CHAPTER 11

 

Captain Bradshaw reached in his pocket for another Marlboro. He looked at Farrell coolly, appraising him. After he lit his cigarette he began to speak.

“Slocum came to my Company in November of ’66, as part of a replacement group from Da Nang. We’d been hit hard, and were due some light defensive posturing in the Chu Lai Peninsula as a result. I should have known by how fast we got our replacements we’d be heading straight back to the bush.”

Bradshaw rubbed his unshaven chin. “Slocum was not a popular Marine. He’s a big motherfucker and twice as strong as he looks. He kept to himself, and didn’t get along too well with the guys in his squad. A lot of rumors followed him; real nasty ones.”

“What kind of rumors, Captain?” asked Farrell.

Captain Bradshaw’s face broke into a skeletal grin. “What kind of rumors, Sergeant? Rumors you can’t confirm, or deny, or even dare ask about.”

“Captain, I’m conducting an investigation. I need to know.”

The Marine exhaled smoke. Farrell was grateful the infantry officer was smoking; the odor of unwashed body emanating from him was strong.

“I asked you if you’d been in combat for a reason. When you’ve been out in the bush for a long time, away from the world, things change.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“You sure you want to hear this?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” Farrell said.

Bradshaw ground out his cigarette. “OK, cop; you want specifics, I’ll give you specifics.” The tension between the grunt officer and the CID sergeant was palpable. “Shit happens. Is that specific enough for you?”

The Marine’s eyes flashed, and Farrell heard the escalating tone in his voice. He knew he was angering the captain but refused to back off. He needed answers, and as Slocum’s commanding officer Bradshaw was uniquely qualified to provide them. He didn’t want to piss him off too much, however; Bradshaw looked like a man capable of anything.

Bradshaw stood up and walked over to the window. He resumed speaking, his back to Sergeant Farrell and Colonel Edgewater. He appeared to have calmed somewhat, but since Farrell could no longer see his face he couldn’t be sure.

“Sergeant, let me offer you a hypothetical. Let’s pretend you’re a grunt in an infantry company, here in Vietnam. Pretend you’ve been out in the bush for a couple of months. You’re so fucking far away from the civilized world that you don’t remember what it’s like to shit in porcelain or eat from a plate. And for the sake of my hypothetical, we’ll pretend that Vietnamese children approach you with grenades stuffed in their armpits. We’ll pretend snipers shoot at you all day. And we’ll pretend that every once in awhile, as you walk through the bush, one of your buddies steps on a tripwire and gets splattered all over you without warning.”

The captain lit another smoke, his face still turned away.

“All you want to do is go home,” Bradshaw went on, “with both arms, both legs, and both balls. There ain’t no rules; just get home in one piece. Now pretend that some of the guys in your unit, guys you sure as hell wouldn’t choose to have as friends back in the States, are crazy fuckers. You still with me?”

“I’m listening, sir,” Farrell said quietly.

“Outstanding. You realize we’re only talking hypothetically, don’t you?”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Bradshaw said. “I want to make that clear. Pretend some of the troops in your unit are truly psychotic. One hundred percent, dyed in the wool, certifiable, batshit crazy. Whether they were like that before the war, or got that way after being in it a while, is inconsequential isn’t it? Every war has them, right? Guys that like it; dudes that enjoy killing. And not surprisingly, these whack-jobs are often the best soldiers in your unit.”

Bradshaw turned around suddenly to face Farrell, his eyes burning. Farrell sat motionless, afraid to speak.

“Well Sergeant, these troops I’m talking about, hypothetically, of course, aren’t boy scouts. They cut off ears, and slice off dicks, and hang bodies up in the trees as a warning to the enemy. They go into villages like Gia Binh, or Gia Lang, or other godforsaken shithole places, and kill civilians, fuck children, burn hooches, and generally have a merry old time.”

Bradshaw’s voice was gradually rising to a fever pitch, and his eyes were glowing coals of contempt. Farrell was conscious that he’d checked his .45 with the desk sergeant when he came into the compound, and missed its reassuring weight on his hip.

The Marine backed away from Farrell and began to pace around Edgewater’s office, his hands folded behind his back. The colonel sat impassively, taking in the scene as if it were on TV.

“What was I saying, Sergeant?”

“You were telling me about the villages, sir.”

“Ah yes; the villages. Well, Sergeant, in the villages, things happen. Unpleasant things.” Bradshaw’s voice was again the epitome of control. Farrell found the captain’s calm demeanor more disconcerting than his angry one.

“Let’s pretend, still for the sake of our hypothetical scenario, that you’re in a squad with one of these mad motherfuckers. Because they’re crazy, they aren’t afraid of anything. And they genuinely like their jobs. Maybe one of these weirdoes has even saved your life a few times; maybe a lot of times. Maybe the only reason you’re alive and able to even fucking breathe is because one of these bloodthirsty nutjobs has pulled your ass out of the grease.”

Bradshaw paused to take a drag from his cigarette.

“So there you are, waking up every morning praying to survive another lovely day in the Nam. And when you get to a village and meet some of the friendly citizens of the bountiful country you’re trying to liberate, some of these weirdoes in your squad start having their special brand of fun. Just what are you gonna do?”

“It would present a challenge,” Farrell said.

“Outstanding, Sergeant. You move to the head of the class. Maybe you don’t like what this madman is doing, but you’re too busy trying to stay alive to notice.”

Bradshaw’s voice was starting to rise again. Farrell wasn’t sure the Marine captain wasn’t one of the crazies he was talking about.

“Or maybe,” Bradshaw spat, his voice again at a fever pitch, “there’s an even more compelling reason to look away. Maybe this guy is so crazy he makes the other gung-ho types look like Sunday school teachers. Crazy enough to singlehandedly stand off an ambush and save you and your whole platoon. Crazy enough to carry your wounded ass to safety through two hundred yards of mine-ridden rice paddy under heavy fire. Or crazy enough to cut your throat in your sleep if he gets a hint that you don’t approve of his extracurricular activities.” Bradshaw smiled without mirth. “Hypothetically, of course.” He threw his third cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his heel, staring at Farrell.

When the Marine spoke again, his voice was again quiet.

“You asked me about the rumors that followed Lance Corporal Slocum? You tell me he sexually assaulted and murdered a gook kid in your city? What do you want me to say? That I’m shocked? That I’ve never seen anything like that before? Wake up and smell the napalm, cop. You ain’t in Kansas anymore.”

“Sir,” Farrell asked hesitantly, “are you telling me Slocum has committed this kind of crime before?”

Captain Bradshaw looked at Farrell as if the CID investigator was from another planet.

“I’m not telling you anything at all, Sergeant. I was only speaking hypothetically, remember?”

Farrell stood up. “I’m sorry sir, but I don’t buy it. War is hell, and all that shit, but it doesn’t bring back a dead child. A kid whose dying moments were sheer horror. I don’t give a damn if your Corporal Slocum planted Old Glory on Iwo Jima all by himself. He might be Audie Murphy to you, but to me he’s a fucking monster. And he ain’t in the bush anymore; now he’s mine.”

To Farrell’s surprise, Bradshaw began laughing.

“You’re a kick in the ass, you know that Sergeant?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have you? Do you think you’re the only one full of righteous indignation? Do you think that just because I understand something, I condone it? Grow up.”

The Marine officer again moved his face to within inches of Farrell’s.

“Like I said when we were talking hypothetically, you’re a grunt in the bush, and you want to stay alive, you ignore things. It doesn’t have to be murder, you know. A guy like Slocum, an experienced ground-pounder, he doesn’t have to pull the trigger himself. He just doesn’t speak up when he sees your foot stepping toward a tripwire. Or during a firefight, you walk into a bullet. It’s nothing overt, but you’re just as dead, and nobody’s the wiser.”

Bradshaw headed for the door. He stopped before reaching it.

“For what it’s worth, thirteen months ago I would have felt outraged, too. But it’s been a long time since I felt a whole lot of anything.”

Captain Bradshaw put his cap on. He looked briefly at the colonel, and then back at Farrell. “I didn’t come here to give you a hard time. I respect what you’re doing. I’ve already been briefed by Colonel Edgewater. I was only trying to soften the blow.”

Farrell listened, puzzled.

“One more thing, Sergeant; watch Corporal Slocum very carefully. Don’t turn your back on him for a second. He’s the most dangerous man I’ve ever known. Good luck.”

“Sir,” blurted Farrell as Bradshaw walked out the door, “don’t you want to know what’s going to happen to your Marine?”

Shaking his head slightly, Bradshaw said, “No, Sergeant, I don’t. Do you?” The door closed behind him, and he was gone.

Farrell turned to Edgewater, who hadn’t spoken during the exchange between the young cop and the hardened Marine.

“Sir, what did he mean when he said he’d already been briefed?”

“Sit down, Bob, and let me have another smoke. We’ve got to talk.”

Farrell didn’t like the tone of Edgewater’s voice, or the fact that his commanding officer didn’t look him in the eye when he spoke. He shook two cigarettes from his pack.

“Bob, you’re a good soldier, and a good cop. I like having you work for me, and like I said, you’ve done a helluva job on this baby-killing thing.”

There was an overly long pause as Edgewater exhaled smoke, still not meeting Farrell’s eyes.

“Try to understand; there are things going on here that are out of my control.”

“I get the feeling that you’re about to give me bad news.”

“I’ll get to the point. The investigation is over as far as we’re concerned. I had Captain Bradshaw brought here to advise him that Corporal Slocum was no longer his responsibility. Some men will be arriving shortly to take custody of him. I want all files and paperwork on the investigation turned over to me immediately. Your work will be noted in your enlisted evaluation report.”

Farrell was dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“It’s over? Just like that? I’m off the investigation?”

“Bob, I’m trying to be reasonable. You’ve got to try to be reasonable too. You’re not being taken off the investigation. The investigation is over.”

“What do you mean, over? And who’s taking custody of Slocum? The JAG’s Office? The Naval Investigative Service?”

The colonel finally looked directly at Farrell; it wasn’t a friendly expression. Neither was the tone of his voice.

“Sergeant, you don’t need to know who’s coming to get Slocum. It’s out of our hands. There are influential people who are aware of this situation, and have taken the necessary steps to remedy it. I haven’t been given a clue about what’s going to happen to him, and I’m a full-bird colonel. You, as a staff sergeant, ought to know better than to even ask. Like you, I follow orders.”

Farrell worked to control his mounting rage.

“This is going to be buried, isn’t it?”

Edgewater ground out his cigarette angrily. “What did you expect? This is political dynamite. You can read the writing on the wall, can’t you? If Slocum gets prosecuted for his crimes through regular UCMJ channels, there’ll be no way to keep a lid on it. How do you think this would look if the press got hold of it? Jesus Christ, you just came from the States, didn’t you? This Slocum murder is exactly the kind of thing the hippies are chanting about during their campus protests. That the US military is in Vietnam killing babies. Isn’t that what they call us back home? Baby-killers?”

“Sir, I understand the political ramifications. But you can’t expect me to sit quietly and let Slocum walk? That Marine is a fucking time-bomb. He needs to be put somewhere where he can’t do this kind of thing again. Sir, we aren’t talking about friendly-fire casualties occurring in the heat of combat. We’re talking about an American serviceman committing a premeditated murder in cold blood.”

“That’s enough, Sergeant,” Edgewater said. “You are under my command, and you will do exactly as you are ordered. I told you, it’s out of my hands. This has already attracted the attention of some very high-ranking brass. I will not let you, or anyone else, fuck up my command, and create an embarrassing international incident over an isolated criminal act. Hell, Bob, we’re at war. What’s one dead gook, more or less?”

Farrell held his tongue, and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on Edgewater’s desk. He went for the door.

“I want all the paperwork on my desk in fifteen minutes. All of it.”

“Roger that,” Farrell said over his shoulder as he slammed the door.

He left the headquarters building after picking up his .45. He walked briskly to his own office in the adjacent building and went directly to his desk, where he’d left Slocum’s 201 file. He walked out to the administrative office and made a mimeographed copy of the arrest sheet. Tucking the copy into his breast pocket, he took the file over to the desk sergeant.

“Have the CQ runner get this over to the colonel’s office immediately. Edgewater wants it yesterday.”

The desk sergeant took the file. Farrell stopped him before he left.

“Is the suspect still in the holding cells?”

“Where else would he be?”

“Thanks. Put a rush on that file, will you?”

Farrell walked out of the administrative offices and across the courtyard, this time in the opposite direction of Edgewater’s office, towards the detention center. Once there, he checked his pistol with the sentry and signed in on a log. From there he proceeded to the desk sergeant’s post.

“Where’s my boy?”

“Cell B-4. End of the hall. You want some company?”

“He still shackled?”

“Damn straight,” said the desk sergeant. “You see the size of that guy?”

“I’ll be OK. Lemme have the key.”

“Here you go,” the sergeant said, handing Farrell a large brass key. “You need anything, holler.”

Farrell walked past the jailer’s station and was buzzed through a large metal door. Once inside, he went to section B, and found cell number four.

Looking through the bars, he saw Slocum lying on a bunk. The lance corporal had a thick leather belt on, and both of his hands were securely fastened to it by steel cuffs.

Slocum was wearing an olive-drab T-shirt and green boxer shorts. To his buttocks was taped a large patch of gauze and cotton, brown with congealed blood. It looked painful as hell to Farrell, and was undoubtedly the aftermath of the surgery to treat the gunshot wound he’d received during his arrest. Farrell inserted the brass key and noisily turned the lock. Slocum looked up as he entered.

Farrell saw a cherub-like face set under a tight crew-cut. Slocum’s neck was a thick trunk of muscle, and his arms were corded powerhouses. If he was in pain or discomfort from his wounds he didn’t show it.

It was Slocum’s eyes however, that made Farrell the most uncomfortable. They were deep and black, and seemed devoid of emotion. He’d seen pictures of predatory animals with such eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?”

The deep voice snapped Farrell from his silent appraisal. In the voice was the hint of a Midwestern accent.

“I’m Staff Sergeant Farrell, CID. It was my men that caught you.”

A grunt was all he got for a reply.

Slocum returned his stare for several long seconds, finally saying, “So what the fuck do you want?”

Farrell shook his head. “I wanted to see what talking shit looks like.”

The big Marine unexpectedly sat upright, with a speed that startled Farrell. It made him forget for an instant the suspect was shackled. He stepped back reflexively, and Slocum laughed.

“This shit sure scared you, mister big-shot CID-man.”

Then the laughter was gone from Slocum’s features. Replacing it was an expression Farrell would never forget, an animal visage on a human face.

“I could kill you the way you turn off a light,” Slocum said.

Farrell was more shaken by the Marine than he cared to show. He’d seen a lot of criminals, but never before one with such depraved viciousness seeping from every pore. He hoped Slocum couldn’t detect how unnerved he was.

“What’s the matter, Sergeant? Cat got your tongue?”

“I came to tell you I’ll enjoy knowing you’ll be locked up for the rest of your life. It makes me happy.”

Slocum produced a feral grin.

“If I told you what makes me happy, you’d have nightmares.”

Farrell suddenly didn’t know why he’d come to see the child-killer, and wished he hadn’t. With a confidence he didn’t feel, he said, “Enjoy your life in prison, Corporal.”

Farrell left the cell, locking the door. As he walked down the corridor he heard Slocum’s chilling voice behind him.

“Maybe I’ll see you around someday, Sergeant.”

Minutes later, three men wearing civilian clothes but sporting military haircuts and Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses pulled up in a jeep. Ten minutes later they drove away with Lance Corporal Vernon E Slocum, still shackled. Farrell watched them drive off from the window of his office, a cigarette smoldering between his lips. He sincerely hoped he would never see Corporal Vernon Emil Slocum again.