Murder On The East China Sea

by Mark W M Smith

  “Pierce!” My name ricocheted around the porcelain cave where boot polish was your only identifiable autograph.

  I inspected mine. Smudged. Logan Pasfield’s involvement I’d expected. That he was lead investigator on the case provoked another visceral expulsion. This was far worse than losing a twenty-eight million dollar F-15A model in the drink.

  “What the hell, Pierce? We got a sortie to launch.”

  “No Pierce here,” I said. “Only just us boots guarding the thrones of respite.”

  A stall chuckled.

  “You believe that shit, Pierce?” G’s tone calmed to astonishment. “We are so screwed.”

  My stomach released three pounds of beer, breakfast and a week old Snickers Bar I’d discovered in my car’s door panel driving to work. “I’m unloading all of my fears on the matter, Garboski.”

  “You two should start a road show,” the stall next to me chimed.

  “Ah shit.” Garboski’s boot clicked a rhythm of dissent on his exit.

  “Must have a rock in his sole,” the final stall added.

  Stall number one laughed from his belly, setting stall next-to-me into a chuckle. Rock-in-his-sole realized his brilliance and snorted like a sow. This pushed the guy beside me into a full on roar.

  Only G could pull off a sitcom scene so fitting. I cleaned up my business in the toilet and shuffled to the sink. Outside, in the refreshing expanse of the maintenance hangar, Garboski surprised me with a concluding blast of insanity.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHARON PASFIELD’S HUSBAND held Garboski by the arm. “Staff Sergeant Pierce?”

  I nodded, praying the question meant he didn’t know me.

  OSI Agent Logan Pasfield squinted and tipped his head back. In a split second he checked himself, realigning with a dark-suited professional law enforcement officer. “Take a walk with Officer Sledge.”

  My jaw unhinged as Sledge’s undefined Security Police uniform came into focus. I slammed it shut. “Yes sir,” I said, choosing obedience over what’s-this-all-about Husband-of-my-secret-Love-Affair and your partner Johnny-Law what I lied to about a murder investigation?

  G’s wide face glistened with a pale yellow sheen. “Pierce? They’re arresting me for murdering that girl.”

  Pasfield walked him toward the thirty-foot hangar doors. “Do I need to remind you of your rights, Sergeant Garboski?”

  Work had stopped on the two obese military birds blocking the panoramic view of the flight line. Fifteen GIs rubbernecked in our direction. The five airmen manning the supply crib lined up behind their battered gunmetal gray countertop. Thick-bodied Chief Hurtz and his lanky wingman, Senior Master Sergeant Falkney framed the office entryway.

  Falkney winked.

  Or my mind expected him to. I wasn’t sure. Somewhere inside my memory banks Falkney walked the beat as a security cop. This would be a holiday parade for his warped sense of justice.

  The nerves in my ankles twitched. An electric charge raced up of my calves. Launch codes ticked off in my brain.

  Staff Sergeant Sledge latched onto my tricep hard enough to pinch off blood flow. “Come on, Pierce. Make this easy and nice.”

  “You’re not reading me my rights?”

  “This isn’t an arrest. Pasfield just needs to talk to you.”

  Sledge’s lack of military professionalism matched my own. It disgruntled me. What defense did I have against embarrassment but insubordination? Now Sledge had snatched that gift. I made my decision. I got Garboski into this mess. It was my job to get him out. Solving the girl’s murder was my new highest priority.

  We marched out of the hangar in non-military formation. Not a chuckle, nor crack of humor, not a snickering titter over our misfortune or the tinkle of a wrench against wind worn metal chased us out of that cavern. It was about as alone as I’d ever felt.

  * * *

  After arriving at the police station they led me to an interrogation room. I sat alone, staring at Agent Pasfield. This was not going well.

  I kept my eyes off the mirror. Someone hid on the other side of its glass, scrutinizing my nonverbal cues. Searching for the lies I held. Lies Sharon Pasfield’s husband was trained to uncover.

  His suit was immaculate and as unimaginative as the dismal table that supported his elbows. Nicks in the tabletop promised head slams and fingernails gripping for life. Government bleak colored the walls and ceiling.

  Agent Pasfield parted his wide, inviting smile. “You screwing my wife?”

  My heart stopped.

  Kind gray-green eyes threatened to trap me with the same false promise that had trapped his bride in loveless matrimony.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” I stammered. “Do I know your—”

  “The knife, Staff Sergeant. You knew about the knife.” Annoyance wrinkled his high forehead under the swoop of thick hair. "The one your buddy brought to the club?”

  A quick breath resolved my confusion. “Knife? Garboski didn’t bring a knife. Not to the club.”

  “My woman, did you fuck her?”

  “What?” emptied my lungs again. The whites of my eyeballs glowed in the reflection behind him.

  “Did you take a turn with the stripper before Garboski killed her?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He couldn’t kill her. He’s as gentle as a newborn calf.” Sweat trickled past my Adam’s apple, pasting the olive drab tee shirt to my skin.

  “Always selling a bill of goods aren’t you Pierce? That’s your stock in trade. Daddy peddles Asian cars to desperate American farmers. You barter your white dick to vulnerable women.”

  That bit of intel bumped my heart rate by ten. “I’m no salesman. That’s my father’s business.”

  “You’re dealing this nonsense about Garboski. Saying he’s no killer. Why do you say that, Pierce?”

  “Because it’s true. G wouldn't hurt a fly.”

  “Maybe this fly rejected him. Maybe she told him what a tiny penis he has. She wanted a real man, and he didn't have the goods.”

  That logic made my brain cramp. Just above my right eye.

  “Maybe he flipped out, stuck her with the knife we discovered.”

  “He wouldn’t!”

  “He did.”

  “You can’t know that. What proof do you have?”

  “Oh we have proof.” Friendly openness had transformed into skilled cross-examination. “That you two liars are talking shit to a cop.”

  “I couldn’t let on with my wife nearby.” It demanded every neck muscle to prevent comparison in the one-way mirror. What did Sharon see?

  “Because if she found out you’d be sleeping in the street.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you lied to her.”

  “Well—”

  “You’re good at lying to save your ass aren’t you Pierce?”

  “Not really. I—”

  “Make shit up to maintain the story proper.”

  “I’m trying to save my marriage.”

  “Because you screwed my wife and ruined mine.”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “Tell me then, how’s it work? You only lie to keep from losing your pecker. You don’t lie to help your friend keep his.”

  “I—”

  “Button it, Pierce. Nobody in this room wants to hear you talk anymore.”

  Pasfield took three steps to the door. Slam!

  My reflection trembled.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE QUAVER MESMERIZED me. I imagined Pasfield behind the glass with his minions, cursing my name and fabricating reasons to hold me in this crucible. His words bounced around the walls of my cranium.

  “You screwing my wife?”

  Had he asked that question? The gouges provided no clarity.

  Pasfield’s final accusation morphed out of the abrasions. “You only lie to keep from losing your pecker. You don’t lie to help your friend keep his.”

  That couldn’t be right. My goal was helping Garbos
ki learn to handle girls.

  One particularly deep six inch line disappeared beneath my fingertips.

  It held the answer, but resistance to truth bound me. I squeezed my torso against the internal conflict until it doubled me over. Touching my face to the unrelenting tabletop broke the trance. I slapped my palms on the scarred surface. “Hey!” I yelled at the mirror. “You can’t leave me in here! Charge me or let me go!”

  Stupid. How could I know for sure anyone was there? Paranoia is actually paranoia if nobody is spying on you. My limbs vibrated. “Come on, come on, come on,” I said to the mottled ceiling tiles preventing my launch through the roof. Revisiting the gouge in the table resolved nothing. I picked it with a fingernail. Urgency to discover answers in the dirt-filled groove increased.

  A chip popped free, stinging my cheek.

  My startle reaction knocked an idea loose. I was a tiny speck of sand in the East China Sea battling a tsunami attack from the unlimited resources of the Ocean.

  My father stared back from my reflection. I wondered if it was a part of him worth keeping. Squinting for a solution, it occurred that a forensic psychologist might be examining me, gauging my personality based on expressions and behaviors while I was alone. For a millisecond the impulse to stick out my tongue crowded my throat. It was pressed against my teeth when the door opened.

  * * *

  Staff Sergeant Sledge held onto the doorknob. “Get the hell out of here, Pierce.”

  I gawked.

  “Move it. Pasfield might change his mind.” Sledge’s tone suggested he and his virtuous OSI associate were less friendly than I’d suspected.

  “Got it.” I stood so fast my chair tipped over.

  The muted clang bounced off the dull walls.

  My heart clanged against my rib cage.

  Sledge shook his head. “And take it easy on the furniture.”

  I squeezed past his muscled frame, hoping this wasn’t a brutish gag intended to crush me with his physical strength.

  Garboski gaped behind him. His eyes showed more white than Air Force One. “Connor,” he said.

  Sledge smirked. “Follow me.”

  We complied, G tripping over my heals.

  The rocking sound of our combat boots on the polished tile slapped my ears like John Bonham on a trap set.

  Sledge’s back rippled with each step.

  I centered on his spine in case he tried a spin kick. He had the manners of a guy who spent every free minute since age twelve watching Good Guys Wear Black, Lone Wolf McQuade and any other Chuck Norris movie he could lay his hands on. The image tuned my peripheral vision to the edges of the hall expecting cops jumping from a side room and whacking us with billy clubs.

  Outside the station I turned to make a joke about the Sledge bringing the hammer down.

  Tears streamed over Garboski’s cheeks.

  “What the hell, dude?” I asked with my skull jacked two inches rear of my shoulders.

  “They got my damned necklace. I’m totally screwed. They’re sure I’m the perp. I’m going to Leavenworth man. I’m going to die in prison.”

  A tremble in my chest emptied the top half of my resolve. I clamped hard on the need to cry with him. “You’re not going to jail, G. I’ll straighten this out. I promise.” As much as I meant it, my brain was screaming Idiot! You’ve already helped enough!

  * * *

  We trudged to the bus stop mewling like kittens.

  “It’s too hot.” I tugged on the bill of my cap. Keeping my guidance system locked curbside reined in the churning stomach acid.

  Garboski shambled behind. “Near 80 today. Eighty percent humidity.” He tee-heed.

  The half-assed laugh and wimpy scuffle caused my arm to twitch with the urge to smack him. My mother hated lazy steps. As a teen, I pushed her limits. At the identifiable stutter in her wheelchair, my knees popped high with the rising submission of a Nazi parade line. “Sorry, Mom,” I’d feign with a grin at my sister. Her intolerance now crouched at the base of my skull.

  G egged it on by muttering in time with the shuffle. “I’m so screwed. I’m so dead. I’m going to Leavenworth.”

  My stoic river ran dry. I did an about-face.

  Garboski pulled up short.

  “G.” I collected a lungful of courage. “I couldn't give an alibi.”

  His mouth dropped open just as a disoriented mosquito flew up and found the cavern. He choked and stumbled backwards, hinging at the midpoint to hack the insect free.

  I considered defensive options. Lie. Lying to my last ally? Bullshit on that one. Pasfield baited me with his wife. Bullshit number two. He used a cattle prod during my interrogation. Shot of bullshit without a chaser.

  “Oh, my God. I really am screwed!” G coughed at the ground.

  A marine exited the police station over his bent form.

  “You’re supposed to cover for me, C-man,” he said, straightening to billboard size.

  I stepped around him. “Hey G, isn't that the guy who was in the titty bar with us?”

  Garboski tripped himself making the turn. He sucked a breath that reignited his cough.

  “If this dude gives his testimony, that's the final coffin nail,” I whispered.

  G wound down until he was sitting on the curb huffing a stammer. “What have I done, Pierce?”

  The question jammed my gears. What Pasfield insinuated about G’s wounded ego, hurting the girl because she made fun of him. Was that possible?

  High-and-tight caught my eye, then glanced away. He climbed into a white Corolla before my legs received the signal to chase.

  G trembled in of the corner of my vision as the Jarhead spun his tires onto Kuter Boulevard.

  “Oh my God! I'm so screwed! Oh my God! I'm so screwed! They’re gonna put me in a cage.”

  I squatted beside him, grabbing his shoulders. “G what the hell? Tell me G! Did she make fun of you? Was she picking on you, saying you're not man enough? That she wants a real soldier? Did you get pissed at her? You got angry. You didn't royally fuck this up, G? We're not in this cause you lost your shit? Tell me G. Tell me you didn’t kill that dancer.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  GARBOSKI REMAINED TUCKED inside the nose gear hatch with his comm set to “broken” the rest of our shift.

  My sweat-soaked torso boiled with anger. G’s refusal to give a straight answer damned near proved guilt. Thousands of pounds of metal and rigging separated us by seventy feet and I could still hear him whimper. The ribs in the tail oven threatened to sear lines into my shoulder muscles. My attempt to avoid the impasse broke with a sheared bolt on the static discharger reel. I cussed and crawled my way to the tarmac.

  G’s legs leaned against a three-foot tire, his upper body hidden by the fuselage.

  He thumped against the nose gear actuator when I poked him.

  A muffled “Damn!” sprung out.

  I slapped his earpiece when he bent his noggin into view.

  He lurched into the tire treads and bounced off of the wheel door.

  “Take the damn thing off! We’re not using it,” I said, yanking the headset free.

  He yowled and grabbed his ear. “Damn, C-man. Don’t be cruel. Love me true.”

  The unexpected lyric kicked a laugh out of my feverish belly. “You don’t even try do you G?” My head rolled with the cadence of a tennis fan’s fascination. “If someone stuck a gun in your face you’d offer a selfless revelation.”

  Garboski rubbed his lobe where the ear cup had scraped away skin. “I’m your friend, Pierce. You’re supposed to have my back.”

  My chin touched the dull green mop I called a tee-shirt.

  “You know I couldn’t kill that girl, limp dick or not. And I’d have given her the necklace if she’d asked for it.”

  “You’re right, G. I effed this up. Got all caught up in my own junk with Nansi.” I looked him in the eye and gripped his shoulder. “But you’re on the street,” I said with a sporting slap. “They obviously see how they jack
ed this case chasing the wrong guy.”

  * * *

  My addled brain chose our back porch for a powwow. Nansi’s preschool pickup on Mondays included an ice cream stop. I calculated Garboski and I had less than fifteen minutes to wrestle this monkey to ground.

  G’s coffin nail drooped from his lips. The cloud from his last puff surrounded his skull. We’d shared our stories of busted knuckles, whiskey brawls and ass-grabbing adventures. How we’d lied for each other and built trust on bad behavior. I was firmly on his side again.

  Now I needed to shake him loose.

  The big man settled, took a drag to replace the lost nicotine. “You look like you could use a night out,” he said in tiny puffs of smoke.

  I stared at his giant boots. “Yeah, G-meister. It’s not like we’re part of an official murder investigation.”

  “So why not spend my final days of freedom watching naked women dance?” He blew the remaining smog into a ring that circled our heads.

  “Nansi has her bags packed, dude. Headed home to her parents. Gives me all the time in the world to visit my friend’s trial.”

  “She’s taking the kids?”

  “No, G. I’m gonna stuff them into my duffel next TDY.”

  “Seriously?” He crushed the cigarette under his boot toe. The ashen tinge of his skin revealed fear his jokes couldn’t hide.

  “You really don’t get the shit we’re in? Pasfield is a hound dog on this. And he has your scent.”

  “Maybe your scent, compadre.” He snickered. “Got it off his woman.”

  I shoved shame to the bottom of my stomach. “Plus he’s picked up muscle headed Sledge to work his leads.”

  Garboski kept staring at the crushed butt, nudging it with his toe. “Sledge is a hammer.”

  “OSI climbs on? They got gray cells.”