The Devil You Know

Lane DeGregory: Darrell Blackwell pulled into Bolling Air Force Base and parked by an imposing gray building. He got out, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"You've got to keep me cool, Anita," he told his sister. "I don't want to go off on these guys."

Darrell is a thick man, built like a box. He forks his bristly hair into a flattop, making his head seem square. He hides behind a mask of muscle and ink; a snarling bear and gorilla snake up his hard arms.

It was February, and Washington was in the grip of a wicked cold snap. Darrell, who lives in Oldsmar, didn't even have a coat. He grabbed his black binder of evidence and, shivering, led his sister to the Office of Staff Judge Advocate. Inside a large conference room, a man in starched fatigues was waiting.

"Lt. Col. James Dapper," the man said, extending his hand. Then he added, "I'm a little confused about what our aim is here today."