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According to Coffin family members and U.S. government officials looking into the case, Coffin's vehicle ran off Route 8 at about 8 a.m. Iraqi time on July 1--perhaps to avoid an Iraqi vehicle barreling directly toward it. "We understood it might have been a kamikaze-type thing," Candy says. Once the vehicle was in a ditch, it was swarmed by an angry Iraqi crowd. A humvee traveling behind pulled over to try to help Chris and his comrade, 19, who were both badly hurt, but all four soldiers were quickly surrounded by the crowd and the humvee was set on fire. It took a third American team rushing in, firing rifles into the air, to scatter the crowd and rescue the four trapped soldiers. A helicopter was able to get in to try to rush Chris and his injured truck mate to a medical facility. But Chris died from what the military described as "massive head trauma."
The officers who broke the news to Betsy, and a press release from his unit, said he died in a road accident. But the next day Betsy came across a statement from U.S. Central Command: "A U.S. Army 352nd Civil Affairs Command soldier died of wounds received July 1, when his convoy was hit by an improvised explosive device in Baghdad." It didn't mention Chris by name, but Betsy knew he was the only one in his unit to die that day. "I was shaken--I wanted to know what happened because I wanted to know what my husband went through," Betsy says. "Was he alone? Was someone he knew with him? Did he suffer in any way?"
Pressed about the mystery by Maine Senator Olympia Snowe, who was alerted by his family to the inconsistencies surrounding Coffin's case, the Army launched a board of inquiry into Coffin's death. "I'm horrified by what she's going through," Snowe told TIME. "She not only lost him, but she doesn't even have the peace of mind in knowing what happened." The Army has said it could be four months before she knows more. Betsy has faith in the process. "I have talked to people high up in the Army, and they have given me a promise that this review board will take a serious look at all of the conflicting information," she says. "I need to give them an opportunity to do that."
Two days after Coffin died, more than 100 of his comrades and two generals crowded into a room in his unit's Baghdad headquarters, spilling out into the hallway. All had their weapons in hand, as required in Iraq; Coffin's combat boots, his rifle and helmet were on a table at the front of the room, next to two framed pictures of him. The soldiers remembered his professionalism, his kindness and his humor. They sang Amazing Grace. And finally they were called to attention, told to "Present arms!" by the officer in charge. Coffin's full name was called out loud and clear, three times. "First Sergeant Coffin," the officer intoned, "has met his last formation."