by Sean Lynch
Captain Bradshaw looked at Farrell as if the CID investigator was from another planet.
“I’m not telling you anything at all, Sergeant. I was only speaking hypothetically, remember?”
Farrell stood up. “I’m sorry sir, but I don’t buy it. War is hell, and all that shit, but it doesn’t bring back a dead child. A kid whose dying moments were sheer horror. I don’t give a damn if your Corporal Slocum planted Old Glory on Iwo Jima all by himself. He might be Audie Murphy to you, but to me he’s a fucking monster. And he ain’t in the bush anymore; now he’s mine.”
To Farrell’s surprise, Bradshaw began laughing.
“You’re a kick in the ass, you know that Sergeant?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have you? Do you think you’re the only one full of righteous indignation? Do you think that just because I understand something, I condone it? Grow up.”
The Marine officer again moved his face to within inches of Farrell’s.
“Like I said when we were talking hypothetically, you’re a grunt in the bush, and you want to stay alive, you ignore things. It doesn’t have to be murder, you know. A guy like Slocum, an experienced ground-pounder, he doesn’t have to pull the trigger himself. He just doesn’t speak up when he sees your foot stepping toward a tripwire. Or during a firefight, you walk into a bullet. It’s nothing overt, but you’re just as dead, and nobody’s the wiser.”
Bradshaw headed for the door. He stopped before reaching it.
“For what it’s worth, thirteen months ago I would have felt outraged, too. But it’s been a long time since I felt a whole lot of anything.”
Captain Bradshaw put his cap on. He looked briefly at the colonel, and then back at Farrell. “I didn’t come here to give you a hard time. I respect what you’re doing. I’ve already been briefed by Colonel Edgewater. I was only trying to soften the blow.”
Farrell listened, puzzled.
“One more thing, Sergeant; watch Corporal Slocum very carefully. Don’t turn your back on him for a second. He’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever known. Good luck.”
“Sir,” blurted Farrell as Bradshaw walked out the door, “don’t you want to know what’s going to happen to your Marine?”
Shaking his head slightly, Bradshaw said, “No, Sergeant, I don’t. Do you?” The door closed behind him, and he was gone.
Farrell turned to Edgewater, who hadn’t spoken during the exchange between the young cop and the hardened Marine.
“Sir, what did he mean when he said he’d already been briefed?”
“Sit down, Bob, and let me have another smoke. We’ve got to talk.”
Farrell didn’t like the tone of Edgewater’s voice, or the fact that his commanding officer didn’t look him in the eye when he spoke. He shook two cigarettes from his pack.
“Bob, you’re a good soldier, and a good cop. I like having you work for me, and like I said, you’ve done a helluva job on this baby-killing thing.”
There was an overly long pause as Edgewater exhaled smoke, still not meeting Farrell’s eyes.
“Try to understand; there are things going on here that are out of my control.”
“I get the feeling that you’re about to give me bad news.”
“I’ll get to the point. The investigation is over as far as we’re concerned. I had Captain Bradshaw brought here to advise him that Corporal Slocum was no longer his responsibility. Some men will be arriving shortly to take custody of him. I want all files and paperwork on the investigation turned over to me immediately. Your work will be noted in your enlisted evaluation report.”
Farrell was dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“It’s over? Just like that? I’m off the investigation?”
“Bob, I’m trying to be reasonable. You’ve got to try to be reasonable too. You’re not being taken off the investigation. The investigation is over.”
“What do you mean, over? And who’s taking custody of Slocum? The JAG’s Office? The Naval Investigative Service?”
The colonel finally looked directly at Farrell; it wasn’t a friendly expression. Neither was the tone of his voice.
“Sergeant, you don’t need to know who’s coming to get Slocum. It’s out of our hands. There are influential people who are aware of this situation, and have taken the necessary steps to remedy it. I haven’t been given a clue about what’s going to happen to him, and I’m a full-bird colonel. You, as a staff sergeant, ought to know better than to even ask. Like you, I follow orders.”
Farrell worked to control his mounting rage.
“This is going to be buried, isn’t it?”
Edgewater ground out his cigarette angrily. “What did you expect? This is political dynamite. You can read the writing on the wall, can’t you? If Slocum gets prosecuted for his crimes through regular UCMJ channels, there’ll be no way to keep a lid on it. How do you think this would look if the press got hold of it? Jesus Christ, you just came from the States, didn’t you? This Slocum murder is exactly the kind of thing the hippies are chanting about during their campus protests. That the US military is in Vietnam killing babies. Isn’t that what they call us back home? Baby-killers?”
“Sir, I understand the political ramifications. But you can’t expect me to sit quietly and let Slocum walk? That Marine is a fucking time-bomb. He needs to be put somewhere where he can’t do this kind of thing again. Sir, we aren’t talking about friendly-fire casualties occurring in the heat of combat. We’re talking about an American serviceman committing a premeditated murder in cold blood.”
“That’s enough, Sergeant,” Edgewater said. “You are under my command, and you will do exactly as you are ordered. I told you, it’s out of my hands. This has already attracted the attention of some very high-ranking brass. I will not let you, or anyone else, fuck up my command, and create an embarrassing international incident over an isolated criminal act. Hell, Bob, we’re at war. What’s one dead gook, more or less?”
Farrell held his tongue, and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on Edgewater’s desk. He went for the door.
“I want all the paperwork on my desk in fifteen minutes. All of it.”
“Roger that,” Farrell said over his shoulder as he slammed the door.
He left the headquarters building after picking up his .45. He walked briskly to his own office in the adjacent building and went directly to his desk, where he’d left Slocum’s 201 file. He walked out to the administrative office and made a mimeographed copy of the arrest sheet. Tucking the copy into his breast pocket, he took the file over to the desk sergeant.
“Have the CQ runner get this over to the colonel’s office immediately. Edgewater wants it yesterday.”
The desk sergeant took the file. Farrell stopped him before he left.
“Is the suspect still in the holding cells?”
“Where else would he be?”
“Thanks. Put a rush on that file, will you?”
Farrell walked out of the administrative offices and across the courtyard, this time in the opposite direction of Edgewater’s office, towards the detention center. Once there, he checked his pistol with the sentry and signed in on a log. From there he proceeded to the desk sergeant’s post.
“Where’s my boy?”
“Cell B-4. End of the hall. You want some company?”
“He still shackled?”
“Damn straight,” said the desk sergeant. “You see the size of that guy?”
“I’ll be OK. Lemme have the key.”
“Here you go,” the sergeant said, handing Farrell a large brass key. “You need anything, holler.”
Farrell walked past the jailer’s station and was buzzed through a large metal door. Once inside, he went to section B, and found cell number four.
Looking through the bars, he saw Slocum lying on a bunk. The lance corporal had a thick leather belt on, and both of his hands were securely fas
tened to it by steel cuffs.
Slocum was wearing an olive-drab T-shirt and green boxer shorts. To his buttocks was taped a large patch of gauze and cotton, brown with congealed blood. It looked painful as hell to Farrell, and was undoubtedly the aftermath of the surgery to treat the gunshot wound he’d received during his arrest. Farrell inserted the brass key and noisily turned the lock. Slocum looked up as he entered.
Farrell saw a cherub-like face set under a tight crew-cut. Slocum’s neck was a thick trunk of muscle, and his arms were corded powerhouses. If he was in pain or discomfort from his wounds he didn’t show it.
It was Slocum’s eyes however, that made Farrell the most uncomfortable. They were deep and black, and seemed devoid of emotion. He’d seen pictures of predatory animals with such eyes.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The deep voice snapped Farrell from his silent appraisal. In the voice was the hint of a Midwestern accent.
“I’m Staff Sergeant Farrell, CID. It was my men that caught you.”
A grunt was all he got for a reply.
Slocum returned his stare for several long seconds, finally saying, “So what the fuck do you want?”
Farrell shook his head. “I wanted to see what talking shit looks like.”
The big Marine unexpectedly sat upright, with a speed that startled Farrell. It made him forget for an instant the suspect was shackled. He stepped back reflexively, and Slocum laughed.
“This shit sure scared you, mister big-shot CID-man.”
Then the laughter was gone from Slocum’s features. Replacing it was an expression Farrell would never forget, an animal visage on a human face.
“I could kill you the way you turn off a light,” Slocum said.
Farrell was more shaken by the Marine than he cared to show. He’d seen a lot of criminals, but never before one with such depraved viciousness seeping from every pore. He hoped Slocum couldn’t detect how unnerved he was.
“What’s the matter, Sergeant? Cat got your tongue?”
“I came to tell you I’ll enjoy knowing you’ll be locked up for the rest of your life. It makes me happy.”
Slocum produced a feral grin.
“If I told you what makes me happy, you’d have nightmares.”
Farrell suddenly didn’t know why he’d come to see the child-killer, and wished he hadn’t. With a confidence he didn’t feel, he said, “Enjoy your life in prison, Corporal.”
Farrell left the cell, locking the door. As he walked down the corridor he heard Slocum’s chilling voice behind him.
“Maybe I’ll see you around someday, Sergeant.”
Minutes later, three men wearing civilian clothes but sporting military haircuts and Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses pulled up in a jeep. Ten minutes later they drove away with Lance Corporal Vernon E Slocum, still shackled. Farrell watched them drive off from the window of his office, a cigarette smoldering between his lips. He sincerely hoped he would never see Corporal Vernon Emil Slocum again.
CHAPTER 12
San Francisco, November, 1987
Farrell sat at his kitchen table and stared at the blurry newspaper picture. His thoughts drifted back to the here and now from Southeast Asia of 1967.
Eventually he put the newspaper down. Rubbing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He got up and poured his lukewarm coffee into the sink. He reached into a cabinet and took out a bottle of Jim Beam. He poured bourbon until the ceramic mug was full to the brim. He took a gulp, grimaced, and put another Camel between his lips and lit it.
Farrell closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander to the past again. He thought of the young Marine corporal in shackles, his face a mask of evil. He remembered the riots in the Saigon ghetto, and the sound of batons hitting bodies as MPs held outraged Viets at bay. He could almost hear the tormented wailing of the Vietnamese prostitute as she identified the gutted body of what was once her child. And he remembered the impotence he felt as he watched Slocum being whisked away by Agency men in mirrored sunglasses. These images dredged up a maelstrom of half-buried feelings and long-suppressed fears, and brought a twinge to his stomach.
He opened his eyes and wiped his forehead, not surprised to find it damp with sweat. His stomach was queasy, the painful reminder of a recently-diagnosed ulcer. Farrell took another drink of bourbon.
He picked up the phone. After dialing long distance information, he was connected to the editor’s desk at the Des Moines Register.
“City desk, can I help you?”
“Hello,” said Farrell. “This is Dave Riley calling long distance from San Francisco, at the Chronicle. I wanted to see if you had any more insight into that kid found hanging out on I-80? What’s her name, Meade? How about a motive or a suspect?”
“Well, Dave,” came the voice of the Midwestern newspaperman, “to tell you the truth, nobody knows a thing. There was a press conference at the FBI office here in Des Moines about an hour ago. They gave out the usual, ‘We’re following a number of promising leads at this very moment’ bullshit, but nobody thinks they’re doing anything but blowing smoke up our asses. They ain’t got shit.”
“Thanks a lot. You saved me some legwork,” Farrell lied.
He hung up the phone, his brow furrowed. He took another drag from his smoke and slurped down the last of his Jim Beam. He picked up the receiver again and dialed a number from memory. It was picked up on the second ring.
“Carruthers and Lyons,” said a falsetto woman’s voice.
“Yeah,” Farrell spoke around his cigarette, “lemme talk to Vinnie Carruthers.”
“One moment,” was the curt reply.
The secretary didn’t ask who Farrell was because he’d called his lawyer by the name Vinnie. Vinnie Carruthers’ real name was Leonard, and nobody but his close friends called him Vinnie.
“This is Leonard Carruthers, can I help you?”
“You can cut the formalities Vinnie; it’s Bob Farrell. I need to ask a question about my will.”
“Don’t tell me you’re back in the sack with that broad. After what I went through getting you two divorced, I'll kill you. Do you understand me? I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Take it easy, will you?” Farrell interrupted the torrent. “I didn’t mend any bridges. You’ll be happy to know she’s still my ex, and she still hates my guts.”
“That’s a relief. You scared me for a second.”
“Believe me, if I was hooking back up with that crazy bitch I’d want you to kill me. But speaking of getting killed, I have a question about my will. If I croak, Jenny’s going to get my pension, right? It’s not going to go to either of my ex-wives, is it?”
“No. That was all finalized with the divorce. I thought you knew that. I gave you a copy of the settlement. Didn’t you look it over?”
“Nice talking to you.” He hung up.
Farrell didn’t have a lot. He owned the few pieces of furniture in his apartment, and a shiny new 1987 Oldsmobile he’d bought as a retirement present to himself. What he did have, however, was a respectable pension that would have transferable benefits, ideal for his college-age daughter to finish school, or take out a loan against after graduation.
He looked again at the grainy photo in the newspaper. A monster was loose, a predator in the heartland. He read the article below the picture again. The identity of the killer was unknown.
Farrell put out his cigarette and left the kitchenette. From his closet, high on a cluttered shelf, he withdrew a rusty metal box. He sat on the bed and opened it.
Inside the box were several faded black-and-white photographs from his time in Vietnam. There were assorted papers, a couple of medals, and a lock of his daughter’s baby hair. He sifted through the contents until he found what he was searching for.
Folded into squares and yellowed with time was Slocum’s mimeographed arrest sheet. He read the name on the paper and felt a shiver traverse his skin.
Within minutes he was in the shower and scraping a disposable raz
or across his face. He toweled off and dressed, hastily knotting a tie over a white dress shirt. He put on one of his inexpensive detective suits and finished with a pair of highly shined black oxfords.
He peered into the mirror. He saw a gaunt, pale man with a scant hairline and double chin. Grunting at his reflection, he stuffed his pockets with keys, wallet, penknife, handkerchief, notebook, pen, and finally his badge case and .38. It was a five-shot Smith & Wesson Bodyguard with most of the bluing worn off. Though retired, he’d been wearing a gun for over thirty years and would no more leave his apartment without it than leave without trousers. He also took Slocum’s arrest sheet.
Farrell left his apartment, lighting another cigarette. He walked down the stairs to the parking garage. It felt good to have purpose again.
Inspector Robert Farrell, like many retired cops, found that retirement wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The first few weeks were relaxing, and he’d done a lot of things he always told himself he would do when he finally got the time. He went on more fishing trips in a month than in the previous thirty years. He made a road trip south on Highway 101, to San Luis Obispo, where he and Ann spent their honeymoon twenty-five years ago. It was better without Ann. He contemplated driving out to Nebraska where his daughter was in her senior year at the university there, but decided to postpone the trip until her graduation in the spring.
Farrell had nothing but time. He found himself fidgeting a lot, and smoking and drinking too much. His doctor warned him to ease up on the sauce when he’d been diagnosed with an ulcer. He noticed he spent a lot of days since his retirement watching daytime TV and pondering the past. Reminiscing about his police career and stewing over his failed marriages.
By the time he reached the carport he was moderately out of breath. He walked to his car, marveling at its beauty.
To him, the Oldsmobile was American craftsmanship at its finest. No Asian-manufactured, high-tech junk for Robert Farrell; no siree. The Olds was two tons of steel, polished chrome, velour upholstery, stereophonic sound, and smooth 442 cubic inch V-8 ride. He treasured it, and its deep burgundy paint was the color of fresh blood.
