Bree said, “We’ll find him sooner or later. If we find him sooner, we save lives.”
The doctor thought for a beat, then said, “You didn’t hear this from me.”
“Of course not.”
“I think the angry vet you’re talking about is named Juan Nico Vincente.”
Stetson would not give us Vincente’s address or any of his records without a subpoena, but he did say the veteran had survived a brutal IED explosion in Afghanistan, and suffered from head trauma and post-traumatic stress.
“He come to see you often?” I asked.
“Far as my area is concerned, there’s nothing more I can do for him. But he’s in the building a few times a week, sees a whole menu of docs and therapists. Hang out in the lobby long enough, I’m sure he’ll walk by.”
As we left the hospital, Bree was already running Vincente’s name through a law-enforcement database. He was on full disability from the Army and had several priors for drunk and disorderly, incidents occurring at bars around his government-subsidized apartment in northeast DC. We drove there, to a brick building off Kansas Avenue.
Mahoney met us out front.
“You really think this is our guy?” Mahoney said.
“By all accounts, he’s a very angry dude,” Bree said. “And he’ll probably get hurt big-time if the veterans’ bill doesn’t go through.”
Vincente lived on the fifth floor at the rear of the building. Most apartment complexes clear out during the day, with people at work and children at school. But with many residents of this building on disability, we heard televisions and radios blaring, and people talking and laughing.
But not behind Vincente’s front door. Before we could knock, we heard him ranting: “Senator Pussy, you evil, lying, son of a bitch! You never served! I swear I will come up there, get my rotted face in yours, and show you what this is all about! Right before I stick my KA-BAR up your asshole!”
Chapter 27
We all glanced at one another.
“That works,” Mahoney said, and knocked at the door.
“Go away,” Vincente yelled. “Whoever the hell you are, go away.”
“FBI, Mr. Vincente,” Mahoney said. “Open up.”
Before we heard footsteps inside Vincente’s place, a few doors to our left and right opened, revealing residents peeking out at us. Vincente’s door creaked as if he’d put both hands on it. The light filtering through his peephole darkened.
Mahoney had his ID and badge up. So did Bree.
“What’s this all about?” Vincente said.
“Open or we break the door down, Mr. Vincente.”
“Jesus,” Vincente slurred.
Deadbolts threw back. The door opened, and a barefoot, narrow-shouldered man in gray sweatpants and a Washington Nationals jersey peered out at us with bloodshot eyes. It was hard not to look away.
From scalp to jawline, the entire left side of his head was badly disfigured. The scarring on his face was ridged and webbed, as if the skin of many ducks feet had been sewn over his flesh.
He seemed amused at our reactions.
“Can we come in, sir?” Mahoney asked.
“Sir?” Vincente said, and laughed bitterly, before throwing the door wide. “Sure. Why not? Come in. See how the Phantom of the Opera really lives.”
We entered a pack rat’s nest of books, magazines, newspapers, and vinyl records. Stuff was almost everywhere. On shelves and tables. On the floor along the bare walls. And stacked below a muted television screen, showing C-SPAN and the live feed from the US Senate floor.
Streaming across the bottom of the screen it said, DEBATE OVER SENATE BILL 1822, VETERANS’ APPROPRIATIONS.