Richard Marsten - Murder in the navy

“How do you feel this morning?” Reynolds asked.

“Just dandy,” Masters said. “How do you feel?”

“Lousy. I always feel lousy. What I meant, though, you weren’t very chipper yesterday.”

“That was yesterday. I feel fine today.”

“You’ve forgotten all about dead people?”

“I didn’t say that,” Masters said.

“Hey,” Carlucci said, “how do you rate pancakes, Mike?” He glared at Reynolds’ plate, and then looked back to the sunnysides on his own plate.

“I’m executive officer,” Reynolds answered, smiling. “I’ve grown accustomed to the privileges of rank.”

“How about spreading the largess a bit?” Carlucci asked. “You’re better off with the eggs,” Reynolds answered. “Where’s the Old Man this morning?” Masters asked.

“I think he’s still asleep. When have you ever seen him at morning mess, anyway?”

“Never. I was just hoping he’d fallen over the side or something.”

“You’re too hard on him,” Reynolds said seriously. “He’s got a lot of headaches.”

“Even now that the FBI has cleared up our nasty little scandal? Hell, I thought the Old Man’s worries were over.”

“How’d you ever get to be an officer, Chuck?” Reynolds asked.

“I brown-nosed my way through boot camp,” Masters replied.

“Shake, pal,” Carlucci said, starting to eat his eggs, an obvious look of distaste on his face.

“No, seriously,” Reynolds said.

“Seriously? Truth is, I wanted to be an FBI man. I—”

“Oh, horse manure.”

“God’s truth, s’help me. I flunked the course, though. Wretched was that day,” Masters said woefully. “But, still being obsessed with the idea of performing a government service, I joined the Navy. The Secretary of the Navy immediately gave me a commission. That’s the story, Mike.”

“Yeah,” Reynolds said dryly.

“And here are my eggs,” Masters said. He took the plate from the steward’s mate and began eating. He glanced over to where Le Page was seated, marveling at the amount of food the Ensign could stuff into his mouth and apparently swallow without chewing.

Reynolds and Carlucci left before he finished his eggs. He ordered another cup of coffee, sat drinking that and smoking until the boatswain announced quarters for muster. He swallowed the remainder of his coffee, squashed the cigarette in an ash tray, and left the wardroom.

The men he passed seemed happier today. A ship was a funny thing, all right. Nothing but a small community. A tight little community of men living in extremely close quarters. You find a dead nurse in the radar shack, and the smell of the corpse will most naturally spread to the rest of the ship. People don’t like corpses where they live. And nobody likes the idea of a killer roaming the decks, which are the streets of the community that is the ship. Nobody likes that idea at all. So Schaefer put an end to the crew’s discomfiture. Schaefer, allegedly, leaped over the fantail. He took the stink of the corpse with him, and he also rid the streets of the killer.

The crew, one-track-minded as it was, probably liked Schaefer better now than they had when he was alive. Schaefer had lifted the pall for them. And he had also, incidentally, lifted the restriction. The crew could go awhoring now. The crew could inhabit the dimly lighted dime-a-dance joints in the city that was Norfolk. Or the crew could shoot their pay at the many penny arcades and shooting galleries. Or the crew could get tattooed, or buy tailor-mades, or spend their time and their money in various other ways, none of which were particularly entertaining.

But would the crew ever stop to wonder whether Schaefer had actually strangled the nurse? Does an ordinary citizen ever wonder about the methods of the police? If a rapist is plaguing a neighborhood, and the police claim they’ve captured him, does the community still lie awake nights wondering? No. The community relaxes.

The crew had relaxed, too. There were smiles now. There was whistling. The cursing had always been there, but it seemed more forceful now. Things were back to normal.

Almost.

They were not back to normal if either Jones or Daniels was a killer. They were not back to normal at all, if that were the case.

And no one cares but me, Masters thought.

Charles Stanton Masters, protector of the innocent, upholder of the righteous, seeker of justice.

Charles Stanton Masters, Jerk First Class.

I should have stood in bed.

Colombo, the quartermaster first, handed Masters the master sheet. Colombo was tall and lean, and he always showed up for muster with clear eyes and a smiling mouth. Masters envied that fresh look. He never seemed able to attain it in the morning. The communications crew — consisting of radiomen, radarmen, sonarmen, signalmen, and quartermasters thrown in for good measure — lined up every morning in the space between the aft sleeping compartment hatch and the rail. They faced the sea, and they inevitably faced it bleary-eyed. Masters and Colombo faced the men. On the mornings when Masters was too groggy to read the sheet, Colombo took over. Colombo was never groggy. Aft of this muster spot, the gunnery men lined up between the aft mounts. Elsewhere along the ship, the other members of the crew faced other officers with similar muster sheets.

The names were read off. If a man were AOL or even AWOL, it was T.S. for him. If a man were below catching forty winks, someone would always answer to his name — but only if they knew he was there. The officer always knew that someone else was answering for an absentee. In fact, he usually sent someone down below to rustle him out of his sack.

In addition to checking attendance, the officer usually gave his men pertinent bits of information concerning the ship’s day. For example, he told them there would be an inspection at noon. Or he wanted every man in his division to get a haircut that day. Or pay would be distributed at 1500. Or everyone would be restricted to the ship because a dead nurse had been found in the radar shack. Things like that. For this sailor’s life was not a simple matter of waking up in the morning and going about your business. There were men who explained exactly how you should go about your business, and Masters was one of these men.

This morning, there was nothing special to say. He read off the names in his division listlessly, and each man answered with his own peculiar variation of “Here.” The variations ranged from “Yah” to “Yo” to “Yay” to “Present” to “On deck” to — in rare moments — “Here.” Jones answered to his name by saying, “Yo.” “Yo” was the saltiest answer. It didn’t take a sailor long to catch on to the fact that “Here” was an answer reserved strictly for guys straight out of boot camp. The muster-reading was accomplished without a hitch. Everyone was present and accounted for. The men hung around, slouching wearily, talking among themselves, until the boatswain tooted his pipe and announced cleaning stations. The men dispersed. Colombo took his time. He was a first-class petty officer. First-class petty officers didn’t have to rush.

Masters was only a lieutenant, so Masters went back to his sleeping quarters to see just what the hell was on tap for today. Today was the last day for submitting promotions. The list had already been typed up, but additions could be made today before the list was posted. He had already granted his quota of petty officers, but he thought it would be a good idea to give some of the strikers seaman first. He tossed some names around in his head, and then put them on paper. He thought he’d bring them to the Ship’s Office, leave them with the yeomen, and then get the hell ashore to make his call to Jean.