A Mortal Terror (17 page)

“Able-bodied, yes. But what about their minds? Their spirits?” I thought about Jim Cole. No surgeon could ever cut out the memory of that basement, remove the guilt, and patch it all up.

“Like I said, I cut, I stitch. And I do a damn good job of it, as well as running this place. I’ve seen the inside of men’s bodies, I’ve operated on the brain more times than I like to recall. But I never saw evidence of a spirit in there. Sorry. I wish I had.” I wasn’t so sure he was. Anyone who looked for the soul between bits of bone and blood didn’t know what they were looking for.

“Did Galante have professional differences with another doctor over this? Anything more than a medical disagreement?”

“Far as I know, his serious disagreements were all with the brass at Third Division. We may debate medicine here, Lieutenant, but we’re usually too exhausted to do much about an opposing opinion. But there is someone you should talk to. Doctor Stuart Cassidy. He’s in Radiology, but he’s the closest thing we have to a shrink. He interned with a psych department in Chicago, I think. He and Galante were friendly, as far as that went with the late doctor.” Major Warren made a call, and told me to hustle out to the trucks that were being loaded. Cassidy was one of the doctors being transferred to parts unknown.

I found Cassidy sitting on the tailgate of a truck, leaning against his duffel bag. He looked young for a doctor, with wavy blond hair and an easy smile. Behind him the truck was loaded with medical supplies, stretchers, blankets, cots, and rations.

“Taking a trip, Doctor Cassidy?”

“I am, Lieutenant. Naples harbor is all I heard. You know anything about what’s happening?”

“Not a clue,” I said, introducing myself and giving Cassidy the short version of the investigation. Like everyone else within twenty miles, he knew about the murders and the suicide. “Anything you can tell me about Max Galante would be helpful.”

“Max was brilliant,” he said, without hesitation. “Too brilliant, maybe, for his own good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I happen to agree with his ideas about combat fatigue. Other units are using the same approach, and it’s working well. But Max was so sure of himself that he didn’t suffer fools gladly. Sometimes he forgot he was in the army and didn’t hold his tongue. It’s a problem with us doctors. We think we’re gods, but the army has other gods who outrank us.”

“Like Colonel Schleck, Third Division.”

“Right. Him and his assistant, Major Arnold. Max made a big stink about how they were incompetent Neanderthals for not taking combat fatigue seriously, as a disease. If he’d been more diplomatic, he’d probably be alive today.”

“You’re not saying there’s a connection?” Did Cassidy know more than he was letting on?

“Not—I just mean he would have been with his unit, and wouldn’t have run into whoever killed him. Is there a connection?”

“Not that I can see. If every guy who ran afoul of incompetent Neanderthals got killed, there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight this war.” Cassidy gave a knowing laugh. “Anything going on in Galante’s personal life that might have gotten him in trouble?”

“Can’t see it,” Cassidy said. “He spent time reading medical journals, when he could get them. Visited museums when they weren’t bombed out. He liked his landlady, said she was helping him improve his Italian. He couldn’t wait to get to Rome, poor guy. His family hailed from there, went way back to Roman times, according to him. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing.”

“Did he ever mention Sergeant Cole?”

“Sure. He got him transferred to CID after that incident in Campozillone. He was worried about him.”

“Any guys from his old outfit come to see him here?”

“Yeah, Landry, the other guy who got killed. He and Galante got on well. I know Max went to their bivouac at least once. Cole dropped by a couple of times after he started at the palace.” That was the first link I had between the two victims, not to mention Cole.

“Do you think Cole was unbalanced? Did Galante think he should have been hospitalized?” I wanted to know more about Galante and Cole, and anyone else he knew in Landry’s platoon. Like the killer, maybe.

“No. Not in the way you mean. We call it Old Sergeant’s Syndrome. Unofficially, of course.”

“What’s that, some sort of combat fatigue?”

“It’s more than that. According to current thinking, combat fatigue can be dealt with by rest and a short period of relative safety. But for those men who have fought and endured for long periods of time, there finally comes a point at which they become fatalistic. They’re usually sergeants, because simply by surviving for months in battle, they’ve been promoted. In most cases, they are the only man left of their original squad, if not platoon.”

“So hot chow and a cot won’t do it for them?”

“Nope. You can send them back on the line, but they’ll just tell you they know their number is up. They become ineffective as leaders, see themselves as dead men. They’ve reached the breaking point, and if placed in danger, they simply can’t function. And remember, these are men who, by virtue of their survival, have won citations and been praised for their bravery. Like Sergeant Cole. The incident in that village just hurried along what was about to happen. The wonder is not that he succumbed to it, but that he endured so long.”

“What’s the treatment?” I asked, starting to think about Cole, and what strings Galante had pulled to watch over him, or what regulations he’d broken. Who else knew about that?

“Well, that’s the good news. All that’s needed is to remove these men from immediate danger, and to give them something useful to do. They still want to serve, so any position off the line makes them feel useful. Once the threat of death in combat is removed, they become healthy again, especially if they have a job to do. CID was perfect for Cole.”

“But you said Galante was worried about him.” Or maybe he was worried about what Cole knew. Was there a reason Cole ended up in CID, working in the palace, where he’d have a chance to search for pearls?

“Yeah. What happened in that village produced a burden of guilt that was unusually strong. It must have weighed on him more than we thought.”

“Well, it could have been something else entirely,” I said, wondering again about the pearls and what part they played in this. The truck engine turned over, and Cassidy jumped down, hoisted the tailgate, and we shook hands.

“Good luck, Lieutenant. I hope you catch the guy. Gotta run.”

“Keep your helmet on and your head down, Captain.” I liked Cassidy, and hoped he wasn’t headed into dangerous territory. Sometimes keeping your head down just wasn’t enough.

I watched the trucks leave, with Cassidy and another doctor as passengers and enough gear and supplies for more casualties than I wanted to think about. Replacements, doctors, Naples harbor, leaves cancelled. It was obvious that a force was shipping out, but for where? They could be headed to England for all I knew. Or maybe southern France. Or Rome, who knew? Was that why Diana had to get back so quickly? No, don’t let it be Rome, I prayed silently. I don’t want her in the midst of a battle. And don’t let Danny be one of the nameless replacements either. I decided I should find a church and send up some prayers before it was too late.

“Billy,” Kaz said, strolling out of a nearby ward. “What is wrong? You look lost.”

“Just thinking. About Diana, and my kid brother Danny.” I told Kaz about the ASTP program being curtailed, and how some had been among the replacements flowing in. I told him about the accident, and that I wanted to be sure Danny wasn’t among the injured.

“Come, I will ask Edie to check,” he said.

“Edie?” I said as I followed him.

“First Lieutenant Edie Embler, of Long Island, New York. She is an operating-room nurse, and is heartbroken over the departure of Doctor Cassidy. But I will console her, if we ever solve this case.”

“Will you now?” I was glad to hear it, but I didn’t want to act like it was a big deal, so I needled him a bit. He ignored me.

“Edie,” he said when he found her. “Could you put my friend’s mind at ease, and check the names of the young men from the truck accident? He is worried his brother could be among them. Humor him, please.”

“Sure, Piotr. What’s the name?” Edie had a faint trace of freckles across her nose, and curly black hair pulled back and stuffed under her white cap.

“Danny Boyle,” I said, as she grabbed a mimeographed sheet from a pile on her desk.

“Boyle,” she said, tracing her finger down the list. “No, not a Boyle among them. Feel better?”

“Yes,” I said, but I didn’t. I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that hung over me. Was it Diana I was worried about? Danny? I felt connected to both, and certain that one of them was in danger.

“Edie,” Kaz said, “tell Billy what you said about Captain Galante.”

“He had an argument,” she said. That got my attention. “The day before he was killed.”

“With who?”

“I don’t know his name. He was an infantry lieutenant, I could tell.”

“How could you tell?”

“You just can. The way they carry themselves. It sounds funny, but I just know. He wasn’t pretending at anything. And he wore the Third Division patch, the blue and white stripes. Probably a platoon leader.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“I don’t know, but the lieutenant wanted help with someone, or something, I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention. Captain Galante finally agreed to help him, and then he left in a big hurry.”

“Help him how?”

“He just said, ‘Okay, okay, I’ll do it.’ That was it.”

“Thanks, Edie. And thanks for checking the list.”

“No problem. You two boys come back if you need anything.”

I said we would, but I knew she meant Kaz. I think she was already consoled.

“That was interesting,” I said to Kaz as we drove up the main road to the palace. “Had to be Landry. Who or what were they arguing about?”

“And did it have anything to do with who killed them?”

“Right. There has to be a connection there, to a person or persons unknown, or to someone we know. Inzerillo, Cole, who else?”

“Didn’t Signora Salvalaggio say that Galante and Father Dare discussed Louie Walla?”

“From Walla Walla,” I said automatically. “We should talk to Louie and the other sergeants. They held out before, protecting their pal Cole. Maybe they’re protecting somebody else now.”

“Landry? Perhaps he asked for help for his prostitute girlfriend. Perhaps she needed medical care.”

“Hmm. That would explain the argument. Galante was a straight arrow. He probably drew the line at brothels.”

“Or was drawn into one,” Kaz said. “Do you think we should try to find her?”

“It would eliminate a whole lot of questions if we did, either way.”

“Without Luca, perhaps we could persuade Inzerillo to tell us where she is,” Kaz said. His voice was harsh, and I knew he meant business. Kaz had been a gentle soul when I first met him, but now there were times when his intent was as grim as the scar on his face.

I remembered my first meeting with the sergeants of the Third Platoon, and the discussion about carrying captured souvenirs. Neither side liked finding evidence of how their comrades’ bodies had been looted. In the same breath that they condemned the Germans for mistreating captured GIs with German sidearms, they’d all but admitted doing the same.

Mistreating prisoners, or shooting them? I didn’t know, but I knew that in most units there was always one guy you didn’t detail to escort prisoners to the rear, if you wanted them to survive the journey. Hard men, I had thought at the time. Damned hard men, I thought as I turned the wheel and drove in the direction of Acerra, determined to get to the bottom of something in this cursed investigation.

CHAPTER SEVENTEN

W
E SMELLED THE
smoke from the center of town, and I had a bad feeling. Another bad feeling, on top of all the others. Black smoke churned above the rooftops ahead, and if I didn’t know where I was going, I could have used it as a beacon. Vehicles clogged the road near Bar Raffaele, and we left the jeep to walk the last hundred yards. A long flatbed truck marked
Vigili del Fuoco
stood in front of Bar Raffaele, two hoses attached to a large cylindrical tank pumping water onto the building.

The bar wasn’t the only thing burning. A U.S. Army truck in front of the main entrance was engulfed in flames, its burning tires producing most of the black cloud we’d seen from a distance. More smoke billowed out from the two windows, both partially blocked by the truck, which had been pulled up against the door, blocking the exit. Firemen tried to get near the windows but were driven back, gasping and coughing. We followed two of them down an alleyway, to the rear of the building that housed the bar. Empty bottles and rotting garbage were piled against the wall beneath a pair of windows, iron bars set into the masonry, probably to discourage thieves. One wooden door was set low, down a short flight of steps. A torrent of flame gushed up from the door, and I could make out a jerrycan at the base of the steps.

“Truck up against the front door, and a can of gas ignited at the back door,” Kaz said.

“He must have seen us,” I said, realizing I could scratch Jim Cole off my list of suspects.

“Who?”

“The killer. He saw us here and decided not to take a chance on Inzerillo staying quiet. But he knows Inzerillo’s guard is up, that he’s barricaded himself in there. So he uses it against him.”

“Cunning,” Kaz said as we stepped out of the back alley and went around the front. There, the flames had died down amid the swirls of acrid black smoke, and the fire truck pulled out to circle around the block. Kaz spotted a Carabiniere talking to onlookers and approached him as I tried to get a look inside. The wreck of the truck was too hot to get close to, and all I could make out was a gray haze inside the building. No telltale smell of burned flesh, but no sound of movement, no cries for help. The heat or the smoke must have gotten him. In his weakened condition, he couldn’t have moved fast enough to escape.

“He says witnesses saw the truck pull up alongside the entrance, but paid little attention,” Kaz told me. “Two of them saw an American soldier take something from the truck and walk around back. It was common knowledge that Inzerillo dealt in the black market, so it was not seen as unusual.”