Mortal Allies (20 page)

Still chuckling, I said, “So Ernie, what can you tell me about Whitehall?”

“Depends. What are you interested in?”

“What kind of guy was he?”

“Hell, everybody asks that. I don’t know. He’s just a guy, right?”

“Come on, Ernie, I’m not everybody. I’m the guy who has to convince ten hard-nosed sons of bitches they don’t really want to run fifty thousand volts through him. To do that, I have to know what kind of guy he really is.”

He seemed to weigh that a moment, because there was a fairly extended pause before he answered. I was taking a big risk. Maybe he really didn’t like Whitehall and wouldn’t mind one bit if fifty thousand volts cooked him like a Christmas turkey. But what choice did I have?

“This’s between us?” he finally demanded.

“Absolutely.”

“I mean, this isn’t the crap I tell reporters to keep my butt outta trouble, right?”

“Ernie, I swear. I won’t say a word.”

“Okay. Truth was I really liked Whitehall. I liked him a lot. We were pretty good buddies, y’know?”

He was backing into this tentatively, like a guy sticking his toe into hot water.

“Why?”

“Hell, I don’t know. He was just a great guy, y’know. A fantastic cadet, though. He played the game, right? Only don’t take that in no unfavorable way. He was a straight shooter. A guy you could trust in a bad moment.”

“No kidding?” I said.

“Yeah, no kiddin’. Tell ya a story. Freshman year, which they call plebe year here, right? There was this kid in my company who was a real screwup. Y’know the type, right? Couldn’t spit-shine his shoes, uniform always looked like shit, couldn’t pass a room inspection, couldn’t remember all that crap plebes have to memorize so upperclassmen can quiz ’em every day. This guy’s a miserable klutz, right? So the upperclassmen, they start coming after this kid. I mean, we’re talking like a pack of piranhas, giving him hell, hazing him every day, hazing him till late at night, so he can’t study, so he’s gettin’ so bothered and exhausted he’s on the verge of flunking out. ’Course, that was their game, right? They were trying to run him out, y’know. Either make him so friggin’ miserable he quits, or so friggin’ fried he flunks out. And right there in the same squad is Tommy Whitehall. We’re talking Mr. Perfect hisself. He’s just one of them gabbonzos that arrive at West Point and they’ve got the whole game figured out. You know the type, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, so the upperclassmen, they just adore Tommy Whitehall. Like he can turn Coke into Pepsi, right? Always they’re saying to this screwup, ‘Hey klutz, look over there at Mr. Whitehall. How come you ain’t like him, huh? What’s your friggin’ problem, huh?’ So one day, to everybody’s surprise, Whitehall shows up at formation, and his shoes look like he polished ’em with mud, and his uniform’s got smudges all over it, and suddenly he can barely remember his own name. So the upperclassmen, they jump on his ass a bit, not too hard, though, ’cause it’s him, Mr. Perfect, right? I mean, it’s only a freakin’ anomaly, right? A one-day thing, right?”

“Right.”

“Only it don’t get no better for Tommy Whitehall. Mr. Perfect seems to disintegrate. So these guys, they’re like sharks, they forget all about the klutz and go after Whitehall. I mean, it’s like one of them biblical things, like the only thing they hate more’n a common sinner is a saint who falls from grace. ’Course, what nobody knows is that Tommy’s staying up till midnight every night so he can sneak outta his room, go over to the klutz’s room, where Tommy spit-shines the kid’s shoes and gets his room ready for inspection, and even helps him catch up academically. I mean, he saved that guy’s ass. Tommy hadn’t helped him, that stupid klutz would of either flunked out or been thrown out, for friggin’ sure.”

Ernie had spit out the tale in that dizzying, rapid-fire way that only purebred New Yorkers can speak, only it was such a long-winded and convoluted tale that even he had to pause to catch his breath.

Then he said, “ ’Course, you’re a smart guy, right? You bein’ a lawyer and all. You probably already guessed who the klutz was, right? I mean, I wouldn’t be sittin’ right here wasn’t for Tommy Whitehall. I’m telling ya, nobody worked it harder’n Tommy.”

“Why’d he work so hard at it?”

“Shit, who knows? I just thought he was gonna be a really great officer. I mean, he was like that, y’know? More mature than most guys here.”

“More mature, like how?”

“Like driven. Never bitched, never whined, never acted stupid like most cadets do.”

“No kidding?”

“Hey, no kiddin’. Hands down. He was like pretty close to the top of our class academically. Guy’s smart as shit. And box? He took the freakin’ middleweight Golden Gloves down in New York City. You know anything about boxing, that’s like being the amateur national champ, ’cause the best kids from all over the country pour in for that one.”

“I had no idea,” I admitted.

“Yeah, well, Tommy’s not easy to know. He can come off like a real prick, least till he decides he likes you. There’s like this moat of ice around him, y’know? I never knew why that was. Least till now, anyway. Who’d of figured it, huh?”

Regarding that moat-of-ice thing, I would’ve figured it. I had him pegged on that one. Of course I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “So you never suspected it?”

“Hellll, no. Shit, we got communal showers up here. You’d think, if it was for real, you’d see a little pecker pop, wouldn’t ya?”

“Did anybody ever suspect him?”

“Nobody. I mean, lotsa guys are running around now, swearing they knew all along he was a pansy. That’s bullshit, though. He never let on. I’ll tell ya, he sure had lots of female cadets pantin’ after him. Could of got laid every night, if he’da wanted.”

“You ever see him date?”

“Nah. But I always figured it was, ah, y’know, one of them loyal-to-the-girl-back-home things. The whole four years, he kept this picture on his desk. I’m talking gorgeous, y’know? Dark-haired, big green eyes, face to melt your heart. I asked about her a coupla times, but he’d never let on. In hindsight, that picture, it was probably camouflage. Y’know, like one of those frames you buy with a picture of a model in it. Only he left the picture in so we’d all think . . . well, you know.”

I was sort of half listening by this point, because I was getting ready to end-run him.

As nonchalantly as I could, I said, “So, Ernie, do you think Whitehall could’ve committed murder?”

The reason for my coyness was because, unbeknownst to him, Captain Ernie Walters was about to be fingered as a character witness. I didn’t give a damn whether he wanted to testify or not. He’d said so many glowing things, he’d be perfect. I was ready to book him a flight to Korea.

He reluctantly said, “Actually, Major, I gotta be honest here. Yeah, I think Tommy could of done it. I definitely do.”

I nearly choked with surprise. “You do?”

“Sure. Only ’cause I’ve seen him fight, though. It’s what made him so damned good. They called him ‘Raging Bull,’ y’know. He’d go friggin’ crazy in that ring. Scared the bejesus outta everybody he boxed.”

“Is that right?” I asked. “So you figure . . . what? Maybe there was some hidden anger, some deep pathological impulse?”

“Hey, I’m a mechanical engineer, not a head shrink. I never saw it outside the ring, but I sure as hell saw him get that way inside. It was like some monster got out of a cage. The guy wasn’t boxin’, he was committing murder. His arms and his fists were like those old ack-ack guns, rat-a-tat-tat, slamming back and forth, blood flying everywheres, and he just kept charging. I hadda take a guess, knowing what I know now, then sure, yeah, maybe it was some kind of lurking anger related to this homo thing.”

And in that flash of an instant, Ernie Walters lost his free ticket to Korea. But I wasn’t about to let go.

“So, tell me, Ernie, are there any other classmates you think might speak up for Tom?”

“Shit, I don’t know. There was some guys used to like him. Everybody respected him, tell you that. And after plebe year, nobody screwed with him neither. See, lots of guys didn’t know he was the Golden Gloves champ, but everybody knew he was the brigade champ. Three years running, in fact.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Okay, sure. Once a year, the entire corps of cadets troops up to the gym for the brigade boxing finals. It’s like the big event of the year, y’know? Like the king of the badass contest. Shit, the way this’s turned out, maybe it was the queen of the badass contest.” He chuckled. “Everybody saw Tommy fight. Two or three of those matches, he got real freakin’ ugly. Once, he was fighting this upperclassman who’d won the previous two years. Shit, I’ll never forget it. Tommy just let loose on him. Blood everywhere. Put the guy in the hospital. Broke his nose, shattered his jaw. Hell, the poor guy didn’t see daylight for two days. It was all anybody talked about for weeks.”

“So everybody knew he had a violent streak?”

“Hey, look Major, you want me to climb on a plane and come testify Tommy Whitehall’s this friggin’ great guy, you got it. I’ll do that. The Army’ll probably kill me for it, but I’ll do that for Tommy. I could probably name five or six other guys who’d do it, too. Hell, before this thing broke, I probably could of named a dozen guys, y’know. But you gotta hear the risk here, right?”

“Yes, I do, Ernie. I’d hate to have heard someone disclose this on the stand.”

“Hey, no problem. Uh, Major, maybe I can offer you a little inside tip here? Y’know, on the sly. Between us gonzos. No further, right?”

“Ernie, I’m fishing for whatever I can get.”

“See if you can talk with this guy named Edwin Gilderstone. He’s like the oldest major in the Army. He was Tom’s English prof. They got pretty close.”

I said, “Ernie, I appreciate this very much. You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

“Hey look, sir, anything I can do to help Tommy, you pick up the phone and call. Right away, day or night, okay? Tommy Whitehall’s my paisan. Unlike a lotta these pricks, I still tell everybody that. Probably why I’m catching so much crap ’round here, y’know. And next time you see Tommy, you tell him I still love him like a brother. Be real precise about that, though. Only like a brother, heh-heh.”

I said, “Thanks, Ernie. I’ll do that. Switch me back to the registrar, would you?”

A moment passed, there were two rings, and Colonel Hal Menkle’s irascible voice came back on.

“You get what you needed, Drummond?” he asked.

“Walters wasn’t the least bit helpful,” I lied. “Who do you think might be helpful?”

“Try Chaplain Forbes. Or there’s a Lieutenant Colonel Merryweather who taught him math. Or, there’s—”

I jumped in. “How about his old English prof? Edwin Gilderstone?”

“Gilderstone?” he asked, sounding surprised. And damned unhappy, too — so unhappy, in fact, I could swear I heard his teeth grinding.

“Yes, that’s right. Major Edwin Gilderstone.”

“I . . . uh—”

“He’s still on the faculty, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. What possible reason would you have for speaking with
him
, though? Trust me here, Drummond, the other names I’m giving you, they’re much better qualified to speak on this issue. You don’t want to set foot in the wrong pastures here, if you get my drift. You could find yourself in a pretty ugly pile of shit.”

I sure as hell did get his drift. When something like this happens, an institution, any institution, flies into a frenzy of self-mortification and damage control. This was the well-storied Long Gray Line: Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, “Blackjack” Pershing, Eisenhower, Omar Bradley, “Stormin’ Norman” Schwartzkopf . . . oops, ouch, shit . . . Thomas Whitehall. What the hell happened here? How mortifying.

And as a wise old commander I once worked for used to caution, mortification quickly begets cover-ups. Obviously, the Academy had a list of former associates who would say the right things, proffer the right innuendos, who would create just the right impression.

That impression was that Thomas Whitehall was living proof that “don’t ask, don’t tell” didn’t work, that it allowed murderous homosexuals to slip through the net.

I said, “I want to speak with Edwin Gilderstone and I sure as hell hope you’re not trying to hinder me. Because if you are, then I’ll have you cited for impeding my defense.”

He very coldly said, “Back off, Drummond. You can talk to whomever you want.”

I made it a point to sound even colder. “I know. Connect me, right away.”

Three rings later, a soft, gentle voice said, “Ed Gilderstone.”

I said, “Hi, Ed, Sean Drummond here. I’m the lawyer who has the unparalleled honor of defending Thomas Whitehall. I’m told you were his English professor. I’m also told you knew him pretty well.”

“I was. But I was not merely his English professor. I was also his faculty adviser. I therefore saw Thomas regularly the whole four years he was here.”

“Wow. You must be spending a lot of time talking to the press these days, huh?”

Sounding suddenly grumpy, he said, “I’ve spent no time talking with the press.”

“No?”

“I’ve actually been blacklisted from speaking to any journalists. Can you imagine? I even received a formal letter from the superintendent personally ordering to me to say nothing to the press.”

“Really? Like a gag order, huh? Why would they do that?”

Now, sounding childish, he replied, “I suppose I don’t represent the image they want portrayed to the press.”

“What image is that?” I asked, knowing damn well what image he meant.

“I’m not one of these young, lean, square-jawed, Airborne, Ranger types who take a brief sabbatical from the Army, pick up a quick master’s, then come up here and pretend they’re teachers for a few years before they go back to troops. Warrior-scholars, they call themselves.”

“Then what are you, Ed?”

“I’m a short, bald, fifty-three-year-old major who would’ve been cashiered fifteen years ago, but for one asset: I happen to have a doctorate in English literature from Yale. The Academy hates it, but it must preserve a few like me on the permanent faculty or it’ll lose its credentials as a real college. But God forbid the press ever learn there are overeducated dinosaurs like me in uniform.”