“I’ll email them to you and you can sign and email or fax them back, okay?” “Got

it.” Puller went online and accessed a secure military database. He entered the

name Stan Demirjian. There was only one since the last name was not common.

Demirjian had retired as a sergeant first class. He had his military pension. It

was mailed out to his home like clockwork. His address was in the file. They

lived on the outskirts of Richmond, Virginia.

 

In his mind’s eye Puller recalled a barrel-chested bald man with a gruff manner.

But what sergeant first class didn’t have a gruff manner? Your job was to mold

men and women into fighting machines. You weren’t there to be anyone’s friend.

 

Puller hadn’t had much contact with Demirjian when his father had been in

uniform. Now that he thought about it, he had seen far more of Mrs. Demirjian

than of her husband.

 

It was a two-hour drive from where he was to where the Demirjians lived. Should

he go there and talk to them?

 

No one had told him to back off the case. And he could go and talk to them in a

civilian capacity, not as a CID agent. It wasn’t the best position, but at least

it was something.

 

And maybe he should before someone told him not to.

 

The email with the forms to sign popped into his mailbox.