sudden we got plastered. Couple of POWs got killed, but the rest were minor wounds. Minor-when-it-ain’t-you kind of minor.”
“They seem to be able to zero in pretty well. Spotting a few trucks from up in those hills is a neat trick,” I said. I noticed Corporal Kawulicz eyeing my Thompson. He had a carbine leaning against the bench by his leg. “Looking for a Thompson?”
“I tried to get one, but they’re hard to come by.”
“Why do you want one? That M1 carbine is more accurate.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like we’re target shooting. And they’re only. 30 caliber rounds. The Thompson has better stopping power with that. 45 slug. Corporals are supposed to be issued one, you know.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll swap.” I pushed the submachine toward him and undid my web belt with the extra magazines.
“Really? You sure, Lieutenant?”
“I’m sure.” He didn’t need much encouragement.
A few minutes later, we walked out of the mess tent, the new corporal proudly sporting his new Thompson submachine gun. I carried the lighter M1 carbine, glad of the reduced weight but still feeling a burden settle onto my shoulders. I was worried about Danny going through the barrages Bob described. How were the Germans hitting us so accurately, so far from the front lines?
We stopped at a tent with a bored private standing guard, and Bobby K stuck his head inside to ask if the prisoners were bandaged up and ready to go.
“Perhaps you can explain this, Corporal,” I heard a familiar voice say, and saw Doctor Cassidy emerge from the tent with Bobby in tow. “Billy, didn’t expect to see you here again. Are you in charge of this prisoner detail?”
“No, I was just having coffee with the corporal. We’re old pals. What’s up?”
“Follow me,” he said. He took us to another tent and opened the flaps. A sickly smell wafted out and I guessed this was the morgue, or where they stashed the dead if ‘morgue’ was too fancy a term for a dirt-floor army tent. Several bodies were on the ground, already zipped up in mattress covers. One had only a sheet covering him. “Care to tell me how this happened, Corporal?” He pulled the sheet away to reveal a German officer. His tunic collar was undone, and he wore the distinctive paratrooper’s smock.
“ Fallschirmjager,” I said. His right trouser leg was torn open and his leg swathed in a dirty bandage.
“Right, but he didn’t die of his wounds, did he, Corporal?” Cassidy said.
“I don’t know, he was limping but seemed okay. Then after the shelling he was out cold. I couldn’t find any other wounds, so I brought him here. What’s wrong with him?”
“This,” I said, pointing to the bruises around his neck.
“And these,” Cassidy said, showing the trademark red splotches in the eyes and across the face. “He was strangled, Corporal. What do you know about this?”
“Nothing, sir, honest. We protected these guys from the barrage, brought them into our own shelters. Then we got hit again after the all clear. It was all confused, and we had to make sure no one got away. I loaded this guy in with the wounded and brought him here. That’s all I know.”
I got a sinking feeling in my stomach. On the paratrooper’s sleeve was the camouflage insignia of an oberst. German for colonel, two green leaves with three bars underneath. I reached into his tunic pocket, knowing what I would find there.
“The corporal didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, showing Cassidy the king of hearts. “Take the handcuffs off Stump.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“A kraut? He’s killed a Kraut?” Heads turned as Major Kearns raised his voice. His worried tone did sound odd, since killing Krauts was our stock-in-trade. Several heads turned among the Corps HQ staff laboring underground.
“Quiet down, Major,” Harding said, hustling us off to a far corner of the wine cellar where clerks worked their Smith Coronas. Harding told them to take a break and we sat at the narrow table, typewriters in front of us, army forms and carbon paper scattered about. I’d brought Cassidy along because I thought an expert might explain things better than I could. I still didn’t quite get whether this murderer was crazy or not.
“Now calmly and quietly, tell us what happened,” Harding said. “I thought you had the killer in custody. Case closed.”
“I thought I had,” I said, laying the king of hearts found in Stump’s hand on the table. The edges were crumpled, but it lay flat. “Until Stump pointed out something I should have picked up. Colonel, you said your assailant used both hands?”
“Yes. He grabbed the binoculars with one and twisted the straps with the other. He pulled back on either side of my neck, so the straps dug into my throat.”
“Both hands would have been clenched shut, like this?” I stuck out both hands, mimicking the movement as Harding had described it. When he nodded, I opened my hands and a playing card fell out. It sat crushed next to the king of hearts, folded in on itself from the pressure of my grip.
“Somebody put that card into Sergeant Stump’s hand,” Kearns said.
“Yes. I wasn’t sure until we found the German colonel. It was by accident, really. A bunch of POWs were wounded in the bombing, and their guards brought in the Herr Oberst as well, thinking he might still be alive.”
“His tunic hid the bruises,” Cassidy said. “When I opened it up, they were clear as day, as well as the petechiae.”
“Speak English, Doc,” I said.
“Small red marks, burst blood vessels in the eyes and on the face.”
“That couldn’t be caused by concussion from a bomb blast?” Harding asked.
“No, and a concussion wouldn’t leave bruises shaped like thumbs and fingers on his throat. That man was strangled, no doubt about it. He had a leg wound, fairly severe. It would have caused him pain, made it hard to walk, but it wouldn’t have killed him.”
“Maybe he was unpopular with his men,” Kearns suggested.
“He was the only paratrooper in with the bunch,” I said. “The others were regular Wehrmacht. He couldn’t have made enemies that fast.”
“So our killer is still on the loose,” Harding said. “But it sounds like he may have shot his wad. He failed with me, and now he’s reduced to murdering a wounded POW. Hard to see how he could move onto a general after that.”
“No, not at all,” said Cassidy, shaking his head, as eager as a schoolboy with the right answer. He took one look at Harding’s frown and remembered to add “sir.”
“Colonel, please listen to Doctor Cassidy. He’s studied cases like this, and he has a theory.” Harding eased up on the frown and I nodded to Cassidy to continue.
“We are most likely dealing with a genuine psychopath here. Someone who totally lacks empathy for another human being. For him, a person is either a target or a tool, nothing in between. He has a self-centered view of the world, an overblown grandiose imagining of his own importance. For whatever reason, Red Heart has set up this card game, with the goal of filling his royal flush.”
“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
