James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“Billy, what are you doing here?” Phil Einsmann said, working his way to my corner of the deck. “I thought you’d still be in Caserta, tracking down the Red Heart Killer.”

“Is that what you press boys are calling him?” I was sorry he’d been given such an interesting nickname. He didn’t deserve it.

“It’s catchy. I filed a story, but I doubt the censors will release it. Not good for morale back home. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Habit. I like reporters, I just don’t like telling them anything.”

“Hell, Billy, I already know about Major Arnold and how you found him stuffed in his own trunk. There hasn’t been another killing since then, has there?”

“No. And I’m not taking this sea cruise for my health.”

“So you think the killer is someone in the Third Division?”

“I didn’t say that. Lots of other guys making this trip.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you something, though. Lucas is not happy with his orders. He thinks he’s being hung out to dry. He’s got twoplus divisions and they’re landing him on a flat plain with mountains almost thirty miles away. The orders from General Clark are pretty vague. Did you pick up on that? To ‘advance upon the Alban Hills.’ What does that mean-take them, or approach them?”

“Could be either.”

“Exactly. If Lucas fails, Clark can blame him whichever way it goes, for not taking the hills or for advancing too rapidly. Lucas is between a rock and a hard place, without enough troops to do the job.”

“Is that why you were asking him what his plans were?” “I was hoping to get him riled up, so he’d say something worth printing.”

“I think it’s been some time since he’s been riled.”

“That might be a damn good thing, Billy. A lack of rile could keep some of these boys alive.”

“Where did you hear all this?”

“Not everybody clams up in front of reporters. It’s easy to get stuff off the record. On the record and past the censors, that’s another thing. So level with me, Billy, off the record. About the murders.”

“I wish there was more to tell. Yeah, I think it’s someone in the Third Division. Someone who knew the victims. Someone who had a reason to kill them. Did you ever meet a guy named Stefano Inzerillo? He ran a dive called Bar Raffaele in Acerra.” I didn’t mind trading information with Einsmann, especially since he’d probably not get word one past the censors.

“You used the past tense, Billy. I take it he didn’t sell his business and move?”

“He’s moved on to another location. Did you know him?”

“I know the joint.”

“Not a spot for high rollers; not like the officer’s club at the palace. What were you doing there?”

“Billy, I took you for a man of the world. What do you think? It wasn’t for the fine wine. How did Inzerillo get it?”

“Someone beat him up pretty bad, so he barricaded himself in his bar. Some guy, a GI most likely, set the place on fire.”

“Jesus. Anzio could be a rest cure after all this.”

“Did you ever see Lieutenant Landry there?”

“The first victim? I don’t know, never met him. Couldn’t tell you. I did see Sergeant Cole there once though.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“I knew who he was. I only said I hadn’t spoken with him since he got transferred to CID. Father Dare told me he helped get Doc Galante to wrangle a transfer for him. Wait a minute-it would have been Major Arnold who did the paperwork on that. Was Cole’s suicide part of this?”

“Off the record, I’d call it murder.”

There had been fireworks in the night, and I’d finally understood what “the rockets’ red glare” meant. There were no bombs bursting in the air, but the shoreline took it on the chin. To the north, Anzio and Nettuno glowed a dull orange as smokewreathed fires spread. Kaz and I were on the beach, threading our way between craters, stacks of supplies, engineers spreading steel gratings over the sand for the heavy stuff to cross to the road, and noncoms yelling at GIs to move inland. We trudged up to the main road and watched as landing craft disgorged more and more men. After being crammed onboard ships for more than thirty hours with hundreds of men who had nothing better to do than play cards, sweat, puke, and pray, they looked excited, like kids on a trip to the shore. They laughed and gabbed, peppering their sergeants with insistent questions.

“Do you think I’ll do all right?”

“Can I stick with you?”

“What will you do when we get to Rome?”

“No,” a sergeant first class barked at them. “I think you’ll piss your pants and run. And don’t come near me if you can’t keep your head and ass down, you’ll just draw fire. You’ll never make it as far as Rome, so don’t worry about it. Now move your ASTP asses and prove me wrong!”

I watched the GIs following him, the smiles gone from their faces. I hoped the army had actually taught these kids something about warfare when they went to college.

“Hey Billy!” Phil Einsmann ran up the beach, his only armament a small portable typewriter in a wooden case and his war correspondent’s patch on his shoulder. “Where are you fellas headed?”

“We’re waiting for a jeep. Looking for a lift?”

“I have no idea where to go, but I’d rather not walk there.”

“Here’s Major Kearns,” Kaz said, as a jeep fought its way against the flow of traffic. I’d gone over my suspicions with Kearns about all the connections with the Third Platoon, Cole, the rag doll, the WP grenade, Inzerillo, and the last murder. I left out the part about my kid brother, and my worry that he might cross paths with Red Heart. He might think I was being overprotective. Maybe so. Maybe it was only coincidence, but it all felt wrong. Someone in the Third Platoon had answers. Father Dare was on my list as well. Einsmann, too, for that matter. He seemed to know more than he’d let on, and cropped up at the damnedest times.

“Boyle, Kaz,” Kearns said as he got out of the jeep. Not for the first time, I noticed how people liked Kaz immediately, taking to his nickname, responding to his suave continental charm, not to mention the unstated allure of the mysterious scar down his cheek. A surefire combination. “The outfit you’re looking for is headed to Le Ferriere. Father Dare went along with them, since they didn’t have a medic.”

“Isn’t that unusual?” Kaz said. “For a chaplain to go on a combat patrol?”

“From what I’ve heard, he stays close to the front lines and does a lot of work with the wounded. He’s picked up some basic medical knowledge, so he’s useful, especially on patrol.”

“He’s not your average holy Joe,” I said. “How do we find them?”

“Go back down this road and turn right just before Nettuno. The road signs are still up. Take the Via Cisterna.” Kearns opened a map that showed the village about halfway between the coastline and the Alban Hills.

“What is their mission?” Kaz asked.

“To reconnoiter the village, see if any Germans are there. Le Ferriere is a crossroads, just south of the canal. It’ll be a key position if the Germans move in and put up a fight.”

“You see any Germans yet, Major?” Einsmann asked.

“A few prisoners, a few corpses,” Kearns said, eyeing Einsmann’s correspondent’s patch. “There was a small detachment in town, but no organized resistance. Might not be the same up the road. You might want to hang back.”

“No organized resistance doesn’t get the headlines, Major. I’ll stick with these guys and stay out of the way.”

“You do that. Boyle, get back to me tonight with a report. Corps HQ is a villa in the Piazza del Mercato in Nettuno. Can’t miss it, just a couple of blocks in from the harbor.”