by Don DeNevi
Interested as a medical student, Peter would listen intently as Pinoe explained how the tip of his tongue protruded beyond his front teeth, obstructing airflow so that specific sounds couldn’t be uttered. He would pronounce “lisp” as “lithp” and, because swallowing was occasionally difficult, his “ch’s”, “j’s”, “g’s”, and “s’s”, especially words beginning with letters such as “sch”, “gho”, etc. were slightly stammered due to the incorrect placement of the tongue in the mouth distorting his expulsion of air.
Sturdy, vigorous, and unusually blunt for such an intelligent minister of God, Pinoe pulled Toscanini out of the diminishing deluge into the cover of the headquarter doorway, and said unabashedly,
“I watched all your action with Ellen, you young fox. Everyone knows she belongs to your friend, Bill.”
Peter grinned,
“Sorry, friend Pinoe, you’re wrong. I’m taken.”
“I know,” responded Reverend Pinoe, a glitter in his eyes. “Half the 1st Division has heard about a little Nisei named Joan. But, I tell you, old fellow, I mean ‘young fellow’, that walking down the road half hidden by her umbrella haunts these eyes of mine, clericalist or not. She is so fine she could easily be a famous magazine cover girl, matching Betty Grable, Dorothy Lamour, or Lana Turner, any day.”
After a moment, Peter turned and said,
“Let’s step out of the wind into the lobby hallway. Glad I ran into you. One of the victims was found in your chapel early this morning?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here. They have a suspect in there with the captain. But I don’t think he’s the killer. Too frail to repeatedly thrust a Ka-Bar into the praying man’s throat, then bludgeoning him with the handle of the Ka-Bar. He then threw it into a dumpster. That guy in there is too skinny to lift anything. No, I didn’t hear a thing, not a sound, and I bunk on a cot in the room next to the vestibule.”
“I’ll catch up with you later. Need to talk to Oscar to let him know I’ll be out with the troops tonight, especially near the nurses’ quarters on Banika.”
“Well, anytime. In fact, why not have a drink before you go on duty tonight. I have a whole bottle of Scotch in my room. In fact, we’ll celebrate anything you want. How about Ellen? We’ll have the best part of a bottle without water. It’ll do you no harm. Scotch might make you think better to catch Charlie the Choker.”
Peter laughed,
“Maybe tomorrow, if we catch him tonight. Keep your eyes and years open. You’re in a good place and position to see and hear things.”
The only residence on Pavuvu, a rambling two-story frame structure painted yellow with a red-painted corrugated roof, served as the 1st Division headquarters. The unsavory looking building was nicknamed “the manor” by the more sarcastic infantrymen. Having belonged to the island’s only plantation owners, the Burns Philip Company, a chain of cultivation estates throughout the Solomon area, including both Pavuvu and Banika. It served as the offices for the growing green copra used in a variety of soaps and other health products. Having been perfectly maintained until the Japanese invaded a year or so before, the estate of copra trees had not as yet been overrun by the jungles after the owners and their workers fled the islands.
The exterior of the residence was still in mint condition with high red plants resembling lichen and thick moss-covered walls that surrounded the large house. In the front yard were several lime trees, pepperbushes, and an odd persimmons growth. The low walls surrounding the large house hosted throngs of bougainvillea.
As Peter hastened down the crowded, feverish hallway of tile-appearing blocks toward Captain Del Barbra’s office, he noted the old oak-paneled walls, and several hard-breathing grandfather clocks struggling to maintain time. No matter how many times Marine orderlies swept, cleaned, and polished, the interior of the 1st Division Headquarters seemed soiled. There was an air of desolation about the place that neither cleanliness nor the hustle-bustle of staff could efface.
As Peter reached the door that read in stenciled black paint, “Military Police”, it opened suddenly and 1st Medical Battalion commander Everett B. Keck, USN, emerged.
Everett Keck was one of Peter’s favorite officers, having been an observer in his introductory “Theories of Personality” courses. Indeed, Peter admitted to friends and fellow students that Keck triggered his interest in the criminal unconscious mind - - “not the preconscious or subconscious, but unconscious”, then explaining the differences between the three.
When the 1st Marine Division received its First Medical Battalion, Captain Bruce Logue served as the Division surgeon, and the commander of the First Medical Battalion was Commander Everett Keck. As a 49-year-old Wisconsin native, he saw considerable action on Guadalcanal. “C” Medical Battalion would establish a field hospital shortly after landing as an expanded clearing station. Other medical companies would function as collecting companies for transport of wounded to the clearing station, “C” Medical Company. Upon extinguishing all enemy resistance on Guadalcanal, all the medical units followed to establish and receive evacuated seriously wounded from the Solomon Islands.
By all accounts, not just Peter’s, Everett Keck was a good man. His low voice and quaint manner were markedly Midwestern. He was of medium-height, slim, and slightly freckled, suggesting long hours on deck in the sun. He engaged his subjects with dramatic stories, and all who listened found him cheerful, energetic, easy-to-talk-to, and certainly a mentor in the medical field of understanding the criminal mind.
“Well, lieutenant, Captain Del Barbra is expecting you. That was a thought-provoking, intriguing amount of insight you touched upon this morning. You better go on in. There’s a lot to inform you about. Time permitting, today, I need you to meet a new arrival in the 1st’s Reserve Group’s Company, Colonel John T. Selden. We see him assisting your efforts. He’s taken a number of advanced psychology courses in Upper Division at the University of Kentucky.”
“Eager to meet him, sir.”
“Toscanini, who kills with both a Ka-Bar and an ice pick? What kind of man fatally crushes another Marine to death with an ice pick, then after he’s dead, use a Ka-Bar to stab the dead man repeatedly. Something is sickeningly wrong here.”
“Well, sir,” responded the lieutenant. “Some of everything is wrong with the Mad Ghoul, or he wouldn’t be killing that way.”
“It almost seems two or three murderers are involved in this killing spree. You’re the one to figure that out. Then, if he shows up alive; communicate with him.”
Someone inside the anteroom of the office yelled out,
“Come on in, Mr. Brains. The door’s open.”
Peter excused himself, saluted and smiled,
“I’ll look him up this afternoon, this Colonel John Selden.”
Then, he walked in.
Growing increasingly grim and angry about the systematic murders of three additional fellow Marines, Peter momentarily lost himself in the 1st Division administrative center and its minutiae as he strode into the office of the military police captain. Amid the natural liveliness of high-echelon officers in fresh, newly ironed khaki pants and starched short-sleeve shirts, formal and informal memoranda and other forms of communication were being drawn up, discussed, typed, and routed. All of headquarters seemed engrossed and preoccupied readying everyone for the upcoming campaign, in the Palau Islands, namely, on the island of Peleliu. Reinforcing the 1st Division as part of the III Amphibious Corps was as paramount as catching or killing the Ghoul.
Walking past the sergeant’s desk in the anteroom pouring over the deployment map of sentries for the night, Peter nodded at Guidi, who glanced up and grunted. The door to Captain Del Barbra’s office was open and Peter strolled in and promptly sat down in the chair beside the desk. Off to his left was a large window from which he could see several companies of sentries patrolling the perimeter of headquarters. With a stern grimace crossing his lips, Peter looked out upon the sunlit drill-ground and the broad sweep of beaches beyond. No sol
dier posted to guard against the Mad Ghoul or Japanese invader walked alone. Heavily armed, the patrolling was conducted in groups of three.
As he turned back toward his chair, the lieutenant was perplexed. He was toying with various murders and mad Marine scenarios. Although his thick brown hair was carefully trimmed, and his khakis immaculate, covering a slim, healthy figure, every nerve in Peter’s body was riddled with tension. He felt the grip on himself was slightly weakening.
Meanwhile, Sgt. Guidi in the anteroom was utterly oblivious to his presence. He had not made more than a casual glance in his direction. Peter, suddenly aware of muffled voices emanating from somewhere, noted that the door to the right of the office beyond Guidi’s desk was slightly ajar.
Peter, flashing a grin toward the sergeant, who smiled back, approached the door to listen in. Creeping closer to look through the crack, he saw one of the few Marines he truly admired.
To Peter, Captain Oscar Del Barbra was the iron and steel embodiment of law and justice. So was the immutability of the tone of his voice. He was obviously enraged as he concluded diagraming how the grid schemes for the various acreages of Tent City would intertwine.
“No one can penetrate the encirclement. If so, it’ll be damn near impossible to move from one grid to another without being challenged. And, when challenged, the multiple murderer will have to kill two well-armed sentries simultaneously to slink back into Tent City. If he makes it inside there, he’ll face small company road and alley patrols all over the place.”
After a pause, the captain raised his lead slightly and continued slowly,
“With this plan, the Mad Ghoul’s murdering is over. Think about it for a moment. In less than a few days, six murders--five good Marines and a popular, caring Marine nurse. And, all deaths by a fellow Marine. Unbelievable. And further unbelievable, not so much as a glimpse of the Mad Ghoul’s face! The man is astonishingly clever. He’s certainly no native, or fuzzy-wuzzy. And, he surely can’t be a stray, leftover Jap. No, man, he’s one of us.”
Again, Del Barbra paused, studying his feet.
“What galls me so bitterly is that all of the defenseless Marines enlisted to serve their country, and if necessary, sacrifice their lives. All six saw duty on the Canal, the five riflemen on the island’s trails and jungles, the nurse in the mobile care-stations within feet of the line! Here, all six were resting, recuperating, and refitting for the upcoming campaign, except for the young nurse tending our boys in the malaria wards.”
“No point in venting my pent-up vengefulness. I’ve got to get back to work. But, oh God, have your men bring the Ghoul to me personally, for just a few minutes before we send him to the hospital ship’s brig. All I need is less than seconds. I will give him back to you in a sticky mass of bloody flesh.”
Upon seeing the captain turn away from the blackboard and start walking back toward his office door, Peter glimpsed Oscar’s face as he retreated to his chair next to the desk. Never before had he seen such a countenance of emotionally enraged living tissue. The captain was enraged and dispassionate simultaneously. His walk was stiff, yet strong and authoritatively. As he watched the man step toward his desk, Peter decided not to analyze, judge, or understand the captain. Like Del Barbra, he, too, was possessed by an ungodly force. But his facial expression at that moment would remain engraved on Peter’s memory well beyond a lifetime.
Slamming his folder on the desk, the captain, without acknowledging Peter, continued toward the broad window. The lieutenant immediately rose and joined him. Neither offered a comment, nor said a word, causing Sergeant Guidi to glance up at the unusual moment. While Del Barbra gazed past the gray bay out to the vast Solomon Sea, Peter studied the half-sunken Japanese barge rusting under the Pacific sun, and, less than 100 yards away, several APD’s, fast, light supply transports, and a single LSM, landing ship, medium, unloading cargos of weapons, ammunitions, foods and other supplies onto smaller flatbed craft, including DUKWs, 2 ½-ton amphibious trucks for the docking facilities and nearby warehouses.
Finally, the captain said softly, “Oh, so it’s you, lieutenant. Glad you stopped by. I have important news for you. But let me shake off this abysmal gut of feelings I’m afflicted by. And, not being able to shit since the killings began is the least of my problems.”
Peter resumed his seat, again turning to face the window. Del Barbra, as well, pivoted his swivel chair, folded his hands, and said nothing. Guidi, head down, continued studying his post assignments for the Tent City grids, listened intently.
“Yup, big news,” said Del Barbra angrily. “But first, let’s talk. Except for the first, all front-stabbed. How can that be? Are our Marine sentries so weak, especially armed with Thompsons and Reisings, that can’t handle some one thrusting Ka-Bars, ice picks, hatchets, or scissors at them? This last murder, the scissors cut so deep into the face, his skull was exposed, then had his head bashed in, his eyes bulging out from under his eyebrows. What matter of man is this Ghoul murderer? You’re supposed to be the expert. Tell me.”
Peter continued gazing out the window without a word, deep in thought. Then he responded,
“Our murderer is not the Mad Ghoul, captain. And you’re right. He’s neither a native, nor a Japanese stray. The killer is one of our own officers, an aberration of an American officer.”
“Impossible,” Del Barbra cried out.
“I don’t want to believe it myself.”
“How so, then? Explain!” the captain demanded, slamming the face of his hand down on his desk.
“I have only this, captain, and I hope to convince myself that my intuition is as flawed and defective as my intellectual judgment.”
For less than a moment, Peter hesitated, then, poignantly, in almost a whisper, he answered,
“There can be only one reason why a presumably trained nurse or sentry, and a heavily-armed one at that, will allow himself to be stabbed to death frontally. Since there is not a shred of evidence there was a struggle, or proof there was a defensive fighting for life, the murdered trusted, had absolutely no suspicion a murderer was approaching him within inches to thrust a sharp instrument into his heart. No! Each of the killed who saw the killer felt subordinate to whomever was walking up to him. The sentinel was submissive, trusting, and friendly. The unfortunate men on duty lowered their weapons, and at that moment, out flashed the ice pick, the scissors, butcher knife, or whatever it was.”
The captain, and now Sergeant Guidi, who pulled up a chair, leaned forward as earnestly as each has ever been. Neither of their eyes left Peter’s face. Peter, in return, gazing almost unconsciously upon the captain’s passionate face-off and tense physiognomy, was certain he caught a sinister gleam in his eyes.
“I never in my career as a Marine met an officer who hated his own men like poison. Japs, certainly. But not his own.”
“All I can remind you of is an important truism in the field of psychology: No one, absolutely, no one, is who he or even she, seems to be. Our minds always have a purpose. Each of us, healthy or sick in the mind, has less control than he or she thinks, or believes. The forces in our unconscious are a raging sea of drives, instincts, aggressions, desires, and memories that not only cripple us, but force us to do things, commit assaults we’re unable to control. The human mind is a labyrinth of anxieties and complexes not understood. Fortunately, the vast majority of minds don’t cause us to commit murder.”
For more than a full minute, Del Barbra and Guidi pondered. Then, the captain asked,
“Is it possible the Ghoul, an officer, is a new replacement from the States? We’ve had over 350 new ones fill in the ranks of those we lost on Guadalcanal due to enemy fire, wounds, and tropical diseases. Hell, man, we had two killed three months ago, in May I think, by falling coconuts! Those replacements fit right in with the veterans, the old timers of the 1st. They all seem to pick up the spirit and enthusiasm. Hard to believe one of those youngsters is murder mad.”
“I don’t know. The killings started when the 1s
t Division arrived and will certainly end when the 1st leaves for our island to take. One thing is for sure: He has to be big and strong and powerfully hefty to throw a heavy corpse of a nurse into a dumpster.”
Startled, Captain Del Barbra demanded,
“How did you know that?”
Surprised, Peter responded,
“The Chaplain and a nurse. All the nurses watched with horror, I’m certain, as the victim was extricated from it. By now, 16,000 Marines know about it.”
“I suppose so. We wanted to keep it secret to possibly entrap the killer in some way. The poor nurse must have been hated awful to be killed and heaved into a garbage bin.”
“Yes. But that dead weight is difficult to lift up and throw over 10 or 12 feet.”
“Do you think I should recommend we curfew officers from sundown to daylight for a week or so to see what happens?”
“No, I don’t think so. For the murder - mad, each killing is like winning a victory, a triumph. His nerves, every fiber in his body, tingles with the thrill of success. It’s like he’s now addicted. Killing is an emotion he can’t describe. It’s like an addictive drug, and he likes it. If corralled, he will start killing the sentries assigned to guard him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t keeping a written score with name, rank, date, hour, and minute murdered of each of his victims. No, curfew won’t stop him.”
After a reflective moment, Peter, barely audible and more to himself than Oscar or Leo, whispered,
“Oh God, how I hope I’m wrong. Such thoughts bring on a depression. I’ve got to stop that oppression--it’s creeping all over me. I might even have to have a chat with the chaplain, a friend of mine, about my ambivalence. When I learn the innocent are speared in the chest, my mind... “