we treat are shrapnel. It’s the kind of thing that wears on a man.”
“But the Third Division is a veteran outfit. Shouldn’t it take longer for them to be affected?”
“That’s just it, Billy. The Third has been at the sharp end since North Africa. Then Sicily, then the landing at Salerno, where they took a lot of casualties. After that, the Volturno River, and then Cassino. They only had a few weeks’ rest before this landing, and now we’ve got Germans on the high ground shelling us constantly. The replacements don’t know what to expect, the veterans do, and I can’t tell you which is worse.”
“What do you do for them?”
“The GI you saw will be evacuated as soon as a transport is available. He’s got a million-dollar wound, both arms riddled with shrapnel, so he’s going home. It’s the ones without physical wounds I worry about. A short time in a safe rear area is a big help, but there is no safe haven here. Last I heard, the beachhead was only seven miles wide. The Germans can shell us anywhere they want, day or night.”
“How do you doctors decide which wounds are the milliondollar variety?”
“It’s not an official term, Billy. It’s any wound bad enough to get you sent home but not bad enough to be permanently crippling. That guy had severe muscle damage. No way he could heal up well enough to handle a rifle in combat, but with physical therapy he should be okay. Might take a while, so he fits the bill.”
“What do you think about these murders? Does a killer like that have to be crazy?”
“Crazy isn’t an official term either. Well, to a normal person, yes, someone who commits multiple murders is crazy, since they operate outside the norms of society. But these killings were well thought out, and had a distinctive pattern. The killer eluded capture, until now. These are all signs of intelligent planning. Is that crazy?”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“Goes to show, there are no easy answers when it comes to crazy.”
“Take a look at this, and tell me if this sounds like a lunatic murderer,” I said, handing Cassidy Stump’s unfinished letter to his mother. Cassidy read the letter, nodding a few times. He handed it back.
“I can’t say he’s not a murderer, based on this. There are many reasons for murder, and plenty of them wouldn’t preclude telling your mother a little white lie. He obviously wants her to think he’s safe behind the lines, in Naples, since the Anzio landing will be in the news.”
“What about the lunatic part?”
“That’s harder, Billy. This letter shows genuine concern for another person. I’m just theorizing now, but cold-blooded murders as you’ve described them demonstrate a total disregard for others. No remorse at all. This letter shows the opposite. He could have not written her, or he could have written her the truth, but instead he took a different tack, making up a story to ease her mind.”
“So Stump is normal?”
“Billy, one of the things you learn on a psychiatric ward is that words like normal and insane are essentially worthless. It’s what I find fascinating about the human mind.”
“That’s swell, Doc, but I need answers and I need them now. I’ve got a lunatic on the loose.”
“Well, ‘lunatic’ is not a precise term, but ‘psychopath’ is. I think that may be what you’re looking for.”
“Like I said, crazy.”
“A psychotic is crazy, in the conventional sense; they’re the ones who hear voices, that sort of thing. But a psychopath is different. You could talk with one and you’d never know it. A true psychopath could write that letter, only if it served a specific purpose and was to his benefit. They’re emotional mimics. They don’t feel real emotion, but they are great observers, and know when to act normal. But a psychopath wouldn’t care about his mother’s feelings. He wouldn’t even understand what that meant.”
“So how can you spot one?”
“It’s easy, once they’re caught. They’re great deniers, sometimes telling such outright lies about their guilt that it’s easy to see through them. They usually have a grandiose sense of their own self-worth and capabilities. But otherwise, they can act just like you and me.”
“Except that it wouldn’t bother them to kill half a dozen people.”
“No, it may even be a source of satisfaction for them. Think about it. No conscience, no empathy or understanding of others. They’re not good at long-term planning, so they find it easy to act on impulse, and they are highly manipulative, so they can often get away with things.”
“But you said this whole thing took planning.”
“Yes, but if we’re dealing with a psychopath, I doubt he planned everything out first. I’d bet it was an impulse that started the ball rolling. Then the grandiose thinking might kick in. In his own world, he might derive pleasure watching those around him react to his escalating crimes. The more he gets away with, the more powerful he feels.”
“It doesn’t sound like he’d be a candidate for combat fatigue.”
“No. He’d have a sense of self-preservation, but he wouldn’t suffer any effects from killing, or seeing his comrades killed. Other than enjoying the spectacle of it all, maybe. Want some more joe?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, and thought about what Cassidy had said while he refilled our cups. Impulse. The sequence of the first two killings always had bothered me. Now I was sure Landry hadn’t been killed first. The playing cards were a trick, a manipulation, to cover up an impulse killing to divert suspicion. Galante had been an immediate threat, and had to be dealt with on the spot. On impulse. I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that Landry knew the killer and Galante were together, so he had to go. Then that grandiose imagination kicks in. Make it look like a guy with a grudge against the chain of command. Get everyone in a tizzy, and watch the fun.
“Would a psychopath enjoy army life?” I asked when Cassidy returned with the coffees.
“Well, you’d have to be crazy to,” he said, grinning at his own joke.
“So what would happen if someone told this nutcase he was going to pull him off the line? Send him to a hospital, cure him?”
“You mean a psychiatric hospital? No way. Our hypothetical guy would kill to stay out of one of those.”
“He’d prefer to stay in combat? Now that’s crazy.”
“I’d say in some ways it could be the perfect environment, since there are clear rules and procedures. He could figure out how to manipulate the system easily. But on the other hand, the peacetime army would be too boring. Psychopaths crave stimulation.”
“Combat is stimulating.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. I’ve always said that if you keep men in combat long enough, ninety-eight percent will break down from combat fatigue. The other two percent will be psychopaths.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“We’re short on men, Boyle,” Kearns said. “I’m sorry, but Second Battalion has been pulled back into reserve, and that’ll have to do. No transfers, not for anybody.”
“But sir-”
“Can it, Boyle. If I could I would-we really owe you one. But orders are orders.”
“Okay,” I said, not liking it one bit, and not certain that I was owed a damn thing yet.
“The provost marshal is taking charge of Sergeant Stumpf as soon as he’s discharged from the hospital. Meanwhile we have MPs standing guard. You going back with him?”
“I have to talk to Colonel Harding first, Major. There are a few loose ends I’d like to tie up.”
“Be my guest. I’m sure you’ll want to visit with your brother for a while.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well done, Boyle,” he said, rising from his desk in the underground wine cellar and extending his hand.
“Thanks. But remember, Stump still denies he’s the killer, and we’re short on proof.”
“I wouldn’t expect a mad killer to admit his guilt. And that card and the marks around Sam’s neck are proof enough. Not to mention a couple of dozen colonels and generals who aren’t asking for bodyguards.”
Explosions shook the ground above us, loosening dust from the rafters and coating everything in the room with gray grit. Men wore their helmets even here, deep underground. The German bombardment was becoming more intense, as the Krauts brought more and more heavy stuff up into the Alban Hills.
