Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

He stood near the fantail now, smelling the faint odor of the garbage cans stacked there, and smelling the deeper, brackish odor of the water slapping the metal skin of the ship. He drew in on his cigarette and thought, I’ll get away with it

He was sure of that. Even with all the questioning, even with all the secret horse manure, he knew he would get away with it. He was sure no one in Wilmington would remember either Claire or him. They’d given no one anything to remember. Yes, he would get away with it.

The thought didn’t please him, because he liked it better with her alive. She’d been something, all right. She’d certainly been something. Right from the start. One of those things where two people just click suddenly. That spark, sort of, flaring up in two pairs of eyes. She was officer’s stuff, all right, but she’d been all his. He thought of her body again, thought of it in his arms, thought of it as he’d seen it on that Wilmington week end. The thought pained him. She had been so much woman, more woman than he’d ever had before. Why’d she have to turn stupid on him? Why couldn’t she have let things roll along the way they were going? Christ, it had been a perfect setup, and they’d been good together.

Well, there were other women. That was something you could always count on. Women. No matter what else failed, no matter how hard the Navy hopped on you, there were always women. And once you got off the goddamned ship, even in a sad town like No Curse Nor Drink Norfolk, he’d always managed to make out. You could count on women. Still, Claire had been something better than most women.

Maybe he’d pull another hospital stint, get to meet another nurse. Hey, now, that wasn’t such a bad idea. After this was all over, of course. This damn restricted crap was beginning to wear on him. How long can you keep a guy cooped up? This was worse than boot camp. But that hospital idea was a good one. Hell, it had worked before, why not again? Sure, when this was all over. After all the Hawkshaws got through snooping around. Mr. Masters handed him a laugh, all right. Firing questions like a D.A. in court. Where was this, and when was that, and blah-blah-blah. A real laugh.

Those FBI characters were a pretty good comic routine themselves. Abbott and Costello, or Martin and Lewis. Hell, they couldn’t find the Missouri if someone hid it in their shower stall.

He chuckled at his own humor, took a last drag on the cigarette, and then flipped it over the side, watching it arc against the blackness of the sky, and then hiss momentarily when it struck the water.

The FBI boys had returned to the ship at around 2100. It was 2230 now, and he still hadn’t been called for further questioning, so he was willing to bet they hadn’t turned up anything new. He was safe. This was one cookie they weren’t going to grab. He chuckled again, and was turning to go when he heard the footsteps coming toward him. He panicked for just a moment, and then he told himself, Easy. Easy now.

He squinted his eyes against the darkness, wishing someone would open the hatch to the aft sleeping compartment so he’d have some light to see by. The figure was closer now, and he still couldn’t identify it. Maybe Masters coming to ask some more questions. Or maybe Martin and Lewis again. Maybe they had turned up something. Maybe... No, no, they couldn’t have. No one knew he’d gone to Wilmington. No one had seen him. He was safe.

“Who’s there?” he asked the darkness.

“Me.”

“Who’s me?”

“Schaefer.”

“Oh. What do you want?”

He watched Schaefer move closer, and he clenched his fists, prepared for whatever was coming. Schaefer moved noiselessly, stepping close to the garbage cans. He watched him warily.

“I was just about to turn in,” he said.

“That can wait,” Schaefer answered.

“Sure,” he said. He speared a single cigarette from the pocket on his denim shirt, changed his mind and let it drop back into the package again. “What’s on your mind, Schaefer?”

“The dead nurse,” Schaefer said softly.

He felt his hands shake a little, and he controlled the tremble and asked, “What about the dead nurse?”

“You know,” Schaefer said.

He looked around the fantail quickly. There was no one else on deck back there. The stern of the ship was in complete darkness.

“No,” he answered slowly. “I don’t know.”

“At the hospital,” Schaefer said. “You and the nurse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, all right. I was in the bed opposite yours, and I saw you playing up to her. I saw you, so don’t deny it.”

His mind raced back. Had Schaefer really been in the bed opposite? Or was this one of Mr. Masters’ tricks?

“All right,” he said cautiously, “I played up to her. So what?”

“You went to Wilmington, too,” Schaefer said. “On your week end. I know that.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, I’m not crazy. I know because you asked for a Wilmington train schedule at the office a few days before that week end. I remember that. I was typing up the promotions list when you asked for it. I remember.”

“You’re crazy,” he said again, but he was thinking furiously now, trying to remember. Had he asked for a Wilmington schedule? Why the hell had he done that? Yes, yes, he remembered now. He had asked. Claire thought it would be safer for him to get the information aboard ship. A lot less conspicuous than her checking on it ashore, and men gossiped a lot less than women. Yes, he’d asked for the schedule, and Schaefer, that sonofabitch — remembered.

“So what? What are you driving at, Schaefer?”

“Mr. Masters thinks there’s a connection. I shut up before now because I didn’t want to be a squealer.”

“You mean you told Masters all this crap?”

“No. Not yet. But if you killed that nurse...”

He lashed out suddenly with his bunched fist, catching Schaefer on the point of his jaw. Schaefer staggered back a few paces, crashing into one of the garbage cans. He hit Schaefer again, and this time the man went limp, falling to the deck.

He was breathing harshly when he bent down for Schaefer. He looked over his shoulder, thankful when he saw no one there. He picked the man up then, dragged him past the garbage cans and to the fantail. He lifted him over the chains dangling there and then released him. He waited until he heard the body splash into the water.

Then he shouted. “Man overboard! Man overboard!” and he ran down the starboard side of the ship, climbing the ladder to the boat deck and merging with the shadows. Behind him, he could hear the men rushing up out of the aft sleeping compartment.

At 2247 on 4 November, Richard N. Schaefer, Y 2/c, USNR, leaped to his death from fantail of U.S.S. Sykes. Cry of “Man overboard” brought men from aft sleeping compartment to scene of suicide. Hooks and grapples were used to recover body which was retrieved from water after one hour, thirteen minutes, difficulty arising because body had lodged itself beneath ship’s screw. Artificial respiration was administered, but Schaefer was pronounced dead by Sykes’ chief pharmacist’s mate at 0016, later corroborated by physician from hospital ashore.

Dickason and Norton were in wardroom with Commander Glenburne at time of suicide, discussing negative findings on Wilmington field trip. Afterward, at scene of suicide, Dickason noted bruises on Schaefer’s jaw and cheekbone, these later attributed to contact with ship’s screw when body struck water and was carried toward ship by current. Paint scrapings on Schaefer’s wrist watch affirm contact with ship.

As noted in our report 32-A-741, dated 1 November, Schaefer was one of prime suspects in death of Lt. (j.g.) Claire Cole. Without benefit of scientific data, we were forced to piece together circumstantial evidence: