The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

NIH. My job is to monitor that, and make sure of fairness for everyone.”

My eyes darted to Moore. He carefully looked away from me. Now I wanted to vomit. Or scream. Or hit that smug, self-satisfied bureaucrat in the face. None of these were going to be productive responses.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. I assure you these ... charges ... are completely false. How do we get this done and over with so I can get back to work?”

Moore finally spoke again. “For the time being you’ll be on paid administrative leave. Your research here is on hold until the investigation is complete. I spoke with the RCR at Rice University earlier, and we’ve agreed that the most expeditious way to handle this is to conduct a joint investigation.”

I forced myself to stay calm. “What exactly will this investigation involve?”

“We’ll need to question you and Professor Ayers, of course. And review log books and all of your original lab notes from your dissertation, as well as all of the work that led to both of your upcoming papers. For the time being, the Journal of Infectious Diseases has put your publication on hold until we’ve reached a resolution.”

My stomach twisted at the thought they’d contacted the journal and put my research on hold, my job, my life.

My cell phone rang. I reached into my purse and silenced it without checking who it was. I sat straight on the edge of my seat, struggling to suppress my rage and said, “Let me know what you need. I’ll cooperate fully. This is ... appalling.”

Moore nodded. “I’ll call you later this week and let you know what we need. In the meantime, you’re not to log in any NIH or Rice University systems. To make sure existing evidence is protected.”

I swallowed and stood up. Both men stood as well, and part of me wanted to scream in rage at the idea that my fitness to be a scientist, my honesty and integrity, was in question. That the question of whether or not I’d used sex to achieve my goals would be decided by a couple of old white guys who stared at me like I was a piece of meat. The rage was building in me, quickly, and I knew I had to get out of there before I said or did something I was going to regret.

“I’ll wait for your call,” I said, and then I was out the door, running down the hall and back to my office. I threw my phone and other personal things into my purse and walked out of the office.

Lori was on her feet and met me in the hallway. She whispered urgently, “Carrie ... what happened in there?”

I shook my head, rapidly, and said in a high-pitched, uncontrollable voice, “My life is falling apart. I can’t talk about it now or I’ll start screaming. I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” she said, giving me a concerned look.

“Tonight,” I replied. “I ... ok. I’ll call you tonight.”

And then I half-ran, half-stumbled, out of the building.

Would it help if I got out and pushed? (Ray)

If there’s a crappier way to spend an entire day than repeating the same story, for the hundredth time, for a lawyer, I don’t know what it is. I’d arrived promptly that morning at Major Elmore’s office, and found him sitting behind an enormous steel and plastic military desk painted battleship grey. The back wall of Elmore’s office was covered in awards and decorations, including the citation for his Bronze Star. When I walked in, I was immediately drawn to that wall, and found myself reading the award citation. Simple and unpleasant story. IED blew up a Humvee south of Baghdad, burning fuel splashed all over the place. Elmore ran into the fire to pull one of his soldiers out of the fire, and got himself all fucked up in his efforts.

“Did he live?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The soldier you pulled out of the burning Humvee.”

He shook his head. “No. Too badly burned. But he made it home with his face intact. For the funeral.”

I winced. Then I said, “I don’t need a civilian attorney. You’ll do.”

He didn’t answer. He knew what I meant, and I knew what I meant. You can’t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. You can’t occupy a country without fucking some people up. He got it in a way no lawyer fresh out of law school was ever going to get it.

So I sat down, and he slid a list across the table to me. I scanned it. It was five other members of my squad, plus Sergeant First Class Colton. Sergeant Hicks was on the list too, probably because he was my other accuser.

I looked at the list, then back at him. “I want to know everything about these people. I want to know their underwear size. I want to know where they took shits in Afghanistan, and how often.”

I nodded. I picked a pen off his desk and struck three names from the list. “These three don’t matter. They were FNGs.”

He squinted. “That was your whole fire team. All of them?”

“Yeah. Not one of the three was out in the field longer than a week before Weber got blown away.”

I started writing new names on the list. Weber. Roberts. Kowalski. Paris.

“These are the guys who matter in this equation,” I said.

“Will they testify?”

“Paris will. You’ll need a medium for the rest.”

He nodded. “Gotcha. I don’t think that’d be admissible in court anyway. So tell me why these are the guys I need to be concerned with.”

I swallowed. “Gonna take some time, if you want that kind of detail.”

“Go.”

And so I spent the day telling the story, starting with basic training with Dylan Paris and ending with Kowalski, and his comet-trail of ragged children in Dega Payan. By that time it was four in the afternoon, and my throat was dry, and I was ready to shoot the next person who asked me any fucking questions. Talking about Kowalski