Hart’s War

Chapter Fourteen

Second Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli sat uncomfortably on the witness chair, shifting once or twice as he searched for a more accommodating position, and finally leaning forward slightly, placing his hands on top of each of his thighs, as if to steady himself. He did not look over at Tommy Hart, Lincoln Scott, or Hugh Renaday, who wore a look on his face of distinctly murderous fury. Instead, he kept his eyes on Captain Townsend, who maneuvered his own body between Fenelli and the defense as best he could.

"Now, lieutenant," Townsend began slowly, his voice as soft yet cajoling as a teacher trying to prompt some brilliant but shy student, "please tell all of us assembled here how it is that you came to acquire some special expertise in the handling of murder victims."

Fenelli nodded and launched into the story he'd already told Tommy and Hugh, about working in his uncle's mortuary in Cleveland prior to attending medical school. He spoke without the brashness or the bravado that he'd displayed when Tommy first interviewed him. Now he was direct, modest, but complete, and certainly lacking any of the orneriness he'd shown before.

"Very good," Townsend said, calmly absorbing Fenelli's words.

"Now, tell the court how it was that you came to examine the deceased man's remains."

Fenelli nodded.

"It was my job to prepare Captain Bedford's body for burial, sir. I have performed this task on several other unhappy occasions. It was while doing my job that I took note of the wounds on his body."

Again, Townsend nodded slowly. Tommy sat quietly in his seat, noting that Townsend didn't ask anything about the order Clark gave Fenelli not to examine the body. But so far, Fenelli had not departed from anything Tommy had expected.

That wasn't to last.

"Now, did there come a time when Mr. Hart approached you, with pictures of the crime scene, and questions about the manner in which

Captain Bedford died?"

"Yes sir," Fenelli answered swiftly.

"And did you have some opinions about the murder that you expressed to him?"

"Yes sir. I did."

"And are those opinions the same today as they were during that interview?"

Fenelli paused, swallowing hard, then he smiled wanly.

"Well, not exactly," he said with a small hesitation.

Tommy was on his feet immediately.

"Your Honor!" He stared directly at Colonel MacNamara.

"I don't know precisely what's going on with this witness, but this sudden change of attitude stinks!"

Colonel MacNamara nodded.

"It does, perhaps, lieutenant.

But the man is now under oath in front of all of us.

He's sworn to tell the truth. We need to hear what he's going to say before we can judge it."

"Sir, once a cat is out of the bag…"

MacNamara smiled, interrupting.

"I see your point, lieutenant.

But we're still going to listen to the man! Continue, please. Captain

Townsend."

Tommy remained standing, his knuckles pressed hard and white against the defense table.

"Sit down, Mr. Hart!" MacNamara said sharply.

"You may make your arguments at the appropriate time!"

Tommy slumped down.

Captain Townsend hesitated, then asked, "Well, let me back up a little.

Lieutenant Fenelli. Did there come a time subsequent to your conversation with Mr. Hart that you spoke with myself and Major Clark?"

"Yes sir."

"And as part of that conversation, did you have the opportunity to examine the prosecution's evidence in this case? To wit, the homemade knife fashioned by Lieutenant Scott and the articles of clothing that we have here today?"

"Yes sir."

"Now, Mr. Hart didn't show you these things, did he?"

"No sir. He only showed me the drawings he had had prepared."

"Those drawings, did they seem accurate enough to you?"

"Yes sir. They did."

"They still seem that way?"

"Yes sir."

"Is there anything in those drawings that contradicts what you believe happened to Captain Bedford, based on your examination of the body?"

"No sir."

"Now, tell this court what you came to believe about the crime."

"Well, sir, my first impression, when I first laid out the captain's body, you see, was that Mr. Bedford had been killed by a stab from behind, which is just what I told Mr. Hart. I also believed right then that the murder weapon was something long and narrow…"

"You told Mr. Hart this? That the murder weapon was thin?"

"Yes sir. I suggested the killing was performed by a man wielding some sort of narrow stiletto or switchblade-type knife."

"But he didn't show you this knife, did he?"

"No sir. He did not have it."

"In fact, you've never seen this weapon, have you?"

"Well, not here."

"Right. So, there is no evidence whatsoever that this second what did you call it…"

"Stiletto. Or switchblade, captain…"

"Right. This assassin's weapon. You've never seen it.

There's no evidence at all that it even exists, is there?"

"Not that I know of."

"Right." Townsend paused, took a deep breath, then asked, "So, this killing that you first thought might have been performed with a knife that doesn't seem to exist… is that what you believe today?"

Tommy rose sharply.

"Objection!" he blurted.

Colonel MacNamara shook his head.

"Captain Townsend," he said stiffly, "try to ask your questions in an acceptable manner. Without all the unnecessary editorializing."

"Of course, Your Honor. Sorry," Townsend said. Then he looked over at Lieutenant Fenelli, and did not rephrase the question, but merely gestured, a small hand wave, as if encouraging his response.

"No sir. It's not exactly what I believe today. When I saw the blade in the prosecution's possession, the one you and the major showed me yesterday, well, then I was able to determine that the wounds inflicted upon Captain Bedford were possibly consistent with that weapon…"

Lincoln Scott muttered, "Possibly consistent… that's great." Tommy did not reply, instead focusing closely on each word that seemed to drag itself from Fenelli's lips.

"Was there another reason why you first thought the wounds Captain

Bedford suffered were delivered with that special sort of knife?"

Townsend questioned.

"Well, sir, yes. Those were the types of wounds that I saw in my mortuary experience back in Cleveland, sir. Because I was most familiar with those sorts of weapons and the damage they cause, that was sort of what I sort of automatically concluded. My fault. Sort of."

Townsend smiled at Fenelli's tortured grammar.

"But upon further consideration…"

"Yes sir. Further consideration. A couple of further considerations, sir. I saw that there were also some contusions on the captain's face.

I suspect what might have happened was that he was struck by a fist, hard, which slammed him sideways into the wall of the Abort, and exposing that portion of the neck where the primary wound was discovered. In this maybe semiconscious and vulnerable state, kinda twisted sideways, you know, the blade was used to kill, giving me the impression of a blow from behind. At least, giving me that impression at first. I musta been wrong. Or coulda been, maybe. It might have happened that way. I'm no expert."

Walker Townsend nodded. It was impossible for him to hide the look of pleased satisfaction on his face.

"That's right. You're not an expert."

"That's what I said. I'm not an expert," Fenelli repeated.

The medic from Cleveland shifted once or twice in his seat, then added,

"I feel that I should have maybe gone to Mr.

Hart and told him about my change of mind, sir. Shoulda gone, right after talking with you. I apologize for that. But I didn't have time, because " "Of course." Townsend sliced off Fenelli's words sharply.

"Now I have just one more question, lieutenant," Townsend said loudly.

"There has been much made of this right-hand, left-hand business…"

"Yes sir."

"Did your examination of the body suggest to you anything in this regard?"

"Yes sir. Because of the contusions and the knife wound, and after talking with you, I kinda figured that whoever killed Captain Bedford was possibly pretty much ambidextrous, sir.

Or real close to it."

Townsend nodded slowly.

"Ambidextrous means someone who is equally capable of using either right or left hand, correct?"

"That is correct, sir."

"Like a particularly skilled boxer?"

"I suppose so."

"Objection Tommy again leapt to his feet.

Colonel MacNamara stared at him, and held up his hand for Tommy to halt before going further.

"Yes, yes, I know what you're going to say. Lieutenant Hart. This is a conclusion that the witness is not capable of reaching. Absolutely correct. Unfortunately, Mr. Hart, it is a conclusion that is obvious to the entire tribunal." He waved Tommy back into his seat.

"Do you have something further for Lieutenant Fenelli, captain?"

Townsend smiled, glanced over toward Major Clark, and shook his head.

"No sir. We have no more questions. He's your witness now, Lieutenant Hart."

Shaking with rage, his mind seared with every imaginable sensation of fury and betrayal. Tommy rose and, for a long second or two, simply stared across the room at the witness seated in front of him. His imagination was jumbled with confused emotions, all painted over in the red of anger.

Tommy bit down on his lower lip, wanting to do nothing except savage Fenelli. He wanted to embarrass him and show him to the entire camp to be the back-stabbing dishonest gutless cowardly liar that Tommy believed him to be. He searched through the thicket of rage for the first question that would expose him to the assembly as the Judas Tommy considered him. Tommy was breathing hard and harsh, and he wanted his first query to be devastating.

He opened his mouth to fire this first salvo, but stopped, just as he caught, out of the corner of his eye, the look on Walker Townsend's face. The captain from Virginia was leaning slightly forward, not so much grinning as he was flush with eagerness. And Tommy, in that short moment, realized something he thought important-that what Captain Townsend, and Major Clark at his side, were anticipating was not what Fenelli had already said from the witness stand. But what he was about to say, when Tommy thrust his first infuriated question across the theater.

Tommy took a deep breath. He glanced down at both Hugh Renaday and Lincoln Scott, and he could tell the two men wanted him to verbally carve the lying medic into tiny pieces.

He let out air slowly.

Then he looked past Fenelli, up to Colonel MacNamara.

"Colonel," he said, plastering a small, fake smile onto his face.

"Obviously Lieutenant Fenelli's change of tune takes the defense by complete surprise. We would request that you adjourn these proceedings until tomorrow, so that we can discuss strategy."

Captain Townsend rose.

"Sir, there's almost an hour until the evening Appell. I think we should continue as late as possible.

There's more than enough time for Mr. Hart to ask some questions, and then, if need be, continue in the morning."

Tommy coughed. He crossed his arms in front of him and realized that he had just avoided a trap. The problem was, he couldn't quite see what the trap was. He glanced sideways and noticed that Major Clark had curled his hands into fists.

MacNamara seemed oddly oblivious to what was going on. Instead, he started to shake his head back and forth.

"Lieutenant Hart is correct," he said slowly.

"There's less than an hour. Not really enough time, and these things are better when they're not cut in two. We'll recess now, and pick up again in the morning." He turned briefly toward Hauptmann Visser, sitting by the side of the room, and lectured him with an irritated, inconvenienced tone of voice: "We could be far more efficient here, Herr Hauptmann, and bring things to a much more rapid and orderly conclusion if we were not constantly having to interrupt ourselves for the regularly scheduled roll calls. Will you bring this up with Commandant Von Reiter?"

Visser nodded.

"I will mention it to him, colonel," he replied dryly.

"Very good," MacNamara said.

"Lieutenant Fenelli, please remember that just like the other witnesses, you are under oath and not to discuss your testimony or any other aspect of this case with any other person. Understand?"

"Of course, sir," Fenelli answered briskly.

"Then we are dismissed until tomorrow," MacNamara said, rising.

As before, Tommy, Scott, and Hugh Renaday waited for the theater to empty out, remaining at their table silently, until the last echo of flight boots faded from the cavernous room behind them. Lincoln Scott was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the vacant witness chair.

Renaday pushed back from the table hard, and spoke first.

"Blasted liar!" he said angrily.

"Tommy, why didn't you go right after him? Tear his dishonest throat out!"

"Because that was what they wanted. Or, at the least, that was what they expected. And what Fenelli said was bad enough. But maybe what he was about to say was going to be worse."

"How do you know that?" Renaday sputtered.

"I don't," Tommy said flatly.

"I'm just guessing."

"What could he say that was worse?"

Again, Tommy shrugged.

"He was equivocating on all those lies, lots of maybes and coulda’s and should as Perhaps when I asked him about being paid a visit by Townsend and Clark, perhaps he wasn't going to be quite as unsteady.

Maybe the next lie was going to sink us. But I'm guessing.

Again."

"Bloody dangerous guesswork, my lad," Hugh said.

"Just gives the deceitful bastard all night to ready himself for the onslaught."

"I don't know about that," Tommy said.

"I think I'll pay Mr. Fenelli a little visit after dinner."

"But MacNamara said…"

"The hell with MacNamara," Tommy replied.

"What the hell can he do to me? I'm already a prisoner of war."

This response tripped a slight, sad grin onto Lincoln Scott's face. He nodded. But he did not speak, seeming to prefer to keep all the terrifying thoughts that had to be burning within him contained. And one thing was obvious: Perhaps Colonel MacNamara couldn't really do anything worse to Tommy, but that wasn't the case for Lincoln Scott.

The evening sky was clearing, the irritating cold drizzle had ceased, and there was a little promise of milder weather ahead at the evening Appell. Tommy stood patiently beside Lincoln Scott as the mind-numbing process of being counted was repeated again. He wondered for a moment just exactly how many times the Germans had counted him during his years at Stalag Luft Thirteen, and he pledged that if he ever made it home to Vermont, he would never ever allow anyone to count his head out loud ever again.

He looked around, searching the rows of fliers for Fenelli, but was unable to spot him. Tommy figured he would be lurking in the back row of one of the formations, as distant from the men in Hut 101 as possible. This made no difference to Tommy, He intended to wait until the hour right before the lights were going out to make his real search. He was reviewing what he was going to say to the would-be medic, trying to find the right combination of anger and understanding that would get Fenelli to tell him why he'd changed his story, Clark and Townsend had reached him. Tommy knew.

But just how he wasn't sure, and that was what he needed to know. He also needed to know what it was that Fenelli was intending to say in the morning.

Other than that pursuit, he recognized that he was more or less out of tricks. He had no evidence to present. The only witness for the defense was Scott himself. Scott and whatever eloquence Tommy could muster. He shook his head. Not much to offer. He expected Scott to be a terrible witness, and he had great doubts over his own ability to sway anyone much less Colonel MacNamara and the other two members of the court with any sort of impassioned speech.

He heard the bellow of dismissal from the front of the formations and wordlessly he followed Scott and Hugh back across the parade ground toward Hut 101. He paid no attention to the buzz of voices around them.

As they walked down the center corridor of the barracks, Hugh spoke out.

"We need to eat something. But there's not much in the larder, I'll wager."

"You go ahead," Scott said.

"I have almost a full parcel left.

Take whatever you need and fix something for yourselves.

I'm just not that hungry."

Hugh started to respond, then stopped. Both he and Tommy knew this statement for the lie it was, because everyone was always hungry at Stalag Luft Thirteen.

Scott stepped ahead of the two others and thrust open the door to their room. He pushed inside, but stopped after traveling only a few feet.

Behind him, both Tommy and Hugh paused.

"What is it?

"Tommy asked.

"We've had visitors again," Scott said flatly.

"I'll be damned."

Tommy slid past the black airman's broad shoulders. He could see that Lincoln Scott was staring at something, and Tommy fully expected another crude sign. But what he saw stopped him in his tracks as well.

Stuck into the rough-hewn wooden frame of Tommy's bunk, right above the threadbare pillow for his head, reflecting the harsh, bright light from the overhead bulb, was a knife.

Not a knife. The knife. The death's head skull at the tip of the handle seemed to grin directly at him.

Hugh had pressed forward as well.

"Well, about bloody time someone here did the damn right thing," he muttered.

"That's got to be it. Tommy, my boy. The murder weapon.

And now, thank God, we've got it!"

The three men approached the knife carefully.

"Has anything else been disturbed?" Tommy asked.

"Doesn't look that way," Scott replied.

"Is there a note?"

"No. None that I can see."

Tommy shook his head.

"There should be a note," he insisted.

"Why?" Hugh asked.

"The damn thing pretty much speaks for itself. Maybe that fighter jock, the fellow from New York who first told you about it, maybe he's our anonymous benefactor."

"Maybe," Tommy said warily. He reached out and gingerly removed the blade from the wood. It glistened in his hand, almost as if it had a voice of its own, which, in a way, it did. He raised it and inspected the knife as closely as possible. It had been cleaned of any blood or other incriminating matter, so that it appeared almost brand new. He hefted it in his hand. It was light, yet solid. He ran a finger up and down the double edges. They were razor-sharp. The point had not been dulled, not by being thrust into Trader Vic's neck or by being stabbed into the wood of Tommy's bunk. The handle itself was onyx-black and polished to a reflective sheen and obviously carved by a craftsman. The death's head skull was a pearly white color, almost translucent. The dagger seemed to speak of ritual and terror, simultaneously. It was a cruel thing. Tommy thought, that combined an awful mixture of symbolism and murderous intent. It was, he realized suddenly, the most valuable thing he'd held in his own hand in months, and then, just as swiftly, he thought this untrue, that any single one of his law books was more important and, in their own way, more dangerous. He smiled, and realized that he was being sophomorically idealistic.

"Well, that's the first bit of luck we've had," Hugh exclaimed.

"Something of a surprise for Lieutenant Fenelli tomorrow, I'd "say." He took the blade from Tommy's hand, weighed it, and added, "A nasty bit of business, this."

Scott reached out and took his turn with the knife. He remained quiet until he handed it back to Tommy.

"I don't trust it," he said sharply.

"What do you mean?" Hugh asked.

"That's the bloody murder weapon, all right."

"Yes. That's probably true. And it shows up here magically?

Right at the darkest hour? At least that's what someone would say. A bad poet."

"Maybe. But maybe it's about time someone saw how damnably unfair this whole show has been!" Hugh blurted out.

"Somebody finally thought to level the playing field a bit, and what right have we to complain?"

"You don't mean we, Hugh. You mean me" Scott replied softly.

Hugh snorted, but nodded in slow agreement.

Scott turned to face Tommy.

"No one in the camp wants to help. Not a person."

"We've had this argument before," Tommy responded.

"We don't know that what you say is true. At least, not for certain."

Scott rolled his eyes skyward.

"Sure. If that's what you want to think." Then he looked down at the ceremonial dagger again.

"Look at that knife. Tommy. It stands for evil and it's already served an evil cause. It has death all over it.

Now, I know you may not be all that religious with your Vermont Yankee stubbornness and everything"-he was half-smiling as he spoke-"and after all, I like to think that I'm much more modern than my old preacher father, who gets up on the pulpit on Sunday mornings and likes to loudly and forthrightly proclaim that anything not directly connected to the Good Book has little or no value on this earth, but still, Tommy, Hugh, you look at that thing, and you realize no good and certainly no truth can come out of it."

"You're too bloody philosophical and not pragmatic enough," Hugh said.

"Perhaps," Scott replied.

"We'll see, won't we?"

Tommy said nothing. He put the blade down on his bunk after stroking the handle a final time. Even cleaned, it wasn't hard to imagine how an expert handling such a weapon would find it easy to slip it into the throat of a man, commando-style, severing the larynx on the path to the brainpan. He shuddered. It was a type of killing that seemed hard and unfamiliar; though had he really considered it, he would have seen that in a war there was truly little difference between forcing the dagger into a man's neck and skipping a five-hundred-pound bomb across the waves toward him. But Tommy was trapped with the vision of Trader Vic's last seconds, and he wondered if the Mississippian had felt any pain, or if he was merely surprised and slightly confused as he felt the knife slide home.

Tommy shuddered. Scott was right, he thought. It was an evil thing.

He realized right then that when he produced it at the trial in the morning, right before Hauptmann Visser's eyes, it would probably cost Fritz Number One his life, and perhaps demand a similar price of Commandant Von Reiter.

At the least, the two men would soon be heading east to the Russian front, which was more or less the same thing.

Tommy knew that Fritz had been telling the truth about that, at least.

Visser also would know that there was only one way that knife came into the camp. Tommy had the odd thought that the blade resting on his thin gray blanket was capable of killing the two Germans without even piercing their skin.

He wondered whether the person who had delivered the blade to Tommy's bunk room knew the same. He was abruptly filled with suspicions. For a second, he glanced at Lincoln Scott, and thought to himself that the black airman was more right than wrong. The sudden appearance of the knife at this late hour might not be of help. He had the same sensation he'd experienced in the courtroom, when he'd stopped himself from launching questions like bombs at Fenelli. A trap? he wondered to himself.

But a trap for whom?

He shook his head.

"Screw it," he said.

"I think it's time that I go and have a little talk with our ex-witness," he said.

"The one on whom we had so much riding. Maybe it's time to ask him, privately, why he changed his tale."

"I wonder what the hell they promised him," Lincoln Scott said.

"What can you bribe a man with here?"

Tommy did not answer this, though he thought it an extremely good question. He reached over and took the knife and wrapped it in one of the few relatively intact pairs of woolen olive drab socks that he owned. Then he stuffed it into the interior pocket of his flight jacket.

"You're taking it?" Lincoln Scott asked.

"Why?"

"Because," Tommy replied quietly, "it does occur to me that this is the real murder weapon we're holding, and what's to prevent Major Clark and Captain Townsend from sauntering in here in the next few minutes, just like they did before, and performing one of their little illegal searches and claiming in court tomorrow that we've had the damn thing in our possession for days? That maybe the only person who ever had possession of this knife was Lincoln Scott?"

Neither of the others had seen this possibility. Lincoln Scott smiled sadly.

"You've become a suspicious type, Tommy," he said.

"With good reason," Tommy replied. He watched as Scott turned, his shoulders slumped by the weight of what was happening to him, and threw himself onto his bunk, where he rested immobile.

He seems resigned. Tommy thought. Perhaps for the first time, he thought he saw some defeat in the shadows beneath the black flier's eyes, and thought he'd heard failure in the tone of each word he spoke.

He tried not to think about this as he headed out into the early evening, searching for Fenelli, the lying medic, who, he thought, in his own way, might be every bit as dangerous as the knife concealed next to his breast.

The light was fading quickly as Tommy made his way across the camp to the medical services hut. It was that indistinct time of day when the sky only remembers the sunlight and insists on the promise of night.

Most of the kriegies were inside already, many engaged in the elaborate and inadequate preparation of dinner. The more conscientious and deliberate a kriegie cook was in assembling the modest foodstuffs and organizing the evening meal, generally spoke to how little there was at that moment to eat. As he passed one hut, Tommy could smell the ubiquitous odor of processed meat being fried. It gnawed at his stomach in typical prisoner-of-war fashion. He desperately would have liked a slice, wet with greasy drippings, on top of a fresh hunk of kriegsbrot, yet at the same time he vowed that if he ever got home, he'd never touch a piece of processed meat again.

There was a single light shining in the dirty window of the medical services hut, which he spotted as he came around the corner of Hut 119.

For a second, he looked past the buildings, out through the wire to the modest cemetery. He thought that it was a particular cruelty of the Germans that they had allowed the men who died to be buried outside the wire. It made a mockery of every kriegie's yearning for freedom and home. The only men no longer in prison were six feet beneath the ground.

Tommy scowled, took an angry deep breath of the cooling air surrounding him, and jogged up the wooden steps to the small clinic-hut, grabbing at the door, and surging inside.

There was a solitary kriegie sitting behind the desk, in the same position where Tommy had first met Nicholas Fenelli.

The man looked up sharply.

"What's the problem, buddy?" he asked.

"Gonna be dark soon, need to be in your hut."

Tommy stepped forward, out of the shadows by the door, into the light.

He saw the captain's bars on the man's jacket, and so he threw a lazy salute in the officer's direction. He did not recognize the man. But the reverse wasn't true.

"You're Hart, ain't you?"

"Right. I'm looking for-" "I know who you're looking for. But I was there today, and I heard Colonel MacNamara's orders-" "You got a name, captain?" Tommy interrupted.

The officer hesitated, shrugged, then replied, "Sure.

Carson. Like the scout." He held out a hand, and Tommy shook it.

"Okay, Captain Carson, let me try again. Where's Fenelli?"

"Not here. And he has orders not to speak with you or anyone else. And you have orders not to try to talk to him."

"You been in the bag long, captain? I don't recognize you."

"Couple of months. Came in right before Scott, actually."

"Okay then, captain, let me clue you on something. We may still be in the army, and we may still have uniforms and salute and call everybody by their rank and all, but you know what? It ain't the same thing. Now, where's Fenelli?"

Carson shook his head.

"He was moved out. They told me if you came looking not to tell you."

"I can go from hut to hut…"

"And maybe get shot by some goon in the towers for your troubles."

Tommy nodded. The captain was right. There was no way, without being told where to go, for Tommy to go from room to room, searching for Fenelli. Not in the short amount of evening left before the lights went out.

"You know where he is?"

The captain shook his head.

"This they who told you what to say if I came looking, this would be

Major Clark and Captain Townsend, right?"

The man hesitated, which of course told Tommy the answer.

Then Captain Carson shrugged.

"Yeah," he said.

"It was them. And they're the ones that helped Fenelli take his stuff.

And they told me I was gonna have to help Fenelli in here, after the trial's over and things get back to normal. That's what they said.

Back to normal."

"So you're going to be helping Fenelli? You got any experience?

I mean, with medical problems."

"My old man was a country doctor. He ran a little clinic where I used to work, summers. And I was premed at the University of Wisconsin, so I guess I'm as qualified as anybody else. You know, I wonder why there aren't any real doctors here. I mean, you can find just about any other type of profession…"

"Maybe the doctors are smart enough not to go up in a B-17…"

"Or a Thunderbolt. Like I wasn't." Carson smiled.

"You know. Hart, I don't want to come across like such a hard case.

If I knew, I'd tell you. Hell, I don't even think they told Fenelli where they were moving him. And he knew you'd be coming around tonight, and so he told me to tell you he was goddamn sorry about today…" Carson looked around for a moment, just double-checking to make sure the two men were alone.

"And he left a note. You got to understand. Hart, those two guys were keeping a pretty close eye on Fenelli. Sitting on him pretty good. I didn't get the impression he was all that happy to be hustled off to some new hut. And he sure wasn't all that happy with the testimony today in court, but he wasn't talking about it one way or the other, especially with me. But he managed to scribble down something and slip it aside…" Carson was reaching into his pocket, as he spoke.

He removed a torn scrap of paper, folded twice. He handed it to

Tommy.

"I didn't read it," Carson said.

Tommy nodded, unfolded the scrap, and read: Sorry, Hart. Trader Vic was right about one thing: Everything in this damn place is a deal. Good deal for some, maybe a bad deal for others.

Hope you make it home in one piece. After all this is finished, you ever get to Cleveland, look me up so I can apologize properly.

He did not sign the note. It was written in a hasty, scribbled script, in thick dark pencil. Tommy read it through three times, memorizing it word for word.

"Fenelli said to tell you to burn that, after you got it," Carson said.

Tommy nodded.

"What has Fenelli told you? About this place. The clinic, I mean."

The captain shrugged his shoulders in exaggerated fashion.

"Since I got here, all he does is complain. He's damn fed up with never being able to really help no one, because the Krauts steal the medical supplies. He said the day he gets to retire from this job and get back to his reading and real studying would be the best day of his life. That's what he said you've been up to, right. Hart? Reading those law books. He told me to be smart and do the same. Get some medical texts and start studying. We got plenty of free time, right?"

"That's the only thing we do seem to have enough of," Tommy said.

Night's cold and dark had seized the camp as Tommy hurried beneath the encroaching gray-black skies. The last murky light streaked across the western horizon. There were only a few other stragglers making their way to their bunk rooms, and, like Tommy, they had their hats pulled down on their heads, their collars turned up against the few breaths of chilly wind that swirled in. the alleyways between the huts.

Everyone walked fast, eager to get inside before the grip of night tightened completely. His route from the medical services hut took him out to the main assembly area, now vacant, swept dry by the falling temperatures. To his left, he saw that the last of the moon, a single silver sliver, was just visible over the line of trees beyond the wire.

He wished he could take a moment, wait for the stars to begin to blink and shine, injecting familiarity and the odd sense of companionship they gave him, into his troubled imagination.

But instead, as the few other men still abroad in the camp hurried past him, he kept his pace quick and his head down.

As he approached the doorway to Hut 101, he tossed a single glance back over his shoulder, toward the main gate. What he saw made him hesitate.

There was a single electric light, beneath a tin shade, by the gate. In the weak inverted cone of light it shed. Tommy spotted the unmistakable form of Fritz Number One, lighting up a cigarette. He guessed the ferret was about to go off-duty.

Tommy stopped sharply.

Seeing the ferret, even that close to the end of the day, wasn't all that unusual. The ferrets were always alert to the final comings and goings of the camp, afraid that some clandestine meetings were taking place just beyond their sight under cover of darkness. In this, of course, they were absolutely correct. Unable to detect, of course, but correct nonetheless.

Tommy peered around for a moment, and saw that he was virtually alone, save for a distant figure or two, hurrying toward huts on the opposite side of the compound. And in that second, he made a sudden decision he knew was undoubtedly rash. He abruptly turned away from the door to Hut 101, and quickly trotted across the compound assembly area, his boots making dull thudding noises against the packed dirt. When he was twenty yards away from the main gate, Fritz Number One spotted the movement coming toward him, and pivoted to face Tommy. In the growing dark, Tommy was anonymous, just a dark form moving rapidly, and he saw some mingled alarm and inquisitiveness on the ferret's face, almost as if he were frightened by the kriegie-apparition coming through the first gloom of night in his direction.

"Fritz!" Tommy said briskly, not hiding his voice.

"Come here."

The German stepped out of the light, threw a fast glance around himself, determining that no one else was close by, and then paced forward quickly.

"Mr. Hart! What is it? You should be in your hut."

Tommy reached inside his flight jacket.

"Got a present for you, Fritz," he said sharply.

The ferret stepped closer, still wary.

"A present? I do not understand…"

Tommy reached inside his jacket, and extracted the ceremonial dagger from his socks.

"I need these," he said, holding up the socks.

"But you need this."

With that, he tossed the knife into the dirt at the German's feet.

Fritz Number One stared down at the knife for a second, a look of astonishment on his face. Then he reached down and grabbed for it.

"You can thank me some other time," Tommy said, turning as Fritz Number One rose up, grinning widely.

"And you can be assured I'll ask for something, someday. Something big."

He did not wait for the German to reply; instead he jogged deliberately back across the yard, not turning even when he reached the entrance to Hut 101, and not hesitating until he'd slammed the door shut behind him, hoping that he had just done the right thing, but not at all sure that he had.

None of the trio of men in the bunk room in Hut 101 slept well that night, all of them suffering from nightmares that pitched them sweatily from their reveries, waking them to the deep midnights of imprisonment more than once. No steady breathing, no light snoring, no real rest throughout the long Bavarian night. None of the three spoke. Instead, each man awakened sharply, and lay alone 'with his thoughts and terrors, fears and angers, unable to calm himself with the usual soft, safe, and familiar visions of home. Tommy believed, as he lay awake, that it was probably worst for Scott. Hugh, like Tommy, only faced failure and frustration. Defeat for them was psychological. For Lincoln Scott it was all the same, and one step more. Perhaps a fatal step.

Tommy twitched and shivered beneath his blanket. For a moment or two, he wondered if he could ever continue with the law if, on the first occasion he stepped to the bar, he lost an innocent man to a firing squad. He breathed in slowly. He understood in the darkness of the bunk room that all the odds stacked against them, the cheating and lies that had been arrayed against the black flier, every aspect of the case that was so infuriating, that if he allowed all those evils to win and take Scott's life, that he would never be able to stand up in any other courtroom and defend a man or an idea again.

He hated this thought, and tossed about in the bunk, trying to persuade himself that he was simply being naive and juvenile, and that a more experienced attorney, like Phillip Pryce, would be able to accept defeats with the same equanimity as victories. But he also understood, deep within the same difficult crevasses of his heart, that he wasn't like his friend and mentor, and that a loss in this trial would be his first and only loss.

He thought it a terrible thing to be trapped, imprisoned behind the rows of barbed wire, and still be standing at a crossroads.

He abruptly found his imagination crowded by the ghosts of his old bomber crew. The men of the Lovely Lydia were in the room with him, silent, almost reproachful. He understood that he was on that flight with really a single task that they all counted on him for: to find them the safe route home. He had not done it for them.

In a funny way, he thought the odds of success about the same for the Lovely Lydia, when it had turned and started its bombing run directly into every gun in the convoy, and Lincoln Scott, imprisoned by his country's enemies, only to find that arrayed against him were the men who should have been his friends.

Tommy put his head back, his eyes open and staring up at the ceiling, almost as if he could look straight through the wooden planks and tin roof, to the sky and the stars.

Who knows the truth about the murder of Trader Vic? he asked himself.

Someone does, but who? He took another deep breath and continued to argue in his mind all the issues, over and over again, back and forth.

He thought of what Lincoln Scott had said earlier and repeatedly: No one in the camp was really willing to help.

Tommy took a sharp breath, as an idea grabbed hold of him. It was something so obvious, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it earlier.

And for perhaps the first time that night, he managed a small grin.

The men of Hut 101 awakened to the harsh noise of whistles and German shouts of "Raus! Raus!" punctuated by pounding against the wooden doors. They lurched from their beds as they had on so many mornings, pulling on their clothing and double-timing through the central corridor of the hut, heading to the morning Appell. But as they exited the doors to the barracks, they were greeted with the unusual sight of a squad of gray-clad German soldiers standing in formation in front of the hut, perhaps twenty men, armed with rifles. A thick-chested Feldwebel was at the foot of the stairs, a scowl across his face, directing traffic like a surly cop.

"You men, in Hut 101, assemble here! Raus! Be quick! No one to go to Appell! The Feldwebel motioned to a pair of Hundfuhrers who snatched back the chains of their snarling dogs, making the animals leap in excitement, growling and barking.

"What the hell's going on?" Scott asked beneath his breath, as he stood beside Tommy in the midst of the gathered men from Hut 101.

"I know," Hugh answered for him.

"It's a bloody hut search. What the hell do the Krauts think they're going to find? Another damn waste of all our time!" Hugh blurted out this last sentiment loudly, directing it at the German sergeant, who was struggling to get the kriegies into well-dressed lines.

"Hey, Adolf! Better make sure you check the privy! Someone might be swimming to freedom!" The other men from Hut 101 burst into laughter and a couple of fliers applauded the Canadian's sense of humor.

"Quiet!" the Feldwebel shouted.

"No talking! At attention!"

Tommy pivoted about as best he could, and as he looked, he saw Hauptmann Visser, accompanied by an ashen-faced Fritz Number One, emerge from the rear of the formation of German soldiers.

The Feldwebel spoke in German, and one of the kriegies softly translated, the words being passed down the rows of men.

"Prisoners of Hut 101 all present and accounted for, Hauptmann "Good,"

Visser said. He gestured to Fritz Number One.

"Begin the search."

Fritz barked out an order, and half the squad of goons peeled off and tramped into the hut. After a moment, both Fritz and Visser followed them.

"What're they really searching for?" Scott whispered.

"Tunnels. Dirt. Radios. Contraband. Anything out of the ordinary."

From inside the hut, there was the sound of tramping feet and deep thuds and cracks, as men went from room to room.

"They ever find anything?"

"Not usually," Hugh replied. He smiled.

"Krauts don't really know how to perform a proper search," he said.

"Not like a policeman. Usually they just tear up stuff, make a damn mess of things, and come away angry. Happens all the time."

"Why did they pick this hut? This morning?"

"Real good questions," Hugh replied.

Real good questions. Tommy repeated to himself.

After a few minutes, as the kriegies remained in their almost orderly rows, they saw German soldiers begin to exit the hut. The goons came out singly or in pairs, and almost all were empty-handed, grinning sheepishly, shrugging, and shaking their heads. Tommy noticed that most of the squad of goons were old, many of them nearly as old as Phillip Pryce had been. The others, of course, were impossibly young, barely into their teens, with uniforms they didn't quite fit into hanging poorly from their young limbs. After a few more seconds, there was a shout of excitement from deep within the hut. A moment passed, and then one man emerged, grinning, holding a makeshift radio that had been concealed in an empty coffee tin. The German held this up high, a look of delight on his wrinkled, old man's face. Right behind him was another goon, barely a third the older man's age. He, too, was smiling and excited. From several rows behind him. Tommy heard an airman mutter, "Ahh, goddamn it! They got my radio! Son of a gun! I traded three cartons of smokes for that!"

Perhaps the last to emerge from the hut were Fritz Number One and Heinrich Visser. The one-armed German officer scowled at Tommy. With his only hand, he gestured at Tommy, Hugh, and Lincoln Scott, pointing a sharp index finger at each man. Visser did not see Fritz Number One, standing just to his side and behind him, just shake his head slightly back and forth.

"You three!" he said loudly.

"Step forward!"

Wordlessly, the three men stepped away from the formation.

"Search these three! Immediately!" Visser ordered.

Tommy raised his hands above his head, and one of the German goons started to pat him down. The same was being done to Lincoln Scott and Hugh Renaday, who laughed when he was touched.

"Hey!" Hugh said, eye to eye with Visser, "Hauptmann, tell your goons not to be quite so friendly and a little less familiar.

They tickle!"

Visser locked eyes with the Canadian humorlessly. He said nothing.

Then, after a second, he turned to the soldier who had patted Tommy down.

"Nein, Herr Hauptmann," the goon said, rising and saluting.

Visser nodded. He stepped closer to Tommy, staring at him.

"Where is your evidence, lieutenant?"

Tommy did not reply.

"You have something that belongs to me," he said.

"I want it returned."

"You're mistaken, Hauptmann" "Something you perhaps intended to use this morning at the trial."

"You're still mistaken, Hauptmann" The German stepped back. He seemed to consider what he was about to say, then opened his mouth slowly, only to be interrupted by a shout from the rear.

"What is going on!"

All the men turned, and saw that Commandant Von Reiter, with both

Colonel MacNamara and Major Clark at his side, trailed by his usual coterie of bustling adjutants, was hurrying forward, quick-marching past the squad of soldiers, who instantly snapped to rigid attention.

Von Reiter stopped in front of the gathered men. His face was slightly flushed and the riding crop he liked to carry danced nervously in his hand.

"I ordered no search of this hut!" he said loudly.

"What is going on!"

Heinrich Visser snapped his heels together, the clicking of his boots resounding through the morning damp.

"I ordered the search, Herr Oberst. I most recently came into information to believe that contraband was present here! And so I ordered the immediate search, upon my own initiative!"

Von Reiter looked coldly at Visser.

"Ah," he said slowly.

"This was your idea. And you did not think I should be informed?"

"I thought it necessary to move quickly, Herr Oberst. I fully intended to keep you abreast of developments."

Von Reiter narrowed his look.

"I'm sure. And did you find contraband? Or any other signs of forbidden activities?"

"Yes, Herr Oberst Visser answered sharply.

"An illegal radio. Concealed in an empty coffee tin! Expressly against all regulations and your direct orders!"

The elderly goon holding the radio stepped forward at a nod from

Visser, holding the radio out toward the camp commandant.

Von Reiter smiled nastily.

"Very good, Hauptmann" He turned to MacNamara and Clark.

"Radios are verboten} You know this. You must control your men!"

MacNamara didn't reply, and Von Reiter turned back to Visser.

"And what other critical items have you uncovered in your search,

Hauptmann^ What else has been found to justify this disruption in the camp routine?"

"That is all, Herr Oberst" Von Reiter nodded.

"This is a most fortunate radio for you, Hauptmann," he said, much more quietly than before. Von Reiter smiled, with all the affection that an alligator musters when confronting an animal that has strayed a little too close to the water's edge, but still remains just beyond the beast's lunge and snapping jaws. Then he turned to Tommy.

"Ah, Mr. Hart. The young defender. Is it not your opportunity this morning? Or so I am reliably informed."

"It is, Herr Oberst."

"Excellent. Duties permitting, I will attempt to enjoy some of your performance."

"We are already delayed," Colonel MacNamara interrupted.

"Can we please get on with the trial? I've warned you, commandant, that passions are running high in the camp, and the men are eager for answers! They demand this matter be brought to a satisfactory conclusion!"

Von Reiter nodded.

"Americans are always in a hurry for answers to all their questions, colonel. We Germans are much more accustomed to accepting merely what we are told."

"That's your problem," MacNamara said crisply.

"Now, can we please get on with business?"

"Of course," Von Reiter replied.

"I believe the Hauptmann has finished here. Yes?"

Visser shrugged. He did little to conceal the frustration within him.

Tommy knew right then that he'd been searching for the murder weapon.

Someone had told him what hut to look inside, and probably told him which of the barracks rooms to search personally. Tommy thought all this most intriguing, and a little amusing, as he saw the one-armed German unable to hide his disappointment and anger, because what he wanted to find remained hidden from him. Tommy threw quick glances at Clark and MacNamara, wondering if they, too, were surprised by the search's lack of success, but he could read nothing from their faces, so he was unsure what to conclude. But he did know that someone in the camp was surprised that Heinrich Visser did not have the murder weapon in his hand right at this moment, and that the German hadn't already begun to compose the memo for his Gestapo supervisors in Berlin that very well might have translated into the arrests of both the commandant and the ferret.

Tommy took note that these two men had marched off toward the assembly area together, seemingly engaged in close conversation.

Once again. Lieutenant Nicholas Fenelli made his way to the witness chair through the overcrowded aisles and makeshift pews crammed with kriegies. As he passed by, Tommy could hear voices trailing after him, so that the courtroom bubbled with soft conversation, causing the Senior American Officer at the head of the theater to bang his gavel hard. Fenelli had not shaved that morning; his chin was stained with dark stubble. His uniform seemed rumpled and haphazardly collected.

There were some circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and he looked to Tommy like a man unfamiliar with lying, but oddly committed to it all the same.

MacNamara launched into the usual speech, reminding Fenelli he remained under oath, and then gestured to Tommy to get started.

Tommy rose at the defense table. He could see the medic twisting in his seat momentarily, then finally squaring his shoulders, awaiting the onslaught.

"Lieutenant…" Tommy began slowly, his voice steady, "do you recall our conversation shortly after Mr. Scott's arrest in this matter?"

"Yes sir."

"And do you recall telling me, on that occasion, that you believed the murder was performed by a man situated behind Captain Bedford, wielding a narrow, extremely sharp knife?

The type of knife one would not usually find in this camp?"

"Yes sir."

"I didn't offer you anything for that opinion, did I?"

"No. You didn't."

"And I was not able to show you that knife, was I?"

"No."

Tommy turned away, back toward the defense table. He reached down to his law books and papers, exaggerating every movement as theatrically as possible. To his side, he was aware that both Townsend and Clark had leaned forward expectantly, and he knew right then that this was a moment that they'd anticipated. He suspected that Visser, too, in his observer's seat across the room, and all the members of the tribunal, as well, were eagerly awaiting his next motion. He spun about, quickly, holding both empty hands out wide.

"But now, you are unsure of those opinions, would that be correct to say?"

Fenelli stopped, looked at both of Tommy hands, knit his brows for an instant, then nodded.

"No. That would be right. I guess."

Tommy let a pause fill the courtroom air, before continuing.

"You're not a murder expert, are you, lieutenant?"

"No. I am not. That's what I told them." He pointed over at the prosecution.

"Back in the States, this murder would have been investigated by professional homicide detectives, correct? Who would have been assisted in collecting evidence by specially trained crime scene analysts, true? And the autopsy on Trader Vic would have been performed by a competent, experienced forensic pathologist, isn't that true, as well?"

Fenelli hesitated, a look of uncertainty on his face, almost as if he'd been told to expect one thing from Tommy and was getting something different. In this hesitation. Captain Townsend rose, pushing back from the prosecution table slowly. Colonel MacNamara looked in his direction.

"Do you have an objection, captain?" he asked.

"Well, perhaps, sir," Townsend said slowly, hiding the hesitation in his voice unsuccessfully.

"I simply wonder where the lieutenant is going with this line of questions. What might have been done in this case, back in the States, is not wholly relevant to the issues here today. This is a war, and our circumstances are totally extraordinary…"

MacNamara nodded, and looked over at Tommy.

"These questions, Mr. Hart…"

"If I might have some small leeway. Your Honor. It will become clear in a moment."

"Rapidly, I trust."

Tommy smiled, looked over at Fenelli, and said, "So, your answer would be…"

Fenelli shrugged.

"You're correct. Lieutenant Hart. Things would be different back in the States. Real experts would have been all over this case."

"Thank you," Tommy said quickly, giving a small nod to the mortuary man.

"No further questions of this witness, Your Honor."

Fenelli's face instantly creased into a surprised grin. With a quizzical look, MacNamara gazed down at Tommy.

"Nothing further?" he asked.

"Nope." Tommy made a sweeping gesture toward Fenelli.

"The witness can be excused."

As Fenelli rose to his feet, he scrutinized the Senior American Officer and the two other members of the tribunal.

MacNamara spoke out: "Just a second, lieutenant. Anything else from the prosecution?"

Townsend hesitated, then shook his head. He, too, wore a look of some confusion.

"No sir. At this point, the prosecution rests."

"The witness is excused."

"Yes sir!" Fenelli said, grinning.

"I'm outta here!"

This comment brought a smattering of laughter from the kriegies in the audience, and once again MacNamara resorted to the gavel. Fenelli crossed the room swiftly, tossing a single glance at Tommy that he took to be gratitude. Behind him, the room quieted.

MacNamara spoke first.

"That's it from the prosecution?" he demanded of Townsend.

"Yes sir. As I said, at this point we rest our case."

The Senior American Officer turned to Tommy Hart.

"You did not make an opening statement. Did you wish to do so now?"

Tommy smiled.

"Yes sir. Briefly, sir…"

"That would be good."

Tommy coughed, and spoke loudly.

"I would take this opportunity to remind the members of the tribunal, the prosecution, and all the men of Stalag Luft Thirteen that Lincoln Scott stands here today only accused of this murder. Our Constitution guarantees that until the prosecution proves beyond and to the exclusion of all reasonable doubts, he is cloaked in innocence…"

Walker Townsend rose, interrupting Tommy.

"Sir, isn't it a little late for a lesson in civics?"

MacNamara nodded.

"Your statement, lieutenant " Tommy cut him off.

"But that is it. Your Honor. The defense is ready to proceed."

MacNamara's left eyebrow shot up in modest surprise and he let out a small sigh of relief.

"Very good," he said.

"We can continue on schedule. Do you intend to call Lieutenant Scott to the stand now?"

Tommy paused and shook his head.

"No sir."

There was a moment's quiet, and MacNamara stared at Tommy.

"You do not?"

"Correct, sir. Not at this point."

Both Townsend and Clark had risen again, but they did not speak.

"Well," Colonel MacNamara asked sharply, "do you have some other witness? We were all expecting Lieutenant Scott on the stand at this juncture."

"That's what I thought, colonel," Tommy replied with a smile. His eyes lit up, as if amused, which, in a superficial way, he was. But deep within his heart he felt nothing except a cold and single-minded, murderous savagery of his own, because, for the very first time in the trial, he felt he was about to deliver a stroke that had not been anticipated, either by the prosecution or the judges, and this was to him both raw and delicious. He knew that everyone in the courtroom believed that the prosecution had left him with nothing to present except an angry, accused man's shaky protests of innocence.

"Well then, who?" MacNamara demanded.

"No sir. The defense will not be calling Lieutenant Scott.

Not at this point."

Tommy pivoted sharply, and pointed to the corner of the courtroom-theater. He shouted out his words.

"At this point, the defense calls Luftwaffe Hauptmann Heinrich Visser to the witness stand!"

Then Tommy folded his arms across his chest, satisfaction beating in his chest, appearing to be an island of calm in a courtroom suddenly buffeted by the winds of wildly excited voices.