Blame the Dead

by Ed Ruggero

  “Yes, sir. Private first class, actually. Name’s—”

  “And you are aware that this private is alleged to have had a sexual relationship with one of the nurses?”

  Boone, standing behind Meigs, allowed himself a tiny smile.

  Meigs pulled a notebook from his breast pocket, held it at arm’s length, squinted. “A Second Lieutenant Moira Ronan, I believe. Correct?”

  “Allegedly, yes, sir.”

  “And you know that such relations between officers—even officers of relative ranks like our beloved nurses—that such relations are against regulations?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is this Nurse Ronan?”

  Boone answered. “AWOL, Colonel. In Palermo, I suspect. Hidden in a private home there by Lieutenant Harkins and Private Colianno.”

  “You helped Ronan go AWOL?” Meigs asked Harkins.

  “Sir, if I can explain—”

  “You’ll get a chance to explain, Lieutenant. I want to establish a few facts first. Context, as it were.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you helped Nurse Ronan go AWOL. I assume, then, that you did not alert Colonel Boone as to her location. Did not inform her commander.”

  “She was hiding from Colonel Boone, sir. And with good reason.”

  “Oh, and why was that?”

  “Initially because Colonel Boone was going to ship her to Tunisia, so that she couldn’t be part of the investigation.”

  “Into Stephenson’s death?” Meigs asked.

  “Lieutenant Ronan reported that Stephenson had raped her. That Colonel Boone has tolerated a command climate in which that kind of behavior was allowed to flourish.”

  “That’s a serious accusation, Lieutenant,” Meigs said. “A very serious accusation against a senior officer and respected surgeon.”

  “There’s more, sir. Another nurse was assaulted, and I think it was connected.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Nurse Donnelly, sir. Kathleen Donnelly.”

  “Is she OK?”

  “Seems to be, mostly.”

  “Was Nurse Donnelly also sexually assaulted?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. Knocked down. She fought back.”

  “And you have a theory that this was to dissuade her from—what, exactly?”

  “I think it was to discourage me from investigating any further. Nurse Donnelly and I are friends, were friends back in the neighborhood where we grew up.”

  “So we have a nurse who was knocked down, and another who says she was sexually assaulted. Do you have any evidence of rape other than the word of this AWOL nurse?”

  “Several of the nurses told me they were constantly harassed, subject to groping and unwanted advances.”

  “Any of them report being raped? By Doctor Stephenson or anyone else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But they reported, what, a not-so-great work environment?”

  “That would be one way to characterize it, yes, sir.”

  “And you have these interviews in your notes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Meigs leaned back in the folding chair, studying Harkins. He reached for his cane and absentmindedly ran his thumb back and forth across the top of the lion’s head. Harkins’ mouth was dry; he could feel bits of skin on his sun-chapped lips.

  “Go on, Lieutenant.”

  “First Sergeant Drake found Nurse Ronan in Palermo, found out where she was staying.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “He figured out which motor pool driver knew where she was.”

  “Whose house was this? The one where Nurse Ronan was hiding.”

  “It belongs to a family member of my driver, Private First Class Colianno.”

  “The one who had a relationship with Ronan?”

  “An alleged relationship, yes, sir.” Harkins was flailing; he knew it, and so did everyone else in the room. He felt like he did when another boxer pushed him to the ropes. Had to get his feet under him.

  “And then what?”

  “Colonel Boone showed up at the same house. Ronan was inside talking to First Sergeant Drake when Colonel Boone knocked on the door and announced himself. She left—Drake told her to leave. Next thing we have is Drake shot to death.”

  Meigs pulled steel-rimmed spectacles from his pocket, wiped them with a snow-white handkerchief. He settled the glasses on his face, hooked the curved pieces behind ears that sported tufts of hair as big and as white as surgical bandages.

  “So you have an AWOL nurse—not the best witness, by the way—who says she was raped by a doctor who obviously cannot tell his side of the story. You have other nurses who have complained the men were paying too much attention to them, were getting too friendly.

  “You have a dead first sergeant, and this same nurse claims that she heard Colonel Boone’s voice outside the apartment where the shooting took place. Did she see Colonel Boone?”

  “No, sir. Just heard him. But we have another witness who will be able to identify Colonel Boone as the GI knocking on that door.”

  This was a stretch, as Harkins had not confirmed that the old woman who’d seen the tall GI could identify Boone.

  “And this witness is?”

  “A neighbor. An elderly Sicilian woman.”

  “Did she claim to have seen the first sergeant murdered?”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you can find her again.”

  “I’m sure of it, sir.”

  “And she won’t be confused? Doesn’t think all Americans in uniform look alike?”

  In Harkins’ few visits to courtrooms in his police work, he’d seen defense attorneys poke enormous holes in the testimony of witnesses who had otherwise seemed strong and reliable. Meigs wasn’t using those kinds of blitzkrieg techniques—the old man was trying to be judicious, fair—but Harkins felt his case getting weaker by the minute.

  “You want to arrest Colonel Boone on the basis of thin evidence. You can see, certainly, that his arrest would interfere with the work of this hospital? That it would be a disruption, especially given the tragic loss of the first sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. I can see where that might cause problems, but there are other considerations, such as the safety of the staff, the nurses.”

  “Colonel Boone has advanced another theory of what happened here,” Meigs said. He leaned back to glance at Boone, gave him an impatient, go-ahead nod.

  “Let’s set aside for a moment Lieutenant Ronan’s claim about Stephenson,” Boone said. “She has no proof, indeed did not make a complaint until you showed up and perhaps put it into her head.”

  “Don’t speculate, Colonel,” Meigs interrupted. “Let’s all of us try a little less speculation and a little more fact.”

  “Yes, sir,” Boone said.

  Then, to Harkins again. “Did you know your driver, Private Colianno, is rumored—excuse me—is suspected of having murdered a fellow paratrooper on D-Day?”

  Boone mispronounced Colianno’s name: Cold—ee—no. Did it deliberately, Harkins thought. Petty little bastard.

  “I heard something about that, yes, sir. But as you say, it’s unsubstantiated. Like Lieutenant Ronan’s claim, I guess.”

  Boone’s eyes narrowed, and his cheeks flushed, though it might have been the heat.

  “Colianno is a hothead, quite capable of violence. He was in trouble for brawling and would have been in the stockade if your brother, the chaplain, hadn’t taken a personal interest. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

  Harkins did not answer, but rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, then back onto his heels. Felt the red tide of his temper rise through his chest, rode it back down again.

  “Was your driver with you during the time that First Sergeant Drake was murdered?” Meigs asked.

  Colianno had been on Lindner’s trail, out dealing with his cousins.

  “No, sir,” Harkins said.

  “‘No, sir’ what?” Meigs asked.

 
“He was not with me that whole afternoon.”

  Boone jumped in. “And you’ve already admitted that he was at the house where Drake was killed. Knew where the house was.”

  Harkins drew a slow breath, unclenched his teeth.

  He wanted to say that Whitman hadn’t choked to death, and that Boone had signed a phony death certificate. He wanted to question Boone about how he made money in a war zone. But he didn’t have anything solid, and he couldn’t expose Kathleen and her ad hoc autopsy.

  “You killed Drake,” Harkins said. “And I’m going to arrest you for that.”

  Meigs interrupted. “We’re familiar with your theories, Lieutenant. But I’m not sure you appreciate what you’re asking me to do.

  “You want me to take the word of an AWOL nurse that she heard Colonel Boone’s voice, though she never saw him. And you want me to believe a local woman, an elderly woman, who may or may not testify that Colonel Boone was outside the apartment where a murder took place. Bear in mind that neither woman claims to have seen Colonel Boone murder anyone.”

  “Colonel Boone is a suspect in two murders. He’s got good reason to lie,” Harkins said.

  “Now it’s two murders,” Meigs said. “Anything else you want to throw in?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s something going on with this Kraut doctor, Lindner.”

  Harkins knew he was talking too much, but it pissed him off that Boone’s guilt, which was so clear to him last night, seemed to be getting lost in a muddy swirl. He plunged ahead, fighting off the ropes.

  “Colonel Boone has kept Lindner around long after he should have been shipped out with the other POWs.”

  “Colonel Boone has explained, to my satisfaction, that this prisoner is a skilled surgeon whose talents complement the staff’s abilities,” Meigs said.

  “There was some connection between Stephenson and Lindner,” Harkins said. “Some connection among the three of them, I’m willing to bet.”

  “You’re willing to bet? Is that how we’re conducting investigations now?”

  Harkins looked at Boone, who was sweating, holding his lips pressed together tightly, then down at Meigs.

  The old man shook his head, as if this were all too sad. “Son,” he said to Harkins, “you are making me tired. You’ve got to find some solid proof, some evidence.”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious that you just say whatever comes to your mind, Lieutenant. Why stop now?”

  “Stephenson was dirty. I can prove that. Lindner is dirty, and I’ll be able to prove that. And I think Colonel Boone is dirty. This place is a cesspool, thanks to him, and these women have been forced to swim in it. Sir.”

  Boone started to speak, but Meigs cut him off. “I’ll want to see your interview notes with these other nurses,” he said to Harkins. He looked over his shoulder, addressing Boone. “Those nurses are your soldiers,” Meigs said to the colonel. “So of course you’ve got to take care of them just as you would take care of one of your privates. I will get to the bottom of their complaints, Colonel.

  “As for you, Lieutenant,” Meigs said to Harkins, “I’m warning you about making groundless accusations against an officer of Colonel Boone’s status without hard evidence.”

  In some still-calm part of his brain, Harkins knew that he had lost this skirmish. He brought himself back to a proper “at ease” position, hands behind his back, weight even on both feet. Counted his breaths before he dared speak again. One. Two. Three.

  “Yes, sir,” Harkins said.

  “You have a, let’s call it a relationship, with this Nurse Donnelly? The one who was assaulted?”

  Harkins kept his eyes straight ahead. The hospital was a small town, just as Kathleen had said.

  “Yes, sir. I knew her back in high school.”

  “And she is close friends with Nurse Ronan?”

  Harkins was about to say that the intertwined relationships did not cloud his judgment as an investigator, but he suddenly wasn’t sure he believed that.

  “How much sleep have you had in the last three days, Lieutenant?” Meigs asked. His voice was calm again, like someone’s grandfather.

  “Not much, sir. A few hours here and there.”

  “I’m taking you off this case completely. You will turn over all your notes and information to Captain Adams. You are to stay out of this hospital compound and away from Colonel Boone.”

  Harkins wanted to speak; was afraid he’d make it worse.

  “You are to find this Lieutenant Ronan and bring her back straightaway. No telling what can happen to her out in Palermo. Then I want you to get some sleep. Report back to your military police unit by eighteen hundred hours tonight.

  “Captain Adams,” Meigs said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Arrest this private, the lieutenant’s driver. I don’t want him going AWOL while you begin your investigation. I imagine you’ll consider him a suspect in First Sergeant Drake’s murder, but that will be up to you to figure out.

  “Lieutenant Harkins will deliver the nurse to you. This is a murder investigation. Let’s not get sidetracked by a bunch of he-said-she-said accusations.”

  “Yes, sir,” Adams said.

  Meigs stood, removed his glasses, and picked up his helmet and cane. He limped around the front of the table, where Harkins stood at attention, facing forward. Meigs spoke into his left ear.

  “You were a patrol officer in Philadelphia, right? Not a detective?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “So this is really your first case. It’s understandable that you might get carried away, become a bit overzealous. Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Meigs patted him on the shoulder, limped out.

  Boone moved behind his desk, right into Harkins’ line of sight. “Get the fuck out of my hospital.”

  * * *

  Harkins came out of Boone’s tent to find an MP he didn’t recognize standing by his jeep. There was no sign of Colianno.

  “Captain Adams asked me to stand by to make sure you got all this stuff OK,” the soldier said.

  Harkins looked in the back of the jeep. Colianno’s weapons were there: the pistol with the decorated holster, the M1 carbine, an M1 Garand, a .45 caliber tommy gun, a switchblade, a fighting knife with a blade as long as a man’s hand—its sheath probably still attached to Colianno’s boot—and a set of brass knuckles with sharp studs.

  “Do you know where they took him?” Harkins asked.

  “Seventh Army stockade, I think. West of the city on the way to the airfield.” The MP nodded to the arsenal. “Guy liked to be ready for anything, I guess, right, Lieutenant?”

  “Not sure he was ready for this,” Harkins said.

  37

  5 August 1943

  1000 hours

  Harkins drove back down the hill toward Palermo. There were even more army vehicles than usual on the road: trucks loaded with crates of ammunition, fuel tankers, wreckers, bridging equipment. He saw a flatbed with a tiny airplane on the back, wings folded like an insect’s; artillery of every caliber being towed east. He had been so consumed with what was happening that he’d forgotten about the war, at least until he and Colianno had carried the dead man to surgery.

  “Shit,” he said to himself. Then, louder, pounding the steering wheel, “Shit, shit, shit!”

  He had been so confident when Ronan told him she’d heard Boone’s voice outside the door. Even when Adams woke him up this morning—after his two-hour sleep—he felt like today was going to be a good day. Boone would get what he deserved, the nurses would be safe, he’d be Kathleen’s hero.

  “What an ass.”

  Instead, he’d walked right into Boone’s ambush. And it wasn’t just that Boone had gotten to Meigs first. Meigs, Harkins believed, was trying to do the right thing. Harkins lacked evidence and believable testimony. He did not even have a theory that made sense, while Boone had cleverly chosen Colianno as a scapegoat. A powerless private with a his
tory as a troublemaker.

  Now Colianno was in the stockade and Boone was close to getting away with his crimes.

  “You’re doing a great job stirring things up,” Harkins told himself.

  He was so tired he could not see straight. He’d had to leave the hospital compound before he had a chance to grab any breakfast. The tank was empty, and he wanted to have his wits about him when he picked up Ronan. The two of them could work on making sure her story was tight. Perhaps there were some details she had not yet mentioned, other nurses who might come forward if coaxed.

  Even if Meigs had contacted the military police and told them that Harkins was no longer on special duty and would be reporting back by eighteen hundred, he still had the day. For the morning, at least, he’d be one of those GIs wandering around as if on holiday, unmoored.

  He rolled to the waterfront, toward the café owned by Colianno’s cousin. The shutters were closed and locked but he knocked on the door around back until a young woman opened it. She was the owner’s daughter, and Harkins recognized her from the endless parade of relatives who’d come out to greet Colianno.

  “Any chance I can get some breakfast?” he asked. She looked at him blankly, so he opened his mouth and mimed shoveling food in.

  “Sí, sí,” she said, taking his arm and pulling him inside. He had all of Colianno’s weapons, plus his own pistol belt. She led him to a chair in the kitchen, took the weapons from him and stacked them in a corner, as cool as if she handled firearms every day. She filled a ceramic pitcher with water, sliced two lemons and dropped them in, then put the pitcher and a single glass on a table beside him.

  Harkins touched his chest. “Eddie,” he said.

  She smiled, touched her own chest, and said, “Adriana.”

  She was a teenager, a pretty girl with olive skin and a long braid that hung over one shoulder. A plain dress crimped at her tiny waist, a clean and well-worn apron. She was barefoot, and when she walked Harkins could see that the bottoms of her feet were black with dirt.

  “Dominic?” she asked.

  Harkins shook his head, made sure to smile so she wouldn’t think something bad had happened.

  She reached under a skirted table and pulled out a wooden crate with stenciled markings. She was about to serve him stolen American chow.