security, even military ones-how do you know somebody didn’t accost Forrestal, either catching him in the pantry or dragging him over there, strangling him with the cord of his robe, tossing him out of the window, then taking the elevator, just a few steps down the hall, to freedom?”
Baughman exhaled some smoke. “All right, Nate. Let’s play it your way. Are you saying that one of those young men-Prise, Harrison, or Dr. Deen-is a part-time hired assassin? Whichever one it is, he’s an excellent actor, wouldn’t you say?”
“Come on, Baughman, this is a naval hospital, a military installation, professional killers for Uncle Sam are treated here every day. Anyway, I didn’t say it was one of those three … I admit, none of them seem likely….”
“Neither is your scenario.” He drew in some smoke, let it stream out, saying, “I do not see how a killer could have sneaked in, skulked around, strangled Forrestal, tossed him from the window and slipped out unseen. The quarters on this cramped floor are just too damn close. That nurse or corpsman could show back up, anytime. And the doctor’s sleeping in a room literally next door to this pantry.”
I held up both hands, palms out. “All I’m saying is, don’t be too hasty, writing this off as a suicide. This begs for a full and thorough investigation. Why don’t I see any Bethesda police detectives here? Or state police, or even sheriff’s boys?”
Baughman shrugged. “This hospital is a U.S. naval reservation. There will be no local police investigation. And our investigation is almost to a close.”
I rolled my eyes. “Then you’re not going to like what I have to say at the inquest. For one thing, the man I spoke to in this very room was about the least likely candidate for suicide that I can think of, based upon the conversation we had.”
Shaking his head, Baughman said, “There’ll be no inquest, Nate. Coroner Brochart has ruled this a suicide.”
“Is that legal?”
“Legal enough.”
“You from Chicago originally, Hughie? By the way, why am I here, if I’m not a suspect? You haven’t asked me a thing about Forrestal’s behavior, his demeanor, today.”
He gestured casually, cigarette in hand. “Two reasons, really. I did want your insights, where the crime scene was concerned …”
“Which you’ve ignored.”
“… and I wanted to ask you about the book of poetry.”
“What?” I sat forward; this interested me. “You mean the book of poetry I gave Forrestal, this afternoon?”
“Yes. He was apparently quite touched by the gift, and mentioned to young Prise that his friend Nate Heller had given it to him.”
“Why is that significant? Is that the book he was copying from?”
Baughman nodded, put out his Camel in an ashtray, and said, “Come with me.”
Room 1618 was empty now, the agents in the hall, no more interrogations being conducted, unless you counted the occasional questions Baughman was asking me.
The writing desk next to the nightstand, the bed next to it rumpled from Forrestal’s last night of on-and-off- again sleep, had on it the red-leather gold-trimmed
“What poem is this?” I asked.
“It’s marked with a red-ribbon bookmark,” Baughman said, picking up the volume, opening it, holding it in one hand like a hymnal he was about to sing out of. “Sophocles. Called ‘The Chorus from
“I’m more a limerick man, myself. What sort of poem is this?”
Baughman offered a brief half-smile. “Kipling’s about as poetic as I get. Fortunately, one of my agents, who has more refined literary tastes than the two of us, was familiar with it. He says it’s a ‘brooding’ poem, in which the warrior Ajax contemplates suicide.”
“Really.”
He nodded. “All about how desirable death is, how inviting the grave.”
I read Forrestal’s copied version: “‘Better to die and sleep…. Worn by the waste of time-Comfortless, nameless, hopeless grave’… Well, it’s not Johnny Mercer.”
Baughman smiled gently at me, but his eyes were hard and serious. “That’s what had me wondering, Nate. What possesses a ‘limerick man’ to pick up a book of poetry as a gift? Did Forrestal ask you to buy that particular book for him?”
Forrestal hadn’t, but somebody had.
I looked further down the sheet of foolscap:
“Is this the whole poem?” I asked.
“No. Forrestal stopped midway-actually, in mid-word.”
“No he didn’t. It’s right here: ‘night.’”
Baughman shook his head, no. “That’s the first half of ‘nightingale.’”
I frowned. “Forrestal stopped in the middle of the word ‘nightingale,’ got up, went across the hall and killed himself?”
“Apparently,” Baughman said. He hefted the red-and-gold volume. “So why this book, Nate? Was this Forrestal’s idea or not?”
“No,” I said. “I, uh … just knew he had high-class tastes, that’s all. The thicker the book, the bigger the words, the more he liked it…. You figure this was his suicide note.”
“That’s our opinion. And you heard Dr. Bernstein second it.”
I shrugged. “I sure wish I had more information for you, Hughie.”
He touched my sleeve, tentatively. “Listen, Nate-I would appreciate it … and I’m sure the President would appreciate it if … when you’re interviewed by the press-as I’m sure you will be, having been the last outside visitor to see Mr. Forrestal-that you keep these, uh, contrary thoughts about his suicide to yourself.”
“Now who’s covering their ass.”
Baughman had a penetrating gaze and it was cutting right through me, at the moment. “Will you be discreet, Nate? The President appreciates your role in alerting us to Mr. Forrestal’s mental condition.”
“Fat lot of good it did any of us.”
“Well, just the same, Mr. Truman asked me-tonight-to personally convey to you those thanks.”
“Yeah.” I put on my hat, snugged it into place. “Well, tell him ‘you’re welcome,’ but I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve voted for Dewey.”
Exiting the elevator into the lobby, I was experiencing a sick exhilaration. I knew something that Baughman didn’t: I knew that Dr. Bernstein had recommended that fatal book of poetry. And I even thought I knew why … pieces falling into place in my mind like a puzzle assembling itself.
My brain was racing, and my body compensated by slowing down. In fact, I was walking in such a daze that I almost didn’t recognize her, up ahead of me in the lobby, chatting with several other pretty nurses as she exited into the parking lot.
None as pretty, though, as Nurse Maria Selff-herself.
20
Out in front of the hospital, the quartet of nurses, one of them my Maria, had-before going their separate ways to their separate cars-paused on the sidewalk, at the edge of the parking lot, for an end-of-shift gabfest, exchanging girlish laughter and, no doubt, gossip. Maria was right in there with them, her lovely Dorothy Lamour-
