James Benn - A Mortal Terror

“I’d hardly call it a game,” Kearns said.

“That’s because you’re not a psychopath. To him, it is a game. High stakes, since it’s all about him, but still a game. I know it’s hard to grasp, but this is a man who places no value on human life, except as it exists to benefit him.”

“So what’s your theory?” Harding asked.

“It’s important to understand a few things. Psychopaths generally have a need for high levels of stimulation. They are also very clever, manipulative, and versatile. Don’t imagine this guy as a drooling sadist; he’s a lot smarter than that and very good at covering up what he is. He can observe and copy emotional reactions, but he can never feel those emotions. He enjoys humiliating people who trust him. It’s one of the behaviors that stimulates him.”

“Is that what this whole card game is about?” Harding asked. “Stimulation? Showing us how smart he is?”

“Yes, exactly. And you were onto something when you talked about his failure to kill you. I thought it might knock him off course. Sticking to a long-term plan is not a psychopath’s strength. But he rebounded. He found a way, after being thwarted, to kill his colonel.”

“And that means what?” Harding said.

“That previously he was following a script. The victims he left his calling card with were all American officers. But now, he’s gone from almost being derailed to one card away from filling a royal flush. He probably sees himself as invincible. And he’s upped the ante, adding a German to his victims. So I’d bet he’ll go after a general for sure, and as soon as possible. Not an American, he’s broken that pattern.”

“A British general?” Kearns said.

“Unless you got any others around here,” Cassidy said. “Italian, French, it wouldn’t matter to him. What matters is upping the stakes. I think the POW murder was a desperation move, but one that may have reinvigorated him.”

“Wait a minute,” Harding said, holding up his hand. “Didn’t you just say that sticking to a plan is not what these nutcases do? He’s got one helluva plan here.”

“I think I know why, sir,” I said. “From what the doc told me, being in combat might be a psychopath’s dream. Lots of opportunity for killing, legit and otherwise. Arms and ammo. Rules and rank to hide behind.”

“As a professional army man, I might take offense at that, Boyle.”

“No, it’s not the army he likes. It’s war. War gives him everything. Death. Stimulation. Belief in his own power. I think something happened in Caserta that put Galante onto him. I was bothered by the order of the murders, but if you think about Galante being the first victim, it makes more sense. The cards were a cover, to confuse us. I think Galante wanted to help this guy. Maybe he told Red Heart he could get him into a hospital, heal him, something like that.”

“That would have instantly turned Galante into a target,” Cassidy said. “The last thing Red Heart would want to give up would be his freedom to kill.”

“So he planted the jack on Galante, then killed Landry? So Landry must have been the one to send him to Galante.”

“Exactly. Maybe he noticed something, and sent Red Heart to Galante to be evaluated.”

“Why not stop there?” Harding asked.

“Because he’d created a new pattern,” Cassidy said. “Remember, this isn’t a normal, logical mind at work. He may be addicted. Perhaps killing in combat no longer satisfies him.”

“But he also had a reason for each murder. You, Colonel, because you’re here to oversee the investigation. Arnold-” I stopped myself. I hadn’t thought about Arnold, but there was only one reason I could see. “Arnold, because he paid him off to have my brother transferred into the platoon.”

“Are you sure Major Arnold was the type to be bought off?” Harding asked.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Kearns said. “Rumor was he was in the souvenir racket, big time. No one paid it much mind, but I think it was more about loot than souvenirs with him. What do you think the killer’s motive was to get your brother in the platoon?”

“Simple,” I said. “To use him against me if I got too close. Insurance.”

“I don’t know if I buy all this,” Harding said. “Seems long on theory and short on facts.”

“Colonel,” Cassidy said. “I observed psychopaths when I was a resident. They’re chilling. Some of their stories of cruelty gave me nightmares. Training and arming a psychopath, and giving him permission to kill, well, that’s the biggest nightmare of all. Because no matter how many people he kills, it’s never enough. He’ll never sicken of it. Nothing can ever fill that black hole he has inside. That’s why I think he’s going to strike again. There’s no alternative for him, no going back.”

Everyone was silent. These men knew how to fight the enemy, but not how to combat this particular terror. “What about Danny?” I said. “Will you transfer him now?”

“Let’s do it another way, Boyle,” Harding said. “Let’s keep this under our hats. Ship Sergeant Stumpf out and let people think we’ve got the killer. That will lull this Red Heart character into thinking he’s pulled one over on us. You go spend time with your brother. Tell him we’re staying a few more days and you’re having a reunion. As long as the Germans don’t attack, the battalion can stay in reserve. That will give you a chance to watch things.”

“What do you have in mind, Colonel?”

“I’m already working on finding a general to use as bait. We’ll offer Red Heart a tempting target. We should have somebody here soon.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Never mind, just get over there. Bring an entrenching tool, they’re digging in deep.”

I wondered if the bait was me and my brother. Generals were hard to come by, and the only one I’d seen around here was deep underground, smoking his corncob pipe. I had Kearns sign a supply requisition, and drove my jeep to the quartermaster’s tent, where I stocked up on what GIs digging in out in the open really needed. Pickaxes, shovels, blankets, a few cans of meat and vegetable stew, tins of coffee, and a carton of smokes. At least I’d be popular with everyone, with the exception of one lunatic, a lunatic I thought I’d had in custody.

I’d been fooled, and by an expert. In the midst of strangling Harding, a German shell sent them both flying. A near miss that could have killed him. Most guys would have been stunned, groggy, disoriented. Not Red Heart. He quickly found a guy to throw suspicion on, and clocked him one. So who was Red Heart?

I could rule out Evans, not that I’d ever thought him a likely suspect. He’d been in the general area of the first murders, but I doubted he could have attacked Harding with shrapnel in his shoulder, and he was tucked away in Hell’s Half Acre when the Kraut paratrooper bought it.

Flint? The last surviving sergeant. But he’d been busy rescuing Evans, under fire, after he brought out Louie’s body. It didn’t seem to be the kind of thing a psychopath would bother with. Father Dare, with blood in his boot? Maybe he’d gone to that church to pray for forgiveness. Charlie Colorado, lost in the smoke, the radioman I’d already overlooked? Phil Einsmann? Maybe he thought he’d get away clean after the first two, only to have his agency send him right back to Italy. Did he have a nose for news, or murder?

Or Bobby K, who I’d just met, or any of the other guys in the platoon, company, or whole damn VI Corps who I hadn’t met yet. Anyone could be Red Heart, but one thing my heart told me was that he was close to Danny. Too close.

The battalion was in reserve in an open field. A pine grove bordered it on the south side, and to the north a paved road cut across it, the roadbed built up about six feet above the soggy ground. GIs were digging in the woods, or along the embankment, carving out caves in the sloped earth. A convoy of trucks carrying replacements and supplies made its way along a dirt track, skirting the customary stone farmhouse in the center of the field. In the midst of these martial preparations, a woman hung her white sheets on a clothesline, domestic chores once again uninterrupted by war.