A CALL TO COLORS: A NOVEL OF THE BATTLE OF LEYTE GULF

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Screams were heard as far as Strockmeyer Farms, nearly a quarter mile away...

  * * * * *

  Sabovik pulled up in Walt Logan’s dark blue Chevy two-door coupe and stepped out. He’d been to Roseville Community Hospital many times, but he’d never seen it like this. At least four ambulances choked the emergency room entrance. Another ambulance caromed around the corner, its siren screeching. He heard at least one other, blocks away, getting closer.

  Quickly he walked over to one of the ambulances, a gleaming red Cadillac. It was empty; the driver sat at the wheel, making notes. “What happened?” asked Sabovik.

  The driver, with slicked-back, pomaded hair, had a blood-spattered white coat. He looked up, took in Sabovik’s navy uniform, and said, “damn truck hit a school bus out on the main highway.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “Bad enough. Two kids dead. Truck driver dead. At least twelve injured kids. Some pretty awful.” He nodded back at the emergency room. ”Hey, I’m sorry, maybe one of them’s yours?”

  “No, that’s okay,” said Sabovik.

  “Good. Look, here comes another. Gotta scram.” He started the Cadillac, dropped the shift lever into low gear and pulled away with a screech. Another ambulance drew to a halt and expertly backed into the space, its siren mournfully winding down.

  The rear door blasted open and the attendants quickly wheeled out a gurney carrying a young boy. He was unconscious, a black-and-red checkered cap was jammed under his belt. Blood ran from under a bandage on his head. The ambulance attendants were joined by two nurses at the doorway, the four of them wheeling the gurney through the door and into the emergency room.

  Sabovik walked through the doors of what surely captured the essence of Bedlam Hospital. White-coated figures rushed about, trays and instruments scattered on the floor. A boy was being given a transfusion, the blood bag suspended high over the gurney as physicians worked on his chest. A girl, no more than seven years old, whimpered as a nurse tried to console her. Her face was red and she’d almost bitten through her lower lip. A bone protruded from her arm with a compound fracture; the nurse was trying to immobilize it as the girl spasmed in pain.

  Their whimpering, and shock, and incredulity, seized him like a giant steel claw. He was surprised there was no out-and-out screaming. But each groan, each tear, each blink of the eye conveyed pain, abject distress, and hopelessness in its rawest form. It reminded him too much of that horrible night aboard the Tampa. And Tiny.

  Wait until the parents show up, he figured. That’s when the screaming begins.

  Get out.

  Quickly he strode for the double doors and walked through. Diane Logan ran the opposite direction, her brow knit.

  “Hey.” She almost ran past. He had to grab her arm. She hadn’t recognized him.

  She drew up. “John. Oh, I’m sorry. Listen, I’ve got to –”

  “This is important. Do you know of a patient named Lorena Ortiz?”

  She hadn’t heard. She tried to pull away.

  “Dammit, listen to me,” he shouted. “Lorena. Lorena Ortiz.”

  She looked up, recognition flowing over her face. “Yes... Lorena. We had her in surgery. Punctured lung. Multiple fractures, including her skull. Massive internal bleeding. Lacerations... I don’t know, about everything that could go wrong when you fall three stories. Why?”

  “Will she make it?”

  A nurse punched open one of the double doors and shouted at Diane, “Doctor, please!” Then the nurse spun and went back in. Beyond the doors, the children’s groans beckoned in concert, as if a macabre chorus rehearsed a slow, morbid song.

  Diane jerked her arm. “John, dammit.”

  Sabovik yelled, “Will she make it? Tell me.”

  Her face froze in a cold expression. “Of course not. We... we have all this. I have to... triage... which means I don’t have time to try to save her. “ll we can do is keep her out of pain.” She pulled away and took a step then turned, her eyes narrowed. “Nitro is with her. That sick sonofabitch is trying to make her talk. What did Lorena Ortiz ever do to you? Bomb the Washington Monument or something?”

  “Is she talking?”

  “Sadist!” Diane Logan turned and dashed through the double doors.

  Sabovik ran the other way to the nearest desk and barked at the nurse. “Your patient, Lorena Ortiz, where is she?”

  Looking to the emergency room doors, the nurse stammered.

  “Lorena Ortiz, dammit!” shouted Sabovik.

  She pointed down the hall, “R... room 226. Through those doors. The old section.”

  Sabovik dashed through the doors, nearly knocking over two nurses and a doctor running the opposite direction. He turned the corner, finding the lights dimmer in this section. He had trouble reading the doorway numbers but eventually found the door to 226. It was nearly closed. Softly he pushed it open and walked in. It was dark. But he saw a form bent over the bed. A man said in an accented voice, “Schatze? Can you hear me?” He was dressed in a white surgical gown, a mask over his face.

  Sabovik looked around. Where is Nitro? He stepped to the opposite side of the bed and asked softly, “How is she doing, Doctor?”

  “Shhh.” The doctor glanced at Sabovik then shook his head and gently laid a stethoscope on her chest.

  Lorena Ortiz went, “Ahhhgghhh.”

  “Schatze,” whispered the doctor. He bent closer. “Listen, she’s trying to say something. Hear?”

  Lorena Ortiz’s mouth opened wide, and she gave another death rattle. Sabovik bent close to listen.

  Then it hit him Schatze! I get it! Sabovik straightened up. Almost not in time.

  The doctor’s fist swiped past where his neck had just been, a cold, gleaming scalpel in his hand. “Scheiss!”

  Sabovik stumbled backward and fell against an armchair. The chair spun on the floor and he fell over an inert form. It was too dark but he recognized Nitro’s crew-cut silhouette. And a dark sticky substance, pooled under his head.

  The doctor began moving around the bed toward Sabovik.

  “You haven’t a chance, Lattimer. Give yourself up,” said Sabovik. Madly, he fumbled over Nitro’s body, running his hands down the Marine’s back. Where the hell did he keep it?

  “I think she just died, Commander Sabovik. And I also think you will, too.” Taking his steps carefully, Lattimer eased around the bed, his hand raised, the scalpel gleaming.

  “The place is surrounded,” Lattimer said throatily, realizing his voice lacked conviction. “Why did you push her?”

  “She knew too much. Just like you.” Lattimer stepped closer. No more than five feet away.

  Sabovik ran his hands around Nitro’s back and around his belt line. Nothing, dammit.

  He looked up. Lattimer was poised to jump. The railroad conductor was at least six-three and weighed 220, far too much for Sabovik. He scooted away.

  “Ahhh.” Nitro’s left hand. It moved! God! The finger pointed to the corner. Quickly, Sabovik glanced over there. Something gleamed dully under the radiator. He slid over and reached.

  Lattimer must have seen it too, for he pounced.

  Dear God, let the safety be off. Sabovik grabbed the pistol, raised it, and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the report crashing in the room. The round ripped through Milo Lattimer’s heart, killing him instantly. But John Sabovik didn’t know this. He pumped two more rounds into Lattimer’s corpse just before it crashed on top of him.

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  24 October, 1944

  Lattimer Home, 224 Poplar Lane

  Roseville, California

  Milo Lattimer’s home was a two-bedroom bungalow on Poplar Lane. No more than a thousand square feet, it was a little Craftsman-style building set well back from the street. Two enormous oak trees flanking the walkway shaded the house with somber tones over an unkept yard enclosed by a rusty, hip-level chain-link fence. Built by Harry Ferguson in 1922, the little house had been part of a two-acre chicken ra
nch with a gully running in back. Ferguson’s Chicken Ranch thrived until 1937 when a furious rainstorm hit; the gully’s banks overflowed, washing away most of Harry Ferguson’s chicken coops, livestock, a small barn, and the single-car garage containing a 1933 Plymouth coupe, now a rusted hulk in the gully. Ferguson boarded up the three remaining chicken coops and rented the house to Milo Lattimer for $75.00 per month. With that, he and his wife, “lice, moved south to Canoga Park in the San Fernando Valley, where he rebuilt his chicken business and fared much better.

  Walt Logan’s Chevy rattled to a stop in front of the house. Inside were John Sabovik and Diane Logan, still in her lab coat. Wedged between them was Nitro, his face ashen white and his head wrapped in bandages.

  Sabovik flipped off the key, but the engine was hot and began to diesel over. The car bucked. He hit the brake and popped the clutch, killing the engine.

  “Does that all the time,” said Diane, surveying the house.

  “Try tuning the engine,” said Nitro.

  “Try getting parts,” said Diane.

  Nitro waved the back of his hand. “Details.”

  Sabovik opened his door. “Let’s go.”

  Diane laid a hand on his arm. “John, is this necessary?”

  “Of course it is,” said Sabovik. But then he saw her eyes well up. “Hon, what’s wrong?”

  “I just can’t believe this. Invading Milo Lattimer’s house. You don’t realize how kind he was. He helped cure people. He brough... he brought” – she rubbed a hand over her face – “Mike Donovan to me. Carried him right into the emergency room. Knew exactly what was wrong.” She grabbed Sabovik’s sleeve. “Couldn’t it be someone else? Maybe some other fiend set all this up. Maybe–” She paused “BYou killed the wrong man.”

  “Hon,” Sabovik replied. “He damn near killed Nitro and he was for sure going to kill me. You should have seen him swing that scalpel. He knew how to use it.”

  “All these years we’ve known Milo Lattimer. It’s because of him that I became a doctor. He’s... is... he was part of the family.”

  Sabovik offered, “Well, I’m sure glad you became a doctor.” He stepped out.

  She nodded at the bungalow. “But that’s Milo’s private residence. Shouldn’t we wait for next of kin or something?”

  “I doubt if Milo Lattimer, or whatever his name was, had any next of kin.” Sabovik was having second thoughts about bringing Diane. There were plenty of doctors now at the hospital taking care of the schoolchildren. But she’d finished her shift long ago, was getting punchy, and needed to get away from it. Sabovik agreed to let her come since she might know something that could help their investigation.

  “Wait up,” said Nitro.

  Diane lay a hand over Nitro’s forehead. “You still have a fever.” Lattimer had hit Nitro over the head, opening a terrible scalp wound. Diane had taken sixteen sutures. She thought he was in shock, but the marine wouldn’t slow down. “You’ve lost blood,” she continued. She grabbed his wrist. “See this? Your pulse is still ragged.”

  Nitro gulped down a small carton of orange juice and tossed it on the floor. “Not that I’m ungrateful, Doctor, but I have to go.”

  “It’s your funeral,” she said.

  Nitro sighed, “I have work to do, Doctor.”

  She called out the window to Sabovik. “Can you talk sense to him, John? He should be in bed.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s just a dumb jarhead.” Sabovik turned and walked toward the house.

  Nitro gave a lopsided grin. “Hear that? I think he likes Marines.”

  * * * * *

  There was no outdoor furniture or flower pots on the front porch, just a dusty doormat. Sabovik tried the front door. “Locked.”

  Diane asked, “Shouldn’t we wait for cops?”

  Sabovik said, “We don’t want the local police right now. But the FBI is sending a forensics team from the San Francisco field office.”

  “Why don’t we wait? I mean, do we have the authority to do this?” she asked.

  Sabovik said, “This is a highly classified matter--a matter of national security, actually. And I’m the lead in this investigation. We have all the authority we want.”

  “But this is Milo’s house. His private residence,” she said.

  Sabovik nodded toward the Chevy. “Maybe you’d like to leave.” He held up keys and jiggled them.

  She drew herself up straight. “No. Please, go ahead.”

  “Ever been inside?” asked Sabovik.

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Sabovik looked under the mat, finding nothing. Then he felt the eaves all the way to each of the porch’s corners. He looked at Nitro and shook his head.

  With a shrug, Nitro nodded at the front door. “Might as well.”

  “Right.” Sabovik stepped over and threw a shoulder at the door. The lock gave way with a soft crunch. The door squeaked in protest as he pushed it open. They walked into a plainly furnished living room. There was an armchair in one corner beside a gas stove, a plain wooden chair in the opposite corner. On the other side of the armchair was a mahogany cabinet, its finish done in high gloss.

  Nitro stepped over and raised a lid. “Looky here. RC” console phonograph and radio. Nice, looks brand new.” He stooped and looked inside. “Automatic record changer. What’ll they think of next?”

  Sabovik picked up some record albums off of a stack. “Let’s see. Toscanini plays Beethoven. Okay. Furtwängler plays Wagner. Right. Lauritz Melchior sings Verdi. Check. Hello?” He held up another album: “Spike Jones. Mr. Lattimer had a sense of humor,” Sabovik said without conviction. He could still feel Lattimer’s corpse collapsing on top of him. Only seconds before, the enraged man, alive and full of the devil’s own fury, had been intent on slicing John Sabovik to pieces with a surgeon’s scalpel.

  “Nitro, I’d like you to sit.” Diane pointed to the armchair.

  “In a minute.” Nitro stumbled toward the kitchen.

  Sabovik barked, “She’s right, Captain Collins. I want you to sit and be quiet. That’s an order.”

  Nitro stopped.

  “Right now, Captain.”

  “Right.” Nitro stepped back, sat heavily in the armchair, and idly shuffled through record albums.

  “Okay.” Sabovik looked around, finding a small desk with the usual bills, flyers, and bank statements, the highest balance: $477.23. After a cursory look at the floor, ceiling, and walls, he moved to the kitchen. Everything was in order, washed dishes neatly racked up on the drainboard. The bedroom was simple with a twin-size bed, dresser, end table, and chair. In the closet were boots, shoes, working shirts and trousers, one dark blue suit, foul-weather gear. Nothing out of order. Same for the bathroom. The other bedroom, simply furnished, yielded nothing. He walked into the living room and shook his head. “Damn. There has to be something.”

  “You’d think so,” said Nitro.

  “You missed this.” Diane walked in from the bedroom and threw a bathrobe in Nitro’s lap. “Take a whiff.”

  Nitro held it to his nose. “Wheeeow! This has got to be Lorena.”

  Sabovik tried it, finding it heavily laced with perfume. “Not cheap stuff, do you think?” he asked Diane.

  “Arpège,” she replied. “No, not cheap.”

  “Home sweet home,” said Nitro.

  “What else?” Sabovik peered behind the gas stove. He began tapping on the floors and walls.

  “Mind if I take a nap?” asked Nitro.

  Sabovik looked at Diane. She nodded.

  “Use the bedroom,” said Sabovik.

  “I do believe I will,” said Nitro, rising. With a yawn, he said, “But before I do, I have a question for you.”

  Sabovik dropped to his knees and peered beneath the record player. “Shoot.”

  “The sixty-four dollar question is, what is not here?” asked Nitro.

  “What?” Sabovik straightened up.

  “I’m asking, is there something that should be here that is not?”

/>   “Like a case of dynamite,” Sabovik said with sarcasm.

  “You’re not listening, John.”

  “Try me.”

  “See over there?” Nitro pointed to the opposite corner to a pile of newspapers. “Half of them turned to the weekly chess puzzle.”

  “So what?” said Sabovik looking around the room. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen a chess set. “Yeah... “

  “So where is it?” asked Nitro.

  Sabovik sat back and snapped his fingers. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Where the hell would it be?”

  “A place large enough for him to sit back and work his chess puzzles. Also, you might take a whiff of some of these record albums. They smell like shit. I mean the real stuff.” He paused for a moment. “Now this stupid jarhead is going to take a nap.” He shuffled off.

  * * * * *

  A team of three overalled FBI forensics specialists pulled up thirty minutes later in a panel truck. Neighbors gathered in front as the investigators opened the back door, grabbed satchels, and walked into the house. Soon great screeching noises echoed from the living room as they pried up floorboards and broke into walls.

  Sabovik was in the kitchen on his back under the sink, shining a flashlight up into rusty plumbing. Diane stood nearby, her hip braced against the drainboard. “Find anything?”

  “Three copies of Mein Kampf.”

  “Very funny.”

  Nitro walked in, smacking his lips and scratching his belly. Nodding toward the living room, he said, “Those guys could wake the dead.”

  “How do you feel?” asked Diane, reaching for a glass and nearly knocking it over.

  “Like I fell off the roller coaster at the Long Beach Pike. But on balance, not bad.” Nitro took the only kitchen chair and said, “Look, I got to thinking. What’d I say about the record albums?”

  Sabovik bumped his head on the hot-water valve and cursed. “You said they smelled like shit. Maybe it’s just mildew.”

  Nitro said, “Nope, I got to thinking. They smell like shit. Specifically, chickenshit. That’s what they smell like.”

  “Come on.”

  “But then don’t pay any attention to this old farm boy who grew up shoveling horseshit, cowshit, hogshit, chickenshit, batshit, dogshit, all kinds of shit.”