A Matter of Honor

Chapter Six

Lieutenant Weir paid both checks and pushed through the revolving doors of the coffee shop, buttoning his sweater against the damp cold. The alarm buzzer sounded on his wristwatch.

He hurried to a corner phone booth and dialed Central Headquarters switchboard. Identifying himself by badge number, he asked the operator to patch his incoming call to the public phone.

“It’s Springfield, Lieutenant,” the operator said. “The party said it was urgent.”

Mark Weir used a thumbnail to scrape off a smear of scarlet lipstick that almost obliterated the number above the phone.

“Okay, I got it,” he said. “Patch my call through to phone number 636-6103. No, wait a minute. That last number’s not a three, it’s an eight.”

The phone booth had been vandalized. The glass panels, reinforced with wire mesh, were splintered in several places and wind blew in icy blasts through the cracks. Mark Weir began to jog in place, awkward in the cramped space, and rubbed his hands together, holding the phone cocked between his chin and shoulder. He realized suddenly how tired he was, tired and discouraged. It was ironic, he thought, that after all these years he’d still be at a disadvantage talking to his father; the older man confident and comfortable in his country study, with Grimes nearby to pour fresh coffee or put a log on the fire, while he was asking for help, freezing and shifting from foot to foot in a phone booth somebody had recently pissed in.

His rubber-soled shoes made a sucking sound on the slippery floor, and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, kneading the muscles that were knotting with tension as he waited for the compelling voice that was always, from childhood on, poised at the inner edge of his consciousness.

“Okay, Mark.” General Scotty Weir sounded abruptly on the other end of the line. “I got your message but why the hell is any of this relevant to me? According to Grimes’ notes, if I can read his damned handwriting, three men were assaulted and murdered in slum neighborhoods in your town. They’re on the books as unsolved homicides. One every couple of months or so, all three black, all in their twenties, traces of drugs and/or alcohol in the bloodstream, and so on and so on. Is that right?”

His father’s voice was low and resonant, the lieutenant noted with some surprise, without the tone of acid bitterness he had feared. There was a muted, midwestern ring to it, with no hint of the fact they had not spoken for more than ten years.

“Basically, that’s what it is,” Mark Weir said.

“It’s a damned shame what’s happened to civilian safety and decency, but you’re talking about Chicago police business,” General Weir said, “and I don’t see what I can do for you. Hold on a minute though. I can’t read what Grimes’ got scrawled here...”

“My reason for wanting help from you is that these three victims were all GIs, active members of the United States armed forces, all murdered while in uniform. Each man had recently returned from a tour in Germany.”

“And?”

“My sergeant, DuBois Gordon, has been working with me on this. We’ve utilized every checklist, analysis and lab report. Gordon’s vetted out rumors, stoolies, raw street information. And we’ve been pressing on our cops’ intuition.”

“I’m listening.”

“We believe we’ve got the makings of a pattern but it’s incomplete, too many lines don’t fit. I’m looking for links between those dead soldiers on the other side of the water, what they were like as enlisted men in Europe, who their friends were, their frauleins, where they went on R and R, that sort of thing. I want to know where each one served in Germany, when, where and how long and with whom, if they took part in special maneuvers and where... The root of our trouble could be in Europe.”

Mark paused and waited. He could hear his father breathing at the other end of the line but the general was silent. “We could use help,” the lieutenant said. “We don’t have access to the intelligence information the Army’s got through G-2. You have old friends in service who wear stars by now. I remember General Stigmuller and a half dozen others when they were captains on your staff. They’d be willing to do you a favor...”

“What you’re speculating, Mark, is that something highly irregular, even criminal, is going on between Armed Forces Europe and Armed Forces Stateside, and perhaps even with our Allies, is that it?”

Mark Weir moistened his lips and realized he had done that once too often today; they felt dry and chapped yet numb with cold. “Even the word ‘speculate’ may be a bit strong,” he said. “We’re still searching and guessing, and I’d like to put some fresh material behind those guesses. Your Army contacts can and should get me that material.”

“I’m not sure the Army would welcome prodding from civilians on how to do its duty,” General Weir said. “And I’m not sure you’re an impartial judge on military obligations. If anything is going on, don’t you think the Army can be trusted to wash its own dirty linen?”

“Sir, this wasn’t an easy call to make,” Lieutenant Weir said. “I don’t think what I’m telling you is disloyal or could hurt the Army in the long run. I’m a cop. I’m trying to find the bastards who murdered three GIs in Chicago. I can’t countenance killing on my own turf. I’m responsible for it. This has nothing to do with our past arguments. I want you to believe that. This is something else altogether. Put those silver stars to use, lean on your connections—”

“Grimes, though he regrets it, told me what you suggested this morning I do with those stars, but I called you anyway. Okay, I’ve listened and here’s my decision. I’m retired from the Army and I’m going to stay that way, no phone calls to the Pentagon, no favors. I requested this retirement and there was a time when you thought it was a damned good idea...”

Lieutenant Weir was suddenly aware of tapping on the door of the phone booth. He turned his head and saw Sergeant Gordon signaling urgently.

“All right, general,” he said. “All right. What you’re telling me is that my problem isn’t your problem, there is nothing you can do.”

“What I am saying,” General Weir answered, “is that there is nothing I will do... there’s a difference.”

“Yes, there’s a difference,” Mark Weir said, “but I had hoped it was over, father,” and hung up the phone.

Doobie Gordon pushed open the folding door. “Switchboard told me it was Springfield, and I didn’t want to break in because I know how touchy you are about your old man.” He paused. “Bonnie Caidin called Central and they gave her to me. She said to tell you that she talked to Sergeant Malleck and he never heard of a Private Lewis and his MPs never laid a hand on him.”

Sergeant Gordon looked out over the lake and squinted.

“And then the morgue called. We don’t have to bother looking for Randolph Lewis anymore. Fingerprints just came in from Washington, and he’s the dude they picked up dead this morning over by The Studsville.”

“Anybody get in touch with his aunt?” the lieutenant asked.

“No, I thought I’d drive over myself and try to tell her,” Doobie Gordon said. “She’s a nice lady, this’ll hurt her. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home. You’ll wanna change.”

The two men walked down the block toward the parked squad car. “I wish my old man would get lost for a couple of decades,” Doobie Gordon said. “Tonight I got to take him bowling for his birthday, and after that he’s gonna ask to go somewhere for ribs and beer.”

“You don’t have to be nice to me, Doobie,” Mark Weir said. “At least my father returned my call. He didn’t have to do that.”

Sergeant Gordon stepped to the driver’s side of the car, stopped and then slapped the mud-spattered hood sharply with the palm of his hand.

“Damn!” he said. “That makes four soldier boys, four! Randolph Peyton Lewis... why do you think they had to name that poor, dumb, dead nigra after a Pullman porter?”