Free Final Answers by Greg Dinallo

finished.”
    “You’re right, Captain, it was uncalled for. I was purposely being offensive to make a point. I’ve seen a lot of men die. They were protecting our rights—freedom of expression included.”
    He nods, seeming to accept my explanation. “Your point’s welltaken, Mr. Morgan.” His eyes come alive with an idea, and he asks, “You into country/western?”
    “No. Not really,” I reply, unable to imagine why he’s asking.
    “Well, a couple of weeks ago I was watching a Johnny Cash concert on HBO. “Ragged Old Flag” is one of his tunes. You know what he said before he sang it?”
    I shrug, still baffled.
    “Well it was something like, I thank God we live in a country where we have the right to burn the flag. And I thank God we live in a country where we have the right to keep and bear arms—so I can shoot the son of a bitch who tries to burn mine.”
    I can’t help but laugh. The captain seems pleased at having the last word and shakes my hand.
    “I hope you’ll take my advice, Mr. Morgan. We see families torn, tortured. Even when faced with clear evidence, some won’t accept our findings.”
    “Sometimes it’s hard to learn from others.”
    “I think it’d be in your best interests to try.”
    I accompany him to the reception area, where my secretary validates his parking stub. I don’t know why; maybe because of the way he just showed up; maybe because his shrewd confidence made me feel as if I was being tested; maybe because prejudice born of combat is never fully exorcised; but as he leaves, I imagine the captain’s glasses gradually darkening over his Asian eyes and picture him in the underground garage getting into a metallic blue sedan. A weird compulsion takes hold of me and I decide to do something I know I’ll be sorry for. I return to my office, pull up the phone directory on my laptop, and dial.
    “Capitol Real Estate,” a woman answers.
    “Yes, it’s Cal Morgan calling for Kate Ackerman.”
    “Please hold.”
    “Hi! I’ve just listed a super condo in Georgetown: View, terrace, fireplace, modern kitchen,” she says rapid-fire when she comes on. “It’d be a great corporate write-off. What do you say?”
    “Sold. Now that we’ve covered your next car payment, I’m going to be meeting with someone from the CIL shortly, and—”
    “They’ve got something for you?”
    “I don’t know; but it dawned on me I’ve never met the guy. His name’s Captain Sullivan. Tall/short? Fat/skinny? What’s he look like?”

    “Captain Sullivan?” she repeats in a puzzled tone. “I don’t know him. He must be new. By the way,” she runs on, her pitch rising, “I got some good news too. It’s about my husband.”
    “He’s being repatriated?”
    “We’re waiting for the names to be released. It’s a unilateral action by the Laotian government. The remains they’re turning over were found at crash sites in the area where John was lost.”
    “Sounds promising.”
    “Yes, I’m trying not to get my hopes up. Hold on a sec, will you? I’m sorry. I’ve got to drop off, I’ve got a client on the other line. Let me know how you make out, okay?”
    “Sure. Good luck.”
    I hang up slowly, thoughtfully. I was wrong. She’s more than fanned my suspicions. Now, I’m going to confirm them. I find the number and dial.
    “Central Identification Lab,” a woman with what sounds like a Filipino accent answers.
    “Yes, I’m going to be meeting your Captain Sullivan shortly, but I’ve no idea what he looks like. Would you describe him to me so I can—”
    “Well, he’ll be in uniform, and his name’ll be above the right-hand pocket.”
    I expected her, wanted her, to say she’d never heard of him. I’m caught a little off guard. I want to be certain. “What if he’s in civvies? I mean, is there something distinctive that—”
    “Oh, you’ll have no trouble picking him out of a crowd. Believe it or not, Captain Sullivan’s Asian, but he has the finest Irish nose.