by Don DeNevi
THE GUARD HOUSE MURDERS
The Guard House Murders: Profiles in Murder: Book 2
by Don Denevi
Published by Creative Texts Publishers
PO Box 50
Barto, PA 19504
www.creativetexts.com
Copyright 2019 by Don DeNevi
All rights reserved
Cover photos modified and used by license.
Cover design is copyright 2019 by Creative Texts Publishers
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual names, persons, businesses, and incidents is strictly coincidental. Locations are used only in the general sense and do not represent the real place in actuality.
Kindle Edition
THE GUARD HOUSE MURDERS
CREATIVE TEXTS PUBLISHERS
Barto, Pennsylvania
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“No one, absolutely no one, is who he or she seems to be. All humans, without exception, wear the mask of the actor to hide the true face. If evil exists beneath the face, hidden in the deep unknowable clefts and crevasses of the unconscious mind, it must be engaged and pondered for the world at large. We need more understanding of evil’s existence, and potential for murder, in human nature, because the only real danger that exists is man himself.”
“If in his abysmal darkness he has acquired a nauseating taste for blood, murder further kindles murder. The natural man, with all his wholeness, is in great danger, and we are pitifully unaware of it. We know nothing of the evil murdering man. Far too little. His poisoned mind must be studied, because we, too, on the borderline of madness, are the origins of all coming evil.”
C. G. Jung 1977: 436
“What Is the Source of Evil?”
in “Jung On Evil”, selected writings,
Introduced by Murray Stein,
Princeton. University Press, 1995
CHAPTER ONE
-
“So long, friend, Pavuvu…”
Something terrible happened to Peter Toscanini’s heart and mind during that October of 1944.
Having fought off near-fatal physical and psychological blows within weeks of each other, the young Navy lieutenant emerged knowing more clearly who he was and the cold steel from which he was made.
Nonetheless, a faint trickle of inexplicable doubt and ambivalence seeped into his self-confidence, stunting his spirit and serenity.
Intensifying Peter’s shaken sensibility was having to officially witness the execution by firing squad of the Mad Ghoul earlier that morning. Hovering over him for the remainder of the day was the fading image of the condemned multiple-murdering USMC officer tied to a death post nodding specifically at him with a wide grin as an even dozen M-1 Garand bullets scattered half his brain around the large courtyard of the 1st Division Command Headquarters on Pavuvu.
Now, leaning back comfortably on the vinyl-plastic bucket seat of the forward fuselage of the four-seat compartment behind the panel of the cockpit in a fully-loaded Douglas DC-3 militarized as a C-47 troop carrier, Peter, along with 28 silent and sullen wounded but ambulatory Marine riflemen, awaited liftoff.
Only minutes before, Peter and the entourage of wounded had touched-down from Pavuvu and Banika after an hour’s flight aboard two B-25 Mitchells of the 41st Bombardment group on Guadalcanal’s fighter strip #2 west of the Lunga River. From there, they were immediately bused to the main Henderson Field Fighter strip which had been improved and expanded into a larger bomber and C-54 runway with hard stands and taxiways. Greeting them with smiles and trays of small pastries and donuts were several Army nurses. All were dressed in flight suits, which looked fabulous to all concerned, including those dazed and drowsy from pain medications.
With their confidence, enthusiasm, even courage suddenly bolstered by hot coffee and sweets, the retinue boarded the aircraft and sat at will upon two long wooden benches that stretched parallel to the entire length of the plane’s body. As they opposite-faced each other, the ample in-between aisle space allowed Navy corpsmen to carry onto the C-47 a dozen or so reclining wounded servicemen on stretchers adjacent to one another on the floor of the interior cabin.
Since the Coral Sea night weather over Guadalcanal during the fall was always vapid and often turbulent, the 28-hour 3,359 -mile flight, with two long refueling stopovers, was temporarily delayed.
“Boys,” said the pilot, exiting the cockpit and strolling down the aisle, “the air out there is becoming increasingly wild, perhaps even violent, so says the tower’s balloonery. We’re getting out of here now before the usual crosswinds hit an hour or so after sunset. We’ve been given clearance by radio from the Henderson Field controller to taxi over to the main runway. Tighten up the best way you can for a thumpy ride as we leave the ground. But once we’re flying above the clouds at night with a full moon rising is one of nature’s most beautiful gifts. In little more than a day, we’ll be touching down on Oahu’s Hickam Field for you to disperse toward Hawaii’s best, most modern rehabilitation facilities.”
Just then, Technical Sergeant Janson MacTaggart, a USAF weather observer, exited the cockpit and casually walked down the aisle eye-checking the passengers’ baggage, issuing orders and instructions, making suggestions, and ensuring all were preparing for less than a 30-hour flight. He laughed,
“We’re moving, boys. We’re on our way. Lay back and enjoy the shut-eye.”
Wearily, Peter leaned his head back, settling his body more deeply in the bucket seat, although cheaply manufactured, nonetheless singly contoured with a movable back, a small headrest attached to it.
Suddenly, and without so much as a single word, or glance at Peter, a young Marine, his right shoulder heavily bandaged, and arm in a large protective sling, leaned over the empty bucket seat next to the lieutenant and shoved a small course-clothed travel sack underneath. Traveling in his hospital-issued pajamas, the young soldier removed a thick navy-blue blanket off his free shoulder, sat down in his bucket seat, removed his hospital slippers, curled up with the blanket spread over him, including part of his head, and promptly went to sleep.
Within seconds, Peter heard soft snoring, occasionally low moans as the young man seemed to clutch his left shoulder. Without a cap, he appeared to be less than 20 years old. Brown, curly hair drooped down slightly over his forehead, and almost to his ears.
‘That’s me,’ Peter thought, ‘ten years ago. Always ignoring the nuisance of a haircut.’ He had no idea, having been so heavily absorbed in thought, and oblivious to the arrival of additional ambulatory wounded, while gazing out the aircraft’s window.
Meanwhile, outside, night had fallen, darkening the southeastern skies. With the strange-looking clouds and overcast gone, a bright, perfectly round moon, along with trillions of emerging stars combined in s
ufficient mass to broaden the shadows cast over the Russell Islands and Guadalcanal.
Peter, blinking at the brightly illuminated world around him, felt he could see the entrance to eternity.
With everyone clutching their arm rests, the C-47 began roaring down the runway, the propellers spinning furiously, the accelerating twin engines deafening.
For Peter, who turned back toward the window and gazed into the night illuminations and shadows, the takeoff was impressive, “She’s lifting up her wheels as all birds pull theirs up to tuck them under their bellies. Whoever said it was absolutely right--‘On a C-47, leaving the earth suddenly creates in you the feeling you’ve become a songbird of the sky’”.
Peter had been shuttled on C-47s before, but none as prescient as this one, he reflected. ‘With my mind impacted by concussion after concussion, and now risking my life by going undercover amid murderers, this trip back to stateside is somehow…perhaps prescient, omniscient, foreknowledgeable, of what I don’t know. But, whatever, I may as well relax and enjoy it, because soon enough I’ll be back in a den of death, perhaps my own included.”
For a very, very long moment, Lieutenant Toscanini allayed himself of thought and emotion. He was empty, blank, devoid of caring, or even feeling dreaded anxiety. “The devil himself whispering,” as his grandfather often reminded him. All the earth suddenly seemed motionless, although the plane’s twin engines droned rhythmically on.
Quietly, Peter turned to cast a final glance into the full blackness of night, the earth no longer visible, all creation seemingly into exiled eternity. In this world of nothingness, other than the C-47 and its voyagers, Peter whispered, “So long, friend, Pavuvu, island of my fate.”
CHAPTER TWO
-
The Nightmare
With the C-47’s twin Pratt & Whitney 1,200 horsepower engines continuing to twirl and purr smoothly, Peter, prior to dozing off, smiled as he recalled the ancient Mediterranean proverb, “Night is for story-telling, love-making, and demon-filled dreams.”
‘Oh, for a welcoming dream,’ he thought, ‘full, rich, and satisfying. It would fill my emptiness and void that everyday life is denying me just now. I’m filled with so many contending feelings that the most insidious one of them is going to battle through all my perplexities and clutch my throat.’
There was, of course, nothing to see in the night other than countless trillions of brightly illuminated stars.
Soon, somewhere beyond dozing and this side of heavy slumber’s cessation of conscious life, a dream slowly emerged, finding vivid focus.
Traveling down a narrow, crushed coral lane in the middle of a wild, sparsely populated island during alternating fierce rain showers and silver moonlight, Peter seemed to be standing on the hood of a speeding jeep painted in typical Army camouflaged colors. Standing legs wide apart and arms over his head, he was shouting for the driver who appeared to be Dr. Stuart Schneidermann, the USN physician-psychiatrist assigned to the 1st Division of the USMC. Condemned to death as the Mad Ghoul, Schneidermann, holding fast the steering wheel, was laughing loudly, as were his three passengers, Ellen, sitting beside him, Pinoe, and Joan, in the back seats.
Down the long lane, lined shoulder to shoulder with USMC lieutenants, and across the road, lined with Army nurses, and bordered on both sides by the remnants of once-flourishing coconut tree groves similar to those that peppered Pavuvu, the jeep careened, its driver and three passengers lurching, tilting, and tipping along the way. Blocking the road less than 100 yards away by lining side-by-side were 1st Division Commander Major General William H. Rupertus; his assistant, Brigadier General Lemuel Shepherd; Chief of Staff Colonel Armor LeRoy Sims, and Captain Oscar “Slim” Del Barbra of Company A, 1st Motor Transportation, Military Police. All were standing at attention, shoulder to shoulder, their arms stiff and formal at their sides, their hands flat on their thighs.
In front of the highly ranked officers was Bob Hope, dressed as a circus clown, clutching a red and white striped baton. Unusual for a dream, Tchaikovsky’s “Sleeping Beauty” seemed to be playing in the background.
Peter, screaming “faster”, “get out of the way”, “the driver’s mad”, “faster”, “past goes the jeep”, “faster”, “out of the way”, “the driver’s mad”, “out of the way”, “the driver’s mad” saw the comedian perched atop Bill Lundigan’s shoulders, somehow whirling and twirling, simultaneously pumping the long staff. Then, defying gravity, amid bursting, colorful pyrotechnics, he leaped off PFC Lundigan and, continuing to dance in large circles, repeatedly screamed, “Did Crosby send you? Did Crosby send you?”
Then, almost as abruptly as it began, the whole luscious, imaginative scenario, within a split second of a deadly pileup, awakened Peter with a startled alarm.
“What was that all about?” he asked himself.
Fully awake, Lieutenant Toscanini turned again to gaze out the small aircraft window. Slowly, he began to feel the return of the engulfing sensation of integrating within himself the terrible physical trauma he absorbed in the officers’ latrine behind the stage and baseball field on Pavuvu, and the emotional shock of rejection by his finance at the Rohwer Relocation Center near the Mississippi River in eastern Arkansas.
‘I’ll have to compact it all into a whole for lifelong reflection and meditation,’ Peter nodded to himself.
With the C-47’s engines smoothly droning their monotonous, distinct tones, and the pilot and copilot awaiting the radio signal for liftoff, Peter’s attention returned to that day’s events. With the hint of a smile, he reflected upon his successful work as a subordinate, but integral, member of the court-martial panel assigned to the legal aspects of the trial and execution of the Mad Ghoul. Known as the GCM, or General Court-Martial, it was the main judicatory in the Pacific Ocean Theater of Operation.
As the junior member of the judicial panel, Peter was required to register and record all statements, testimonies, minutes, depositions, entries, etc. For the final paragraph in the death penalty, he wrote the murders had no mitigating circumstances. They were so craven, cowardly, and premeditated that they could only have been committed by a hardened, irredeemable criminal of the worst possible kind. The Ghoul deserved an immediate execution.
Despite the Mad Ghoul’s and Joan Ikeda’s body blows, Peter worked tirelessly from sunup to sundown as the youngest member of the GCM, often reaching his cot well past midnight. He wanted the court-martial panel, and everyone else for that matter, to notice that if called upon, he was a tower of strength, an undeniable workhorse. No matter how tough the grind, or the increasing tempo of the work as the execution hour neared, he was determined to carry out each assigned task with maximum finesse, despite the myriads of detail demanded. Everyone, the judges and their legal assistants and orderlies, appreciated the young lieutenant’s nonpareil professionalism, personal dignity, and sense of purpose. As for himself, Peter hoped no one noticed the inordinate amount of pleasure he received from successfully accomplishing each assigned charge, thus relieving a bit of his personal pain.
Of all his assignments, the most fulfilling was serving as the official recorder of the entire court-martial proceedings including the testimonies of the witnesses. He wrote the meticulous, precise elements of each murder, the 14-page guilty verdict, and the court’s responses to its various reviews and panel member appeals.
In addition to selecting the site for the internment of the condemned man’s remains, Peter dealt at length with officials in the Graves Division of the U.S. Army in particular, and U.S. Armed Forces in general. He needed permission from each to allow the body of the Ghoul to be buried adjacent outside the fence of the main USMC cemetery on Guadalcanal between Henderson Field and Kukum near the Lunga River. He designed the headstone, which was less than 4 square inches, wrote its inscription, and supervised packaging of the Ka-Bar murder weapon for shipment to the USMC Headquarters in Quantico, Virginia.
Admittedly, Peter’s most difficult challenge was interviewing Dr. Sc
hneidermann each day during his noontime meal as to his reasoning for multiple-murdering. Close to 30 such encounters were held in the presence of two unarmed officers, one from the USMC, the other from the Army, standing less than 10 feet away in the Ghoul’s cell. Peter repeatedly asked the same dozen questions, hoping to elicit a series of honest responses which could then be synthesized into a rudimentary explanation.
CHAPTER THREE
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Execution Time
After a few hours into the flight, a light rain began to gently splatter the troop carrier. Flying below the clouds, the normal October nocturnal overcast that extended from Papua, New Guinea in the south to the Gilbert and Marshall Islands in the north opened and a glimpse of moonlight filtered through. Then, seconds later, the full moon in all its splendor again burst forth, illumining the young lieutenant’s smart profile.
Peter turned for a quick glance backwards to a somewhat morose, chair-seated and stretcher-borne wounded. All had received severe wounds during the latter phase of the Battle of Guadalcanal.
Attended by four caring medical personnel, the patients seemed uninterested in idle chatter, or, for that matter, the usual, unappreciative grumbling. Of the four staff members, one was a Navy physician; two, corpsmen; and the fourth, a full-fledged, and rare, Army nurse.
For a full moment, Peter reflected, ‘You can tell by their acquiesce and facial expressions how completely committed they are to our boys, all of whom are no more than 23 or 24. God, it’s wonderful to see such dedication to do whatever it takes to relieve the pain of each man…Thank you, evacuation, staff, thank you!’
Glancing down at the young PFC, who by now had tossed off his blanket, Peter had to smile; the kid couldn’t have been more than 18, tall, on the lean and rangy side, and certainly, by just looking at him, full of fun, joking, and normal, psychologically healthy. There was nothing hard, stiff or serious about him, his face or body. He had a pleasant face, certainly not handsome, but alert, with fine, light piercing eyes. His arms, appearing skinny, were, he concluded, lithe and powerful. ‘And I bet his voice is little more than a cool drawl. I like this kid without ever talking to him.’