it might as well have been the moon to a District boy like him.
But kids like Jeremy Mitchell, Georgetown was their birthright. Georgetown was one of a selective group of universities in America that always catered to the elite. Places like them -- Harvard, Yale, Stanford, etc. -- managed pulled off a massive PR coup on their image by convincing the country, and the world, that you had to be smart to get in. In truth these bastions of higher learning were no more motivated by the almighty dollar than any other institution in this country. They gladly opened their doors for the nation’s blue bloods and
nouveau riche, after all new money spent just as good as the old.
Steel found 3F and knocked on the door with his prosthetic hand. The metal against the door always made a louder sound. After a few moments Steel heard something unlock from behind the door before it cracked open. A young man stared at him through the crack. Even with the small opening he could smell the powerful odor of weed wafting through. His ears picked up a familiar sound from within the apartment.
“Is that Bad Brains?” he asked.
“Who are you?” the kid asked, ignoring Steel’s questions. He scowled at Steel suspiciously. He was supposed to know Steel was coming. But if the scent coming from inside the apartment was any indication there was a good chance he wouldn’t remember his own name if Steel asked.
“The guy looking for Jeremy,” said Steel. “Wideman told me he would call ahead and let you know.”
A look of recognition passed on the kid’s face. “Oh, shit. That’s right. Hol up--”
A second later he opened the door wide for Steel to enter.
“Come on in, bro, my name’s Brett.”
Steel stepped in. The decor was pure college kid. Dirty carpet, fast food wrappers and styrofoam carry out boxes as far as the eye could see, lawn chairs and milk crates for furniture, and walls with the usual pictures of scantily clad females and movie posters slapped on them with clear tape. It didn’t seem to matter what year it was,
Reservoir Dogs posters were always in fashion on male college students’ walls. The most expensive thing in the room was the television and gaming system. Steel had no doubt the 75 inch flatscreen and xbox were the two things in the apartment that were the most cared for. The TV was currently displaying a music streaming app and “I and I Rasta” came out of its speakers.
“Good choice,” said Steel. “Ever listen to Fugazi?”
“Yeah,” said Brett. “
Red Medicine’s the shit. So are you like a cop?”
“Private only,” said Steel. “So I don’t care about the fact this place reeks of weed.”
“It’s legal in D.C.,” said Brett. “Simple possession up to two grams. And that’s all in the house. I’m pre-law, man.”
Of course, thought Steel. He figured a third of Georgetown's undergrads were pre-law, the other two thirds were probably business and poli-sci respectively.
“What can you tell me about Jeremy?” Steel asked. He pulled out his phone and hit the voice memo app. He made sure to hold it close enough to pick up Brett’s words over the noise of the music.
“He’s a pretty cool dude,” Brett said with a shrug. “Even with all of his problems we get along pretty good. We’ve been roommates for three years now. Ever since the summer between freshman and sophomore years, when we could move off-campus for housing. Three years with the same roommate is like, thirty years in college years.”
"Problems?" asked Steel.
"You know what I mean," Brett said with a knowing look.
“You said you’re pre-law. Jeremy is an art history major. How did you two guys meet?”
“Had the same English class freshman year. Got paired off for peer editing and we just clicked.”
“I know about Jeremy’s dad and what he does, what do your parents do for a living?”
“Lawyer,” Brett said sheepishly. “Both of them. Dad is a divorce lawyer and mom is a corporate lawyer.”
Steel resisted the urge to smile. He could see Brett’s future clearly. He’d be at some white shoe law firm right out of law school, on the partner track of course. One day in the far future this stoned out kid jamming to Bad Brains would be some federal judge, in a position where he could do damage until he either died or retired. That was what places like Georgetown offered. It wasn’t so much education as it was entrée to the elite circles of privilege this country had to offer.
“Let’s talk about drug use, mainly Jeremy’s. I don’t care about weed. I’ve already been briefed on Jeremy’s troubles. Already told you I’m not a cop. I was hired to find him and that’s all I’m here to do. Is he into more than just weed?”
Brett’s sheepish smile seemed to evaporate at Steel’s question.
“Yeah,” Brett mumbled. “He uhh...he used to be into scripts. He’d get popped with xannies, percs, some klonopin. Eventually he stepped up to heroin. I know he used to snort it but the last few weeks I was worried he’d started arm popping.”
"What made you think that?"
"It's too hot for long sleeve shirts," said Brett. "But Jeremy was rocking them all day every day."
“You ever do any heroin with him?”
‘No,” Brett replied too quickly. “I do coke at parties, but I never touched anything that hard.”
Steel didn’t reply. He just silently stared at Brett. He knew silence could be as effective as any shouting or threats of violence. Let people get uncomfortable enough and they would eventually tell you what you wanted to hear, if just to stop the silence.
“I had some snorts with him a time or two, okay?” He finally said. Just the admission seemed to relieve the kid. "But that's it... don't tell my parents, please."
“I'm not reporting to them, Brett," said Steel. "Do you know where he copped from?”
“Not around here,” said Brett. “He got too well known in the area, always getting busted. I went with him a few times to these projects down in the southeast to get a speedball. Some street corner real close to the Virginia line.”
Steel had a rough idea of where Brett was talking about. The Washington Highlands area had an unfortunate reputation for crime and poverty. While the District’s most violent days seemed to be a thing of the past, the violence of the 80’s and early 90’s were still alive and well in Washington Highlands.
“You know about Jeremy owing anyone money?”
“No, that was one thing he’s always good for,” Brett said with a harsh laugh. “See his dad stands up in congress and talks a good game about personal responsibility and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, but Jeremy is firmly wedged on the family tit.”
“Seems like the good congressman is a man of many contradictions,” said Steel. “Know anything about Jeremy’s lovelife? Any girlfriends...or boyfriends?”
“There was some girl he made eyes at who he’d see around campus. Some hippy dippy chick. Can’t remember her name, just that she worked in the college bookstore. He bragged he was fucking her. Don’t know how much of that was bullshit.”
“Was Jeremy known to lie?” asked Steel.
“Exaggerate is more like it,” Brett shrugged. “Like to play himself off as something more than what he was. His dad was famous and powerful, sure, but around here you got a lot of old money. And Jeremy’s family were just a bunch of Tennessee rednecks before his dad got into politics. Nothing special. But he liked to play it off like he was a southern Kennedy, like he had his dad’s ear and was an actual advisor or some shit. He was just a fucking borderline junkie on his way to flunking out of college.”
“Well I think you’ve given me a lot of good information, Brett. Let me get your number. I’ll be in touch if I have any follow up questions.”
In his car, Steel let Brett’s last words on Jeremy sit with him for a long moment. Inflating your importance wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. In this town it was a prerequisite to get anywhere. But throwing in drugs into the mix...maybe his disappearance was more than just a simple drug bender? Maybe the kid had gotten high and bragged to the wrong person on the wrong street corner.
Steel checked the campus bookstore’s hours on his phone and saw it had just closed. He’d have to try again tomorrow. In the meantime, he could spend the evening doing research and reaching out to his MPD contacts. See what they knew about the drug scene in Washington Highlands.
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