Free Full Tilt by Rick Mofina

he was with the US Special Forces in Kandahar’s Zhari District. Later, at a Forward Operating Base in Paktia province, his unit was pinned down in a firefight that lasted a week. Pollard witnessed the deaths of most of his squad members.
    He came home to Toledo, suffering post-traumatic stress and became addicted to alcohol and other drugs. He lost his job as a truck driver, his wife left him. He fell into debt, then drifted across the country, ending up on the streets and finally in this homeless shelter.
    Brennan was grateful to Buffalo PD, which had made initial inquiries with local shelters. It cleared the way for him to get up at four this morning and make the four-hour drive to Buffalo with Dickson to continue their investigation. They hadn’t released Pollard’s name yet. They were working with the military to locate his family.
    “Doesn’t it make you sick that vets end up homeless when they should be treated like heroes?”
    “It’s a disgrace.” Brennan sipped his coffee and over the rim saw Tim Scott, the shelter’s director, wiping his hands with a towel as he approached them.
    “Thanks for waiting.” Scott joined them at the table, then waved to staff members behind the counter. “Sure we can’t get you fellas something to eat after your long drive?”
    “We’re good with the coffee. Thanks,” Brennan said. “What can you tell us about John Charles Pollard?”
    “I can’t believe he’s dead. In a fire...maybe he took shelter in the barn?”
    “Maybe.”
    “It always hurts when we lose a client.” Scott shook his head. “People come to us broken. We give them a meal, a bed and hope in the way of counseling and services. J.C. had been with us for five months and was showing promise. He’d gotten clean and sober. He’d gotten his license again and was ready to apply for driving jobs.”
    “So things were looking up?”
    “Yes, despite all he’d faced, he was slowly getting back on his feet. But some guys have their setbacks and they disappear. That’s what I thought might’ve happened.”
    “That he’d had a setback?”
    “That’s what I was thinking. The other guys who knew him best had been asking about him because he hadn’t been around for a week or so. Reggie and Delmar. They bunked with him for a time and were probably the closest he had to friends. They’re right here.”
    The first man was in his thirties. His clothes hung loose on his skinny frame. His face bore fresh scrapes, as if he’d collided with the sidewalk.
    “Is it true? J.C.’s dead?” The man called Reggie sniffed and sat down.
    “I’m afraid so. My condolences.”
    Reggie nodded sadly.
    “May I ask what happened?” Brennan indicated the man’s cuts.
    “Was drunk, fell on the street.”
    “Reggie, may I get your last name, date of birth and could you show me your Social Security card? It’s routine.”
    Brennan cleared a page in his notebook, took down Reggie’s information then did the same for Delmar, the taller of the two. Delmar had a full, scraggly Moses beard dotted with crumbs.
    Brennan thanked them and said, “We ask that you keep our inquiries confidential. It’s critical to our investigation.”
    “So he got killed in a fire in Rampart?” Delmar looked around the table.
    “Something like that. Guys, can you recall if John—”
    “Oh, we call him J.C., nobody called him John,” Reggie said.
    “Sorry. Can you recall if J.C. had any connection to Rampart?”
    The three men shook their heads.
    “Ohio, mostly, that’s where he came from,” Reggie said.
    “Do the names Carl Nelson or Bethany Ann Wynn mean anything to you in relation to J.C.?”
    “Don’t think so.” Delmar looked to the others, who agreed.
    “What about Canada? Did he ever talk about it?”
    More shaking of heads.
    Dickson cued up photos on his tablet.
    “Do you recognize anything in these pictures, any connection at all?”
    The first were several photos of Bethany Ann Wynn.
    None of the photos registered