by Don DeNevi
“Signed by Asst. Div. Commander Brig Gen. Leavell C. Shepherd, and Chief of Staff Col. Amor LeRoy Sims.”
Neither movement nor sound could be detected among the 40 or more participants. Peter, sitting less than fifteen feet from the captain and podium, was aghast. It meant that as he, William and Ellen were in relaxed conversation on the beach, the multiple-murdering mad Marine was stalking his prey across the channel on Pavuvu.
Within a moment, Peter’s horror and dismay was transformed into a fierce rage. The number of Marines dead had jumped to three, overnight, within two days. Someone was running amok, with a fighting knife and no one, neither the military police nor the high staff of the 1st Division, had a single clue who was furiously attacking the defenseless without hinderance or suspicion.
What kind of a personality could be identified? Was there any extreme action that could be taken to prevent further murders? Didn’t all of Pavuvu have to be notified that they were in imminent danger? As far as he himself was concerned, didn’t he have an obligation to treat the murders with all the intensity his mind could muster? What triggers such homicidal mania? The onslaught of murderous frenzy, assailing recklessly?
“Meanwhile,” continued Captain Del Barbra, “There’s one more matter. In light of the two additional killings, the Marine Garrison Forces, Pacific, Melbourne, has assigned someone to assist me. After he has spoken his piece, Sgt. Guidi will meet with Battalion Commanders to establish the general patrol grid for us, beginning at 1800, three shifts, four hours each. You’ll be dismissed, then return at 1300 with your company and squad leaders’ list assignments by names.”
Turning towards Peter, the Captain motioned for the Lieutenant to step up to the podium.
“You all should meet and get to know Lt. Peter Albioni Toscanini, who has been assigned to assist me. Because of the lateness of the hour, I must refrain from the usual proper introduction. He’s a rising star in the Medical Corps because of his interest in the mind and brain of the murderer, especially the one who kills multiple times. He is being allowed in the medical corps to think differently rather than in the typical homicide mode.”
As Toscanini stepped forward, the Captain smiled for the first time that morning,
“What say you, young man?”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Pausing a moment, he said quietly, gradually raising his voice as he noticed all eyes were focused expectantly upon him.
“A rifleman understands that in action, he can die,” the lieutenant said. “But in battle, in pitched fighting, he feels a certain tranquility, comparable to finding himself in the eye of a storm. So, he fights as trained; competently, bravely. For a handful, the task is to fight heroically, certainly nobly.”
“But what causes him to flinch, to cringe, not in fear or terror, but in the utter disbelief a fellow Marine is ambushing other Marines? That is devastating for a warrior.”
“Now, five of our good men are lying in the infirmary, with severed, slashed arteries, some punctured to death. The slaughters are not at the hands of the Japanese Empire, but by a unknown native, or one of us.”
“This is what we know. He kills randomly among our men. He maneuvers freely. But that freedom is at night, between 2200 and 0200. Those who have seen him running in the shadows, hopping across roads, weaving his way between the tents and utility areas and warehouses, always reaching the edges of Tent City, then plunging into the densely black jungles.”
“Because he obviously knows the dense tropical growth so well, I want to assume he’s a Pavuvu native now housed with the other hundred or so in the old Japanese colony barracks on the northwest section of Banika. Or, he could be a rare defecting ‘fuzzy-wuzzies’ brought over from Guadalcanal to assist the Seabees, but refused to return, enjoying Banika and the Russells more. But that’s a pure, wild guess, since all ‘wuzzies’ were accounted for when they re-boarded the transport last week before the Hauser murder.”
“But the Pavuvu natives are of interest to us now. The few up-close sightings of the murderer tell us, if we can believe them, the man is dark, he is furtive, stalking, slinking in motion, noiseless. What has us leaning in his direction is how he can adapt to the jungle, boat or swim the channel so easily, so adroitly, from Pavuvu back to his Banika settlement. Throw in that he’s supposedly dark, bony-mouthed, fleshy-throated, large lipped. Supposedly, he has fat, thick arms with long, dark hairy mountain bear lumbering hands with thick fingers. He wields a bolo, a large Pacific Island single-edge knife, so highly polished it shines. In short, he’s big and dark.”
“Now, mind you, these are mere sightings, what shooters giving chase and aiming believe they saw. There could be truth to it and we’ve taken steps to investigate the village elders, and, if necessary, contain the occupants of their little hamlet, until the multiple - murderer is apprehended or killed. But we aren’t sure a Pavuvoan is the perpetrator.”
“Nonetheless, native or Marine, five painful letters have to be written and sent to the families of the dead five. And, possibly more letters before all this ends. How difficult to explain that either a jungle monster or a fellow Marine wielded a knife so large with such force, it cut through to the bone of their loved one.”
“Now, let me review a few other factors…”
Just then, a hand shot up to ask a question.
“Yes, sir. I should have asked if there were any questions before proceeding. Go ahead, officer.”
“How could such a hairy, large native get up close enough in a dense tent area with sufficient lighting to thrust an icepick into the chest and face of an armed sentry?”
“Yes, well, that’s the question, isn’t it? That fact alone may tell us the Mad Ghoul may not be a murdering native. He would have to be a fellow Marine, one strong enough to thrust a Ka-Bar so strongly, so deeply.”
“So,” Peter continued, “let’s summarize where we are at this precise moment with five fine American men, trusting, loyal boys dead on our hands for reasons having nothing to do with our mission to defeat a deadly foe.”
“As hard as it is to admit, there is currently no single accurate clue as to who the murder mad man is. The only method of determining his identity is to be present when he kills again. And, he most certainly will, perhaps as early as this evening, which promises a moonlit night after our normal afternoon showers.”
“Although none of us has the experience of a homicide detective, there are certain signs, or points, or indicators we can look for and note. For example, try to guess at the approximate moment of death, when you find, or are called, to the dead. Ask everyone near the scene when it could have happened. When did they last see the man and when was the corpse discovered. We must try to be as exact as possible to the range of hours, even minutes it happened.”
“In addition to determining the approximate minute when death occurred, as the unfortunate Marine praying all alone in the Battalion chapel, pay attention to the position of the body. Was it moved? Did he remain where he fell? Was he still alive when he hit the ground? We need to consider the angle of the instrument as it entered his neck. Was the victim so deep in prayer that he didn’t hear the killer, or that he knew him and turned his back on him?”
“As for the factors that may have dissipated with the hours and days, we need not be concerned. The murder occurred at night and the body discovered instantly, or within an hour or so. Same for the rigor mortis, the physical change of muscles. Time of death and discovery was so short, these last two don’t count, although note them in your reports.”
“And, try not to be opinionated in gathering your clues. And, be careful when dealing with, or working around the corpse.”
“Of course, all you come up with are preliminary findings that lead to additional examinations. But the points are the first, what to look for when arriving.”
“Now, let me say a few words about possible traits and characteristics of our murder mad.”
“Whomever this killer is, and I don’t believe it is a native, he is a c
ase study of a man in total agony. All multiple murderers are one minute apathetic and listless, indifferent to all around them, then, the next minute, delirious, turbulent, energized, coiling back to strike. Look more for the quiet, innocuous, decent fellow in the tents. Although it may seem impossible that someone so strong and violent, capable of plunging a sharp weapon, to the bone, is not the murderer, it may well be true. Prison guards know that the most dangerous men they have to deal with are not the overtly loud, obviously violent ones. The most dangerous are the quiet ones who shrink into corners, or back against the wall in fear. Once corralled or caught, he is apt to strike out with all his force to kill you. He lives in perpetual fear.”
“I don’t really know if I’m accurate. We’ve had multiple murderers since the beginning of time, I’m sure. They were never caught except by accident, or they died of old age or natural deaths. But today there’s a greater awareness of them. Homicide inspectors are telling the FBI about their failures, their inabilities to catch them in their towns and cities. My dream is to bring the retired inspector into the office to solve such murders.”
“What this new awareness is telling us is that the murderer of many is a white male. Well, we’ve got 16,000 of them right over there. He’s smart. He’s intelligent. And, he’s planned well his killings. He’s a kid without a father, from a broken home. He may have been sexually assaulted by that very absent father. And, the kid is depressed and lonely.”
“No murder-mads are alike. And, there are several ways they are not alike. One, is the way in which he selects his victims. On Pavuvu, it appears he is choosing his victims only in terms of their remoteness and the nearby access to safety. That means the Marines on the periphery of any settlement, Tent City, or hospital, any area where sleep is inevitable, or allowed, are in danger the most. Those in the core of the sleeping are safe. At the forthcoming meeting at noon, and the planning and assignments of sentries, I’ll recommend the majority of our infantrymen and riflemen be assigned out there, rather than in here within Tent City.”
“My point is that whomever is going around bumping off our boys in the black night with an instrument designed large enough to kill cows is not just killing for the sake of killing. Here, he has only one type of person to kill; a young white soldier. Out there, he murders ‘types’ of people he hates or has a grudge on or against. His modus operandi may have been chosen because the victims are all asleep, disposable because they are helpless. Or, the victims could be a certain minority, homosexuals, blondes, etc. The bottom line is that if we look closely at every one of his murders, he is dropping clues as to why he has killed him, and what has made him select who he has selected in those places he can get away easily.”
“Our murder-mad Marine may be obsessed with manipulation and domination. Stateside, he uses ‘ruses’ or ‘cons’ to get next to his victims. Here, he knows what he is doing and why. ‘Is he insane?’ you ask. Well, let me put it this way. He will have problems convincing a judge or jury he is criminally insane. This murderer knows what he is doing and he knows the difference between right and wrong.”
After a brief pause during which there was a tomb-like silence, Peter concluded,
“Perhaps with luck, today will be the day we either catch him, or kill him. If not, we all have to do what we can in our small way to put an end to it. It will not be easy, because, in a way, we know nothing about who he is, or why he’s doing it.”
“But remember this as you go about your work. Our minds, or I should say, the mind of the murder mad always has a purpose. He has less control than he thinks. His mind is a labyrinth of complexes, guilt, aggressions, sex, fears, anxieties. People aren’t what they seem. All people wear masks. If you don’t see beneath the mask, it’s entirely possible you may be targeted as the next victim to be slashed to death.”
As Peter raised his hand to signal the meeting had concluded, and the audience that had been so rapt and aghast quietly stirred to stand and leave for their respective offices and units, someone asked loudly,
“What about a mental test to administer to everyone?”
Peter looked up with a quick smile and responded,
“Oh, if only it were that easy! A mental test for a special severe type of neuroses that commits murder. I’m afraid we’d find one Marine in every 10 would be suitable for instantaneous admittance to the asylum of the criminally insane. Three out of every 10 would be readied in shackles for the stockade. And, mostly from the officer’s corps.”
Everyone grinned in agreement.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if such a device existed? After this war is concluded, it’s something for the advance thinkers in criminal psychology to create. I’m afraid most of our combat veterans would not sit still for a mental exam inquiring if they were multiple - murderers. Besides, the organized, intelligent murder-driven killer with a trace of imagination could fake it. How would we know if the test we devised was valid, reliable, and even usable among such large numbers of men?”
“Well, how would you fake it?” someone else asked.
“By telling you what you want to hear.”
With everyone pausing, fascinated by this last bit of discussion, Peter, pleased, said,
“We’re just in the beginning stages of developing psychometric mental exams that can yield believable scores, shedding light on the mind with evil intent. And, even if I could point to one of you, I would need an eyewitness to corroborate the score, not numbers to substantiate the killer.”
As the session terminated, and a hushed rush to return to offices and resume the day’s business, Peter, answering a number of brief questions, exited the small patio pavilion into the shimmering white blur of the Pacific sun directly overhead. The cool breeze was welcomed after lecturing at length in the warm air of the hospital structure. Peter’s rapid eyes swept the large entrance area and narrow walkways for anyone he knew to have a quick lunch with in the nearby officer’s canteen.
Suddenly, from behind him, a familiar feminine voice called out cheerfully,
“Peter! Wait!”
It was Ellen, smiling and walking rapidly toward him. Seeing her enthusiasm in calling out to him pleased Peter. She really was a lovely person and he liked her very much.
“Heard every word you said. What a marvelous lesson!”
“Didn’t see you in there with all the others. Where were you sitting?”
“Got there a little late. Had to sit in the back. Did you know another body was found this morning behind the hospital’s X-ray unit?”, she asked, her voice lowered, somewhat faltering.
Peter paled. He stared silently at Ellen, incredulously. Slowly, he responded,
“No, I didn’t hear. No wonder Oscar was so quiet and secretive. Never saw him so deliberative. Who was found and where?”
“One of the nurses in our unit on Banika.”
“Banika? That makes a total of six, four in one day! Ellen, I have to get to Oscar’s office. I was looking for someone to have a bowl of soup with in the canteen and thank goodness, you showed up.”
As she looked up at him, he thought for a moment how much he enjoyed both her company and that of Bill Lundigan’s. The very sight of her made him break out into a warm smile, as it did when seeing Bill earlier.
“No lunch today, Ellen. We’re not just trying to catch, and if necessary, kill the Mad Ghoul, the whole 1st Division is now at war with the monster. We will kill him on sight. I wish I could cage him to study the mind of the reptile. But I must acknowledge we have to kill him as soon as possible. Now, I must get to Captain Del Barbra’s office and learn what time and how the nurse was murdered. Then, I’ll examine each of the three bodies to see what I can decipher. I also need to talk to the sentries, and anyone who saw even a glimpse of the murder - mad.”
“I understand. Wish I could help you, regardless of how blood-curdling it all is.”
“After an early supper, we’ll have an hour or so before sundown, you, Bill and me, to catch up on things. Then, I must
return to Pavuvu to assist on patrolling all night and being immediately available in case he’s killed or caught.”
“Yes. I have an intuition you’ll come across him tonight.”
“So, same place, same time. I’ll have more information. Try to get Bill to have something to eat first. He has to chow early, like I will.”
Ellen sighed heavily. Looking directly into his eyes, she suddenly was overwhelmed with an irresistible yearning to reach out and touch Peter’s cheek. The normal twinkle in his eyes seemed to radiate as an almost imperceptible brighter, luminescent shade of red crossed his face. Ellen smiled, then abruptly turned and walked hurriedly down the road toward the pontoon bridge across the channel to her hospital workstation and nurses’ quarters on Banika.
“She’s so neat,” Peter, thought for a moment as he watched her graceful figure walk away. No nurse’s outfit could conceal something so naturally beautiful.
“Fastidious, intelligent, and gentle with an infectious spirit and smile,” he mused.
With that, Peter Albioni Toscanini turned and instantly refocused on the matter of multiple murders. His facial expression of delight changed back to a mixture of shock, perplexity, and utter unqualified anger.
CHAPTER TEN
-
Shock, Perplexity, and Insatiable Fury
Friday, August 5
As Peter topped the short rise of the steps to the 1st Division Headquarters, the increasingly strong breeze from the sea suddenly metamorphosed into a typical Russell island afternoon of howling torrential shower.
Pausing a moment to turn and gaze upon the torrential rain now descending in sheets to form little rivulets gushing down the winding crushed coral driveway to the Pacific, he heard the double-glass door swing open and someone call out,
“Hey, you old murderer - hunter, catch him yet?”
Peter smiled, recognizing the voice with a slightly lisping pronunciation. It was that of Rev. Wilfred Pinoe, the 1st Division Chaplain, one of the Lieutenant’s favorite officers and a multi-denominational chaplain, a man most of the Marines regardless of religious denomination admired. In addition to being a competent, caring clergyman, attached to the Corps, he was proud of his lisp. Not only did he boast he had it since the age of five, but employed it as a teaching aide for those unfamiliar with the articulation disorder. Pointing to his partially open mouth, he would giggle, “Only comes when I’m unhappy, excited, angry, or plain happy to see you.”
