by Ed McBain
“You’re here early,” Carella said.
“Actually, we got the packet yesterday, but there was nobody in the office. Mailroom clocked it in at four-oh-seven P.M. Guys in St. Louis must’ve put it on a plane late Saturday night. That’s pretty good time, don’t you think?”
“That’s very good,” Carella said. “Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t mention it,” the corporal said. “How do I get to Reuter Street? I’ve got to make a pickup on Reuter Street, the recruiting office there.”
“That’s all the way downtown,” Carella said. “Are you driving?”
“Yeah.”
“When you come out of the station house, make a right, and then another right at the next corner. That’s a one-way street heading north, it’ll take you straight to the River Highway. You want the westbound entrance. Take the highway downtown till you see the sign for Reuter.”
“Thanks,” the corporal said.
“Thank you,” Carella said, and gestured with the manila envelope.
“Don’t mention it,” the corporal said again, and did a smart about-face and went down the corridor.
Carella carried the envelope back to his desk and opened it. The sheaf of papers was thin but unfamiliar. It took him a while to get used to the forms themselves, and then another while to digest the information they contained. He made notes as he went along, not knowing whether the Xeroxed papers were his to keep and not wanting to mark them. McCormick had seemed specific about protocol on the telephone Friday. He guessed he would have to return the papers to the captain when he was through with them.
James Randolph Harris had entered the Army on the seventeenth day of May, ten years ago. He was sent to Fort Gordon, Georgia, for his basic training, and from there, to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, for advanced infantry training. At the end of August he was sent overseas as a private first class in D Company, 2nd Battalion of the 27th Infantry, 2nd Brigade of the 25th Infantry Division. It did not say so in his field file, but Carella knew from the photograph they’d found in the Harris apartment that Jimmy had been in the 2nd Squad’s Alpha Fire Team.
If Carella recalled his own Army days correctly, there were four platoons in a company, and four squads in a platoon, which meant that in D Company there were sixteen squads altogether. Each platoon had a 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Squad, Army squads being labeled numerically rather than alphabetically. Since there were four platoons, there had to be four 2nd Squads. But there was nothing in the folder that gave the number of Jimmy’s platoon. Carella was assuming that if Jimmy had contacted an old Army buddy for assistance with a scheme, it would have been a man in his immediate combat team. But in order to zero in on Alpha, he had to know the number of the platoon.
The file dutifully reported that Jimmy had been wounded in action on the fourteenth day of December and then went on to describe the nature of the wound in strictly medical language. At the end of December he was transferred from the camp hospital to a hospital in Honolulu, and from there, to another hospital in San Francisco, and finally to the General Hospital at Fort Mercer. His DD Form-214 showed that he had been honorably discharged with full disability pension in March. That was all.
Carella needed more.
Sighing, he opened his personal telephone directory, and leafed through the LPs till he came to the listing for U.S. Army. Under that he found the number he had called at Fort Jefferson the other day, and below that, the number for the National Personnel Records Center in St. Louis. He looked up at the wall clock. It was twenty after 9:00, which meant that it was only twenty after 8:00 in St. Louis; there were sometimes drawbacks to living in a huge sprawling nation. He jotted the number onto a piece of scrap paper, and then took three DD report forms from his top desk drawer, separated them with two sheets of carbon, and began typing up his report on the interviews with Lloyd Baxter and Roxanne Hardy.
As he typed he wondered what Major Lemarre might have thought about Roxanne’s revelation. The major had seemed so certain that Jimmy was telling the truth about that basement rape twelve years ago. Instead, it hadn’t been a rape at all. Not a hundred-dollar gold-plated rape, nor even a two-bit tissue-paper rape. It had, instead, been a pair of teenage kids with the hots for each other, enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company against a basement post—listen, there were worse ways. The thing Carella didn’t understand was why Jimmy had lied. And why hadn’t the major caught the lie? Surely a trained psychiatrist should have been able to see through the false memory. There was no question but that Roxanne had told the truth about what happened that day; her retelling of the story had been too intense. But then again, so had Jimmy’s version—and it was Jimmy who’d been having the nightmares.
Carella was frankly puzzled. There hardly seemed anything of nightmare proportions in the sex Jimmy and Roxanne had shared that day, unless it was fear of punishment. Perhaps Jimmy was tortured by the idea of getting caught. Running the gauntlet was never any fun, even back in medieval times, and the modern street-gang version was no improvement on the original. Jimmy probably worried like hell about what had happened that day with Lloyd’s woman. He must have been familiar with gauntlet runs, must have visualized himself in the victim’s position—lead pipes crashing on his skull, tire chains flailing his chest, booted feet stomping him into the ground.
Thoughts like that could give a man nightmares, sure enough. Must have walked the streets expecting Lloyd’s hand to fall on his shoulder at any moment—Hello, Jimmy, baby, I hear you done my woman. Jimmy must’ve had his defense all prepared, must’ve concocted a rape story to rival that of the Sabine Sisters—No, Lloyd, you got it all wrong, man. I didn’t do her, it was the other guys. I’m the one tried to stop them, in fact. It wasn’t the truth he’d spilled out to Major Lemarre, it was his defense. He must’ve thought he was caught at last, the way Lemarre kept circling that nightmare, coming back to it over and over again, getting closer and closer to that rainy day in the basement. So he’d dragged out the rape. This is what really happened, Doc. This is what really happened, Lloyd. Let the other guys run the gauntlet. I’m the good guy, I tried to stop them.
Well, maybe, Carella thought, and looked at the clock again. It was time to call St. Louis. He dialed the area code and then the number and listened to the phone ringing on the other end. He wondered what St. Louis was like. He had never been to St. Louis. He visualized cowboys running cattle through the streets. He visualized tough guys drinking rotgut in saloons or dancing with girls wearing net stockings and red garters.
“National Personnel,” a woman’s voice said.
“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad, Isola,” he said. “I have a packet here from Captain McCormick at Fort Jefferson…”
“Yes, Mr. Carella?”
“And I need some further information.”
“Just one moment, sir, I’ll put you through to Mr. O’Neill.”
“Thank you,” Carella said.
He waited.
“O’Neill,” a man’s voice said.
“Mr. O’Neill, this is Detective Carella, 87th Squad, Isola. I have a packet here from Captain McCormick at Fort Jefferson, and I need some further information.”
“What sort of information?” O’Neill asked.
“I’m investigating a homicide in which the victim was a man named James Harris, served with the Army ten years ago, D Company, Second Battalion…”
“Let me take this down,” O’Neill said. “D Company, Second Battalion…”
“Twenty-seventh Infantry,” Carella said. “Second Brigade of the Twenty-fifth Infantry Division. I don’t have a platoon number. He was in Alpha Fire Team of the Second Squad.”
“Rank?”
“Pfc.”
“Service number?”
“Just a second,” Carella said, and consulted Jimmy’s file. He found the number and read off the eight digits slowly. O’Neill would later be feeding this into a computer, and Carella didn’t want any errors.
“Discharged or decease
d?” O’Neill asked.
“Both,” Carella said.
“How’s that possible?”
“He was discharged ten years ago and killed last Thursday night.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. I meant…What I meant, we have the records here for anyone who was either discharged or killed in action. The Department of the Army would have the records on anyone retired from the service, or with the reserve. This man was discharged, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Honorable discharge?”
“Yes. Full disability pension.”
“He was wounded?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“December fourteenth, ten years ago next month.”
“Okay,” O’Neill said, “what is it you want to know?”
“The names of the other men in his fire team.”
“On the date you just gave me?”
“Yes.”
“That might be possible,” O’Neill said. “Depends on who filed the action report.”
“Who normally files it?”
“The OIC. Or sometimes the—”
“Would that be the officer in command?”
“Yes, or sometimes the noncommissioned officer in command. There’s usually a second lieutenant in charge of a platoon, and an E-Seven assisting him. If neither of those two witnessed the particular action that day, then the squad leader may have filed the action report, or even the E-Five leading the fire team. Do you understand how this is broken down?”
“Not exactly,” Carella said. “In my day the squad was the basic unit.”
“Well, it still is, but now the squad’s broken down into two fire teams, Alpha and Bravo. You’ve got five men in each team, with an E-Six leading the full squad, for a total of eleven men. The way each fire team breaks down, there are two automatic riflemen who are Spec Fours or E-Threes, a grenadier who’s usually an E-Four, two riflemen who are E-Threes, and an E-Five leading them.”
“I don’t know what all those numbers mean,” Carella said. “Spec Fours, E-Threes…”
“Those are designations of rank. An E-Three is a Pfc, a Spec Four is a specialist fourth class, a corporal. An E-Five is a three-striper, and so on.”
“Mm-huh,” Carella said.
“What I’m suggesting is that the action report may possibly list the men who were in Harris’s fire team.”
“Would that be in his personal file?”
“Yes,” O’Neill said.
“Well, I’ve got his file right here, and the action report doesn’t mention any other men in the fire team.”
“Who signed the report?”
“Just a minute,” Carella said, and dug through the sheaf of papers again. “A man named Lieutenant John Francis Tataglia.”
“That would’ve been his platoon commander,” O’Neill said. “That’s his Field 201-File you’ve got there, huh?”
“Yes.”
“And the action report doesn’t name the men in his fire team, huh?”
“No.”
“Would there be what we call a Special Order in his file?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an order assigning a man to such and such a squad, and sometimes it’ll list the other men in the squad by name, rank and service number.”
“No, I didn’t run across anything like that”
“Well then, I guess we’ll have to cross-check with Organizational Records. That may take a little while,” O’Neill said. “May I have your number, please?”
“Frederick 7-8024.”
“That’s in Isola, right?”
“Yes, the area code here—”
“I have it. What was your name again, please?”
“Detective Second/Grade Stephen Louis Carella.”
“You’re with a local law-enforcement agency, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get back to you,” O’Neill said, and hung up.
He did not get back till close to 11:00 A.M. Carella had gone down the hall to Clerical for a cup of coffee, and was just returning to his desk when the telephone rang. He put down the paper carton and picked up the receiver.
“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.
“Harry O’Neill here in St. Louis. I’m sorry, but I didn’t get a chance to run this through the computer till a few minutes ago. I’ve got the company roster here—that’s a long sheet that lists all the men in a company and breaks the company down into four platoons, listing the men alphabetically and by rank. James Harris was in D Company’s Third Platoon. Now…Depending on the morning reports of each platoon, you’ll sometimes get a breakdown of the squads and fire teams in those squads. The clerks in the Third Platoon kept very nice records. I’ve got those names you wanted.”
“Good,” Carella said, “let me have them, please.”
“Got a pencil?”
“Shoot.”
“Rudy Tanner, Pfc, automatic rifleman. That’s T-a-n-n-e-r.”
“Got it.”
“Karl Fiersen, E-Four, grenadier.”
“Carl with a C?”
“With a K.”
“Would you spell the last name for me, please?”
“F-i-e-r-s-e-n.”
“Go on.”
“James Harris and Russell Poole, both Pfc’s, riflemen. That’s Russell with two esses and two els, and Poole with an e.”
“Okay.”
“The sergeant leading the team was an E-Five named Robert Hopewell, just the way it sounds.”
“Right,” Carella said.
“Did you want the names of the platoon commander and his assistant?”
“If you’ve got them.”
“Commander was a man named Lieutenant Roger Blake, later killed in action. The next one’s a tough one, I’d better spell it. Sergeant John Tataglia, that’s T-a-t-a-g-l-i-a.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“About what?”
“Tataglia’s rank. Isn’t he the lieutenant who signed the action report? Just a second,” Carella said, and spread the sheaf of papers on his desk. “Yes, here it is, Lieutenant John Francis Tataglia.”
“Well, he’s listed as a sergeant on this.”
“On what?”
“The platoon’s morning report.”
“Any date on it.”
“December third.”
“The action report is dated December fifteenth.”
“Well, one or the other must be wrong,” O’Neill said. “Unless he was promoted in the interim.”
“Is that likely?”
“It’s possible.”
“Can I get some addresses for these people?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” O’Neill said.
The list of last-known addresses for the four men in Jimmy’s fire team, as well as the man who’d once been his platoon sergeant, broke down this way:
John Francis Tataglia
Fort Lee
Petersburg, Virginia
Rudy Tanner
1147 Marathon Drive
Los Angeles, California
Karl Fiersen
324 Barter Street
Los Angeles, California
Robert Hopewell
163 Oleander Crescent
Sarasota, Florida
Russell Poole, the last man on the list, was also the only man from Alpha who lived in the city. Or, at least, he had lived in the city when he was discharged from the army. His address was listed as 3167 Avenue L, in Majesta.
A series of phone calls to Directory Assistance came up with address confirmations for Robert Hopewell in Sarasota and Russell Poole here in the city. There were no telephone listings for Rudy Tanner or Karl Fiersen in Los Angeles; Carella could only assume both men had since moved. There was nothing else he could do to locate them, unless they’d been in trouble with the Law since their discharge. He called the Los Angeles Police Department and asked for a records search in their Identification Section. The detective-sergeant to whom he spoke—in Los
Angeles, they were rather more paramilitary concerning rank than were the police in this city—promised Carella he’d get back to him by the end of the day.
Carella then called Fort Lee, Virginia, and learned that John Francis Tataglia, the erstwhile platoon sergeant who’d presumably been promoted to second lieutenant, was now Major Tataglia and had been transferred to Fort Kirby this past September. Fort Kirby was in the adjoining state, some eighty miles over the Hamilton Bridge. Carella called the major there at once, and told him he’d be out to see him that afternoon. The major did not remember Pfc. James Harris until Carella explained that he was the man who’d been blinded in action. Cotton Hawes was just coming through the slatted-rail divider as Carella hung up the phone. He signaled to him, and Hawes walked over to his desk; his red hair had been tangled by the wind outside, his face was raw, he looked fierce and mean.
“Are you busy?” Carella asked.
“Why?”
“I need someone to call Sarasota for me, do a telephone interview. I’ve got to go out to Fort Kirby right away.”
“Sarasota? Where’s that, upstate?”
“No, Florida.”
“Florida, huh? Why don’t I just fly on down there?” Hawes said, and grinned.
“Because I also want you to go see a man in Majesta. What do you say?”
“What am I supposed to do with the three burglaries I’m working?”
“This is a homicide, Cotton.”
“I’ve got a homicide too,” Hawes said. “Somewhere on my desk, I’m sure I’ve got a homicide.”
“Can you help me?”
“Fill me in,” Hawes said, and sighed.
In order to get to Fort Kirby in the bordering state, one drove over the Hamilton Bridge and through a community called Baylorville, which in the good old days used to be the pig-farming center of the state. Nowadays there was nary an oink to be heard in the vicinity, but the place stank nonetheless, and Meyer put his handkerchief to his nose the moment they began driving through it. He was beginning to discover that he had a very sensitive olfactory mechanism, a quality he had not recognized in himself earlier. He wondered how he could put this to good use in the crime-detection business. Meanwhile, he looked out dismally at the rows of factories and refineries, incinerators and mills that lined the parkway. The weather had turned bleak and forbidding. Even without the benefit of the smokestacks belching their filth and stench into the air, the sky would have been the color of gunmetal.