“That’s odd. I met with him the day he got killed. In the morning. He told me he was gonna see you around lunchtime,” I lied.
“No shit?” he said.
“That’s what he said.”
“Well, he never told me, ’cause I never heard of him till he was dead.”
“Well, that’s the other thing. There’s this sergeant who works for the information officer. Guy named Jarvis. I talked to him just this morning. Real pleasant guy. He says he helped line up a meeting between you two.”
“He must be lying,” Williams growled.
“Actually, he’s got an official log to prove it. Seems every time a reporter asks him to contact a member of the command, he’s required to log it.”
“That right?” he said a little too nonchalantly. He was working hard at repressing his hotheaded nature.
“Yep, that’s right. Oh, and another thing.”
“What’s that?”
I said, “You know, CID stops by here now and again to compare notes. Till now, everybody’s been convinced the killing was somehow connected to my investigation. Hell, CID still thinks that. Anyhow, they lifted the footprints of the asshole who killed Berkowitz. He wore running shoes so he could sneak up behind him. You know, we’re talking about a real gutless pussy. Never gave Berkowitz a fair chance. Same kind of low-life scum who’d burn a church.”
He shrugged, but I knew what he was thinking and feeling. He was once my torturer. Anyone who has ever been tortured for an extended period will tell you that it becomes a strangely intimate experience. You get closer than lovers. The interrogator is trying to measure your physical and mental breaking points, while you’re desperately trying to climb inside his head and figure out how to get him to stop hurting you. It’s very visceral. You study his every gesture, a shift in his muscles, a change of tone in his voice, a look in his eyes, anything to prepare yourself for the next blow. You learn how to please him, and in my case, how to infuriate him. In an obscene kind of way, I guessed I knew Sergeant Major Luther Williams better than any man I’d ever met.
I added, “Killer used a garrote, too. Back in the outfit, we always figured that was a real sicko’s weapon. You know, like something maybe an angry fag might use. Or maybe one of them sexual deviants. I mean, what kind of guy you figure would kill a man that way?”
“I never thought about it,” he said. His knuckles were very white.
“Another thing. From the footprints, turned out the murderer was some big, goofy bastard with splayed feet.”
“That right?” he asked.
“Size thirteen, double E. You’ve got big, wide feet. I didn’t mention it to CID yet, but I remember staring at ’em all the time while you were beating the crap out of me. What size you figure you wear?”
“I never went near that latrine,” he said.
I said, “Hey, you know, after you left Bragg that rash of child molesting that had been happening in the housing area stopped altogether. All those little boys were safe to go to the bus stop without their parents again.”
He was now glaring at me with a very nasty scowl. Like a lot of big men, he did not like being taunted or mocked. One thing I’d learned about him in the hard sell was that he’d get real touchy when it came to sexual perversions. He’d be slapping me around, and I tried calling him all kinds of names. Wasn’t long before I learned that faggot or baby screwer, or variants thereof, really hit his funny bone. Like they say, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. I’d always figured there must be some kind of ugly sexual pathology locked up inside that big skull of his that he either didn’t want to admit or sure as hell didn’t like to be reminded of. Lots of perverts are like that. Not real comfortable with their own nasty habits.
He said in this very menacing tone, “Listen, motherfucker, I don’t have to sit here and listen to yer shit.”
I stared at him hard. “Yeah you do. See, this ain’t the outfit’s screening. Now I’m a major and you’re a noncommissioned officer, and I’m ordering you to stay right where you are. Besides, you leave here and I’ll walk right over to CID and tell ’em what I suspect about you.”
A murderous look crept into his eyes.
“Anyway,” I continued, “only damned reason I haven’t mentioned anything yet to CID was because I wanted to be sure. But I got to thinking about your feet, and what Sergeant Jarvis told me, and why you were thrown out of the outfit, and the cowardly way Berkowitz was killed, and what a sick, yellow asshole I knew you were, and it all kinda makes sense.”
I knew the signs. Because he always wore a mask when he was kicking the crap out of me back at Bragg, I got to know his eyes real well. Right at that moment, they were scrunched with a calculating shrewdness, because he now knew I was the only man on this base who could put all that together. And golly gee… well, here we were, all alone in my office building. Just the two of us, just like old times. Only there was no hidden camera up in the corner making films that Colonel Tingle would review later that night. All there was was a tiny microphone under my shirt; of course, he didn’t know about that.
“Know what else, Williams?” I chuckled. “I think you probably screwed Berkowitz before you killed him.”
He leaped out of his chair and came across the desk, until his face was inches from mine. “I didn’t fuck that fat Jewboy,” he said.
“If you never met him, how’d you know he was fat?” I said.
I saw the punch, but I couldn’t dodge it. Williams hadn’t lost his touch, either. I went flying backward, right over my chair, and ended up sprawled on the floor, seeing stars, and hearing this loud ringing sound in my ears.
He shoved the desk aside and came after me. He lifted me right off the ground by my collar. I’d forgotten how incredibly strong he was when he got mad. I felt like a little Raggedy Ann doll. He threw me across the room, and I bounced off a wall. These weren’t the padded, cushiony walls he and I had practiced with before. These were the real thing, with hard, unyielding surfaces. It hurt a lot more. Then he ran over and jerked me up by the hair and started punching my head back and forth while I screamed, “You screwed him, you pervert! You sick bastard.”
He was now completely out of control, on a rampage like he had been so many years before. He pulled my face right up to his and hissed, “I didn’t screw him! I used that garrote so I didn’t have to touch the filthy Jewboy.”
He threw me across the room and sent me crashing into another wall. I felt something snap, maybe a rib, maybe an arm bone. Everything hurt.
He moved across the room for me. “You fucked up, Drummond. We’re all alone here. I’m gonna kill you, and I’m gonna make it hurt.”
He made only one mistake. His feet were spread apart when he bent over to jerk me up again. Maybe he was too enraged to watch his technique. Or maybe something deep inside his memory cells programmed him to remember me as a helpless, defenseless hostage. I aimed for his testicles. I felt the wonderfully satisfying sensation of my left heel burying itself in his groin. The thing with a testicular kick is that it does not immediately disable the opponent. A shin kick, a punch in the solar plexus, or a tap on the Adam’s apple, all cause an instantaneously overpowering response. It takes a second or two for testicular pain to wind its way up to the brain. Maybe that’s because women are right, and there’s another, tiny brain in the nearby vicinity that has to process all signals from that organ first.
Worked out fine for me, though. He had me hoisted back up to his eye level when his higher brain finally got the message that his left testicle was ruptured and his right one was severely concussed. His eyes got real round, and his hands suddenly got real slack and let go of my neck.
He doubled over, completely incapacitated by the pain. I knew the MPs had to be hearing the sounds of our fight, because of my wire, and must even now be running to save me. They should be there any second.
Ordinarily, I am not one to kick a man when he’s down. However, I made an exception. I was enraged, for one thing, and bent on revenge for another. My left knee came straight up and ended up in Williams’s face. Crunch, I heard his nose break, and his head came snapping back up. My right hand flew into his solar plexus. That blow doubled him back over again. Then my right knee came up, and there was another snap, only this time it was Williams’s jaw, or maybe a few teeth.
The door suddenly flew open, and I stepped back. Three real big MPs came diving through the air and jumped on Williams, who was reeling around in a slow, painful dance, but they sent him flying through the air, where he
