James Benn - A Mortal Terror

I found myself standing in front of the door to CID. Staring at it. Kaz was standing by, patiently. I rubbed my eyes, shook my head, and wished I had a hole to crawl into.

“We don’t have to do this now,” Kaz said.

“Yeah, we do. I don’t want anyone going through Cole’s stuff. Might be a clue there.” I put on my cop face and opened the door.

An MP sat at his desk, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “Jeez, Lieutenant,” he said, shaking his head. “Can you believe it?”

“Did you see it?” I asked.

“Yeah, we were trying to keep people back. That shot. The blood. I couldn’t believe it was Jim.”

“Was he acting strange at all?”

“No more jumpy than usual. He spooked easy. But I never figured he would kill himself. Jesus.”

“Did you see him leave here?”

“Yeah, I did. He went into his office, then came out a few seconds later. He must have gone straight to the roof. Jesus.”

We left the MP and went into the office Cole shared with the other CID investigators. It was empty. Cole’s desk was clean as a whistle except for the white phosphorus grenade set square in the middle of it.

“What is that?” Kaz asked, stopping short of the desk.

“It’s a new kind of grenade. M15 white phosphorus.” I walked around the desk and studied it. The safety lever and pin were both securely in place. It was about the shape and size of a beer can, painted gray with a yellow stripe around it. “When it bursts, the phosphorus makes white smoke, good for cover. It also burns incredibly hot, thousands of degrees, I’ve heard. It’s used for taking out pillboxes or fortifications, if you can get close enough.”

“Why would a CID agent have one?” Kaz asked.

“No reason at all,” I said, opening the two drawers on the side of the desk. The playing cards Cole had shown me were there, along with forms, pencils, an empty holster, and an Armed Services Edition paperback- Deadlier Than the Male, by James Gunn. I flipped through it and two photos fluttered to the floor.

One photo was of Cole standing in front of the Caserta Palace with two people. One of them looked like Captain Max Galante. That was a surprise, but not as much as the other.

“This is Signora Salvalaggio, Galante’s former cook and landlady,” I said. “What was Cole doing with them? For that matter, what was Galante doing with her?”

“We can ask her tonight,” Kaz said. “I am billeted with you.”

“Good, because she doesn’t speak English,” I said, as we studied the other photo, which was much more worn at the edges. It showed three GIs, arms around each other, weapons slung over their shoulders and wine bottles in their hands. It looked like a hot and dusty summer’s day. Sicily, maybe.

“That’s Cole, on the left,” I said. “And Sergeants Louie Walla and Marty Stumpf. Third Platoon. Let’s find these guys. It’s time for secrets to be told.”

We asked the MPs on duty about the WP grenade. No one had noticed it, or seen anybody bring it in. I carefully put it in my jacket pocket and we headed for the jeep. On the main floor I spotted Father Dare, and he made a beeline for me.

“Is it true? Cole killed himself?” He looked stunned, his eyes wide with hope that I’d tell him it was all a mistake.

“Yes, Father, I’m sorry to say it is. I’m heading out to find the other sergeants now. Anything you want to tell me about Cole before I do?”

“I wasn’t there, Lieutenant. Better let them tell you,” he said. “You don’t have to look far, they’re all over at the NCO club. Passes were cancelled, so they drove over here to have a few beers. They told me about Cole.”

“They saw it happen?”

“Yes, Rusty told me. They were walking to the NCO club when they saw all the commotion. Was that you up there with Cole?” He glanced at the stains on my jacket, then locked eyes with me. “What did he tell you?”

“Not nearly enough. Where’s the NCO club?”

“Across the way from the main entrance there’s a row of Quonset huts. It’s marked, you can’t miss it.”

“What were you doing here, Father?”

“I came for a good meal at the officer’s club. I have a feeling we’re pulling out very soon. More replacements came in today; we’re almost back to full strength. I think I’ve lost my appetite, though. Good night, Lieutenant.”

“Good night, Father. I’m sorry.”

Father Dare walked away, looking distraught.

“Isn’t the clergy supposed to comfort others?” Kaz asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “What do you make of a poker-playing padre who carries a. 45?”

“You can be religious and still wish to defend yourself. And to gamble.”

“No law against that. Listen, while I talk with these guys, will you ask around and find out if there’s an armory in this joint, or nearby? Some place where they have M15 WP grenades?”

“Do you think it had anything to do with Cole’s suicide?”

“I don’t know. It could be evidence from some other case, for all I know. See what you can find, and we’ll meet at the officer’s mess and compare notes.”

It’s not unheard of for an officer to grab a drink or a meal at a NCO club, but as a courtesy he’s expected to ask permission of a senior noncommissioned officer present. I spotted Rusty Gates and figured a platoon sergeant was senior enough.

“Mind if I join you fellows for a while?” Gates was sitting with Louie Walla from Walla Walla, Flint, and Stump. It was a subdued crowd. “Be glad to buy a round.”

“You just bought yourself a chair, Lieutenant,” Flint said, making room at the table. Gates gave me a nod, then signaled to the bar for five beers.

“Call me Billy, fellas. I was a cop back home, and I still turn around and look for my father when someone calls me lieutenant.”

“You’re in the family business, then?” Flint said.

“Until the war, yeah.”

“Looks like you’re still keeping your hand in,” Stump said. “Asking all those questions.”

“And I’ve got more. That’s why most cops don’t have a lot of friends outside the job. Always asking questions, it tends to get on people’s nerves.”

The beers came, and I waited to see who would say it, if anyone would. I held onto my bottle, half-raised in a toast.

“To Jim Cole,” Gates said. They all repeated his name, then we clinked bottles and drank.

“Was that you up there with Cole?” Louie asked, gesturing with his beer bottle to the rust-colored stains on my jacket.

“Yeah. Major Kearns thought I should try talking him down. You guys saw it all, right?”

“We did,” Gates said. “Now I suppose you want to know the whole story?”

“Yep. And why you all held back.”

“It was for Jim,” Louie said. “We was doin’ him a favor, goddamn it.”

“It’s okay, Louie, it’s okay,” Gates said. “Flint, tell Billy what happened.”

Flint took a long draw on his beer, set it down hard, and pursed his lips. He shook his head before beginning, as if he wondered if this was a good idea. “I was assistant squad leader. Cole was my sergeant. He came over from First Platoon after we lost a couple of guys. He knew what he was doing; he’d been with the company longer than anyone.”

“Since North Africa,” I said.

“Yeah. That had started to bother him. You know, with so many guys killed and wounded, and not a scratch on him. He kept saying his number was up, it had to be.”

“Everybody worries about that,” Gates said. “That wasn’t the problem.”

“Right, right. The problem was Campozillone,” Flint said. He gulped the rest of his beer. “It’s a little village near the base of Monte Cesima. The division was advancing on Mignano, and we had to clear Campozillone of Germans. It was a small place, but it overlooked the main road. It was on a hill, with a big stone church at the top, like a lot of these villages.”