2 December 1945
ONI Headquarters, Long Beach Naval Station, Long Beach, California
Cdr. Oliver Toliver III rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. Darkness had fallen long ago, and he no longer heard the frantic rush of workers on the street below and out in the shipyard. They’d already knocked off the graveyard shift. Things were slowing down on the home front. This was the first peacetime Christmas since 1940, and people naturally wanted to enjoy it to the hilt with bright lights and everything lit up and good cheer freely flowing.
But he wasn’t in the mood for it. The report in his hand was vague and filled with pathological gobbledygook. He’d spent much of the evening looking up multisyllable medical terms. He sighed and laid down the postmortem on Walt Hodges. Toliver was as confused now as four days ago when Commander Hodges died. The Fort MacArthur coroner’s report was late. And it was inconclusive. He stood, yawned, and stretched. A glance at the Chelsea clock told him it was 6:42 p.m. He clicked off his desk lamp and reached for his coat and hat. The phone rang. He picked it up. “Toliver.”
“Commander Toliver. It’s Doctor Chandler at Fort MacArthur.”
Toliver sat back down and leaned back, his chair squeaking as he put his feet up. “You’re working late, Doctor.”
“As are you. Glad I caught you.”
“I was on my way out. Just finished reading your postmortem on Walt Hodges. I have to tell you that was a real test of my college degree. I could only understand every fifth word.”
Chandler laughed. “Well, that report was purposely ambiguous because we really didn’t have anything to say.”
“Okay. I feel better.”
“Now we do have something to say.”
Toliver sat up. His feet thumped the floor.
“We’re lucky one of our doctors worked at Camp Detrick—the base in Maryland where they study biological warfare. He experimented with some really strange stuff there. They sent him out here because we were so understaffed with all the wounded coming back. Anyway, he got curious when he heard about the Hodges case and ordered special tests.”
“Okay.”
“We examined the body further and found something very interesting.”
“What, Doctor?”
“A tiny iridium-platinum pellet about the size of the head of a pin. It had been injected into Commander Hodges’ upper left arm.”
“What did the pellet do?”
“Essentially nothing. It’s what was inside that did the trick.”
Toliver drew out a pad and began scribbling. “Go on.”
“It’s ricin. A deadly poison made out of castor beans.”
“Ricin?”
“That’s right. Ricin. There was a wax plug in the pellet. The wax dissolved when it rose to body temperature, then the ricin flowed out and entered Commander Hodges’ body. It doesn’t take much of it.”
“Poison. Son of a bitch.”
“Exactly. Somebody injected the pellet into Commander Hodges’ left arm seventy-two to ninety-six hours before he died. Essentially, it made his body shut down. There’s no real antidote once the poison gets into the system. We’re just learning about it, so once again, I’m afraid I must be vague.”
“Ricin.” Toliver spelled it out.
“That’s right. Commander Hodges was cruelly murdered. It’s not a pleasant way to go.”
Alarm bells went off in Toliver’s head and he shot back to his feet. “How was it injected?”
“Something fairly powerful, spring loaded or air pistol possibly; probably through his clothes unless someone caught him without a shirt. We don’t know. Camp Detrick has no real delivery system for it. Other countries do, however.”
“Which ones? Do you know?”
Chandler stammered. “Well . . .”
“Doctor, please.”
“The Nazis for sure. Maybe the Japs, but we’re not certain. And—” he paused.
“Come on.”
“The Soviet Union has been doing a lot of biomedical research with anthrax and ricin. Soviet scientists have published several papers on it.”
“Okay, Doc, anything else?”
“That’s it for now. I’ll write it up and send it over.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Toliver hung up and dashed across the room to a clipboard he had scanned that morning—the daily summary of men held in the brig and the charges against them. He ran his finger down a column. Yes, there it was: Karol Dudek, a Polish sailor, had been apprehended by the shore patrol three days ago. They’d come across him as they did their rounds in the Greyhound bus terminal in downtown Long Beach. He looked out of place, and the two SPs became suspicious. They asked for his papers. All he had was a City of Long Beach library card and a USO canteen card. The man didn’t speak good English, and they became more suspicious and ordered him to stand for a body search. Dudek pulled a knife and came after them. The man fought hard and almost got away, but a billy club decided the issue and the SPs brought him in.
On his person was the knife, a Whittnauer watch, $5,000 in cash, a life raft inflator, and a seabag with the usual clothing and toiletry items. He carried an out-of-date Polish passport, but the Polish consulate in Washington, D.C., had vouched for him and had turned the matter over to the Soviet embassy in Washington.
ONI had a suite of offices on the second floor. In the basement was one of the two Navy brigs on the Long Beach Naval Station. Toliver phoned the brig downstairs.
“Detention Facility Baker, Chief Derickson, sir.”
“Chief, this is Commander Toliver upstairs in ONI.”
“Oh, yeah, how are you Commander?” They’d met a few times in staff meetings.
“Good. Say, do you still have a prisoner by the name of Dudek?”
“Wait one, sir.” Papers rustled. Then, “Yes, sir, we do. Right now, they’re suiting him up for transit to the Soviet embassy in D.C. Flight leaves in two hours out of Long Beach.”
“Belay that transfer, Chief. Under no circumstances let him out of your sight.”
“I . . . uh, . . .”
“What?”
“We have an order from the State Department. There’s a Marine captain and sergeant waiting to take custody.”
“Belay the transfer. That’s an order. I’ll be right down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Toliver slammed down the phone. He grabbed his hat and coat and hobbled down the back stairs to the basement. The Marine captain and sergeant were seated in the anteroom. Both were in greens and wore web belts with .45 pistols in holsters. Both had two rows of campaign ribbons and looked very capable. With a polite nod, Toliver walked past them and into the station office.
Chief Derickson, a barrel-chested man with silver hair, shot to his feet when Toliver walked in. “Evening, Commander. Do you want to see the prisoner?”
“Yes. Now, please.”
“Very good, Commander.” Chief Derickson picked up the phone and made the call. He ended with, “And make sure you have two guys on him, big guys . . . Torres and Vestal? They’re good. Send ’em up.” He hung up and turned to Toliver. “All set, Commander.”
“Okay. In the meantime I want to see his belongings.”
“Yes, sir.” Derickson opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a paper bag, and emptied it. “Can you imagine, a guy sitting in the Greyhound bus terminal with five grand? And look at this. A Whittnauer watch.” He held it up. “I wonder who he rolled.” The chief separated the rest of the sack’s contents. “Here’s his knife, a beauty.” He picked it up and pushed the action. The blade jumped out with a resounding click.
Toliver pointed. “That. Is that the life raft inflator?”
“Yes, sir.” Derickson pushed it over. The inflator had a black barrel that was about six inches long and an inch and a half in diameter. “That’s what he tells me it is, anyway. Have to admit I’ve never seen one like it.”
Toliver picked it up and unscrewed the main section. A carbon dioxide cartridge was secured against the inside wall. He turned it around but found no nozzle. “How does this inflate a life raft?”
“Damned if I know.”
Toliver screwed the barrel back in place. He heard a click. “What’s this?”
“Sir?”
“There’s a ridge at the other end—”
“Chief? Here he is.” Two shore patrolmen dressed in blues with web belts and .45s led in a small man in handcuffs. He wore dungarees and a blue chambray shirt, and a peacoat was jammed under his arm. His straw-colored hair was mussed. A fresh bandage was taped over his right forehead.
The man stumbled into the room, his eyes darting about.
“Has he had dinner?” asked Derickson.
“You bet, Chief.” One of the SPs rumbled, “He eats like there’s no tomorrow.”
Toliver walked up to him. “What is your name?”
The man’s eyes narrowed and settled on Toliver. “Dudek,” he said. “Karol Dudek.” Then his eyes continued searching around the room. He stiffened slightly when he saw the table nearby with his money, life raft inflator, switchblade, and seabag.
“Thank you. Where are you from, Mr. Dudek?” asked Toliver.
“Yeaaaagh!” the man screeched and shoved Toliver aside. Before anyone could react he was at the table and had his knife in hand.
The room was small, and only one SP could get at him. He charged, billy club raised.
Dudek quick-jabbed the man in the belly. The SP screamed and fell to the floor, moaning and clutching his stomach. Dudek reached down and yanked the wounded SP’s .45 from his holster. “Hah!” With a victorious grin he waved the pistol back and forth between the other SP, Toliver, and Chief Derickson. “Back!” he yelled. “Hands up. Now!”
Toliver and the others backed up.
The SP on the floor rose and reached for the pistol.
Dudek slapped away his hand, cocked the pistol, and shot him in the chest. The blast in the small room was deafening, making Toliver’s ears ring.
The SP fell to his back, arms splayed and eyes wide open.
Dudek waved the pistol back and forth and then seemed to make a decision. “You next, big officer.” He leveled the .45 at Toliver.
Four blasts in quick succession roared from the doorway. Karol Dudek’s chest blossomed with large red splotches. The force of the shots slammed him against the opposite wall. With a groan, he tumbled to the floor and was still.
The room was smoky with cordite. Standing at the doorway were the two Marines, their pistols leveled at Karol Dudek. Chief Derickson walked over and kicked the pistol away from Dudek. He felt Dudek’s wrist, then his neck. “Done for.”
Toliver’s head was still filled with noise and cordite. “What’s that?”
The chief yelled, “I said, it’s curtains, nine innings, lights out. The son of a bitch is dead.”
“Got it, Chief.”
The SP reached down and checked his buddy. “So is Torres.” He nodded toward Dudek. “That dirty bastard got what he deserved.” Then he hauled Torres’ body to the other side of the room and carefully arranged the dead man’s arms and legs. “I’m sorry, Pancho. You was a good partner.”
Toliver looked at the Marines. “Thank you, fellas. That was close.”
The captain holstered his .45. “Timing is everything.”
Others rushed in the room. People crowded in the hallway trying to peek over each other’s shoulders.
Toliver said, “Chief, call the coroner and keep everybody out except for our witnesses.” He walked over to the Marines and held out his hand. “Toliver, ONI.”
The captain said, “Bergstrom, brig commander, and this here is Sergeant Hallen, my top kick.” They shook hands. “We heard the scuffle. Sorry we didn’t get here in time to save your SP.”
Toliver looked over at Dudek’s inert form. “He was quick; handcuffs and all, he surprised us.”
“For sure,” said Captain Bergstrom. “Something weird here. So the Russian embassy in D.C. wanted him? Got an idea.” He walked to Dudek’s body, dropped to one knee, and forced open Dudek’s mouth. After a moment he pulled out a brownish tooth.
“Rotten?” asked Toliver.
“No, sir. This is a cyanide capsule. Meant to be bitten on when captured. Death is almost instantaneous. Did you see his jaw working just before we opened up?”
“To tell you the truth I was scared out of my pants.” Toliver was surprised he hadn’t wet his britches. He hadn’t thought of it at the time, but he sure did now. “But no, I didn’t.” He nodded to the tooth, “Never seen one of those before. But I’ve heard of them.”
Captain Bergstrom palmed the false tooth. “This is sophisticated stuff. Like he was supposed to kill himself if he was caught.”
Telephones were jangling and Chief Derickson was trying to answer them. Two lieutenants barged in, then a four-striper, all demanding answers from Derickson.
“What else did he have?” Toliver wondered aloud. With Bergstrom and Hallen he walked over to the table to examine Dudek’s belongings again. He picked up the black barrel, screwed it tight, and looked again at the ridge.
“Just for kicks.” Toliver aimed it across the room and thumbed the little ridge. “Phhhfft!” The barrel jumped in his hand. Something plinked against a glass-framed photo of the battleship Maryland across the room and then rattled on the desk beneath.
“What the hell?” said Bergstrom.
“I’ll be a . . .” The three walked across the room. The other officers and Chief Derickson joined them. The photo’s glass cover was cracked. “This thing has a kick to it.” Toliver bent down to find a gleaming little pellet on the desk just below the picture. “Chief, you have an envelope?” He held out a hand.
“Yes, sir.” Derickson yanked open a drawer and handed one over.
Using a paperclip, Toliver poked the pellet into the envelope, then sealed it.
“What do you think, Commander?” asked Captain Bergstom.
“I don’t like what I think. Chief, did you count the money?”
Derickson said, “Yes, sir. Five grand. Couldn’t you do a number at the track with all that? Think of it. Del Mar in the summertime. Horses prancing in the surf. And the dollies. Lotsa dollies. Hubba, hubba.” He picked up the money and waved it.
Toliver said, “Yeah, Hubba, hub—” He sniffed. That odor. Only a faint tinge, but it was there: Aqua Velva. On both the money and the envelope. “Son of a bitch!”
“You okay, Commander?” asked Captain Bergstrom.
Toliver barked, “Chief, get the Fort MacArthur Infirmary on the line. Doctor Chandler. Hurry!”
Derickson stepped to his desk and picked up the phone.
Toliver sniffed again at the money. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.”