Clarke had a pistol on his hip and another soldier with an M4 rifle with him. They gathered me up and brought me to a waiting HUMVEE. The passage through the streets of Baghdad was swift and efficient. Clarke sat next to me in the rear seats of the Hummer. The conversation however left a lot to be desired.

We passed the checkpoints and stopped outside of the police station. Clarke was as polite as a man with a pistol on his hip needed to be while escorting me into the building. I was ushered into a room with a table, a few chairs and a large mirror on the far wall.

Clarke stood silently behind me as I sat in a chair. Two minutes later Rodgers walked in. If anger could give off heat, then this room would have blistered paint all over it.

“I don’t know what kind of crap you’re trying to pull, but an American soldier is dead and I want to know why,” he spat at me.

“What are you talking about,” I said.

“The body we have in the morgue is NOT Michael Wright”.