“Interesting work?”

He shakes his head. “Most times it was goat herders or poppy farmers who said they weren’t Taliban, that they was just carrying AK-47s for personal protection, stuff like that. Most of the time we just took their photos, fingerprints, DNA swabs, and either sent them on their way or gave ’em back to the government forces.”

Rosaria looks down at the thin file that contains the notes and paperwork for the Cornwall investigation. “But there was one prisoner that stood out, am I right?”

He quickly nods. “That’s right, ma’am. This guy…his name was Mohammed Something-or-another. He was different.”

“Different how?”

“He was older, that’s what. Maybe in his forties, fifties. Pretty well-dressed, in good health…I mean, some of these villages, you see a guy that looks like a grandpa who’s been smoking cigars and eating raw sugar all his life, and you find out he’s only thirty. It’s a hard place. But this guy looked okay. And he spoke English.”

Rosaria pauses. That wasn’t in the initial investigative report. “Really? How well did he speak it?”

Baker smiles. “Crap, better than me. Almost an English accent, like he went to some fancy school in Britain or someplace like that.”

“Why was he picked up?”

“Some tribal leader from one of the villages, he narked him. Said this Mohammed didn’t belong, was from far away, was from the Taliban. But Mohammed said that wasn’t true. He said he was a simple farmer…was just passing through to visit relatives in some other village.”

“Did Cornwall believe him?”

“No,” Baker says.

“Why?”

“Because of his feet.”

Rosaria says, “His feet?”

Another slight smile. “Yeah, his feet. He claimed that he was a simple, poor farmer, did a lot of walking and riding on horses or mules, but Captain Cornwall, she made him take his boots off. And his feet was nice and soft. Not covered with calluses and thick skin like you’d expect.”

“What happened next?”

“The old guy, he kept on smiling. But he shut up. And he was put in one of the cages…and came out the next day for another go-around, and kept his mouth shut, and then another day…and Captain Cornwall, she was getting a lot of calls from up the chain. Demanding answers. Leads. Like I said, this guy didn’t fit in. A farmer? His hands were almost as smooth as his feet. The captain’s superiors…they thought he was a real catch. She was under a lot of pressure to break him.”

Those last two words, break him, catch her attention. “Did she do that, then? Break him?”

“Well…”

“Lieutenant, need I remind you of your responsibility here, to answer my questions fully and faithfully?”

Baker just nods at that, swallowing hard. “It’s like this…she got really pissed and said she was going to his cage, to talk to him, one-on-one, to get what she needed…and then a while later, the call came out. Medics were brought in. The guy…they hauled him out in a wire basket, and I caught a look. His face was bruised, there was blood coming out of his mouth, and his eyes were wide open, staring up.”