Murders at Hollings General ddb-1

by Jerry Labriola

  At the Japan case, David ran his hand along the lower edge of glass and discovered the seal intact. He opened Friday, removed the utility knife and pried off the case's external hinges. He unwrapped the terry cloth from his Blackhawk Magnum and, looking around at no one, gently lifted Sniper Rifle Type 97 with the cloth.

  He tucked it under his arm and as he gravitated toward the door, noticed a recessed, glass encasement in the wall. It was brightly illuminated from within and contained a single sheet of paper with the letterhead:

  DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY

  Washington, DC

  In the upper left corner was an official seal: Department of Defense, United States of America. The brief message read:

  April 12, 1972

  Dear Mr. Spritz:

  I regret to inform you that you have been denied admission into the United States Army.

  By direction,

  James H.B. Simmons

  Under Secretary of the Army

  Scrawled in red ink across a margin was: FUCK YOU. V.S.

  Open-mouthed, David stood at the door and gawked back at the hoard of guns for one last full minute. He considered himself slapped in a crisscross of emotions, uncertain what to feel and what to think. Alarm? Relief that he had discovered likely evidence? Confusion over American flags guarding the weaponry of only enemy nations? Or over the image of Spritz's limp wrists combined with a faded newspaper's reference to homosexuals and a rejection notice for military service during the Viet Nam War?

  David resisted ripping away the switch as he flipped it to darken and silence the room.

  Japanese rifle in tow, he drove to police headquarters after deciding-with little deliberation-to abandon any boycott of Sparky and his crime lab. He had no means of identifying firearms and, besides, he now possessed evidence of a more concrete nature, evidence that shouldn't be withheld from the authorities. Pissed off or not.

  He was granted entrance to Sparky's office when he waved the rifle in the air before the receptionist and indicated its implication in a murder. It was four-fifteen.

  "David, hello," Sparky said with no hint of annoyance. "I'll be right with you." It appeared as if Sparky hadn't noticed the rifle as he turned back toward a bench, extinguished a Bunsen burner and emptied a beaker of foul-smelling liquid into the sink. He wiped his hands on an apron, wheeled around and automatically latched onto the cloth-protected stock of the rifle as David thrust it toward his solar plexis.

  "What's this?" the criminalist asked.

  "I found it in Victor Spritz's garage. Sorry to barge in, Spark, but any chance of working on it before the day's out? It could be the Japanese model that did Coughlin in." David took off his scarf and gloves and held them in his hand.

  Sparky rotated the weapon as he examined it, then placed it on the bench over two blocks of wood he had slid into place.

  "I can do it right now. Hell, what's another fifteen minutes of backlog? Prints can wait-they're tough to lift from guns, anyway, but I can see if it fired the slug we have."

  "Yeah, prints can wait," David said. "I suppose if it's the gun, the prints might be irrelevant."

  Sparky gave him a look of benign condescension and said, "Not necessarily."

  "Oh?"

  "Someone else might have used it."

  In his haste to have the rifle identified, David felt little embarrassment. "I can wait?" he asked.

  "Uh-huh. Watch, if you want. Let me go get the slug first."

  He left for a few minutes and returned with a shoebox from which he extracted a bullet with a four-by-four gauze pad cupped in his hand. "See," he said, "you guys aren't the only ones using these things."

  David took two steps back and remained quiet as Sparky donned latex gloves, then worked deftly on and in the rifle, offering such mutterings as "groove and land count" and "rifling" and "direction of twist." He studied the bullet under a microscope, glanced back at the weapon and consulted a manual. He counted bullet grooves, examined cartridge casings he pulled from the box, and took photos of the rifle.

  Finally, the criminalist confronted David and said, "No doubt. I don't need spectrography." He looked surprised.

  "No doubt what?" David said.

  "The rifle and fired bullet match."

  "You're certain?" David's eyes pierced the criminalist's.

  "Ninety-nine per cent, at least. I'd testify to it."

  "Son-of-a-bitch! All along, I thought he was …" David looked about blankly and added, "God, I'll be … "

  "Damned? Me, too. I've met him a few times and he always gave me the willies. You having him brought in?"

  David knew that when his mind was sorting and collating and he was presented with a question, the crease above his nose deepened, and he felt it. "What-what's that?" he said.

  "You bringing Spritz in?"

  "If we can find him. Yeah, we've got to find him."

  David put on one glove and paused. "One last thing-I always seem to be saying that-but, one last thing: you said your handwriting expert will be out of town for some time. Well, I really want to nail this guy and the more evidence, the better. And my guess is, the sooner the better."

  "I'm not sure I can reach her, David."

  "No, I don't mean that. I have a friend who does that sort of thing and I was wondering if I could borrow back a sample of the printing-you know, maybe the tape that was on the rock."

  Sparky stared at David while running his tongue around the inside of his cheek. He remained silent as he searched through the box and pulled out a piece of tape that was glued to a tongue blade. He extended it to David with both hands but did not release it while he spoke. "You've asked me for several favors lately. Now, I have one to ask of you."

  "By all means, shoot."

  "Don't tell Nick I gave you this."

  "Of course I won't." David wasn't surprised.

  He snapped up the tape. Now all he had to do was come up with a friend who did that sort of thing.

  David put on his other glove and was about to leave.

  "Wait a minute," Sparky said. He left and in a minute returned with the sign from the EMS office. He handed it to David and said, "You'll need this for comparison. We're assuming Victor Spritz wrote it. "

  Chapter 16

  David had missed teaching the karate class again-two days before-but told himself he was not to be denied his personal session with other black belts this night, Thursday.

  It was one of those nights he needed right about now: rough-and-tumble on the mat, followed later by time with Kathy. A brief surcease from mounting questions. Both a decompression and a tune-up. He believed his mind had soaked up too much for one day and, although receiving the print evidence from Sparky was helpful, he sensed he was nowhere near solving the mysteries plaguing Hollings General over the past ten days.

  And also plaguing David. Where were the snappy diagnoses of Medicine? The lucid paths to treatment and recovery? He had yet to make his first final diagnosis in this new world of detection.

  On the climb to Bruno's studio at ten before five, he had a question for each step he took. Where is Spritz? Back in Cartagena? What about the drug connection? Has Kathy notified the Narcotics Unit?

  Back to the print evidence. Who's to say the printing is Spritz's? The basis for comparison is the sign from the EMS office door. Couldn't Foster have put it there? Should printing samples be obtained from him? From Bernie? From Spritz's house? Or from Detective Chief Nick Medicore? He might want one from me! David puckered his brow as if everyone else's troubles had become his.

  He reached his locker and sat with some relief, conscious of a sigh, receptive to the familiar gymnasium aroma that came down the hall like an invitation to follow where it led. He had time before the others arrived, so he made a slow ritual of changing into his judogi costume, then standing before the mirror attached to the end of the lockers. He adjusted and readjusted the black sash at his waist, gripped the carpet with his bare feet, and rotated his upper body from right to left severa
l times. He stretched his head to his shoulder, a prizefighter awaiting the opening bell. He heard Bruno's tutorial voice next door.

  David walked toward the main gym and, through the entrance to the beginners' room, saw a semicircle of young men standing at attention. Nine, he counted. They were clad in grey sweats. He recognized one of them, the one in the middle, the one with a swollen lip and purplish ear and wearing dark glasses: Robert Bugles.

  Robert gave him a half-wave from waist level. David raised his hands in front, palms up, in a what's-going-on gesture. He had never interrupted a karate class before, but neither had Hollings General ever been racked with a string of murders, and anything or anyone connected to one of the victims could change his routine.

  He waited for a natural break in Bruno's discourse and walked through the doorway.

  "Excuse me," he said.

  "David, you're here," Bruno replied. "Would you like to say a few words to the group?"

  "No, no, that's okay. Sorry to interrupt, but I just have a message for Robert Bugles there. Could I see you after you finish?" David knew the beginners' sessions and his own ended at six. Robert nodded yes.

  "Good, I'll be at my locker. Thanks, Bruno," David said, ducking out of the room.

  As David sparred with his colleagues, he had difficulty focusing on his chop and punch blocks, on counter-attacks and on spin moves. To a degree, his size made up for lack of concentration, and it was not until he was clearly outmaneuvered midway in the session, that he willed himself to defer any distractions before he got hurt. He had particularly wondered about Robert's choice of a beginners' class. And also about what was in store for his brother, Bernie.

  At six, David cooled down on the bench before his locker. Robert strolled in, breathing hard, glistening in sweat. He sat on an opposite bench and allowed his arms to plummet toward the floor.

  "I guess I'm all right if I can do that out there," he said before taking a deep breath. He removed the dark glasses; his left eye was rimmed in black.

  "I was going to say, you sure you're not pushing yourself? Hospitalized one day, a karate workout two days later?"

  "Nah, just a little stiff."

  David stood and slipped out of his uniform top. He mopped himself with a towel, having decided to delay a shower until after he had finished with Robert. "Mind if I ask you a question or two?" he said. "Nope. You want to take showers first?"

  "Let's get this over with; it shouldn't take long. First, what on earth are you doing in with the beginners? I thought you were a `brown.'

  "I am. But, see, it's been a long time. I'm going in with the intermediates tomorrow night. Bruno told me I could."

  "How long has it been since you've been here? I mean, I remember seeing you back then, but it's kind of a blur. How long ago was it?"

  "Two years."

  David peered down at him. "You look in good shape. Which brings me to my next question. How can a brown belt like you not fend off an attack by his brother."

  Robert wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "He caught me off guard with a sucker punch and I couldn't shake it off."

  "And your being here doesn't mean you plan on retaliating, does it?"

  "You mean `get even'?"

  "Exactly."

  "Nah. I'm just taking the advice you gave me in the hospital."

  "You heard me, then."

  "Yeah, I heard you. I also saw how that nurse broad looked at you." Robert shot a conspiratorial leer. "I thought your eyes were closed."

  "Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Depends."

  David pretended to straighten out the shelf in his locker as he said, "Let's get back to Bernie. Have you seen him since he was released?"

  "Nope. Never saw him but we talked on the phone."

  "You talked? Hmm … who called who?"

  "He called me. He said he was sorry about what he did."

  "Are you going to press charges?"

  "Nah, he was probably right. I shouldn't of let you into dad's place."

  "It would have been easy to get a search warrant, Robert."

  "If that means the cops open up the place, then I wouldn't of gotten decked." His smile revealed a split in his swollen lip.

  David didn't waste time on Robert's logic. "Do you know Victor Spritz?"

  Robert lifted one leg to straddle the bench. "I guess so.

  "You guess so?"

  "I heard my brother talk about him."

  "What did he say?"

  "When?

  "Any time."

  "Oh … that he's a nice guy and all that. He never told me much. You know, he's older than me."

  All the way home, David tried to understand his discoveries of the day. It was nightfall and he drove transfixed, never using a directional signal or his horn or his rearview mirror to check for frog's eyes, crawling along as if anticipating that his arrival home might sully his mind's hard drive. He was thus in no hurry and the weather helped: a thin rain had turned the roads to black ice.

  That Spritz would pick out a rifle for killing and then return it to his collection bothered David. What was the dynamic there? Just plain hiding it among other guns, or was it the twisted reasoning of a psychotic shunned by the Army but now possessing his own military hardware? And what on earth do CARCAN and CANCAN mean? Screw "staying the course." He decided he would level with Kathy when she came over later. Get her input. Share the gravity of his findings. Hell, she's wondering what's been accomplished, anyway.

  As the headlights of his Mercedes fell across his driveway, David cursed Fitzpatrick Snow Removal. Half-assed job. He noticed a faint outline of tire tracks as he pressed on the remote control and entered his attached one-car garage. Probably Fitzy's truck or maybe a delivery truck making a wrong turn. He was not concerned until he reached the breezeway and spotted light shining through the window of the rear bathroom. He whipped out his Minx and streaked to the left side of the door to the den. Hugging the wall, he tried the door; it was locked. He slipped in a key and, shrinking sideways, flicked the door with his fingers and allowed it to drift open. The light thud of the door on the inside wall sounded heavy in the silence-loud enough, he thought, to rouse any intruder occupied in the back of the house.

  David clutched the semiautomatic with both hands and waited a few seconds. He tried to breathe only through his nose. He recalled once reading that armed cowboys never peeked around corners from a standing position. He squatted and, ignoring the pain in his knee, eased the Minx into the doorway. His head followed close behind.

  He reached around and turned on the light. The first things that caught his eye were his desk and table drawers-every one had been pulled out. Most of them together with his considerable number of removable bookshelves lay on the floor like a pile of bricks and tiles. Scattered papers, slanted pictures, disturbed books, overturned lamps, puckered carpeting.

  Infuriated, David dashed from room to room, flipping light switches, ready to shoot at anything that moved. Disarray, but not destruction, was everywhere. He found the bathroom light on. He checked his watch. It read six-forty and he deduced the visitor must have been there within the last two hours.

  He ambled about-more leisurely now, but with Minx still drawn-stepping aside as he flung open closet doors. Convinced no one was in the house, he returned the gun to its rig and, circling around in the center of the living room, asked himself, "Who was looking for what?" It was a question he plucked from coals of agitation, because David was, first and foremost, inflamed over the violation of his personal space. He felt blood bubbling at his temples.

  He thought of sitting but was too fired up for that. Instead, he hunched over and crossed his arms tightly on his chest like a tourniquet for the adrenaline surge he felt throughout his body. He was even annoyed over the tapping of his foot which seemed herky-jerky. Suddenly he stiffened upright. The basement!

  David barreled down the stairs as he yanked out his Minx once again. Despite semidarkness, he knew exactly where to pull on the three light chains
. There was no one there and his gun collection appeared intact.

  Upstairs, he fixed himself a drink and considered straightening out the mess, but decided he wanted Kathy to see it. He sat at the kitchen table, sipping while he kneaded his left knee. His glass was empty when he reassured himself the intruder had never entered the basement, a pronouncement that helped him tolerate the break-in and subjugate its relevance vis-a-vis the question he had initially asked: "Who was looking for what?"

  The doorbell rang once and David, looking through the archway, saw Kathy rubbing her hand over the front doorjamb. "Did you see this?" she asked, as he approached her.

  "What?" he said before spotting the splintered gauge. "Uh-huh, of course. It's been jimmied." He absorbed Kathy's inquisitive expression and said, "I stopped exploring once I found my guns were safe."

  Her expression deepened. "What's that mean?"

  David backed up and waved his hand toward the rooms. "Voila," he said. Kathy's eyes widened. "David, my God!"

  He pulled her to him and rested his chin on her head. "It looks worse than it is, Kath. Nothing's busted." He kissed her hair and said, "It'll look neat after a wine or two."

  She removed her coat and threw it over a chair, then kicked off her galoshes and shoes in one piece.

  "And I was complaining about the weather," she said, surveying the room. "Anything missing?"

  "Not that I can tell, but I doubt it."

  Kathy picked up several magazines and replaced them on the coffee table. "What do you think he was after?" she asked.

  "I've got my ideas but come look around first."

  Arm in arm, they sidled past strewn magazines and books and went into the kitchen where he poured drinks before leading her on a tour of the house.

  Back in the living room, their sighs coalesced as they settled on the sofa, his legs in their usual position on the table, hers draped over his.

  "No overturned furniture," she said, "notice?"