My Boss Forced Me To Approve Defective Armor For Frontline Soldiers—When His Enforcer Grabbed Me In The Base Washhouse, I Put Him On The Floor And Uncovered His Darkest Secret
The blood-soaked rag, clutched carefully in the plastic bag, felt heavy in my hand. It was the physical link, the piece of the puzzle that could finally connect someone to Ward’s murder. My initial suspicion, the one that had gnawed at me since the washhouse incident, immediately turned to Corporal Lyle Brogan.
He had been Finch’s enforcer. He was present at the base. He had even tried to grab me, causing a cut on his cheek during our altercation. He fit the profile of a heavy-handed thug.
“We need to compare this,” I told O’Brien, holding up the rag. “I need Brogan’s blood.”
O’Brien raised an eyebrow. “You think Brogan killed him?”
“He was the muscle. He was paid to keep inspectors away. And I saw him wearing Ward’s watch,” I reminded him, though I hadn’t yet mentioned that detail. “It makes sense.”
I pulled out my compact field serology kit, salvaged from my ruined equipment. It was basic, but it would be enough for preliminary blood typing. The kit included sterile swabs and reagents for determining ABO blood groups.
“Where would I get Brogan’s blood?” O’Brien asked, looking uncomfortable. “I can’t just walk up to an MP and ask for a sample.”
“I already have it,” I admitted, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a small, sealed plastic vial. “From the washhouse. When I put him on the floor, he cut his cheek on the concrete. I used a sterile cotton swab to dab a sample and sealed it before anyone noticed.”
O’Brien stared at the vial, a flicker of surprise and grudging admiration crossing his face.
I laid out the blood-soaked rag on a clean, sterile field cloth. Using a fresh, sterile swab, I carefully collected a small sample of the dried blood. The dark crimson flecks flaked off easily.
Next, I opened the vial with Brogan’s blood. It was a pale, reddish smear on the cotton. I transferred a small portion to a separate slide.
My hands were steady, despite the adrenaline pumping through me. This was pure science, cold and objective. No emotions, just facts.
I added the first reagent to Ward’s sample. It clumped immediately. I noted the reaction. Then the second reagent. Another clump.
“Okay,” I muttered, writing down my observations in the small logbook I’d started. “Type A. Rh positive.”
Now for Brogan’s sample. I applied the same reagents, watching for the telltale clumping.
The results were clear. Brogan’s blood was Type O, Rh negative.
I sat back, a hollow feeling spreading through my chest. The results were definitive.
“Well?” O’Brien prompted, his eyes searching my face.
“They don’t match,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Brogan’s blood type is O-negative. The blood on Ward’s rag is A-positive.”
My carefully constructed theory, the one that had given me a concrete target, crumbled. Corporal Brogan was a brute, an accomplice in Finch’s fraud, and a thief. But he wasn’t Ward’s killer. He wasn’t the man whose blood had stained that rag.
The shocking truth was, the killer was still out there. Inside the base. Untouched. And probably still working for Finch, perhaps even more directly than Brogan. This meant Finch had even deeper, darker connections within the base, capable of a direct, brutal murder. The scope of his corruption widened, growing more terrifying with every new revelation.
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