Home Front(49)

“I specialize in post-traumatic stress disorder. The minute I heard Keith Keller was a former marine, I looked into his case. He did two tours of duty in Iraq.” He shook his head. “The Department of Veterans Affairs is absolutely criminal in its negligence in helping the troops coming back from Iraq. By the time this damn war’s over, we’ll have hundreds of thousands of severely traumatized soldiers trying to put the pieces of their lives back together. This thing with Keith will become, sadly, too common, if we don’t start helping these young men and women.”

Michael took out a notebook. “Go on.”

“I was in ’Nam. 1967. I saw firsthand how good men could be swallowed by war. And in Vietnam, at least you could go somewhere to blow off steam. In Iraq, nothing and nowhere is safe. The woman who smiles and waves can blow up the soldier who tries to help her cross the street. This was occasionally true in Vietnam; it’s commonplace in Iraq. The roads are rigged with IEDs—improvised explosive devices—that kill anyone who passes by. Bombs are in garbage heaps, in animals, in people, in ditches. You’re not safe anywhere over there. Our soldiers are returning with extreme post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Could extreme PTSD diminish one’s capacity for reasonable thought?”

“Absolutely. That’s the question that begs to be asked in this case. It’s not some random bad guy shooting his wife and claiming he’s crazy. Keith Keller served his country and, while he came back physically undamaged, it may not be the end of the discussion. I’d have to speak with him to make an accurate diagnosis, however.”

“Can you tell me a little more about PTSD, how it works?”

“It’s entirely possible Keith didn’t even know he was killing his wife. He could have been disoriented enough not to know where he was or what he was doing. I can’t say, of course, specifically until I speak with him. But I can say with authority that too many of our troops are coming home with devastating PTSD and that this condition can cause a soldier to snap. By all accounts, Keith Keller sounded like a good man before the war.”

Michael tapped his pen on the pad of paper, thinking through the possibilities. Cornflower had just handed him a defense to murder one, but it was tricky. Jurors were notoriously reluctant to accept a diminished-capacity defense. And they hated insanity.

Christian pressed his fingertips together. “PTSD is a legitimate psychiatric disorder and has been for decades. A person can literally be incapacitated by the disorder. What’s happening over there … well … you should know as well as anyone.”

Michael frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I understand you’re a military family. Your wife is a helicopter pilot serving in Iraq right now, isn’t she?”

“You really do your homework.”

“I like to know who I’m talking to. Your wife, is she telling you much?”

Michael didn’t like the way the doctor was studying him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She just got there, but they don’t let women in combat situations. Mostly she’ll be ferrying VIPs around.”

“Ah,” he said, eyeing Michael. Then he smiled. “She’s a mother. Her instinct is to protect. Of course.” He paused.

“Of course, what?”

“Here’s what you need to know: some clichés are true, and war is definitely hell. It’s being afraid all the time, and when you’re not afraid it’s because you’re so pumped full of adrenaline you could literally burst. It’s watching people who you love—really profoundly love—get blown to pieces right next to you. It’s seeing a leg lying in the ditch and picking it up to put it in a bag because no man—or part of a man, your friend—can be left behind. It’s the dark night of the soul, Michael. There’s no front line over there. The war is all around them, every day, everywhere they go. Some handle it better than others. We don’t know why, but we do know this: the human mind can’t safely or healthily process that kind of carnage and uncertainty and horror. It just can’t. No one comes back from war the same.”

“Will you meet with Keith, assess him? I’ll need a diagnosis if I’m going to go for a PTSD defense.”

“Of course,” Christian said. “I would be honored to help this young man.”

Honored. That was a word Michael hadn’t heard in connection with one of his clients in a long time. So many of them were guilty as hell. He was proud to be a part of the criminal justice system—an important part—but he was rarely proud to defend an individual client.

It made him think of Jolene, for whom honor was so important. She would have liked that he took this case. He rose to his feet, shaking Dr. Cornflower’s hand, saying, “Thank you.”

All the way home, he thought about Keith, and this new defense … and what had happened to this formerly good and decent young man in Iraq.

What happened to him over there?

And then, he thought: Jolene, what’s happening to you?

He was late getting home, as usual, and he knew by the look on Betsy’s face that she’d been counting the minutes, adding them up to hold against him. The thought of another angsty teenaged tirade, which he deserved, was more than he could stand.

His mother came into the kitchen. “I had no problem staying an extra hour. Don’t worry about it.”