"Scott, I need your word, as well," MacNamara hissed, then added, "As an officer and a gentleman, of course."
Lincoln Scott continued to glare at the colonel and the major.
"Of course…" he said.
"As an officer, and a gentleman.
You have my word." He snapped off his reply.
"Very good, then we will-" "Sir," Tommy interrupted.
"Lieutenant Scott's personal items, sir! When will they be returned to him?"
Major Clark shook his head.
"They won't be. Find something new for him to wear, lieutenant, because the next time you see his shoes and his jacket will be at trial."
"Why is that, sir?" Hart asked.
"Because both items are covered with Vincent Bedford's blood," Major Clark replied with a sneer.
Neither Lincoln Scott nor Tommy Hart replied to this announcement.
In the corner of the cooler cell the German stenographer's scratching pen finally paused after Heinrich Visser translated the final few words.
The late afternoon sky had darkened, and a light, cold rain was falling when Tommy exited the cooler block. The sky above his head promised nothing but more of the same. He hunched his shoulders and turned up his jacket collar and hurried toward the gate to the American compound.
He spotted Hugh Renaday waiting for him, his back up against the exterior wall of Hut 111. Hugh was smoking furiously-Tommy saw him finish one cigarette and light a new one off the butt of the old-and staring up into the sky.
"At home, the spring is always late, just like this," Hugh said quietly.
"Just when you think it will finally get warm and summer will come racing in, it will snow. Or rain. Or something."
"Vermont's the same," Tommy said.
"No one calls it spring. We call it mud season. The time between winter and summer. A slimy, slippery, useless, messy pain in the ass interlude."
"More or less what we have here," Hugh said.
"More or less." Both men smiled.
"What did you learn from our infamous client?"
"He denies having anything to do with the murder. But-" "Ah, Tommy, but is a terrible word," Hugh interrupted.
"Why is it that I doubt I'm going to like what I'm about to hear?"
"Because when MacNamara and Clark waltzed in to announce that formal charges were being prepared, Clark blurted out that Vincent Bedford's blood is on both Scott's boots and his jacket. I presume that's what he meant earlier when he said they had enough evidence to convict him."
Hugh released his breath slowly.
"That's a problem," he said.
"Blood on the boots and a bloody boot mark in the Abort. Bloody hell…"
"It gets a little worse." Tommy spoke softly.
Hugh snorted, slightly wide-eyed.
"Worse?"
"Yes. Lincoln Scott was in the habit of leaving his bunk in the middle of the night to use the toilet. Sneaking out of the bunk room to the latrine so that he wouldn't offend the sensibilities of whatever white officers didn't want to share a toilet with a black man. He did this last night, conveniently lighting a candle to find his way."
Hugh slumped back against the building.
"And the problem is…" he started.
"The problem is," Tommy continued, "someone probably did see him. So at some point during the night, he's absent from the bunk room and there's a witness somewhere in the camp who will testify to that. Clark will argue that was when the opportunity for murder arose."
"That could have been the most dangerous piss he's ever taken."
"I was thinking the same."
"Have you explained this to Scott?"
"No. I would not say our first meeting went particularly smoothly."
Hugh looked quizzically at his friend.
"No?"
"No. Lieutenant Scott has, shall we say, little confidence in his chances for justice."
"What did he " "He believes that minds are already made up. He may be correct."
"Bloody right about that, I'd say," Renaday muttered.
Tommy shrugged.
"We'll see. So, what did you find out?
Especially about Visser. He seems…"
"A little different from other Luftwaffe officers?"
"Yes."
"My impression as well. Tommy. Especially after watching him in that
Abort. The man has been to more than one crime scene, I'll wager. He went through the place like some sort of damnable archaeologist. There wasn't a square inch of that place that he didn't eyeball. He didn't say a word. Didn't even acknowledge my presence, except for one time, and that took me by surprise."
"What did he say?"
"He pointed down at the boot print stared at it for a good sixty seconds, like it was some speech he was trying to memorize, then he lifts up his head, looks over at me standing there, and he says,
"Flying officer, I might suggest you take a piece of paper and trace this as best you can." I bloody well took his suggestion. In fact, I made a couple of sketches.
Made some maps of the location of the body and the layout of the Abort.
I did a quick drawing of Bedford's body, showing the wounds. Tried to put in as much detail as possible. Actually, ran out of paper, and
Visser ordered one of the goons to go get me a brand-new pad from the commandant's office. It might come in handy in the days to come."
"Curious," Tommy said.
"It was like he was trying to help."
"Seemed that way. Which I wouldn't trust for one damn second."
Tommy thrust his back up against the hut. The small roof overhang kept the misting rain off their faces.
"Did you see what I saw in the Abort?" Tommy asked.
"Think so."
"Vic wasn't killed in the Abort. I don't know where he was killed, but it wasn't there. That's where he was put by somebody or somebodies.
But not killed."
"That's what I thought," Hugh said briskly, smiling.
"Sharp eyes. Tommy. What I saw was some blood on Trader Vic's blouse but not on those naked thighs. And none on the Abort seat or on the floor around him. So where's all the blood? Man gets his throat cut, ought to be blood jolly well everywhere. I took a closer look at the wound in the neck, too. Right after Visser did. Visser reached down with that single hand and like he was some sort of scientist, wipes away some of the blood, and measured with his fingers the slice in Trader Vic's throat. The jugular is cut, all right. But the slice sort of stops after no more than a couple of inches. Two inches, maximum.
Maybe even a little less. Visser doesn't say a word, but he turns to me holding his thumb and index finger apart like so."