The Diaries - 01

by Chuck Driskell

  The old-style black and white, block NCO evaluation reports read like nominations for the Army’s soldier of the year award.

  Integrity beyond reproach.

  The pinnacle of a professional soldier.

  Keen intelligence and reasoning ability.

  Then, in 1992, his commander in Germany, a Captain Thomas Halpin, had written the most glowing letter of recommendation for Schoenfeld’s Special Forces packet that Ellis had ever read in all of his adult life. He felt it had been overdone, that is, until he found Halpin.

  Halpin had obviously done well for himself, now a major general stationed in D.C. at the Pentagon. He was a soft-spoken man on the phone, duly surprised when Ellis told him the inquiry was about Sergeant Matthew Schoenfeld.

  “Schoenfeld?” asked the general. “Of course I remember him, one of the best I ever commanded. You don’t forget guys like him. Now if I’m not mistaken, he was killed quite some time ago. Why on earth would CID be interested in him?”

  “That’s complicated, sir.” Ellis said.

  “I would imagine,” Halpin remarked.

  “Sir, I don’t need to tell someone of your level that this is highly confidential.”

  “Pretty sure I’m cleared, cap’n.”

  “Well sir, you may be, but when I tell you where this thing has gone, I think you’ll see that this inquiry is a little bit out of the ordinary.” So Ellis talked, speaking only in facts, not hypothesizing at all, allowing Halpin to fill in the gaps for himself. The general was one thing most good leaders are: an excellent listener. Ellis would have probably characterized the lack of noise from the other end of the satellite link as a thunderstruck silence.

  “That’s all I’ve got, sir,” Ellis said when he finished.

  There was a long moment of silence before Ellis heard the general clearing his throat. “Well, that certainly is a story, captain.”

  “It’s him, sir. I’ve seen him in person; I’ve seen the pictures; I’ve read the files. I know it’s hard, sometimes, to believe something that’s unbelievable…and to trust a crusty former beat-cop captain that the Army should have put to pasture long ago, but that’s just what I’m asking you to do. I need your thoughts. I need your opinions. I need to know what you know, and then I’d like your guess on what Matthew Schoenfeld has been doing since his purported death.”

  Ellis heard Halpin speaking to someone else. “Tell him he can wait, and clear out of here and close the door. I need a few minutes. What? Well then, tell him to go let Colonel frigging-horseshoe-and-four-leaf-clover-up-his-butt Davis tell him about the hole-in-one he got last week down in Florida.” He came back on the line. “Sorry about that. Everyone around here’s in a damned hurry.”

  “What do you think, sir?”

  Halpin paused. “Sergeant Schoenfeld was one of those guys—you see them about once a decade in the Army—that makes you think, ‘What the hell is he doing here?’” There was a chuckle and he muttered to himself, “I haven’t thought about this stuff in years.” Halpin paused for nearly a half a minute before continuing.

  “He could do just about anything, and I remember being proud like a father when he would. As a young buck sergeant, that fellow singlehandedly won us the battalion best-by-test—kind of a battery versus battery competition—all through innovation and performance. And when we won, he wouldn’t take any credit for it.” Ellis could almost hear Halpin’s brain turning, thinking about what an ideal special ops or black-ops soldier Schoenfeld would have made. Halpin continued after a pause. “Always maxed his PT tests, and was always the fastest in the two-mile run. Could shoot the ass out of a bumblebee on the three-hundred meter range and turned down a chance to try out for the Army’s shooting team. He had everything a commander wants and, on top of that, was a damned pleasure to be around.”

  Ellis hummed as he pondered the first personal background he had ever heard about his suspect. “Sounds like he was, or is, quite a person. So let me ask you, sir. Hearing all this, if you had to guess, what do you think happened?”

  There were shifting sounds as Halpin must have settled himself into his chair. “Obviously the kid got taken off the grid. Not a big surprise either. You can’t hide talent. Guys like him either wind up a sergeant major, an officer, or most times, they get out and become successful on the outside.” Halpin made a tutting sound and Ellis remained quiet, letting him ruminate. “His scores were probably off the charts, and I would guess he lit them up over at Special Forces. Someone probably saw he was at the top of the food chain over there and nabbed him. Who? I don’t know. You can rise to the top of the artillery and still be somewhat nameless. But if you do it in special ops, the brass’ll notice. Definitely. What I do know is that whoever got him would have had to have been someone on our side. Schoenfeld was no traitor.”

  “This is excellent, sir.” Ellis had said, jotting several items down.

  Halpin’s voice lowered, sounding as if he was speaking to himself. “So we kill him off, on paper, and then he’s a rogue. Capable. Adept. Untraceable. Maybe a part of a team or maybe just reporting to some hollow-team at Langley, and—” Halpin stopped before he sucked air in rapidly, the sound clear to Ellis thousands of miles away.

  “Sir?”

  Halpin coughed, taking a moment to clear his throat. “Sorry. My mind just came back to something. You said he left both the hotel clerk in France and the cop in Germany alive?”

  “Yes. Subdued them both quickly before taking what he wanted. Left no damage at all.”

  “A pro.”

  “Seemingly.”

  “So why would he be so stupid as to kill his girl, and then the other hotel clerk, both way over in Frankfurt?”

  This is what had been bothering Ellis, but he was glad to hear Halpin coming to the same conclusion. “Interesting, sir. Please go on.”

  “Well, that’s it. He must have got mixed up in something in, where was it, Metz?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It was messy, and he tried to clean it up. That book dealer’s sister was probably right, and her brother got offed by someone, but not Schoenfeld. You with me?”

  “Absolutely. Go on.”

  “Captain, the Metz killer is who came and killed his girl in Frankfurt. I’d bet my retirement on it.”

  Halpin was very intelligent—thoroughly enjoying playing detective for a few minutes—and doing a damned fine job in Ellis’s eyes. “So where do you think we will find him now, sir?”

  “That’s easy.”

  “It is?”

  “Damned right.”

  Ellis didn’t like making a general explain himself, but had no choice. “All due respect, but where, sir?”

  Halpin chuckled again. “You’ll find him, captain, in no other place than Metz…assuming that’s where the real killer is from. Whoever did this to him will be made to pay. Mmm-hmm. Hartline’s gonna make him pay dearly.”

  Ellis’s throat went dry. “What makes you say that, sir?”

  “As I’ve said, Sergeant Schoenfeld was a good kid. Not the kind to make trouble. Once, though, I did have to call him on the carpet. He and a buddy were having a few beers at the Alpine Club there on post, and some jerk, I think he was from the ADA unit, sucker-punched both of them—no provocation whatsoever. It got broken up before they could get him back. The guy was an asshole: a great big bully with a history of altercations when he’d gotten liquored up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, as I remember it, Schoenfeld goes back the next week, sits in the dark part of the bar and waits, all alone, mind you. Later on, in walks the big armor guy, like he’s king of the place. From what they told me, Schoenfeld went up and tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he remembered him.”

  “And did Hartline…er…Schoenfeld sucker punch him right back?”

  “Not then. He told the guy that they should go out back, all alone.”

  “All alone?”

  “Yep. Said something like, ‘Because I don’t want anyone to be able
to stop it once we start.’”

  “That’d get a man’s attention.”

  “They said that big armor guy, a real brawler, about pissed himself. Schoenfeld was smaller than him, but hearing something like that’d make any man think twice.”

  “So did they fight?”

  “Yeah, they fought. From all I gathered it was a prizefight, but Schoenfeld gave up forty or fifty pounds to the goon. Schoenfeld was pretty banged up afterward—all superficial—but they told me the armor guy had his eyes blacked, his nose bloodied, and one of his orbital sockets was shattered. I’ll tell you one thing, no one messed with Sergeant Schoenfeld after that. Ever.”

  Ellis shook his head. “Was Schoenfeld a trouble maker at all?”

  “Heck no, cap’n. Not one bit. Nicest guy you’d ever meet. Just didn’t like someone having his way with everyone and he fixed it...bet that badass quit picking on people after that, too. Schoenfeld was always like that, making things better. Just like he did when he won us that best-by-test.”

  Ellis had stared at his notes, readying another question when Halpin cut him off.

  “Maybe he isn’t in Metz…yet. Or maybe he’s already had his revenge and did it so quietly that you’ll never hear about it. But I know this much: if he’s alive, he won’t forget what happened. He’ll get his five dollar’s worth, and he’ll have his powder dry when he does it.”

  Coming back to the present, Ellis rubbed his eyes, his recollection nearly having lulled him to sleep. With Stuttgart in the rear view mirror and the proverbial hills of the Black Forest just beginning, the general’s words rang in his head as he and Sorgi puttered southward. Halpin made Ellis promise ten different ways to report back to him once he knew something. Hopefully that time would come very soon.

  After combing through all of Schoenfeld’s personnel records, and cross-referencing to men he served with, there was one hit Ellis found the most interesting: a Special Forces sergeant first-class named Kenneth Mars. He had been only one of eleven soldiers to graduate with Schoenfeld from his Special Forces class, and he was now the only one that Uncle Sam registered as living in Germany, stationed in the town of Böblingen—close to the French border, just a few hours from the city of Metz.

  “How far, Sorgi?” Ellis asked, rubbing his eyes.

  “Just a few more klicks, sir.”

  “Good.”

  ***

  Böblingen, Germany

  The military gas station was crowded with soldiers and dependents filling their gas tanks for their weekend activities. The attendant was on his toes in the small hut, collecting the USAREUR gas coupons, allowing his customers to purchase fuel at well below half the price they would pay on the German economy. Kenny Mars, after waiting for two cars to fill up, squeezed the handle on the regular unleaded pump, allowing fuel to flow into his Explorer when an olive-colored Army TMP van pulled behind him. A cold breeze swirled. Kenny listened to the pump ticking, feeling eyes on him. He turned to the van. Two men stared back at him. Finally, the van’s occupants, a fifty-something black man and a younger, bird-faced white fellow, exited, stretching as they stood. They were both in civilian clothes and, as tall and thin as they both were, made an unusual pair.

  “Sergeant First Class Kenny Mars?” the older one asked with a toothy grin, stepping beside the pump.

  “Yeah, who are you?” They were driving an Army vehicle, but the fact that they were in civvies didn’t match, putting Kenny slightly on edge.

  “Kenny, I’m Captain Damien Ellis, this here’s Sergeant Jim Sorgi,” the man said in a friendly tone, producing his badge and credentials. “What do you say we buy you a cup of coffee over at the Burger King?”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll take just a minute,” Ellis said.

  “Why do you want to talk to me?” Kenny demanded.

  “It has to do with a friend of yours.”

  Kenny hid his reaction, shrugging and finally nodding as he stared at the gas pump. During the week of planning, he and Gage had several conversations about culpability, and how to avoid Kenny’s becoming entangled in Gage’s mess. How in the hell could Gage have already been caught? Maybe they nabbed him at the first train stop and he immediately spilled his guts. But why? It didn’t seem to fit with his character to roll over so easily, especially on a friend.

  And even had the police found the disassembled Walther, they couldn’t track the serial number because it wasn’t registered. And if it ever had been, it would be shown as the property of the biggest drug-runner in Mexico. No, this is some sort of investigative check—it has to be.

  The old investigator was still standing there, just staring at him. Kenny refused to look at him, trying to appear relaxed while his mind raced.

  On his third day with Gage, sitting on the bleachers at the soccer field behind his apartment, his old friend had listed the items he thought he might need. Simple things like telescoping mirrors and lanyards. The tougher things, a lock pick-gun and the Walther, were provided to Gage from Kenny’s personal stash, kept in his locker back at the unit. Kenny swiped the flares from the flammable items conex. They weren’t numbered, so their remains couldn’t be traced back to anyone. The flares were inventoried, though, and would eventually be missed. But something as simple as trip flares would most likely be written off without much notice. The passport would possibly be missed, but by the time anyone looked for it, Gage’s task would long since be over.

  The pump clicked to a stop as the safety valve kicked in. Kenny replaced the handle, glancing at the older investigator.

  “That Ford use a lotta gas?”

  “What friend do you want to discuss?” Kenny asked, ignoring the question.

  “Like I said, let’s have a hot cup of coffee, my treat. If we don’t, I might fall asleep,” he said, again showing his toothy grin.

  “Let me pay for my gas,” Kenny said flatly.

  ***

  The Burger King was located in the small PX complex just off of Panzer Kaserne, on the eastern edge of Böblingen. The gas station was next door and, after Kenny paid the attendant, they parked the two vehicles and the three men walked without a word around to the Burger King. Sorgi ordered a bottled water for Kenny and two coffees for himself and Captain Ellis.

  Kenny stared at Ellis across the table. Ellis met his eyes and waited patiently on Sorgi in thunderous silence.

  “So who exactly is this about?” Mars asked after three full minutes.

  Ellis offered a kind smile. “Let’s wait on Sergeant Sorgi, if you don’t mind.” He twirled the salt shaker, knowing he would have to play this just right. He definitely had a feeling he was on to something, at least in regard to the look in Kenny’s eyes. Old Kenny has something to hide. Yeah…it’s in there, hidden behind his professional mask of trying to act curious, demanding the name and all that. It was the right emotion to feign, and Mars wasn’t bad at it, but Ellis could see through the ruse. Better skip the local theater, Mister Mars. Sign up for acting classes instead.

  Ellis gently touched the green beret that lay on the table. “Special Forces, huh?” he asked, whistling through his teeth. “Bet you’ve been some places. Done some stuff.”

  “I guess,” Kenny answered disinterestedly.

  “I hear they’ve tripled the size of special ops, in regards to the number of personnel. Part of the military’s new order of battle.”

  Kenny waved a hand, dismissing it. “Seems that way. New guys all over.”

  “Bet they’ve eased the selection process too. Doesn’t that just get your goat?” Ellis asked. “Guys like you who bled for that fancy beret. Now they give ‘em out like jump boots.”

  Kenny licked his lips, nostrils flaring somewhat. But he remained silent.

  Sorgi finally arrived, sliding the water to Kenny and the coffee to his boss. The two investigators took long sips of the hot liquid. “Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Ellis said. “Been going strong for over a day and needed this caffeine badly hours ago.” He slurped the coffee again.
“Very badly.”

  “So, sir…all due respect…what the hell is all this? I’m between deployments, trying to get some stuff done, and have a helluva lot to do.”

  “Sure, sure.” Ellis leaned forward, showing his big grin for a third time. His question came like a sudden burst from a machine gun. “When was the last time you saw Matthew Schoenfeld?”

  Both men stared at Kenny’s reaction closely.

  Kenny didn’t flinch. His eyes didn’t dilate or blink. He sat stone still, finally taking a deep breath and exhaling as he answered. “Wow. Schoenfeld. Assuming you’re talking about the one I’m thinking about, I knew him way back in training.”

  Ellis nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Kenny blinked several times before continuing. “We went out as a big group to celebrate our language school graduation, in San Fran. That would have been…jeez…ninety-four, and that was the last time I ever saw him. Heard he was killed shortly thereafter.”

  “Really?” Ellis asked, surprised. “That’s awful.”

  Kenny stared at the two men without saying anything. He remained expressionless.

  “And you haven’t spoken to him since, sergeant?” Sorgi asked.

  “Didn’t I just say he was dead?”

  A long, pregnant silence ensued.

  Kenny Mars alternated his view between both men. “Why are you asking me about a dead man?”

  “Drove from Frankfurt,” Ellis said. “Just curious.”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “You told the guys at your unit that you were heading to the gas station and the PX.” The corner of Ellis’s mouth turned up. “Not many blue Ford Explorers around here driven by a black man wearing a green beret. Wasn’t too tough to find you.” He gulped down the rest of his coffee and asked Sorgi to go get refills. He turned back to Kenny. “You want anything else? I’m buying. A Whopper? Milkshake?”

  “No.”

  “Go ahead, Jim.” Sorgi took the two cups and walked to the beverage bar, lingering there and staring out the window.