Hart. And it for sure ain't that hot-headed idiot Major Clark. Good luck.'
Tommy found Captain Walker Townsend in his bunk room in Hut 113 working on a crossword puzzle contained in a dog-eared paperback booklet filled with various games. The captain had nearly completed the puzzle, writing each entry in faint pencil strokes, so that it could be erased upon completion and traded for a can of processed meat or a chocolate bar to some other bored kriegie.
Townsend looked up as Tommy entered the room, smiled, and immediately asked: 'Hey, lieutenant. What's a six-letter word for failure?'
'How about fricked?' Tommy responded.
Townsend roared with laughter, a voice much greater than his slight build would seem to have accommodated.
'Not bad. Hart,' he said. His accent was definitely southern, but only in the mildest way. It lacked the Deep South contractions and distinctions that marked Vincent Bedford's speech as well as many others'. His was almost gentle, rhythmic, closer to a lullaby's tones.
'Y'all are sharp. But somehow, I don't think that's what the editors of the New York Times had in mind when they put this together…'
'Then how about defeat!' Tommy suggested.
Townsend looked down at the puzzle for an instant, then smiled.
'That works,' he said. He put his pencil and the paperback down on the bunk.
'Damn, I hate those things. Always make me feel dumb. You just got to have one of those minds that works the right way, I guess. Anyways, when I get back home, I won't never do another.'
'Where's home?' Tommy asked, already knowing the answer.
'Why, the great state of Virginia. The capital city of Richmond.'
'What did you do before the war?' Tommy asked.
Townsend shrugged, still smiling.
'Why, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. And then I got my law degree and went to work for the state. Good work, working for the state.
Steady hours and a nice paycheck at the end of the week and a pension waiting down the road some time.'
'State attorney? What's that? Land acquisitions and zoning regulations?'
'More or less,' Townsend replied, still smiling.
'Of course, I didn't have the same advantages as you. No sir. No Harvard University for me, I'm afraid. Just night classes at the local college. Worked all day in my daddy's store-he sold farm equipment just outside the city. Went to school at night.'
Tommy nodded. He wore a smile of his own, one that he hoped would make Townsend believe that he'd swallowed the lies without chewing.
'Harvard's overrated,' he said.
'I think you learn as much about the law in a lot of less fancy places.
Most of my classmates were only interested in getting their degrees and getting out and making a fast buck, anyway.'
'Well,' Townsend said, lifting his shoulders, 'still seems to me to be a mighty fine place to be studying the law.'
'Well,' Tommy said, 'at least you're a graduate. So you've got more practical experience than I do.'
Townsend held his hands out in a what-do-you-know gesture.
'Probably not all that much more, what with your moot courts and such up there in Boston. And hell. Hart, this military tribunal ain't much like what we got back home in all those county courthouses.'
No, Tommy thought. I bet it isn't, but the outcome is designed to be the same. He did not say this out loud. Instead, he said, 'Well, you've got a list of witnesses for me. And I'd like to inspect the evidence…'
'Why, I've been waiting for you all day, since this morning's hearing-fine job you did on that, too, I must admit. Why, Lieutenant Scott, he seemed filled to the very brim with the righteous indignation of the truly innocent. Yes sir. He did. Why, I must say that all I've heard from the other kriegies all this long day has been doubt and questions and wonderment, which is, I'd wager, more or less what y'all had in mind. But, of course, they haven't seen the evidence in this matter, as I have. Evidence doesn't lie. Evidence doesn't make nice speeches. All it does is point the finger of guilt. Still, my hat's off to you, Lieutenant Hart. You had a fine start.'
'Call me Tommy. Everybody else does. Except for Major Clark and Colonel MacNamara.'
'Well then. Tommy, I must congratulate you on this first day.'
'Thank you.'
'But as you'd expect, I'll be doing my best to make it a mite harder from here on in.'
'That's exactly what I'd expect. Starting Monday morning.'
'Right. Monday morning, zero eight hundred, like y'all said. Just so's we understand, there's nothing personal. Just following orders.'
Tommy breathed in sharply. He'd heard that phrase before.
As he exhaled, he thought to himself that the one thing he was absolutely sure of was that before the end of Lincoln Scott's trial, things were going to get very personal. Especially toward Captain Walker Townsend, who seemed to have so little trouble lying to him.
'Of course. I understand perfectly,' he replied.
'Now, the list? The evidence?'
'Why, I have those items for you here, right now,' Townsend said. He reached beneath his bunk and removed a small wooden locker made from balsa wood. He removed a leather flight jacket, a pair of sheepskin-lined flying boots, and the homemade knife. The two strips of cloth, one from the frying pan handle and the other from the knife, were wrapped up. Townsend also removed these and spread them out on the bunk.
Tommy looked at those first. The Virginian sat back in his seat, saying nothing, watching Tommy's face for reactions.
Tommy was reminded of the players in the game of mouse roulette right at the moment the croupier released the frightened mouse. The players remained still, expressionless, mentally urging the terrified animal in their direction. Tommy adopted much the same visage.
There was no doubt in his mind that the two cloth strips were the same, and that the one from the blade seemed to have small but noticeable flecks of blood on one edge. He noted this, then set the cloth back down. He picked up the knife and carefully measured its dimensions. It was constructed from a flattened piece of iron, almost two inches wide and nearly fourteen inches long. Its point was triangulated, but only one edge had been sharpened into a razor.
'Almost like a small sword,' Townsend said. He mock-shuddered.
'Nasty item to kill someone with, I say.'
Tommy nodded, replacing the knife on the table and picking up the flight boots. He turned them over in his hands, inspecting the flat leather soles that had been stitched onto the softer fur-lined tops. He noted that the bloodstains were predominantly on the toes of the boots.
'Good thing it's nearly summer,' Townsend said.
'It would be a shame to not be wearing those things in the winter, now, wouldn't it?
'Course, this damn German weather is as unpredictable as I've ever seen. One day we're all out of doors, sunning ourselves like on some trip down to Roanoke or Virginia Beach. Next, well, standing around the morning Appell freezing our tails off. It's like it can't make up its mind to get on with the summer. Ain't like that back home. No sir. Virginia we get that nice easy winter and early spring. Long about now there's honeysuckle in bloom. Honeysuckle and lilacs. Like to fill the air with sweetness…'
Tommy set the boots back on the bed, and gingerly lifted the leather flight jacket. He saw why Lincoln Scott had not noticed the bloodstains when he reached for the coat after awakening in the near-dark to the sound of German whistles and cries. There was blood on the left knit wrist cuff, and another small streak near the collar on the same side. A larger stain was located on the back. He turned the jacket around once or
