"Hoorahl'I said to Sampson.

“Nothing like it,” he grinned. “Almost makes me want to re-up.”

Sampson and I spent the rest of the day talking to men dressed in camouflage with spit-shined jump boots. My FBI connections helped open doors that might have stayed closed to us. Ellis Cooper had a lot of friends and most had originally been shocked to hear about the murders. Even now, not many of them believed that he was capable of the mayhem and cruelty involved.

The exceptions were a couple of noncoms who had gone through the Special Warfare School under his command. They told us that Cooper had physically bullied them. A PFC named Steve Hall was the most outspoken. “The sergeant had a real mean streak. It was common I knowledge. Couple of times, he got me alone. He'd elbow me, knee me. I knew he was hoping I'd fight back, but I didn't. I'm not that surprised he killed somebody.”

“Just chicken-shit stuff,” Sampson said about the training-school stories. “Coop has a temper and he can be a prick, if provoked. That doesn't mean he killed three women and painted them blue.”

I could feel Sampson's tremendous affection and respect for Ellis Cooper. It was a side he didn't let show often. Sampson had grown up with a mother who was an addict and a dealer, and a father who'd run out on him when he was a baby. He had never been much of a sentimentalist, except when it came to Nana and the kids, and maybe me.

“How do you feel about this mess so far?” he finally asked.

I hesitated before giving an answer. “It's too early to tell, John. I know that's a hell of a thing to say when your friend has less than three weeks to live. I don't think we'll be welcome around Fort Bragg much longer either. The Army likes to solve its problems in its own way. It'll be hard to get the kind of information we need to really help Cooper. As for Cooper, I guess my instinct is to believe him. But who would go to all this bother to set him up? None of it makes sense.”