I get that old tingling of the nerves, the rush of discovery, an almost childlike excitement—this is a clue. It means something. I try to squash that feeling, or at least box it up so I can stay somewhat objective. When you are looking for something, it’s all too easy to find something that might not actually be there—the mind tricking itself.

I text Caesar: It’s your favorite ST fan. Take my call, pls. I wait two minutes, then call. Caesar picks up on the second ring. “New phone?” he asks.

“Yep. Learn anything from Garak?”

“Got the service record for one Gunnery Sergeant Edwin Roscoe Finnegan.”

“I can see why he wants to go by Finn. Can you email me the record?”

“I didn’t download the file. Didn’t want to set off any alarms. Just went through a back door in an old DoD server—”

“Fine. What can you tell me?”

“He’s from Missouri, got an Army ROTC scholarship to Mizzou and graduated near the top of his class before joining the Army in the late ’90s. Stayed on after 9/11, deployed to Iraq in ’03. Earned a Silver Star and a Purple Heart for trying to rescue a fuel convoy outside of Baghdad. That was before he beat that soldier to death and got twenty years in prison and a dishonorable discharge.”

“So he was a hero right up until he wasn’t,” I say. “Something’s missing. ROTC scholarship, excellent student, outstanding soldier … that doesn’t seem like Finn. He’s intelligent, sure, and he’s a combat vet. And I know millions of dollars can make good people make bad decisions.” Like Dad, a voice whispers in my head. I shove it away. “But Finn jumps from Boy Scout to murderer? That doesn’t make sense.”

Caesar’s voice is almost like a purr. “That’s because you don’t have his sealed criminal record from when he was a teenager.”

Despite the situation, I smile. “You are such a tease. Spill it.”

“Property damage, assault, assault and battery, property damage with a motor vehicle.”

“I like the last one. He drive over someone’s mailbox?”

“He drove his pickup truck through the front door of a classmate’s house. Sober.”

“That’s a special kind of crazy,” I say. “What about the other charges?”

“Took a baseball bat to someone’s car, a few dents and busted taillights. Threatened a girl. Got in a fight with the same guy whose house he plowed into with his truck.”

“I’m surprised the Army took him. I know every soldier isn’t a saint, but why wasn’t he kicked out of ROTC at least?”

“Daddy was rich and made most of it go away.”