Six years since the Memorial Service at Parris Island.

Six years since the goddamned inbred Low Country firefighters who refused to put a black band around their badges stretched out on the back pews and pretended to take a nap. They were the ones hired before Rusty was Fire Chief. The ones hired because they were somebody’s cousin or uncle. The ones who refused to shower, the ones who sold meth and weed out on the Crucible, the ones who told the Chief three times over the radio that they weren’t on their way to the recruit who jumped from the fourth-floor stairwell because their back hurt and besides, it was one of those whiny A-rabs again. At least that bastard had the decency to off himself a few months later.

Bitter? Not me. Just listing facts without prettying them up with a spit shine.

I don’t sleep well at night. Yeah, yeah, I can hear the other insomniacs as we try to outdo each other’s REM-adjacent sob stories. I think better at night. I wonder what other 65-year-old white women think about when the house is quiet and the dogs are snoring.

Do they worry about their grandchildren, firmly convinced that they aren’t being brought up properly, spoiled or ignored, or worse, living so far away that their grandparental role is reduced to prearranged Facetime sessions and painstakingly selected gifts sent several times each year?

Or do they worry about whether they should wear panties under their pajamas after a night-time bath just in case they die in their sleep? Or can they get a little ventilation? The thought of embarrassing the paramedics or triggering a latent case of necrophilia isn’t something that most of us would wish on a friend.

I have a puzzle for you. Why would thirty or so people on an Army base overseas fail to notice when a coworker known for checking on everyone every morning doesn’t show up to work for three days? Let’s add a few more layers to that puzzle.

Let’s say the person was the second in command on the installation, the officer in charge of all emergency situations, all physical security, all law enforcement, all medical and fire protection. Throw in an iron-clad, oft-repeated multiple level system of requirements for checking attendance and reporting absences because of the installation’s mission and location.

And finally, include an H.R. Specialist and an acting Site Director who insist and record on official documents that the person was actually on duty, hard at work at the installation for those three days.

Right up until the Wednesday morning meeting when the Site Director asks, “Does anybody know where Rusty is?”

Nope. Haven’t seen him all week.

Cue multiple panicked phone calls to Rusty’s duty and personal cell phones.

Stampede to vehicles, calls to local law enforcement to meet at Rusty’s apartment.

The front door is locked but they’re able to go inside through a window.

(Spoiler: according to the Bulgarian military coroner, death occurred between two and four hours before they found the body. Translation: if they hadn’t lied that he was at work on the three days, he would have been found, would not have bled out and would not have died.)

Knock knock. Who’s there?

Neighbors across the street watch as a white four door sedan with U.S. Government license plates pulls into our driveway. An older white male and young black female in uniform walk to our door.

“Uh oh. That doesn’t look like good news.”

Two chaplains from Fort Rucker. We regret to inform you, we don’t have any information, sorry for your loss, someone will be in touch, is there anyone you would like us to contact?

I call my sister. Blake and I look at each other. What the hell?

I make lists in my head. Call Navy Federal, cancel all credit cards, file insurance claim with AFBA, call his dad and sister, emails to anyone who might care.

I call the Site Director overseas. It’s 10 pm his time and the bastard is sleeping. Said Matt saw Rusty’s body. Found in bed, looks like he died peacefully in his sleep.

Oh.

Well, that’s something. I guess.

But it’s not. Two of Rusty’s senior Army Reserve firefighters are appointed Summary Court Martial Officers. (It’s not what you think. Their job is to handle all the tasks and property of the deceased.)

As soon as the impound on the apartment is released, the SCMOs inventory everything inside and in Rusty’s office. The landlord insists on keeping the security deposit and tries to get another month’s rent. I explain that Rusty took the maximum withdrawals from the ATM last Wednesday, Thursday and Friday to pay the rent and I knew the landlord called Rusty at 7 pm on Friday before he came over. The SCMOs made it clear to the landlord that the police would be notified if he did not admit he had received the rent on Friday. He caved.

I asked the SCMOs for a photo of where the body had been found. They send a photo of a desk.

What the hell?

“We didn’t want to upset you.”

Don’t worry about it. I had twenty years in law enforcement and Child Protective Services. Besides, wasn’t he found in bed?

Photo received. Thick black blood pools on the floor behind the door. Spatters on the wall and the back of the door.

And more. Under the bed. Where the police didn’t bother looking.

I send the photos to friends in law enforcement, criminal defense lawyers, physicians. That’s not from any fucking heart attack.

Energy. Focus. Motivation. No, sometimes, yes.

Blake and I are going to Bulgaria. I tell the SCMOs not to touch anything in the apartment. We need passports.

Still waiting for Army CID to contact us. I call the Embassy in Sofia. “You can leave a message but you aren’t allowed to call them. They will call you.”

They never did.

We are assigned an Army Casualty Officer from Fort Rucker. It’s either his first collateral duty or he’s just a lazy piece of shit. He fails to tell us that the DoD will pay for us to retrieve Rusty’s body and to ship the body home if that’s what we want.

My sister loans me $10,000.

We need passports.

During all the years as Rusty’s unpaid administrative assistant I learned the procedures and regulations for transfers, including passports. I knew we qualified for the 24-hour ‘walk-through’ passports if I could get a letter from a flag officer or GS-14 civilian.

The Casualty Officer ignored my repeated emails on the passports. (Civilians, especially females, don’t know shit. And clearly I was just another Distraught Bereaved Widow. Fuck you, Casualty Officer.)

Casualty Officer: Just drive to New Orleans, sit at the passport office and maybe they’ll get around to you.

Greek chorus: Fuck you, Casualty Officer.

I called the Fire Chief at Naval Air Station Pensacola. He gave me the name of the wonderful, incredibly helpful, highly competent Filipino gentleman in the transportation office. Why is it that the hardest workers on U.S. military bases are the ones uprooted from other island nations? Gitmo was the same way. But that’s a story for another time.

I called SATO in Germany (the DoD travel office) and paid for our tickets to Germany and Bulgaria.

The Casualty Officer checked in long enough to tell me I was screwing things up because-SURPRISE!-the military would pay for the tickets.

Greek chorus: (once more, with feeling)