Free Final Answers by Greg Dinallo Page B

actually delivered and accepted by mortuary personnel.
    Despite them, and despite a body being identified as mine by mistake, I’m no closer to learning the man’s identity, or to answering the other questions that have been confounding me.
    Why the BNR entry on the master casualty list?

    Why the cross, the MIA designation on the wall?
    Why the failure to come up with a loss scenario that matches the parameters I’d provided? Captain Sullivan agreed that a soldier, whoever he was, had to be listed as unaccounted for if a body had been recovered and incorrectly identified as mine—and one had.
    The report also contains one puzzling surprise. Contrary to what I and others have reasoned, the Cause of Casualty block reads Killed hostile, small arms fire, torso. It’s clear that these wounds didn’t obscure the man’s identity, creating the potential for error. How could my dog tags and military ID, which included my photograph, be accepted as someone else’s? It eventually occurs to me that just because I asked for copies of everything in my mortuary file doesn’t mean I got them.
    Monday morning, I’m sitting on the deck with a cup of coffee, reviewing the casualty report for the umpteenth time, when Nancy comes from the house with a refill and the newspaper. She pauses briefly as she approaches the table and looks off across the hill, then, mimicking a line from a movie about supernatural phenomenon whose name escapes me, sing-songs the words “They’re back.”
    “What’re you talking about?”
    “Over there,” she replies, pointing behind me to a section of road that, unlike the part visible from the den, winds around the rear of the house.
    I look back over my shoulder and see a patch of blue hood and section of windshield visible between the trees. “You’re right. It’s the same car.”
    “What do you think’s going on?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I say, pushing back my chair.
    “Cal—”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
    I saunter down the steps from the deck, and walk casually toward the road that is about fifty yards away on the far side of a rocky slope. The underbrush is stunted and sparse. Through a gap in the trees I can make out a figure behind the wheel. I’m fairly certain it’s the same man I saw several days ago. He’s staring straight ahead unaware of my approach, then he senses he’s not alone and his head snaps in my direction. The reflections on the windshield tend to obscure him; but he appears to be thirtyish, hisface narrow and tanned, topped by dark hair that’s slicked back. I can feel his eyes boring into me from behind his sunglasses and I become a little apprehensive. Maybe Nance was right. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I pause, then deciding that giving in to fear and apathy produces only more fear and apathy, I resume walking. I’m about halfway there when the man suddenly starts the engine and the car drives off. I stand there for a long moment watching the blue reflections vanish in the distance, then return to the house and report the incident to the County Sheriff’s department, describing the car and driver as best I can.
    “You didn’t happen to get the license number, or maybe part of it?” the officer asks.
    “No, I’m sorry. It was too far away.”
    “Well, as you probably know, Mr. Morgan, we’ve had some burglaries up in your area lately. Evidently the perpetrator waits until people leave for work, then he goes to work. We’ve been increasing our patrols as a deterrent.”
    “Well, maybe I scared him off for good.”
    Nancy and I secure the house, activate the alarm system, and leave. As soon as I get to the office, I call Army Mortuary Affairs in San Antonio. The line is busy. The invention of the redial button ranks third behind the wheel and computer. When I finally get through, it takes the duty clerk less than a minute to confirm that the casualty report is the only document in my file.
    “Is this