Blame the Dead Page 8

  “Or?”

  “Or what?” Harkins said.

  “Story in the neighborhood was that you told him he’d miss the next rowing event, him having a broken arm and everything.” Kathleen was smiling, but Harkins still felt a tinge of shame.

  “Some people just don’t listen,” he said. “Anyway, Father Stanford thought I should take my talents elsewhere, so I became a cop.”

  She studied him for a moment, a smile wiping away some of the exhaustion around her eyes.

  “You’ll go back,” she said. “To school, I mean. You always had your nose in a book. Like your brother Patrick. Like your dad.”

  Patrick, who could always hold his temper, wound up with the education. Harkins wound up carrying a nightstick, getting into fights with drunks and wife-beaters. Uncle Jimmy with a badge.

  “You’ll make a great doctor, Kathleen.”

  “Thanks,” she said, still smiling. Harkins tried to think of something else to say that would keep her looking at him that way, but at that moment another nurse pushed into the tent. She looked at Donnelly, then at Harkins.

  “Wow, hot in here,” she said.

  Donnelly smiled, then said, “Alice, this is Eddie Harkins, a friend of mine from back home and the investigator for what happened this morning. Eddie, this is Alice Haus.”

  Harkins stood, and Haus shook his hand. Her face was pretty, clean, but with a ring of grime starting at the collar of her T-shirt. Firm grip. She squeezed tighter when she said, “We had problems in this hospital before anybody got shot.”

  She let go of Harkins’ hand, stashed some papers under one of the bricks, and retrieved what looked like a bunch of blank forms from a brown paper wrapper.

  “Care to elaborate?” Harkins said.

  “Stephenson was a pig. You know about the Whitman girl?”

  “Some.”

  “He got that nurse so drunk she choked to death on her own vomit. She was twenty years old.”

  “I heard he claimed he wasn’t there when it happened,” Harkins said.

  “And that would mean something if he had any credibility,” Haus countered. “If he’d told me a patient had two legs I’d look under the sheet anyway.”

  “Yeah, the picture I’m getting of Stephenson isn’t pretty, but it’s still a murder investigation.”

  “Is that all it is? Or are you going to do anything about all the other crap that goes on here?”

  “Get the docs to stop bothering the nurses, you mean? Honestly? I doubt it.”

  “Boys will be boys, huh?”

  Harkins wished he had a better answer. “I’ve got to start by figuring out who killed Stephenson.”

  “Yeah, justice served, rest in peace, all that happy horseshit, right?” Haus said.

  She stepped toward the door, looked at Harkins again as if she wanted to say something more. When that passed, she addressed both of them. “You kids take care now, hear?”

  Harkins was quiet. After a few moments, Donnelly said, “So you’ve already gotten an earful about what a wonderful place this is for nurses?”

  “You could say that. I also heard from Nurse Palmer that I shouldn’t put too much stock in what some women have to say, since they’re hooked on the drama.”

  “Palmer thinks that if you insist the world is rosy, that makes it so. All the nurses have to do is play along with whatever the doctors want. Her life would be easier if everyone acted like an adult. But she’d rather sweep things under the rug than try to fix what’s wrong. I’m sure she’s never confronted Boone about any of this. I think she’s afraid and in over her head.”

  “What about this thing with Whitman? Palmer try to hide that, gloss over it?”

  “She would like it to go away,” Donnelly said. “But there’s more to it than Palmer or Alice know. I think only a couple of us knew that Whitman was pregnant.”

  “Stephenson the father?”

  “That’s what the other nurses think, and it seems fairly obvious, what with her winding up in his tent. But I’m not sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Two things. Stephenson used to dump his used condoms on the ground behind his tent instead of in the trash, like he wanted everyone to see them. Like those pilots who paint little swastikas on their airplanes for every Kraut fighter they shoot down.”

  “He had a bunch of condoms in his footlocker,” Harkins said. “A month’s worth. Maybe more.”

  “Sounds like him,” Kathleen said. “Anyway, I think he was careful about not impregnating his conquests. And whoever the father was offered her an abortion—which means it was probably a doc—but the thing about it was that she was surprised. She really thought that the guy, whoever he was, would take care of her, do the right thing. Not marry her, but at least support her.”

  “I heard she was naïve.”

  “A bit, I guess. She was from this real religious family out in Minnesota, and she was worried about how they’d react. Her parents would have been upset, but they wouldn’t have kicked her out.

  “But I don’t think anyone could be so naïve as to think, even for a minute, that Stephenson would do the right thing. About anything. All the shit he pulled? If he’d have done that crap back in the neighborhood with somebody’s sister he’d have ended up in the Delaware chained to some car parts.”

  “So he claimed he wasn’t there when she choked,” Harkins said. “Suppose that’s a lie and he was there. Is there any reason he would have wanted her dead? Would have let her choke? Maybe hide the pregnancy?”

  “More likely he’d have bragged about knocking her up.”

  “Well, it could be that he got what he deserved, but you can’t blame the dead guy for getting murdered, and I still have to investigate.”

  “There’s something else, too,” Kathleen said.

  “What?”

  She hesitated a moment, measuring her answer. “I’m not convinced she choked to death,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “That’s not helping me any,” Harkins said.

  When Kathleen didn’t add anything, Harkins asked, “So what killed her then?”

  “I wanted to kill somebody around here? Trying to hide it? I’d use morphine.”

  “Those little injectors the medics carry?”

  “Syrettes. Four or five of those would be enough to do somebody in. Truth is, I think the frontline medics do that on the battlefield sometimes, for guys who are never going to make it.”

  “Mercy killing,” Harkins said.

  Kathleen nodded, then said, “Trouble is, I don’t know who would have wanted to kill her, or why. Unless it had to do with the pregnancy.”

  “But you’re not really sure about any of this?”

  “I’m sure that she was pregnant.”

  “You’re sure that she told you she was pregnant?” Harkins asked. “Or you’re sure that she was actually pregnant?”

  “Why would she lie about that?”

  “If I find out, I’ll let you know,” Harkins said.

  Kathleen folded her arms. Harkins sensed there was more she wanted to say, but he’d have to be patient.

  “And what about the other shit going on?” Kathleen asked. “The fact that Boone ignored all this stuff when we told him about it?”

  “I guess if it rises to the level of an actual crime, I’ll investigate that, too. Or at least report it to the provost. But I’m way out of my league here. Hell, yesterday at this time I was busting up whorehouse fights. So far all I’ve heard is that other docs are pushing the limit, too. If they put guys in jail for being assholes, there wouldn’t be enough people around to fight the war.”

  Donnelly smirked. “So you’ve got your doubts as to whether you’re ready to handle a murder investigation,” she said. “Much less corral a bunch of doctors acting like horny teenagers, and a commander who won’t look after his nurses.”

  “That’s putting it succinctly.”

  “But you aren’t the r
unning-away kind, so how can I help?”

  For the next hour Donnelly confirmed what Harkins had already gleaned from his conversations so far. As they talked, other nurses came in and left, and when Donnelly introduced him to her colleagues, their comments ranged from “I can’t believe what happened” to “You ask me, that bastard had it coming.”

  “So Stephenson drank, even here in a combat zone with all the casualties coming in.”

  “He did, and he always seemed to have a supply,” she said. “And he was always willing to share it with the nurses, which is how a lot of the trouble started.”

  “He’d get them drunk?”

  “Some of the girls are really young. Whitman was. Never been away from home before. Then you stick them in a man’s uniform and they’re dirty all the time and exhausted, they don’t feel much like women. Some handsome guy like Stephenson pays them some attention, geez.”

  “First time today I heard anyone describe him as handsome.”

  “Handsome on the outside only. I’d say he was a pig, but that would be insulting to pigs everywhere.”

  “Is it true he went into Palermo to get drunk?”

  “Can you believe that? We’d only been here three days, and he went into the city twice and came back pissed. One night we had casualties coming in; he was passed out somewhere. So it’s all hands on deck, you know? And he shows up at surgery and starts washing up. He could barely stand up by himself.”

  “What happened?”

  “What else? The nurses took care of the problem. Me and Felton and Melbourne dragged him out of there and shoved him back into his tent.”

  “Colonel Boone find out?”

  “Far as I know. But no one expected anything to happen. Boone always has the boys’ backs.”

  Harkins pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He was feeling no better for the hour of sleep he got before Patrick woke him.

  A sudden thought: If Patrick hadn’t heard yet about Michael, would it be better to hear it from a brother or from a letter? Were there any gradations in such terrible news?

  Harkins looked up at Kathleen, no idea how long he’d been silent.

  “Is that Boone’s story?” Harkins asked. “He backs up his docs?”

  “Some of the other nurses think he’s really a scheming, manipulative bastard. I think he’s just an odd duck, certainly a moral coward. He just let this stuff with Stephenson go on and on. Tell you the truth, I think he was afraid of Stephenson. Boone mostly lectured the nurses about what we were doing wrong.”

  “That’s what Felton told me.”

  “Like we were flouncing around in low-cut party dresses.”

  Harkins looked at Donnelly, tried to picture her in a party dress, or anything low cut. It had been days, maybe weeks since he’d thought of a woman, thought about sex; the constant state of exhaustion had killed his daydreams. Suddenly, that part of his brain was alive again, or at least had a weak pulse.

  “Felton told me there’s some people I need to talk to, one nurse in particular.” He pulled his sweat-damp notebook from his pocket.

  “Moira Ronan,” Donnelly said before Harkins found the page.

  “Yeah. I understand Stephenson had a thing for her.”

  “When you have a thing for someone you send her flowers, leave her notes. Stephenson targeted Moira.”

  “Will she talk to me?”

  “Maybe, if I introduce you as a friend from back home. But if you start playing the obnoxious cop, asking her if she encouraged him, she’ll clam up, and I’ll poison your canteen.”

  “Understood.”

  The two of them went outside; there was no sign of Colianno or the jeep.

  “He probably stole it to sell to some of his Sicilian relatives,” Harkins said.

  “Why do you have a paratrooper as a driver?”

  “My brother Patrick. He’s in the salvation business. He gave me Colianno as a project.”

  “Colianno was—is, I guess—sweet on Ronan,” Donnelly said. “She helped take care of him while he was sick.”

  “And?”

  Donnelly shrugged. “He’s a handsome guy, and this place is kind of a hothouse, and I don’t mean the weather. Stuff happens fast here.”

  “An enlisted guy and an officer?”

  Donnelly laughed. “We only have relative rank.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Most nurses are second lieutenants. They gave us gold bars so the GIs would have to take orders from us. But we don’t rate salutes, we rarely get promoted, and we get paid half of what a male second lieutenant makes.”

  “That’s a lousy deal.”

  “Yeah, it is. But I’m happy knowing Eleanor Roosevelt can sleep better at night.”

  They walked about two hundred yards to the nurses’ sleeping quarters, which also had its sides rolled up. A large sign tacked to the doorpost said NURSES ONLY. Inside, Harkins could see four or five figures crumpled on cots in various states of undress.

  “They just got off thirty-six hours straight duty. They could sleep if it were two hundred degrees. You wait here.”

  Moments later, Donnelly emerged with another woman.

  “Eddie Harkins, Moira Ronan.”

  Ronan had auburn hair, cut short like Donnelly’s. She wore a man’s T-shirt and pants rolled up to show chunky GI shoes. Red-rimmed eyes and sunburned cheeks. She was a couple of years younger than Kathleen and marginally cleaner, like she’d just taken a sponge bath from her helmet. With some rest and a bar of soap, Harkins thought, she’d look like Vivien Leigh.

  “Eddie is investigating the murder,” Donnelly said.

  “I don’t have anything to tell you,” Ronan said, voice flat.

  “I just want to ask you a few questions,” Harkins said. “It’d be a big help.” Then, to Donnelly, “Is there any place we can go?”

  “Private? Hardly. I guess we could walk to that bombed-out church. It might be empty.”

  “I go on duty in a few minutes,” Ronan said. “And I don’t know how I can help. I don’t think I can.”

  Two nurses emerged from the tent, stepped around Ronan, glanced back at the trio, and whispered to each other. Harkins backed off a few feet to a supply tent that had its sides down, gestured for Donnelly and Ronan to join him.

  “I’ve had people tell me I should talk to you about Stephenson.”

  “What difference does it make now?” Ronan said. “Whatever he was doing, he won’t be doing it anymore.”

  “Yeah, but I still have to find out who might have wanted him dead.”

  Ronan pointed at the large tent behind her. “Anybody living in there.”

  Another woman, wearing a first lieutenant’s bar, emerged from the tent. “Let’s go, Moira. The others are waiting on us to relieve them.”

  “Gotta go,” Ronan said. Still the flat tone.

  When she was gone, Donnelly said, “Cut her a break. She’s been through a lot.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Harkins said, “since she won’t tell me.”

  “You’re going to have to earn her trust. I’ll talk to her and we’ll try again in the morning.”

  “Would you say you guys are friends?”

  “She’s certainly the best friend I have here, and I think she feels the same way.”

  “Did she confide in you, like Whitman did? What do you know about what happened to her?”

  “I don’t know everything,” Donnelly said. “Back in North Africa, Stephenson was always trying to get her alone. Followed her around like a dog. Gave her liquor. But I think something else happened here a couple of days ago, maybe a week, and Moira and I haven’t been alone since. You can see how hard it is to find a place to talk privately.”

  Colianno pulled up beside them in Harkins’ jeep, stirring clouds of dust.

  “Where have you been?” Harkins said.

  “I found something; you’re going to want to come along.”

  Harkins looked at the paratrooper. Thomas had been a good driv
er, taking care of the vehicle and, to some extent, Harkins; but that was it. Colianno, it seemed, already thought of himself as kind of a junior partner in the investigation. Maybe this was some of that initiative the paratroops fostered and Patrick bragged about. Harkins was too tired to think about whether this was a good thing or not. He climbed into the passenger seat, turned to Donnelly.

  “See you later, OK?”

  She touched her eyebrow with two fingers, a Boy Scout salute.

  “Wait!” Another nurse came up behind Donnelly. It was Felton, the lieutenant Harkins met a few hours earlier in the mess tent. Harkins got out of the jeep.

  “Harkins, right?” Felton said.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded at Donnelly. “Kathleen.”

  “Brenda,” Donnelly said. “What’s with the duffle bag?”

  Felton was dragging a GI duffle, packed only half full, by the looks of it.

  “That’s why I came looking for you,” Felton said to Harkins. “Boone’s at it again, has started his counterattack.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got word to pack my gear and get on a truck for another hospital. I’m getting transferred.”

  “What happened?”

  “I might have had a little run-in with our commander. He came around a couple hours after the murder to ask how we were doing. Big friggin’ act, like he’s really concerned.

  “Anyway, I told him that I hoped we’d get another surgeon here fast to help with the patient load. Then I said, ‘I hope you can find one that isn’t an asshole.’”

  Donnelly looked at Harkins, then turned back to her friend, who was smiling.

  “This was in front of the other nurses?” Donnelly asked.

  “No! I’m not an idiot. I’m just fed up with Boone and all the shit he lets go on here. Anyway, next thing I know, First Sergeant Drake comes for me and tells me to pack. I’m going on a trip.”

  “Did we get a replacement?” Donnelly asked. The nursing staff was already shorthanded, she’d told Harkins, and Felton was one of the most experienced hands.

  “No,” Felton said. “And this also means you’re in charge of my section. Ronan, Melbourne, and Savio.”

  A two-and-a-half-ton truck stopped at an intersection about thirty yards away. There were four enlisted men and two nurses sitting on bench seats in the back. A sergeant in the front passenger seat called out, “Lieutenant Felton!”