Pacific Nocturne, 1944

by Don DeNevi

  Stepping back from the cadavers, Peter seemed transformed for the first time in his life. His hair and clothes were disheveled. His body seemed to writhe in agony, his tear-filled eyes wanting to cry out, reflecting a heartfelt sadness.

  Pulling the white bed sheets over each of the dead, from toes over their heads, he thought to himself,

  “Men die in combat die all day long. When the soldier is calm as he accepts death, he is at his glorious. Knowing his end is near, never to breathe again, to never see or feel the presence of joy, and happiness of his loved ones; mother and father, wife and children especially, and yet fight to the last second, bloody with back to the edge, weapon, out of ammunition, useless, he is among the Warrior Gods of America’s Heritage, beyond further elevation, with the exalted and aggrandized. Admitting, conceding esteem and wonder and veneration by one’s deadliest adversary is the goal, the highest victory of every fighting man.”

  “But to know these unfortunate five died at the hands of inexplicable murder is beyond definition.”

  Peter, nonetheless, remained composed and resolute. He had a job to do and he would complete it to the very best of his ability. Furthermore, he was gaining a reputation among the Marines and officers of the 1st Division for being dispassionate. That one adjective was well-earned and under no circumstance did he want to jeopardize such a fine accolade.

  Suddenly, the metal door of the refrigeration unit swung open and two officers strode into the semidarkness. Uncannily, the daylight from the staff lounge-workroom silhouetted Peter in sharp relief.

  “Oh, how ghastly,” the shorter, more muscular, of the two officers exclaimed, good-naturedly.

  “Well, Reverend Pinoe. A nice surprise. What brings you here?”

  “Have come to offer the deceased a sock full of prayers to assist them on their journeys. At least one needs help being ushered where he’s going. Plus, to familiarize myself with the offensive reek of death I must learn to get used to. I must be here,” he responded, his lisp as pronounced as ever.

  Peter glanced at Pinoe and couldn’t help but smile. The chaplain always appeared like he slept in his clothes--he was so desultory, disarranged, and dissonant. There was a certain restlessness about him, even a hint of roguishness. Nonetheless, he was wildly popular because he was always available, regardless of hour, especially for Marines who received “Dear John” letters. Because of his innate geniality and happiness, he was all-animation with a constant contented smile.

  Quizzically, Peter glanced at the lean, lanky officer behind the clergymen who was now standing before the sheeted cadavers.

  “And, you, captain? A division replacement?”

  “Yes, having arrived over two weeks ago. I’m to serve as the 1st Division psychiatrist. I’m Dr. Stuart Schneidermann.”

  Peter drew a deep breathe, a glint of excitement lit his wide eyes with an unabashed excitement.

  “Welcome, sir,” Peter said quietly, as he offered his hand. “There’s a great deal of work awaiting us, either individually or as a team. We’ll talk later, especially if you’re on duty tonight.”

  The man smiled lightly, and sat somewhat gloomily. Peter’s first impression was that the lean, lanky captain was the silent type, grim, cold, and taciturn. In fact, in shaking his hand, he felt a certain foreboding. His voice was all military, snapping yet lifeless. Behind close-cropped hair, and rigidly set facial muscles, were disquieting eyes and an obvious penetrating, razor-sharp mind.

  “Oh, nice,” thought Peter, the blood pounding through his heart so strongly that a slow, angry chill began to creep over him.

  Reverend Pinoe, after lifting the white sheets of each of the five to observe the wounds of the corpses, turned to Peter with a slight shine in his eyes and whispered huskily,

  “The great Renaissance artist-sculptor, Michelangelo, more than any other sculptor, was able to capture the soft, flaccid silky muscles right after death better than any other sculptor. That’s why my favorite work of art is his taking Jesus Christ down from the cross and placing him in Mary’s lap. I forgot its name, but I saw it in the Vatican before the war in Europe.”

  After a thoughtful pause in which Peter and the psychiatrist looked on, Pinoe continued,

  “Notice,” as he lifted the sheet of the female victim, “her muscles in death now--solid rigor mortis, rigid without shortening. All the muscles are affected at a similar rate, but rigor is more evident in the short, smaller muscles earlier than in the longer, larger muscle masses.”

  For an unsettling moment, Peter, very surprised, said nothing. Then, he asked,

  “How do you know so much about all this?”

  “Oh, I read it somewhere. After all, I deal with a lot of suicides, and especially those who die in combat before their burials.”

  After a slight pause, he added,

  “To me, muscles are muscles, but they are the most aesthetic right after death.”

  “You sound like you’re the Mad Ghoul,” Peter said jokingly, yet studying Pinoe’s reaction.

  “Oh, not me. If I were, I would use poison or simple strangulation. I wouldn’t go around plunging huge sharp instruments into hearts, chests, and stomachs. Too much damage to the muscles.”

  Eager to change the sickening subject, Peter glanced at Dr. Schneidermann and asked,

  “Any thoughts?”

  “Plenty. Multiple - murder is a subject with few known facts. And, we know less about who a multiple - murderer is than we do about what and how he does it.”

  With that, the psychiatrist walked over and yanked the white sheet off the man who lay in rigor mortis next to the nurse, stabbed through the heart, the blade’s second thrust pierced the Marine’s lung.

  “This man, and the others lined up here, were victims of planned, systematic acts of violence. Neither he nor these others expected death. Now, their eyes turned up and young faces little more than yellow pallor, we have to consider the motivations behind their murders. Let’s look at the known facts.”

  “Multiple - murders, as opposed to mass murders,” he continued, are the murders of separate victims with time breaks, from two days to weeks or months, between victims. You might say that the time breaks between the killings are ‘cooling off’ periods.”

  “In psychiatric terminology, a multiple - murderer is either psychotic or psychopathic depending on the information examined as well as the facts of the crime. From what we can gather, multiple -murderers are rarely psychotic. They are usually psychopaths, often sexual psychopaths, who have profound personality disorders, but are very conscious of their own criminality. There is no question they are in touch with reality.”

  “With the psychotic killer, he kills because his psychosis drives him to kill. In the case of the psychopathic killer, especially the multiple - murderer, from what little we have learned about his mind, kills because he likes to kill. He is usually intelligent, charismatic, street-wise, charming, and usually handsome. He is mobile, traveling around in search of the ‘right victim’. He prefers a certain type of victim, someone who is vulnerable and easy to control. Often the victims will resemble each other.”

  “The multiple - murderer is extremely manipulative, leading the victim into a certain ‘comfort zone’ in order to better control for the murder. Some have a fascination for detective and police work and procedures. A few have been police officers. We might even look at our own MP’s on Pavuvu. Some have even interjected themselves into the investigations, even returning to the scene of the murder to assess the investigation, or to tease the police with additional clues.”

  “Remember that these are basically assumptions based upon observations by a variety of people. Trying to delve into their personalities is new to those of us so rooted in old, standard investigative procedures and explanations to account the reasoning of the multiple - murderer.”

  Peter interjected,

  “This is very helpful. How did you accumulate such traits and characteristics?”

  “By reading old ca
se files, by listening to old psychologists, by applying personality theories to behaviors and the like.”

  “Well, go on. I’ve never heard it said so well. This is a learning lesson for me. I surmised in the recent years some of what you say, but I . . . Anyway, please go on. What else can you tell us about the multiple - murderer?”

  Dr. Stuart Schneidermann displayed a slight smile for the first time.

  “Well, despite their outward appearances, they are very weak and insecure. They have no power or strength until they have a victim under control. Then they feel a sense of security, a temporary superiority. We think they enjoy the publicity of their murders and follow the news chase closely, loving every minute of it, satisfied they are defeating the authorities.”

  “We psychiatrists consider multiple murders as the ultimate extension of violence. The killer sees he has the power of life and death over someone else and is thrilled by the cruelty of his act and will indulge in torturing his victims to death. The sounds of the victim’s screams and pain are music to his ears, enhancing his dreams and fantasies. Unfortunate victims are considered ‘play things’. Mutilating them also shocks the police, which pleases the killer. He has no capacity to love, or relate, so his only self-gratification is in the feelings that come with murder.”

  “Naturally, their earliest years, whatever they were, influenced their evilness years later. Child abuse certainly is one factor. Alcohol or marijuana or other drugs don’t make multiple - murderers. No, it goes much deeper than drink or drugs. Child abuse has everything to do with his hatred, his drive to kill, perhaps a drive for revenge against his parents.”

  “It’s interesting to note that the multiple - murderer’s murders tend only to increase. It appears that they have to kill more often in order to enjoy the ‘high’ they get from the act. Most multiple -murderers have been caught by accident as they become bolder in their murders and disregard the risks for the ‘high’.”

  “Some old timers, retired homicide inspectors, estimate there may be as many as 30 stateside multiple - murderers at work now. They will continue until caught, killed by the authorities, imprisoned and to die there or die of natural causes. Outlining who the multiple-murderer is, is the art and science of the future. That is, you gather every known fact and detail of the crime, sit down with other experienced investigators, throw in an authority on the violent criminal mind, and you will probably have a map, a diagram, a chart as to who he is, making finding him an easy task.”

  After a long pause, Peter smiled and said,

  “Dr. Schneidermann, I am so pleased you are among us. You will be an invaluable source of assistance. For me, personally, I will bind myself to you to absorb all that you know.”

  Peter lingered for a moment as the three officers silently stood before the dead. Then, abruptly, he turned and hastened out the door. Pinoe and Scheidermann remained behind gazing upon the corpses.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  -

  Eve of Hope

  Friday, Aug. 5

  It was late in the afternoon when Peter walked past the surgical unit and various ward tents, then out the door of the hospital and into what would soon be a gathering dusk. Without stopping to talk to the officers and enlisted men he recognized or knew, he hurried down the main road and turned off, toward the rutted roadway leading down to the channel and pontoon bridge separating Pavuvu from Banika. His plan was to return to his Banika quarters for a quick shower, then chow down on the hot food from the officers’ galley. His only concern was he would fall asleep in his serving tray while enjoying his early evening dinner. He so yearned to meet Bill and Ellen on the beach prior to assisting patrolling Pavuvu that he even considered doing without a healthy meal. An hour and a half with his best friends would be enough to offset both dinner and that night’s sleep in a warm, dry bed.

  Although there would be no moon that night, the starlight would be sufficient to distinguish objects in the roads, clearings, and in-between the narrow lanes and alleys that separated the pyramidal tents.

  “It’s not all knives and murder,” Peter pondered as he rapidly crossed the bridge and continued hurrying the mile toward the base headquarters and officers’ quarters.

  Meeting Dr. Schneidermann was special, certainly fortuitous, when Reverend Pinoe, providing the replacement officer with a tour of Pavuvu, the 1st Division’s first psychiatrist, brought him into the morgue earlier in the afternoon. In his lengthy lesson, Peter understood him to say that as far as the Mad Ghoul was concerned, all humans are a trifle mad, but the more perceptive understand that. ‘We may not be multiple murderers, but we, as humans, all indulge, from time to time, in minor vagaries and instabilities of madness. The multiple - murdered on Pavuvu left a galore of clues; if only any of us had the imagination to see laterally, on all things, rather than vertically, or in a straight view without glancing from side to side for help.’

  Peter smiled, ‘My thoughts, precisely. Only point I can’t agree on is that reason helps more than intuition. And, that you can never search hard enough. I believe intuition is more important than reason and that generally we try so hard to find clues that we miss the ones right in front of us. In other words, don’t make finding the Mad Ghoul difficult. Look, watch, think, and feel, that is, allow your instinct, your seeing, to locate the murderer. Remember, the Ghoul is not a lunatic, a genuine cockeyed loony from a nearby asylum.’

  After trotting into the two-story Medical Corps officers’ barracks without stopping to address the callers, and scurrying up the stairwell to the second floor’s sleeping quarters of more than 50, Peter stripped in as few motions as possible, showered in the stalls at the end of the dormitory near the cots and bunks, and, in a flash, dressed in clean underwear and fresh khakis and a dark brown sweater. After rubbing a damp towel over his recently polished shoes, the lieutenant looked as fresh as he did twelve hours before when he breakfasted.

  With that, he leaped downstairs and across the short walk into the 1st Division General Headquarters, again avoiding medical staff and colleagues who hailed him, in order to see if Commander Everett Keck (MC) USN, 1st Medical Battalion, of the 1st Division, was available for a quick update on his assessment of the cadaver wounds. He was not.Keck was in a meeting with Division Commander Major General William H. Rupertus, Assistant Division Commander Brigadier General Leonard Shepherd, Chief of Staff LeRoy Sims, and division and unit commanders.

  The lieutenant manning the office desk said,

  “I know he wants to talk with you. Best you catch him on patrol tonight. He’ll be back and forth between Pavuvu and Banika. We’re expecting another killing or two tonight. And, the Hope people flying here at around 1000 in the morning. They will be coming in from Cape Gloucester where he performed the night before. He’ll lunch, along with all his entertainers, with our entire command at noon in the mess hall. At 1400, he’ll jump into a piper and fly over to the strip across the channel. The others will be driven over in two of our armored vehicles, just in case.They’ll be all yours from 1500 until midnight tomorrow night. We’re all keeping our fingers crossed The Ghoul will be in the audience laughing his head off rather than trying to murder him or some hapless Marine.”

  Peter, nodding gravely, said nothing, then turned and headed for the day’s final hot meal.

  At the entrance of the officers’ mess hall, Peter was greeted by the mess sergeant who asked,

  “Shoot the bastard yet? You tell me who he is, I’ll kill him myself, barehanded. If you do, I’ll tell you the surprise we have for supper.”

  Peter chuckled, glanced at the mess sergeant, and whispered,

  “I’m sure we’ll know tonight who he is. I’ll have someone fetch you, then we’ll lock you both in the morgue so you can enjoy a few minutes asking him what his problem is.”

  “Wait until fellas hear this!” he laughed aloud. “Ok, for that I’ll tell you. Guess what five YP tugboats fitted with ‘reefers’ brought this afternoon from Guadalcanal?”

  “Ree
fers? You mean the drug tobacco wrapped in thin paper for smoking?”

  “God, no lieutenant. Smoke that garbage around the Japs and they are sure to shoot your ass off. No, our reefers are refrigerators. And, the brass over there decided to share a special meat with us, not a new kind of spam, but porterhouse steaks; not just for the officers, but one for every Marine on both islands!”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “But the steaks have to be eaten tonight. The YPs had to get back by sundown for serving. In the morning, they head out with more porterhouses for our men in the outer Russells.”

  “Well, sergeant, let me do my part in this war. I’ll enjoy mine now.”

  Since it was well past 1700, a line began to form behind Peter as he picked up his tray and utensils, then headed for the next counter where the porterhouses were piled high in a glass cylindrical container. Other foods and provisions were available cafeteria-style. The smell of coffee permeated the hall as Peter sat alone, a plate filled with mashed potatoes, steamed Brussels sprouts, fresh baked bread, ice cream with chocolate topping, and newly flown-in apples and oranges. He was in no mood for idle chatter, gossip, backbiting, rumors, or to share letters from home. He ate quickly to erase the faces of the dead Marines and their wounds.

  As Peter exited the mess hall and walked at a measured pace toward his favorite secluded covert on the beach to rest and reflect, a cool breeze swept in from the Solomon Sea Slot. Glancing skyward, he noticed that although the sun hadn’t yet sunk below the waves of the Western Pacific, the hint of cold stars appeared.

  Scurrying along the raised path of crushed coral, remaining aloof from all troop contacts along the way, Peter wound his way down the main lane to the edge of the swamp then over the ground ivy to the abandoned Japanese-constructed shore defenses to the debris-laden, rubbish-strewn beaches. All along the way, he pondered why it was he who usually was capable of reading the minds of men by the signs they left behind and around them. But for the life of him, he was baffled, completely and angrily perplexed, by the Mad Ghoul and his motives.