“She bought me two. And as a matter of fact she is from Indiana and you know it. So what’s your point?”

“What did you give her, a free ticket to a Don Ho concert?”

“You know, Brandon, I’ve decided that you’re some kind of a low-end elitist. I happen to like Don Ho. And at least I have a wife.”

Condley threw both of his hands up into the air in mock surrender. “Whooee. Low-end elitist, I like that. And no wife to buy me luau shirts. Boy, you’ve got me there.”

“I said we’ve got a problem, Brandon.”

“I know,” said Condley. “I just spent the afternoon with General Duncan. He had your files.”

“I know he had the files. But I have them now. And you don’t know the half of it.” Muir was fingering an old, thick folder that Condley immediately recognized as someone’s military file.

“I know our boy Deville was more than a deserter,” said Condley. “That he might have been a turncoat.”

“Definitely a turncoat, in my opinion.” Muir was flipping through the pages of the military folder, looking for a marked page. “And a murderer.” Muir glanced over at Condley. “Do you remember when I told you that he was wanted for killing a fellow soldier in Long Binh? The man who was going to testify against him in his court-martial?” Muir found the page. “Well, guess what. After he killed the man he cut off his hand.”

“Pretty sick.”

“Yes,” said Muir. “Pretty sick.”

“And then somebody cut off Deville’s hand,” said Condley. “Were they wearing black raincoats back then? Was this an initiation into some secret Gothic society?”

“Actually,” said Muir, “somebody didn’t cut off Deville’s hand.”

“You said he didn’t have a hand.”

“I said the remains we recovered didn’t have a hand.”

Muir held Condley’s gaze for several seconds as the reality of what he had just said sank in. Finally Condley whistled softly, shaking his head. “I guess you’re right. I don’t know shit.”

“You know some information about Specialist Deville,” corrected the burly professor. “But you don’t know very much at all about the remains we recovered in Ninh Phuoc.”

“Are you positive?”

Muir gave Condley a look of mild exasperation. “Brandon, I am a scientist. Certain areas of anthropology are exact. Which is to say that yes, to the extent that medical records are accurate, I am positive. The remains that we have in the lab are not those of Theodore Deville.”

Muir rose from his swivel chair and picked up the military file from his desk. “Let me show you what I mean.”