An hour later, Cassidy came in, looking drawn and exhausted. His blond hair was dirty, and there were dark bags under his eyes. “I’m hungry,” was all he said. I followed him through the line, accepting frankfurters and beans in my kit, topped off with freshbaked bread.
“I know I shouldn’t be able to eat after all that,” Cassidy said as we sat down. “Some guys drink. I eat. Can’t help it.”
“Those guys were shot up pretty bad,” I said.
“They went through hell trying to get to their buddies. Lots of multiple wounds. Two battalions lost, and a third ripped apart trying to rescue them. We only get the worst cases here, you know what I mean? The aid stations and casualty clearing stations take care of the light wounds. And you know what? Most of them want to get up and go right back out there.”
He raised a fork to his mouth, his hand trembling. He set it down and gritted his teeth.
“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck!” Louder this time, but no one looked. Not uncommon, I guessed. He cupped his hands on the table and took a deep breath. “Too many of them. We were overwhelmed. I shouldn’t have had to cut off that leg, but by the time we got him on the table…” He shook his head and uncupped his hands. He tried the fork again, and this time his hand was steady, but he still didn’t eat. Combat fatigue comes in all forms, I guess.
“Sorry to bother you, Doc,” I said, after giving him some time. “Bad timing, but I have a few more questions.”
“It’s never a good time here,” he said. “Ask.”
“I need to know what to look for if this guy we’re after really is a psychopath. Everything you said points to someone who can act normal, so how can I spot him? I need something to look for, some sign. There’s got to be something.”
“I’m not sure. The few I knew of were spotted by experts, usually after some violent event that left no doubt. But I’d say the key is what you said about acting normal. It’s all an act, so watch for something that takes him by surprise.”
“To see how he reacts, like flying off the handle over some little thing.”
“That could describe half the guys here. Constant exposure to death can make anyone overreact. Watch for the opposite. Some event that would draw an emotional response from any normal person.”
“That’s not much to go on, Doc.”
“Okay, I’ll make it easy on you. Just look for someone without a soul.”
“I know a priest who might be able to help with that.”
“Father Dare? The padre who was in here with a leg wound?”
“That’s him.”
“Strange fellow. Didn’t want to be separated from his Colt. But he’s got a good reputation with the medics and stretcher bearers. He stays up front, helps the wounded.”
“He says he keeps the automatic to protect the wounded.”
“Could be,” Cassidy said. “But how much protection would a pistol really provide against machine guns, mortars, tanks and artillery?”
It was a really good question, but what I needed were some really good answers.
The sun had set, and the going was slow back to headquarters. As I drew close, air-raid sirens began to wail, and the street filled with men running for the shelters. Searchlights blinked on near the harbor and began stabbing at the sky, probing for the shape of German bombers. Flares blossomed in the inky darkness, floating to earth on parachutes, illuminating the town and harbor, creating day from night. Bombs were not going to be far behind. I pulled the jeep over and jumped out, making for a shelter dug out of the earth and covered with a corrugated tin roof. It wouldn’t withstand a direct hit, but it would have to do.
There were already about twenty guys crammed inside. I sat near the door, listening to the antiaircraft batteries open up and the crump of exploding bombs creeping closer. I hoped Danny was well away from the docks by now; no reason why he shouldn’t be. Someone lit a candle, and it gave off a flickering light. I leaned back, settling in for a long wait. I noticed Flint’s letter sticking out of my front jacket pocket.
I took it out and looked at the return address. American Red Cross. Why would they be writing to him, from the States? I removed the letter, looking around guiltily, as if anyone in the shelter would know I was reading someone else’s mail. We regret to inform you that your mother, Abigail Flint, died on December 25, 1943, of injuries sustained from an unknown assailant. Police are investigating and we will provide you with further information as it becomes available. Please accept our sincere condolences.
A chill went through me. Flint’s mother had been murdered on Christmas Day, and all he’d done was ask for a light. He’d read the news with no visible emotion. Or if Cassidy was right, with no emotion at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“I know who the killer is,” I said. Harding looked up without a trace of surprise. As soon as the all clear sounded I’d gone straight to headquarters and found him with Kearns. “Sir,” I added, having been well trained.
“Sergeant Amos Flint,” he said. “We’re already looking for him.”
“How…?”
“Lieutenant Kazimierz has returned from Naples,” Harding said. “Good to know you both agree. He’s over there, with our general and his driver.” He pointed to a far corner of the wine cellar, where Kaz, Big Mike, and Major Charles Cosgrove were huddled around a desk.
It was an unlikely crew. Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski was Polish, like Kaz, but there the resemblance ended. He was over six feet tall, and so broad in the shoulders that he split seams on his uniform regularly. The nickname came naturally. Big Mike was a former Detroit cop who’d become part of our unit after helping us out in Sicily. He got into so much hot water because of it that Harding had to bail him out and take him in.
Major Charles Cosgrove was another story. We’d started off badly when I first came to London, which is a nice way of saying we’d hated each other. Long story. By now, we had both mellowed a bit, and there was a grudging respect between us, which is something for an Irish lad to say about a British intelligence officer from MI5.
“Billy,” Kaz said excitedly. “I know who the Red Heart Killer is.”
“Amos Flint?”
“I told you he’d figure it out,” Big Mike said. “How you doing, Billy?”
“Glad you’re here, Big Mike,” I said as we shook hands. “When did you get in?”
“A couple of hours ago. First thing I do is pick up Kaz down at the docks off a PT boat from Naples, and he announces the identity of the killer. Looks like the major and I spent twenty-four hours in a Catalina for nothing.”
“How are you, Major Cosgrove, or is it General Cosgrove?”
“General Bernard Paget, Commander in Chief, Middle East Command, if you don’t mind. Got to bait the hook well, don’t we? Paget recently took over as CIC, so it lends a bit of realism to the charade.”
“You look the part, General,” I said. Cosgrove was kitted out in a nicely tailored dress uniform, with the red lapel patches of a general officer. I wondered when Harding had begun to cook up this scheme, or if maybe Cosgrove had a whole closet full of disguises. “But is this really MI5 territory?” MI5 was charged with counterespionage, catching German spies, not GI killers.
“Personal requests from Winston tend to blur lines of jurisdiction. Colonel Harding asked General Eisenhower, who asked the prime minister, who said by all means. Anything to help get this invasion moving. Winston is not pleased with the progress, or lack thereof, and doesn’t wish things to get any worse if this maniac gets close to a real general. So here I am, the sacrificial lamb.”
“Don’t worry,” Big Mike said. “I ain’t leaving your side until we got this guy.”
“Very good. You make a larger target than even I do,” Cosgrove said. Which wasn’t the case with most men. Cosgrove had fought in the Boer War and the Great War, but his days of fighting trim were long gone. He was thick-waisted, with a full gray mustache and a limp. Without Big Mike as a bodyguard, he’d be a sitting duck.
“So what did you find out about Flint?” I asked Kaz.
“I found Ileana,” he said.
