I entered the mobile home and left the door open as I checked to see that I was the only one there. I seemed to be alone, and the premises seemed to be the way I’d left them.
I walked to the back bedroom. This was the room I used for my office where my pistols were kept, along with my notes, reports, codebooks, and other tools of the trade. I had put a hasp and padlock on this bedroom door so no one, including the owner of the trailer park, could get into it, and I’d also put epoxy glue in the sliders of the only window. I unlocked the padlock and went inside.
The bedroom furniture came with the place, but I’d signed out a camp desk and chair from the post quartermaster, and on the desk I saw that the light on the telephone answering machine was blinking. I hit the message button, and a prerecorded male voice with a nasal problem announced, “You have one message.” Then another male voice said, “Mr. Brenner, this is Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant. General Campbell wishes to see you. Report to his home, ASAP. Good day.”
Rather curt. All I could deduce from that was that Colonel Kent had finally got around to informing the deceased’s next of kin and had volunteered the information that this Brenner guy from Falls Church was the investigating officer and had given Colonel Fowler my phone number. Thanks, Kent.
I had no time for General or Mrs. Campbell at the moment, so I erased the message from the tape and from my mind.
I went to the dresser and took my 9mm Glock automatic with holster, then exited the spare bedroom, closing the padlock behind me.
I entered the master bedroom, changed into a blue tropical wool suit, adjusted the holster, went into the kitchen, popped a cold beer, then exited the trailer. I left the pickup truck where it was and got into the Blazer. Thus transformed, I was outwardly prepared to deal with rape and murder, though somewhere along the line I had to log some cot time.
I took a few pulls on the beer as I drove. This state has a law about open alcoholic beverage containers which the locals say means, if you open it, you have to finish it before you throw it out the window.
I detoured into a depressing suburb of small ranch houses called Indian Springs. There were no Indians around, but there were plenty of cowboys, judging from the souped-up vehicles in the driveways. I pulled into the driveway of a modest home and hit the horn a few times. This is in lieu of getting out and ringing the bell, and is perfectly acceptable hereabouts. A wide woman came to the door, saw me, and waved, then disappeared. A few minutes later, Sergeant Dalbert Elkins ambled out of the house. One of the good things about pulling night duty is that you get the next day off, and Elkins was obviously enjoying the day, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, and sandals, a beer in each hand. I said to him, “Get in. We got to see a guy on post.”
“Aw, sheet.”
“Come on. I’ll get you back here, ASAP.”
He yelled back into the house, “Gotta go!” Then he climbed into the passenger seat and handed me one of the beers.
I took it, backed out of the driveway, and drove off. Sergeant Elkins had four questions for me: Where’d you get this Blazer? Where’d you get that suit? How was the pussy? Who we gotta see?
I replied that the Blazer was borrowed, the suit came from Hong Kong, the other thing was A-one, and we had to see a guy in jail.
“In
“A good buddy. They got him locked in the provost office. I got to see him before they take him to the stockade.”
“Why? What for?”
“They got him for DWI. I got to drive his car out to his place. His old lady’s nine months pregnant and she needs the wheels. They live out by you. You follow me back in the Blazer.”
Sergeant Elkins nodded as if he’d done this before. He said, “Hey, tell me about the pussy.”
So, wanting him to be happy, I went into my good ol’ boy rap. “Well, I got me a little slopehead ’bout as tall as a pint of piss, and I just pick her up by the ears and stick her on my dick, then slap her upside the head and spin her ’round my cock like the block on a shithouse door.”
Elkins roared with laughter. Actually, that wasn’t bad. You’d never know I was from Boston. God, I’m good.
We made small talk and sipped beer. As we drove onto the post, we lowered the beer cans as we passed the MPs, then tucked them away under the seats. I pulled up to the provost marshal’s office and we got out and went inside.
The duty sergeant stood and I put my CID badge case up to his face and kept walking. Sergeant Elkins either didn’t notice or it happened too fast for him. We walked down a corridor to the holding cells. I found a nice empty one in the corner with an open door, and I nudged Sergeant Elkins inside. He seemed confused and a little anxious. He asked, “Where’s your buddy…?”
“You’re my buddy.” I closed the cell door and it locked. I spoke to my buddy through the bars. “You are under arrest.” I held up my badge case. “The charge is conspiracy to sell military property of the United States without proper authority, and frauds against the United States.” I added, “Plus, you weren’t wearing your seat belt.”
“Oh, Jesus… oh, Lord…”
The expression on a man’s face when you announce that he’s under arrest is very interesting and revealing, and you have to judge your next statement by his reaction. Elkins looked like he’d just seen St. Peter giving him a thumbs-down. I informed him, “I’m going to give you a break, Dalbert. You’re going to handwrite and sign a full confession, then you’re going to cooperate with the government in nailing the guys we’ve been talking to. You do that, and I’ll guarantee you no jail time. You get a dishonorable discharge and forfeiture of all rank, pay, allowances, and retirement benefits. Otherwise, it’s life in Leavenworth, good buddy. Deal?”
He started to cry. I know I’m getting soft because there was a time I wouldn’t have even offered such a great deal, and if a suspect started to cry, I’d slap him around until he shut up. But I’m trying to become more sensitive to the needs and wants of criminals, and I tried not to think of what those two hundred M-16s and grenade launchers could do to cops and innocent people. Not to mention the fact that Staff Sergeant Elkins had broken a sacred trust. I said to Elkins, “Deal?”
He nodded.
“Smart move, Dalbert.” I fished around in my pocket and found the rights card. “Here. Read this and sign it.” I handed him the card and a pen. He wiped his tears as he read his rights as an accused. I said, “Sign the damn thing, Dalbert.”
He signed and handed me the card and the pen. Karl was going to fly into a monumental fit when I told him I’d turned Elkins into a government witness. Karl’s philosophy is that everyone should go to jail, and no one should be able to cut a deal. Court-martial boards didn’t like to hear about deals. Okay, but I had to shortcut this case to get on to the case that had the potential to harm me. Karl said to finish it. It was finished.
An MP lieutenant approached and asked me to explain and identify myself. I showed him my CID identification and said to him, “Get this man some paper and pen for a confession, then take him to the post CID and turn him over to them for further interrogation.”
Staff Sergeant Elkins was sitting on the cot now, looking very forlorn in his shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. I’ve seen too many men like that through steel bars. I wonder how I look to them from the other side of the bars.
I left the holding cells and found my assigned office. I flipped through Ann Campbell’s address book, which held about a hundred names, mine not included. She used no stars or hearts or anything like that to denote a romantic interest or a rating system, but as I said, there was probably another list of names and phone numbers somewhere, possibly in her basement rec room, or perhaps buried in her personal computer.
I scribbled out a rather perfunctory and annoyingly terse report for Karl—not the one I’d made up in my mind, but one that neither the judge advocate general nor the attorney for the defense could criticize later. There wasn’t a document in the country that was safe anymore, and the Confidential classification might as well say, “Widest Possible Distribution.”
The report completed, I hit the intercom button on the telephone and said, “Have a clerk report to me.”
Army clerks are sort of like civilian secretaries, except that many of them are men, though I’m seeing more female clerks these days. In either case, like their civilian counterparts, they can make or break a boss or an office. The one who reported to me was a female, dressed in the green B uniform, which is basically a green skirt and blouse, suitable for hot offices. She reported well enough, with a crisp salute and a good voice. “Specialist Baker,
