Dress Gray

by Lucian K. Truscott

“Yessir.”

  “But I don’t believe it was an accident, and my autopsy report reflects my findings.”

  “It wasn’t an accident?” Slaight stuttered the words in a failed attempt to contain his excitement.

  “I believe he was murdered, Mr. Slaight. Hand’s lungs were so engorged with water, he could not possibly have drowned from exhaustion. No. I’ve examined such drownings before. I believe he was overpowered by another person, stronger than himself, and held underwater until death.”

  “You’re joking, sir. Right?”

  “Negative. The young man was murdered. And there was additional evidence indicating murder, and possible motive, strong evidence. I am shocked that the academy has not moved to find the killer.”

  “They’re not moving, sir. It’s so quiet out there, you’d think the entire Tactical Department has gone on leave.” Slaight waited. He knew Consor would get around to explaining himself at his own speed. Consor fidgeted, glancing down the hall. He reached with his foot and kicked the door shut.

  “Well. I’m not at all sure I should be telling you this, Slaight.”

  “Come on, sir. If what you say is true, about Hand being murdered, they’ll probably nail the killer somehow, and it will all come out in the wash, anyway. If Hand was murdered, you’re going to be up on the stand, and no army court-martial is going to take pity on Hand, his family, or anybody else. What harm could you do telling me now?”

  “Mr. Slaight, I see exactly what you’re driving at, but the nature of my findings is so sensitive that I omitted a portion of them from the typescript of my report, in deference to the family. It would serve no one’s interest to cause the family any more grief than they already must endure. Though my findings were germane to concluding that Hand was murdered, they indicated motive, not cause of death, so I left them out of my report. I informed Colonel King verbally of my findings, however. He knows everything.”

  “What is it, sir? What are you so reluctant to tell me? I knew the kid. I went with his sister for two years. I want to know, sir, you know what I mean?”

  Consor turned his head, found Slaight’s eyes, and fixed him with that glare.

  “Yes, I do, young man. I also know if I reveal my autopsy findings to you, I will be in violation of certain army regulations.”

  Slaight held his breath, waiting. Consor rested his hand atop the handwritten notes on his desk. His glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. Automatically, he pushed them back in place. He leaned back in his gray metal chair and crossed his legs.

  “How do your feet feel now, mister?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “You’re still determined to walk tours tomorrow?”

  “Yessir. Got to. You understand.”

  “Yes,” said Consor. He paused. Things weren’t much different when he was a cadet. West Point had changed, but not much.

  “Yes, I do understand, mister. But you will walk the area against my medical advice and best judgment. Is that understood?”

  “Yessir.”

  “As long as …”

  “What about Hand, sir?” Slaight interrupted.

  “You are a persistent bastard, you know that, Slaight?”

  “Yessir.”

  Dr. Consor laughed.

  “Okay. This entire matter is being handled in such an unorthodox way, I don’t imagine it would do any harm to tell you why I believe Hand was murdered. I based my conclusion on three pieces of physical evidence. You listening, mister?”

  “Yessir.” Of course he was listening. Consor’s question was part of his style, a pro forma exercise in establishing, at once, rapport with and distance from the cadet. It was leadership.

  “One. Water in lungs. Evidence Hand drowned. Unusually large volume indicated a struggle, presence of a second person. Two. Semen in the urinary tract. Hand had sex immediately before death. Three. Signs of irritation in the area of the anus, engorged musculature, hemorrhoid-like growth, inflammation of lower colon, high white-corpuscle blood count in the area, indicating a prolonged low-grade infection …” Consor paused, thumbing through his notes.

  “All the signs, in short, that Hand was getting fucked in the ass. Including a large quantity of semen in the rectum. Is that clear enough for you, Mr. Slaight? Your man Hand was a homosexual. Did you know that?”

  “Nosir.” Slaight stared at his taped feet sheepishly. The tiny office was quiet. Down the hall, an industrial dishwasher in the hospital mess hall could be heard chugging into gear.

  “Major Consor? Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot, mister.”

  “Did you put all that stuff in your formal autopsy report?”

  “No, I didn’t. I wanted to spare the family … well … I told you. But I did spell out to Colonel King my conclusion that Hand was murdered. Clearly, the man with whom Hand had sex probably murdered him.”

  “Yessir.”

  “That’s why I find it surprising they haven’t launched a Corps-wide search for the killer.”

  “Yessir. Major Consor, this is going to sound presumptive, but I think you should hang on to your notes, sir. I think the shit’s going to hit the fan, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir. Somebody’s neck is going on the line right now, if my guess is correct. Your notes will ensure the neck that goes isn’t yours.”

  “I see what you mean, Slaight. I didn’t like Colonel King’s attitude this morning. He marched in here like the autopsy room was a little piece of his fiefdom, told my orderlies to leave the room, then stood around outside until I was finished, as if he was the ward chief. He kept opening the door and telling me to hurry up. Hurry up. I don’t know what the rush was. The kid had been dead for thirty-six hours. Wasn’t my fault they didn’t find him until this morning.”

  “Colonel King was in charge? I mean, he was the one you gave your typed report to?”

  “Yes. Tall man. Infantry. With a limp. You know him?”

  “He’s my regimental commander, sir. He’s the one who put me on the area. Grimshaw, my tac, takes all his clues from King. King came through the barracks one morning last month. I was taking a nap between classes. He walked in, wrote me up for ‘failure to assume the position of attention in the presence of an officer’ and ‘out of uniform during duty hours.’ I was in my drawers, between the sheets, fast asleep. Two-dash-one came down with a fifteen and twenty. Fifteen demerits, twenty hours of tours. Most I figured I’d get was an eight and eight. Jesus. Old Grimshaw had a field day with my 2-1. He sent down a memo saying nobody could take naps any more, any time.”

  “So that’s why we’re getting all these sick calls asking for medical permissions to take bed rest between classes! I was on sick-call duty last week, and we must have had a half dozen of them. I didn’t notice they were all from the same company.”

  “They probably weren’t. Everybody in the regiment is trying to protect themselves with medical permission to get rack during the day, our free time. That won’t last past the summer. By next fall, King will have something figured out to beat the medical excuses. He’ll require that they be renewed on a daily basis, something like that. Make it impossible for guys to get a new sick slip every day. Man, you can’t let your guard down for an instant in King’s regiment. I’d watch it dealing with him if I were you, sir. I’m not trying to give you any unsolicited advice or anything, but …”

  “Mr. Slaight. I understand what you’re getting at. I’ll watch myself with him. Are you certain you don’t want me to do anything about this Grimshaw character? As a doctor, it’s my duty to tell you that you most assuredly should not be walking the area with your feet in such poor condition. There’s a strong possibility you could do permanent damage to the sensitive skin on the instep of your foot. I see no reason …”

  “Sir, I’ve got seven hours left. I’ll make out okay. And I wouldn’t pay any attention to Grimshaw. Colonel King’s the man you’re going to have to watch out for. He’s like some kind of human jackal.”

  “Slaight. I won’t ha
ve you maligning your superiors in my presence. Save that kind of talk for the barracks.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Come back and see me about your feet next week. Let me see … you’ll walk three hours Monday, three Tuesday, and one Wednesday. Drop in anytime. I’ll be here every day.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And don’t abuse the painkillers.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’ll see you next week then.”

  “Yessir. Good evening, sir.”

  Slaight walked back to the physical therapy room. He dressed quickly, walked out the basement door of the hospital, up some metal stairs, and into New South Area. The clock on the barracks said it was 7:30 P.M. Buck would be back from supper. He took the stairs to the second floor by twos, and his feet hardly bothered him. He burst in the door of Room 226 to find Buck sprawled on his bunk in the company of The Wall Street Journal, several copies of Burning Tree Weekly Gazette, the latest issue of National Livestock Producer, and what looked to be a three-inch stack of computer printout. Obviously, Leroy Buck had made a stop at the computer center on his way back from supper.

  “Slaight, they went and did it tonight in the mess hall. Announced the news about beanhead Hand. Adjutant got up there and gave the poop. Accidental drowning … regrets to announce … Hand, F-4 … Corps of Cadets will send its condolences … tragedy … then a goddamn lecture about swimming along during fuckin’ summer leave. You wouldn’t have believed it.”

  “Yes, I would. But you’re not going to believe what I just heard.”

  “What’s that, Slaight, you son of a—”

  “I got the autopsy report on Hand. You won’t believe it. The doc who did the autopsy report told me all about it. Wasn’t an accident. David Hand was murdered. And the doc says Hand was a faggot, got himself banged in the ass just before he drowned. Doc says: Whoever fucked him, killed him.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Suspects? Are you kidding? Not even the provost marshal has heard about this. The doc left the fag stuff out of his official report, but he told King all about it. What we figured about old Phineas T. King earlier? Right on target. He was all over that doc who did the autopsy today, took every copy of the official report with him when he left. The doc told me he wrote in his official report that in his opinion Hand was murdered. So tonight they announce it was an accident, huh?”

  “Say yeah.”

  “Buck, this ain’t the Magnificent Seven all over again. This is a whole new ball game. Phineas T. is up to his skinny neck in this shit, and he’s reporting straight to fuckin’ Two-Dash Hedges, so he’s in on it, too. We better keep this quiet till we figure out what’s going on. Maybe they’re just putting out the accident story until they can nail the killer.”

  “I doubt it, Ry.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If they were looking for a killer, the word would be all over the Corps by now. Place would be crawling with TD fuckers. They’d have the whole goddamn Corps restricted to barracks. Give a listen out there. So quiet, you can hear the fuckin’ juke box down in Grant Hall. Slaight, those fuckers are sitting on this Hand thing, sure as shit. They got the lid screwed on again. You going up to see Sergeant Major Eldridge tonight, like you said?”

  “Nope. I’ve heard enough for one day. I’ll stop by and see him Monday, before area formation. We’ve got plenty of time to touch him for his contacts. Besides, I want to give my feet a rest. I got two hurtin’ cowboys for feet, let me tell you.” Slaight flopped on his bunk and propped his slipper-clad feet on his Brown Boy. Buck had a Waylon Jennings album on the stereo. He was singing something about women, lonesome, and, if you listened closely, mean. Buck was reading The Wall Street Journal. Slaight heard him whistling softly between his teeth. It was funny, the way Leroy Buck whistled to himself like that. Often the noise he made sounded like the way he said “wisht.” He was always saying stuff like “I wisht I was back home right now. Yellow squash is comin’ in.” Or, “I wisht they’d goddamn leave us alone, goddamn-goddamn.”

  “I finish clocking my stocks. Slaight, let’s you and me go on over to the late movie, how ‘bout it? They’re showing one of those Clint Eastwood pictures. One of those Westerns.”

  “Okay,” said Slaight, closing his eyes, letting Waylon Jennings’ voice close the space around him. “Let’s do it.”

  9

  Seven-thirty P.M. A telephone call.

  “Duty Officer Major Consor speaking, sir.”

  “Major, this is Colonel King.”

  “Yessir. Something I can do for you, sir?”

  “Matter of fact, Major, there is. You can keep absolutely quiet about this plebe we found up in Popolopen this morning. Do you understand me? You may consider your involvement in this matter classified Top Secret. This comes from the highest authority. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “We have a very, very sensitive case on our hands here, as I am sure you are aware. It is absolutely imperative that none of the details of this case go beyond where we left them today. If we are to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion, there must be absolute confidentiality. Total. You are to report to no one but me on this matter, is that clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Now, I am in possession of all copies of your official autopsy report, am I not? I have before me a four-page typewritten report on a DD Form 220, in triplicate. This is what you gave me this morning, is it not?”

  “That’s it, sir. DD Form 220. That’s the official autopsy report form. Autopsies are the only medical operations reported on the Form 220. There’s a regulation somewhere …”

  “I’m not interested in the regulation, Major. I am simply reaffirming that what I have in hand is your official report on the death of Cadet David Hand.”

  “That’s it, sir. That’s the official report. You’ve got all my DD 220s. The body was bagged, and at 1400 the funeral home from Highland Falls arrived to pick it up, just as you said it would. I supervised the transfer of the body myself.”

  “Good. That’s damn fine work, Consor. Damn fine. Now, just remember this. We’ve got a sensitive, potentially explosive case on our hands here. We’ve got to keep it in the family. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir. In the family. I understand, sir.”

  “Excellent. Consor, don’t do anything else, don’t talk to anybody from this moment on, don’t generate any more reports, don’t do anything without consulting me first. Got that?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Outstanding, Major. Damn fine work.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “King out.”

  The phone went dead in Major Consor’s hand. He looked at the clock on his desk. It was 7:35 P.M. He thanked the Lord King hadn’t asked him if he’d talked to anyone about the case during the day. Cadet Slaight had left his office not ten minutes ago. He wondered about Slaight, whether it had been a good idea to confide in him. Slaight was an odd case, a cadet who seemed somehow out of place at West Point, and yet he possessed all the qualities of a textbook military leader: poise, bearing, guts, intelligence, and a massive, nearly impenetrable ego. If there was some thing about Slaight, if there was one thing which was going to be his downfall, it was his ego. An ego like his, at age twenty-one, almost completely negated any chance for the young man to really develop a sense of himself, nurture the germ of self-knowledge which after a few years would yield the revealing vulnerabilities of adulthood. Slaight had mastered the great confidence game of youth, the trapdoor situation where he’d suck you in with innocent curiosity; then as soon as you’d opened up and let the cat out of the bag, he’d close the trap and squeeze out the rest of what he wanted with a mix of guile, cunning, and plain old-fashioned tit-for-tat trade-off, dealing.

  Major Consor remembered the first day he’d met Slaight, three years ago. He was in Ward Two with double lower-lobe pneumonia. Because he had been a plebe, he had been discouraged from going on sick call, and went untreated unt
il he collapsed in the barracks. For the first six days he was in the ward, he was in a semi-coma, fed intravenously, conscious for only a few moments a day, and even then he was dazed and confused.

  On the seventh day, his fever dropped to 102°, from a one-time high of 105°, when they’d had to pack him in ice to bring the fever under control. Slaight, a very, very sick plebe, woke up and noticing the doctor leaning nervously over him, rapped out a coarse expletive:

  “Fuck. This place looks like a good deal. How long have I been here?” When told he’d been in the hospital a week, he then asked how much longer he could expect to be confined to the hospital ward. Told that pneumonia like his sometimes took as long as a month to heal properly, he thought for a moment and said:

  “Hey! I’m gonna miss sixteen parades!”

  Consor chuckled at the memory. As a cadet, he’d indulged in the same parade-dodging skulduggery. It was part of the game. Maybe Slaight wasn’t so odd, after all. Maybe he was just plain U.S. grade Choice cadet, a red-blooded American boy. Any way he looked at it, he was going to have to trust Rysam Parker Slaight III, he decided.

  Better Slaight than King. King out. My God, what was this army coming to?

  * * *

  BOOK II

  * * *

  June 26, 1968

  10

  Wednesday morning, New York City.

  Water woke Ry Slaight, splashing against the tub on the other side of the wall directly behind his head. He propped himself on one elbow and peered through the semi-darkness. A clock radio glowed on the bedside table. It was 9 A.M. Heavy curtains blotted out the morning sun. Four weeks to the day since he’d gotten off the area. Over the past three weeks, he’d been to six army posts in six states, on a junket called the First Class Trip, supposedly an introduction to what West Point seniors could expect from the six combat arms when they graduated a year later.

  It had been one long six-thousand-mile waste of time and taxpayers’ dollars. The firsties knew it. The army knew it. West Point knew it. By mutual agreement, the trip was an excuse for six army posts to throw six formal balls for the cadet first class, which the cadets were required to attend with arbitrarily assigned blind dates, officers’ daughters getting their own introduction to what they might expect to find as army wives with army husbands. Now the first class was back, and this was the first morning of Slaight’s summer leave, thirty days of free time he planned on spending right here, in this bed, in this apartment in this city with this woman. Her name was Irit Dov, and Slaight was twenty-one-year-old-awe-struck-head-over-heels in love with her. They’d met when Slaight was a yearling. After a year of weekends, trips, and leaves, Slaight found himself pretty much under the spell of the strange dark woman in the shower behind his head.