"Fuck you, Boyle." Ah, no more mister nice guy. He turned and walked out.
I laid down Joe's arm and looked at the body's position. His legs pointed to a row of shelves on the back wall. There was a crimson spray across the boxes stacked there; he was probably standing facing them when he was cut. Doing what? Was he ordered to stand there while his killer took the drugs, or was he about to take something himself?
I looked at his throat. The cut went ear to ear, severing all the major veins and arteries. Professional. I checked his pockets. Nothing except a pack of matches. I rolled him over and checked for a wallet. It was in the back pocket of his khakis, sodden with the blood he was laying in. I went through it carefully, laying out the slips of paper and bills on his chest. The usual stuff, nothing that told me anything.
I squatted next to the body, just looking. And thinking. Something bothered me about this killing. It made three deaths that I'd seen so far in North Africa, none of which were courtesy of our official enemies. Georgie at the roadblock and then Pierre at the hotel, both killed by Vichy officers, Villard and Bessette. Now Joe at the hospital, assailant unknown. German commandos raiding medical supplies? Not likely. Was this linked to Pierre's complaints about smuggling and drugs? Maybe. Especially with Villard having shown up. Part of me wanted to bolt and start looking for Diana. The other part of me was trying to put the pieces together, betting they'd add up to something that might help me find her. Although Villard driving around wearing an American uniform and one dead supply sergeant could add up to something I wanted no part of. Smugglers and black marketeers were not what I was interested in. I wanted to find Diana, and Luc Villard had stashed her somewhere in Bone, which is the direction he was headed just a little while ago. I didn't want my search for her complicated by an irrelevant crime, but maybe I could use this murder to get some official muscle working for me. Find one bird and kill another with the same stone, something like that. Or maybe I should just get the hell out of here and have a drink at the Bar Bleu. Only problem with that was, last I heard, the French were still shooting at us out there.
Another problem was right at my feet. I had only met Joe a few hours ago, but he'd seemed like an okay guy. Somebody else didn't think so and that bothered me. Plenty of guys were going to die in this war; there was no cause to murder one more.
I tried to put Diana out of my mind and focus on Joe's body. I had seen my Dad do this at crime scenes more times than I could remember. He always made sure I was called in for crowd control so I could watch and learn the ropes. Too bad I never thought to ask him what exactly he was looking for as he hunched down next to a body, his eyes scanning from head to toe. So I did the same thing, and waited for something to jump out at me. There was a lot of blood. It covered the floor around Joe and soaked into his shirt. I looked again at the arm I had picked up a minute ago, his right arm. The shirt sleeve was soaked in blood but there was something else I hadn't noticed right away. The sleeve was cut, right at the cuff, and underneath there was a deep slash on his forearm. A defensive wound? Had he tried to block the knife and taken the first cut on his arm? I looked at the wound on this throat again. One clean cut. No evidence of a false start. I turned his head to get a better look at his face. There was a small scratch on his right cheek, starting just below the eye and ending just on the edge of his mouth. How did that get there?
"Excuse me, Lieutenant?" It was the GI who was checking the stock He was a young kid, just a PFC. He was skinny and wore glasses that he kept pushing up as they slid down his nose. He looked pretty pale but I couldn't tell if that was his natural color or if he was going to lose it all over me. I got up and backed up a couple of steps. He kept glancing down at Joe.
"It's better if you look at me, Private. What's your name?"
"Willoughby, sir. I'm Sergeant Casselli's… I mean I was the sergeant's supply clerk." He was holding a clipboard with both hands. They were trembling.
"Okay, Willoughby. Let's step outside for a minute."
The idea didn't bother him a bit. It was a little cooler in the hallway and he slouched against the stone wall and let out a deep breath.
"Not a pretty sight," I said. "Is that your first dead body?"
"Well, sir, we had some casualties yesterday that I helped move out for Graves Registration, but they were different. I didn't know them."
"Yeah, it makes a difference. Had you known Joe long?"
"Since England. I got transferred to the 21st when the unit was based at Blackpool. We knew we were gearing up for something big when we got selected to try out this penicillin. Sergeant Casselli was pretty excited about it. He said it was our chance to really make a difference and save lives."
"Was he a good noncom?"
"Well, he wasn't full of himself, like some. He let me do my job. He wanted to transfer to the infantry and get into combat. I admired him."
"I'm sure guys would've been lined up to switch with him," I said. "Why didn't he get the transfer?"
"Colonel Walton wouldn't approve it, is all I know."
"Makes sense," I said, "Joe seemed to be on top of things around here. Walton probably didn't want to lose him."
"It wasn't all Sergeant Casselli," Willoughby said, straightening up from his slouch. "No disrespect intended, but I do a lot of the real work around here. I could run this place. I think something else was going on."
"Like what?"
"If a guy owed you money, would you let him transfer out? Sir?"
"Poker with Colonel Walton?" I asked.
"That's what they say."
"They? Did Joe ever mention it?"
"No, and I never asked directly. It's an open secret though. The colonel has a group of poker buddies and rumor has it Casselli started joining them just before we shipped out of England. Sounds like he didn't do so well."
"Like Doctor Dunbar?"
"Well, yeah. So the rumors say."
"Regulations say gambling's illegal, as well as fraternization between officers and enlisted men. What other rules do they break around here?"
"I wouldn't know, Lieutenant. I don't really keep up on regulations too much. I guess that's what officers are for."
"Yeah, it does give us something to do. Now what did you want to talk about?"
"Uh, when is the body… Sergeant Casselli… going to be moved out? I need to finish the inventory and he's in the way. Plus all that blood…?"
"Okay. We'll get it cleaned up and then you can get to work. Do you have a morgue here?"
"Not really. There's a basement where it's kinda cool that Graves Registration works out of. That's it."
"Go tell them to pick up the body but not to dispose of it until they hear from me. Then get a detail to clean up in here. I just need a few minutes more. Why don't you take five and then organize all that?"
"Will do, Lieutenant," he said as he pulled a small pack of Chesterfields from his fatigues. "Got a light by any chance?"
"Sure," I said. I was still holding the pack of matches I'd found on Casselli. I opened it up and struck a match. Willoughby lit up and strolled down the hall. I watched him go and wondered if there was less to Private Willoughby than met the eye. Those small packs of Chesterfields were usually found only in K-Rations, and K-Rations were found only at the front. Or in a supply depot, like the one right next to the hospital. Did he get them in a trade or was he the kind of kid who pilfered supplies, knowing that some dogface in a foxhole who thought the cigarettes were the only decent part of K-Rations was going to go without? Now, I know a thing or two about how stuff in warehouses can take a walk. A busted crate here and there and everyone's happy. The smart ones pass it around to the cop on the beat, and he keeps an eye out for them. At least that's how I did my Christmas shopping. But stealing from GIs would be like stealing from the blind. I shook my head wearily at the evil men do as I was about to fold the matchbook in my hand. Then I noticed something white behind the front row of matches. It was a slip of paper. I pulled it out and stepped back inside the storeroom, where I was sure no one could see. It had one hole punched on the side, like it had come from a notebook. I knew before I unfolded it that this piece of paper was from the notebook Jerome had told me about, and that it would be in code.