I swung my legs out of the bed, stood up, and walked toward the small window. I peered outside of the long Quonset hut that had been remodeled into the Female Bachelor Officer Quarters. It was cold outside. Wind whipped through the few remaining leaves on a line of poplar trees. Down the hallway, someone turned on a shower.
I knew what it was like to grow up without a mom, without a dad, to be the child of a broken home. In my case, a completely shattered home. How could I do that to my son? And how would I explain all this to Leah? Maybe I eventually could, but at that moment, standing there in that poorly heated Quonset hut, I was unable to find the words.
“I don’t know,” I said finally.
This didn’t make her happy. She sat up, slipped on her robe and kept her back toward me. I grabbed my clothes, stepped into my pants and buttoned my shirt. I started to leave. I hesitated at the door, hoping she’d ask me to stay. She didn’t. She just sat huddled on the edge of the bed, looking small.
“I’ll call you,” I said, then I opened the door and left.
The next morning, Colonel Emmett S. Jameson sat behind a mother-of-pearl nameplate that was almost as wide as his desk. Behind him, a framed diploma, various photographs, and military awards were hung in three busy rows. Leaning atop a varnished bookshelf, a ceremonial bayonet gleamed against a velvet backdrop, testifying to the great man’s martial prowess.
Ernie and I were there early, showered and shaved and wearing newly pressed coats and ties. We wanted this man’s cooperation, and from what we’d gleaned from his receptionist, he was a bereaved man.
“He thought of Major Schultz as a son,” she told us solemnly.
A slight paunch bulged out from above Colonel Jameson’s highly polished belt buckle. Not enough to classify him as a slob, but enough to make it clear that he’d spent many years fighting battles more concerned with memos, reports, and briefings than with bullets and hand grenades.
“I’ve been waiting for you two,” he said. I raised an eyebrow. “Not you specifically,” he continued, “but someone from law enforcement.”
“Concerning Major Schultz’s death?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why is that, sir?”
He interlaced his fingers. “I knew Major Schultz quite well, and his wife and children. He was assigned to me back at Fort Hood, and when I was appointed to this job, I asked if he’d accompany me. He agreed.” Colonel Jameson placed his hands on his desk. “As such, I feel aggrieved not only about his death, but also about the earlier allegations that were made against him.”
Ernie sat expressionless and completely still. In formal interactions with the brass, he usually liked to let me take the lead, unless something pissed him off.
“Aggrieved, sir?”
“Yes. About the accusations of infidelity on his part.”
Ernie glanced at me. When I didn’t speak, he said, “They’re not just accusations.”
Colonel Jameson shrugged. “There’re two sides to every story.”
I was worried that Ernie was about to say something rude, so I spoke up quickly.
“What exactly were Major Schultz’s duties, sir?”
“Duties?” Colonel Jameson seemed surprised by the question. “He was my adjutant.”
“So he did the work you assigned to him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What, for example?”
Colonel Jameson squirmed in his seat. “Well, some of it was administrative, making sure that our personnel system ran smoothly and that the right people were being slotted into the right jobs, things like that.”
“But some of it was classified,” Ernie said.
“Yes, of course. That’s what we do here at J-2.”
“What sort of classified work was Major Schultz doing?” I asked.
“Well, if it’s classified,” Colonel Jameson replied, “then, of course, I can’t tell you.”
“We have Top Secret clearances,” I told him.
“Yes, but do you have a need to know?”
“It could’ve had to do with Major Schultz’s death,” Ernie said. “We damn sure do have a need to know.”
Colonel Jameson swiveled his chair and stared at Ernie. “I’m not sure I like your attitude.”
“I’m not sure Major Schultz liked getting dead,” Ernie replied. “Maybe you ought to tell us what the hell he was working on, Colonel.”
He squinted at Ernie, as if trying to memorize his face. “What’s your name again?”
“Bascom,” Ernie said, and then spelled it for him. “First name Ernest.”
Colonel Jameson jotted it down. “Your rank?” he asked.
“Classified.”
“Oh, that’s right. CID.” He tossed his pen down.
In theory, the ranks of CID agents was classified because the army didn’t want higher ranking officers to be able to put pressure on field agents in order to quash an investigation. In practice, everybody knew we were low-ranking schmoes and pressure could be placed on us through informal channels, such as a conversation over drinks at the Officers Club.
I spoke rapidly, trying to break the tension. “It probably has nothing to do with his death, sir. Even if his duties were of a classified nature. But his killer is still on the loose and we have to cover all the bases. Make sure we’re not missing something.”
“I heard you missed her,” he said, “after you took her into custody.”
News spread fast at the 8th Army Officers Club.
“Yes, sir. She got away. A mistake we will soon rectify. In the meantime, was Major Schultz working on any special projects? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Colonel Jameson took a deep breath and apparently willed himself to calm down. “There was one thing.”
I pulled out my notebook. “What was that, sir?”
He waggled his finger at me. “Don’t write anything down.”
I stuck my notebook back into my jacket pocket.
“I had him doing a full review of operations,” he said. “The J-2 organizational chart is a mess. So many functions have been added over the years, sometimes operated for a while and then forgotten, that it seemed to me there was a lot of dead wood floating around. I wanted to streamline and consolidate where possible. Fred was looking into that.”
“Major Schultz?”
“Yes, Major Schultz.”
“Had he found anything in particular that seemed anomalous?” Then I remembered that field grade officers sometimes found the use of sophisticated words to be insubordinate, as if you were trying to prove that you were smarter than them. Quickly, I added, “Anything out of line that needed to be fixed?”
“The Five Oh First,” Colonel Jameson said without hesitation. “Their TO amp;E has grown tremendously over the years.” Table of Operations and Equipment. “We thought they might’ve become top-heavy.”
“Empire-building,” Ernie said.
“It happens,” Colonel Jameson replied.
The US Army is fundamentally a bureaucracy. Whenever they have the chance, bureaucrats enhance their authority, which means acquiring new funds, facilities, equipment and, most importantly, personnel.
“So Major Schultz,” I said, “was looking into streamlining operations, eliminating redundancies, maybe eliminating a few positions?”
“Yes. But certainly that couldn’t have had anything to do with his death. That sort of thing happens every day.”
Keeping the giant blob that is the military industrial complex from endlessly expanding is a full-time endeavor.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “You’re probably right. Probably had nothing to do with his death. Was Major Schultz working on anything else?”
For the first time, Colonel Jameson barked a laugh. “That seemed like a full plate to me.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I can see that it would be.”
I thanked him and started to get up but Ernie said, “Why don’t you believe the allegations of infidelity?”
Colonel Jameson studied Ernie as if he were looking for a soft spot to shove in the lethal end of the bayonet above his shelf. “Because I know his wife,” he said, in a low firm voice. “She’s a fine woman. And I know his children.” Blood had flushed up through his neck and quickly spread to his upper cheeks. “And I know Fred Schultz would never be playing around with a business girl out in the ville.”