A Mortal Terror

by James R Benn

  “That’s swell, Doc, but I need answers and I need them now. I’ve got a lunatic on the loose.”

  “Well, ‘lunatic’ is not a precise term, but ‘psychopath’ is. I think that may be what you’re looking for.”

  “Like I said, crazy.”

  “A psychotic is crazy, in the conventional sense; they’re the ones who hear voices, that sort of thing. But a psychopath is different. You could talk with one and you’d never know it. A true psychopath could write that letter, only if it served a specific purpose and was to his benefit. They’re emotional mimics. They don’t feel real emotion, but they are great observers, and know when to act normal. But a psychopath wouldn’t care about his mother’s feelings. He wouldn’t even understand what that meant.”

  “So how can you spot one?”

  “It’s easy, once they’re caught. They’re great deniers, sometimes telling such outright lies about their guilt that it’s easy to see through them. They usually have a grandiose sense of their own self-worth and capabilities. But otherwise, they can act just like you and me.”

  “Except that it wouldn’t bother them to kill half a dozen people.”

  “No, it may even be a source of satisfaction for them. Think about it. No conscience, no empathy or understanding of others. They’re not good at long-term planning, so they find it easy to act on impulse, and they are highly manipulative, so they can often get away with things.”

  “But you said this whole thing took planning.”

  “Yes, but if we’re dealing with a psychopath, I doubt he planned everything out first. I’d bet it was an impulse that started the ball rolling. Then the grandiose thinking might kick in. In his own world, he might derive pleasure watching those around him react to his escalating crimes. The more he gets away with, the more powerful he feels.”

  “It doesn’t sound like he’d be a candidate for combat fatigue.”

  “No. He’d have a sense of self-preservation, but he wouldn’t suffer any effects from killing, or seeing his comrades killed. Other than enjoying the spectacle of it all, maybe. Want some more joe?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, and thought about what Cassidy had said while he refilled our cups. Impulse. The sequence of the first two killings always had bothered me. Now I was sure Landry hadn’t been killed first. The playing cards were a trick, a manipulation, to cover up an impulse killing to divert suspicion. Galante had been an immediate threat, and had to be dealt with on the spot. On impulse. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that Landry knew the killer and Galante were together, so he had to go. Then that grandiose imagination kicks in. Make it look like a guy with a grudge against the chain of command. Get everyone in a tizzy, and watch the fun.

  “Would a psychopath enjoy army life?” I asked when Cassidy returned with the coffees.

  “Well, you’d have to be crazy to,” he said, grinning at his own joke.

  “So what would happen if someone told this nutcase he was going to pull him off the line? Send him to a hospital, cure him?”

  “You mean a psychiatric hospital? No way. Our hypothetical guy would kill to stay out of one of those.”

  “He’d prefer to stay in combat? Now that’s crazy.”

  “I’d say in some ways it could be the perfect environment, since there are clear rules and procedures. He could figure out how to manipulate the system easily. But on the other hand, the peacetime army would be too boring. Psychopaths crave stimulation.”

  “Combat is stimulating.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean. I’ve always said that if you keep men in combat long enough, ninety-eight percent will break down from combat fatigue. The other two percent will be psychopaths.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “WE’RE SHORT ON men, Boyle,” Kearns said. “I’m sorry, but Second Battalion has been pulled back into reserve, and that’ll have to do. No transfers, not for anybody.”

  “But sir—”

  “Can it, Boyle. If I could I would—we really owe you one. But orders are orders.”

  “Okay,” I said, not liking it one bit, and not certain that I was owed a damn thing yet.

  “The provost marshal is taking charge of Sergeant Stumpf as soon as he’s discharged from the hospital. Meanwhile we have MPs standing guard. You going back with him?”

  “I have to talk to Colonel Harding first, Major. There are a few loose ends I’d like to tie up.”

  “Be my guest. I’m sure you’ll want to visit with your brother for a while.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well done, Boyle,” he said, rising from his desk in the underground wine cellar and extending his hand.

  “Thanks. But remember, Stump still denies he’s the killer, and we’re short on proof.”

  “I wouldn’t expect a mad killer to admit his guilt. And that card and the marks around Sam’s neck are proof enough. Not to mention a couple of dozen colonels and generals who aren’t asking for bodyguards.”

  Explosions shook the ground above us, loosening dust from the rafters and coating everything in the room with gray grit. Men wore their helmets even here, deep underground. The German bombardment was becoming more intense, as the Krauts brought more and more heavy stuff up into the Alban Hills.

  I’d stayed with Stump for hours after my talk with Cassidy, just watching, talking a bit, trying to size him up. He was sure of his innocence, but worried about the military justice system taking him in and spitting him out. It seemed like a sane way to look at things. They finally gave him something to help him sleep and kicked me out. I’d been dog-tired, and went back to the house where Kaz and I had bunked, only to find everyone sleeping in the cellar. Between a snoring captain and a couple of artillery barrages, I didn’t get much sleep.

  This morning I’d hoped to get Danny’s transfer in the works, but Kearns had put the kibosh on that. At least Danny’s outfit had been pulled off the line and put into reserve, which meant a couple of miles between them and the front. Still in artillery range, but then what wasn’t?

  There were no messages from Kaz, and I couldn’t check with him since I didn’t know exactly where he was. So I drove back to the field hospital, looking for Lieutenant Evans and Father Dare. I wanted to find out what Evans had been trying to say about Ileana at Bar Raffaele, and I was still curious about the pistol-packing padre. I’d known my share of priests, and while some liked a good game of poker, none of them carried a .45 automatic. Being a man of the cloth could be a good cover for the kind of maniac I was hunting. Like the army, the church gave you a nice set of rules to follow, and it had been my experience that rules were good things to hide behind. Then another talk with Stump. I wanted to look in his eyes and see—what? All that I saw last time we talked was derision at the idea he was the killer. His only proof he wasn’t was an uncrumpled playing card. If he wasn’t lying, then the real killer was bound to strike again. How sure was I?

  Then I’d visit Danny and Flint, and question anyone in the platoon who might have seen a GI with an automatic in his hand during the retreat. What about Flint? If I was right about the killer being in the 3rd Platoon, then he had to be on the list of suspects. But I’d seen him helping Evans out of the smoke. Could he have gone after Harding, then left the job half-finished? Why? If the object was to frame Stump, a dead Harding would have been even better. Could the 88 have interrupted him? But Flint had looked fine, as fine as anyone who’d been through that attack and retreat. If the Tiger had stopped him, he would have shown some effect from the explosion. It didn’t make sense.

  “Father Dare? He left early this morning,” a nurse told me. “Said he had to get back to his unit and be of some use. We wanted to keep him another day or so, but his leg will be all right if he keeps it clean.”

  “How was he? Was he upset about anything?”

  “He just said he didn’t want to become a permanent resident of Hell’s Half Acre. Can’t say I blame him.” She consulted a chart and led me to the tent where Evans was resting, a cast encasing his shoulde
r and arm, bandages wrapped around his head.

  “Flint saved my life,” Evans said. “I took a load of shrapnel in my shoulder. They told me I would’ve bled to death if he hadn’t pulled me out. There was so much smoke, I’m damn lucky he found me.”

  “He’s the senior noncom now. He’s probably in command of the platoon.”

  “What happened to Louie and Stump? Are they wounded?”

  I filled him in on Louie being shot in the head, and Stump being in custody as the Red Heart Killer.

  “It’s hard to believe. Stump? And why kill Louie? They were buddies. It doesn’t add up.”

  “He’s killed whomever he needed to, not just officers. There had to be a reason, I don’t think he killed randomly. Is there anything you can think of? Something Louie said or saw that he shouldn’t have?”

  “Louie spoke to me about believing his time was up,” Evans said. “But that was about the war, not these killings. That’s how I took it, anyway.”

  “Were he and Gates close?”

  “Yeah, they went back to North Africa. He took Gates’s death hard, kept saying he wished he’d been with him, maybe he could have gotten the drop on that officer. Caught out there yesterday, I think he’d given up all hope.”

  The snarl of aircraft approaching interrupted us, and the crash of bombs down by the sea, a few hundred yards away, signaled the approach of the Luftwaffe, hard at work hitting the ships supplying the beachhead. Our antiaircraft batteries opened up, and the pounding of the guns combined with explosions was deafening. The medical staff grabbed helmets and stood by their patients.

  “Can you make it to a shelter?” I asked Evans, yelling into his ear.

  “No, takes too long. Best to ride it out. You go.”

  Now, I had a burning desire to make it home from this war in one piece, and normally at the sound of air-raid sirens I dive headfirst into the nearest bomb shelter. But with those nurses, doctors, and orderlies staying put, I felt embarrassed to skedaddle. Dumb, I know. I held my helmet in place with my hands and sat on the floor, pulling my knees up to protect myself. If a bomb hit close by, it would be meaningless, but it gave me something to do.

  I felt the vibrations from the bomb hits in the wood flooring, and then a tremendous crash, the cots and me bouncing a couple of times. That was real close, and I was glad that no one tried to dig a tunnel out of there. I would have been tempted to join in.

  “Now I know why they call it Hell’s Half Acre,” I said as the explosions receded.

  “I won’t miss the place,” Evans said. “They say I’ll be shipped out to Naples in a few days.” He shifted in his cot, trying to get comfortable. His arm was set up, a brace in the cast supporting it.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Still got some shrapnel in there. The doc said it would take a few operations to get it all out.”

  “Hey, a million-dollar wound, congratulations,” I said, meaning it. Evans had done all right. But I still had questions for him. “Do you remember when we were talking about Bar Raffaele, right after you were wounded? About the girl, Ileana?”

  “I remember Ileana, but I don’t recall talking with you about her. They gave me morphine out there, so everything’s kind of hazy.

  “You started to say something about one of the guys and her, but then you faded away.”

  “There was a lieutenant who was sweet on her. It was kind of sad, really.”

  “Could that have been Landry?”

  “No idea. I guess so. I didn’t know the guy, maybe saw him there a few times. It was just something you talked about, you know? Was she playing him for a sap, or was she going to give up the business? Either way, it’d be tough for him.”

  “You got that right. Rest up, and enjoy Naples.”

  “Thanks. You find that killer and end this, okay? There’s enough dead bodies here for a lifetime.”

  I couldn’t argue.

  Outside, I buttoned my jacket up against the cold wind coming off the sea. The sky was leaden gray, the ground damp, and I felt the chill creep up through my boots. I decided a cup of joe was in order, and headed for the mess tent. I saw that the dug-in tents were finished, set four feet underground and reinforced with sandbags. Litters were being carried down the steps into what looked like an operating room. Not the fanciest hospital, but likely the best north of Naples.

  In the mess tent, I spotted Bobby K, wearing his new corporal’s stripes.

  “Those look good on you, Bobby K,” I said, sitting across from him with my coffee. We were at the end of a long trestle table, and I set my Thompson down next to the coffee.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said. “I lost sight of you yesterday. Glad you’re okay.”

  “I am. What are you doing here?”

  “I was escorting some Kraut prisoners when we got caught in the bombing and had to bring a few of them in to be treated. Soon as they’re patched up they’re getting loaded on a transport and shipped out. How lucky, huh?”

  “No kidding. You’re not hurt, right?”

  “Nope, just enjoying the privileges of rank. I got three privates watching the wounded prisoners while I sit here. So thanks again. Colonel Harding came through, like you said he would.”

  “You deserve it, Bobby. You’re in reserve with Second Battalion, right?”

  “Yeah, we’re digging in deep. They’ve been shelling us pretty bad. We had the POWs in a holding pen but we had to bring them into our shelters. Some of the guys wanted to leave them out there for a taste of their own medicine, but that didn’t seem right. Anyway, our captain ordered us to, so that was that.”

  “So when did they get hit?”

  “After it was over. The Kraut observers must have seen the trucks coming in to load them up, ’cause all of a sudden we got plastered. Couple of POWs got killed, but the rest were minor wounds. Minor-when-it-ain’t-you kind of minor.”

  “They seem to be able to zero in pretty well. Spotting a few trucks from up in those hills is a neat trick,” I said. I noticed Corporal Kawulicz eyeing my Thompson. He had a carbine leaning against the bench by his leg. “Looking for a Thompson?”

  “I tried to get one, but they’re hard to come by.”

  “Why do you want one? That M1 carbine is more accurate.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like we’re target shooting. And they’re only .30 caliber rounds. The Thompson has better stopping power with that .45 slug. Corporals are supposed to be issued one, you know.”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll swap.” I pushed the submachine toward him and undid my web belt with the extra magazines.

  “Really? You sure, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m sure.” He didn’t need much encouragement.

  A few minutes later, we walked out of the mess tent, the new corporal proudly sporting his new Thompson submachine gun. I carried the lighter M1 carbine, glad of the reduced weight but still feeling a burden settle onto my shoulders. I was worried about Danny going through the barrages Bob described. How were the Germans hitting us so accurately, so far from the front lines?

  We stopped at a tent with a bored private standing guard, and Bobby K stuck his head inside to ask if the prisoners were bandaged up and ready to go.

  “Perhaps you can explain this, Corporal,” I heard a familiar voice say, and saw Doctor Cassidy emerge from the tent with Bobby in tow. “Billy, didn’t expect to see you here again. Are you in charge of this prisoner detail?”

  “No, I was just having coffee with the corporal. We’re old pals. What’s up?”

  “Follow me,” he said. He took us to another tent and opened the flaps. A sickly smell wafted out and I guessed this was the morgue, or where they stashed the dead if ‘morgue’ was too fancy a term for a dirt-floor army tent. Several bodies were on the ground, already zipped up in mattress covers. One had only a sheet covering him. “Care to tell me how this happened, Corporal?” He pulled the sheet away to reveal a German officer. His tunic collar was undone, and he wore t
he distinctive paratrooper’s smock.

  “Fallschirmjäger,” I said. His right trouser leg was torn open and his leg swathed in a dirty bandage.

  “Right, but he didn’t die of his wounds, did he, Corporal?” Cassidy said.

  “I don’t know, he was limping but seemed okay. Then after the shelling he was out cold. I couldn’t find any other wounds, so I brought him here. What’s wrong with him?”

  “This,” I said, pointing to the bruises around his neck.

  “And these,” Cassidy said, showing the trademark red splotches in the eyes and across the face. “He was strangled, Corporal. What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing, sir, honest. We protected these guys from the barrage, brought them into our own shelters. Then we got hit again after the all clear. It was all confused, and we had to make sure no one got away. I loaded this guy in with the wounded and brought him here. That’s all I know.”

  I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. On the paratrooper’s sleeve was the camouflage insignia of an oberst. German for colonel, two green leaves with three bars underneath. I reached into his tunic pocket, knowing what I would find there.

  “The corporal didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, showing Cassidy the king of hearts. “Take the handcuffs off Stump.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “A KRAUT? HE’S killed a Kraut?” Heads turned as Major Kearns raised his voice. His worried tone did sound odd, since killing Krauts was our stock-in-trade. Several heads turned among the Corps HQ staff laboring underground.

  “Quiet down, Major,” Harding said, hustling us off to a far corner of the wine cellar where clerks worked their Smith Coronas. Harding told them to take a break and we sat at the narrow table, typewriters in front of us, army forms and carbon paper scattered about. I’d brought Cassidy along because I thought an expert might explain things better than I could. I still didn’t quite get whether this murderer was crazy or not.