“SM—” by W. L. Fieldhouse

Major Lansing of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Department pursues a bloody trail of murder and espionage!

What was left of the red Datsun was still smoking as Major Clifford Lansing arrived. He parked his white Volkswagen behind a caravan of MP jeeps that had already assembled behind the headquarters building of Montgomery Barracks. Two attendants were carrying an inert form on a stretcher to the open back of an Army ambulance. They weren’t hurrying. A white sheet covered the face of their burden.

Lansing emerged from his tiny car and approached the white-capped military policemen. Seeing the golden oakleaf tacked to the green baseball cap of Lansing’s fatigue uniform, the MP’s saluted briskly.

“I’m from the Criminal Investigation Department, homicide division,” Lansing explained. “What have we here?”

“A car blew up, sir,” an MP staff sergeant replied. “That car.” He pointed at the smouldering wreck.

“That saves me some detective work,” Lansing remarked dryly.

“The car belonged to a Lieutenant Benton,” the cop said, consulting his note pad, “Apparently he climbed into the car, started the engine and wham!”

“Benton is the customer they’re loading into the ambulance, I assume. Anyone else in the car?”

“No, sir.”

“Did anyone see the explosion, Sergeant?”

“No one saw it, sir,” the cop answered. “But they sure heard it. Spec. Six Daniels from the re-up office was the first person to reach the wreck.”

The MP tilted his head to indicate a short, stocky man with dark hair a ski-slope nose bisecting two button eyes. SP6 Daniels saluted as Lansing drew closer.

“I’m from the CID,” the Major explained, returning the salute. “I’d like to know what happened here. Will you help me?”

“As much as I can, sir,” Daniels nodded eagerly. “I was working in the re-up office, counselling a young trooper who plans to make the Army a career. Nice kid. He wants to re-enlist and remain stationed in Germany. Well, I heard this explosion. The whole building seemed to shake. Everybody in the ‘head shed’ must have heard it, because people were running into the hallway as I came out of the office. There’s a fire escape right next to re-up. So I hurried outside and down those steps.”

Daniels pointed to a small wooden fire escape with a flight of stairs extending from the second story to the ground. “The car was on fire,” Daniels continued. “It had been blown apart. One tire was rolling down the driveway and a car door was lying at the foot of the stairs.”

“Was Lieutenant Benton still inside the wreck then?” Lansing asked.

“No, sir. He was lying on the ground about eight feet from the car. I didn’t even recognize him at first, his body was burned so badly. Damn! It was the worse thing I’ve seen since ‘Nam’.”

“He was dead when you found him?”

“Not quite, sir. I knew he’d never make it, though. He tried to talk, but his mouth filled up with blood and he couldn’t get the words out. All he could manage to say was... well, it sounded like ‘Sm—’.”

“Sm—’?” Lansing knitted his eyebrows. “You mean ‘S’, ‘M’...’ something?”

“That’s what it sounded like, sir,” Daniels repeated. “ ‘Sm—’.”

“Thank you Specialist,” Lansing said. Turning to the MP he said, “I want you to keep everybody away from that car until a team from the CID lab department has a chance to go over every inch of it. Don’t let anyone take any metal scraps or mementos from that wreck.”

“Yes, sir,” the cop replied.

Lansing approached a small group of bystanders. “Are any of you from Benton’s section?” he asked, saluting a full-bird colonel even as he spoke.

“I am, sir,” said a muscular man dressed in fatigue trousers and an O.D. green tee shirt. Three chevrons with two rockers on his baseball cap revealed he was a sergeant first class.

“I’d like to talk with you privately, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Major, I’m Colonel Gibb, post commander of Montgomery Barracks,” the full-bird declared. “Aren’t you going to discuss this incident with me?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll talk to you later this afternoon.”

“Major.” Gibb spoke with irritation. “This is my post.”

“I appreciate that, Colonel,” Lansing assured him. “But it’s my investigation.”

The Sergeant led Lansing through a side door entrance into the basement of the headquarters building. Entering a bleak corridor, they walked to an ultrasecurity door with steel bars and a sign declaring ‘S-2’. An S-2 section deals with Army Intelligence. S-2 material ranges from confidential to top secret-crypto. For this reason, S-2 was guarded by strict security measures.

“Please excuse my appearance, sir,” the Sergeant said. “I was working inside when I heard the explosion. Our air conditioning is shot and it gets damn hot in there.”

“Lieutenant Benton worked for S-2?”

“Yes, sir,” the NCO replied. “Do you think his car was sabotaged or could this just be a freak accident?”

“I’d like to know your opinion, Sergeant.”

“I don’t know why anyone would want to kill the Lieutenant.”

“Benton’s last words, actually his last attempted words, were ‘Sm—.’ Do you have any idea what that might mean?”

“He might have been talking about a certain project.”

“What project?”

“I’m really not at liberty to say, sir. You’ll have to talk to Captain Cross about it.”

“Cross?”

“The officer in charge of our S-2 section. He’s not here today. The Captain had to attend a security conference in Bamberg. He should be back this evening.”

“If Cross is the OIC and, I take it, you’re the NCOIC,” Lansing mused, “am I correct in assuming Benton was the executive officer for your section?”

“Yes sir.” the Sergeant shrugged, “The Lieutenant wasn’t a bad XO.”

“But not your sort of officer?” Lansing guessed from the NCO’s tone.

“He was a little too liberal to be a good military man. He thought the Salt Treaty was great and detente was wonderful. I figure the only commie you can trust is one that’s been dead for ten years.”

“You didn’t get along?”

“We just didn’t discuss subjects that could only lead to an argument,” the NCO explained. “We worked together, but we kept our mouths shut unless we had to talk about business.”

Lansing nodded. “Who else is in your section?”

“Two clerks. One of them, PFC Dinsdale, is still learning the ropes. His military occupation specialty is 78D20, but Headquarters Battery doesn’t need another legal clerk and we lost Spec. Four Lundy last week, so we got him.”

“Lost? You mean Lundy’s term of service ended?”

“No, sir. We would have broken in a new replacement before he left. Lundy was killed in an accident in the billets. He got drunk one night, fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. Lundy didn’t drink much. I guess he wasn’t very good at holding his liquor. It’s a pity. He was a damn good soldier, by today’s standards.”

“Interesting,” Lansing said to himself quietly. “You said there are two clerks with S-2. If Dinsdale is a trainee, I assume the other has been here longer.”

“Yes, sir. Specialist Smothers has been with S-2 for more than five months.”

“Smothers?” Lansing raised an eyebrow, “Where is he now?”

“He’s also the section driver. He took Captain Cross to Bamberg.”

“I’ll want to talk with him,” the Major said grimly. “His name begins with ‘S-M’.”

“Yes, it does,” the NCO agreed with a nervous wince. “And, as a matter of fact, so does mine. My name is Edgar Smith.”

Captain Garrett W. Cross arrived two hours later. He was an athletic man in his early twenties with sand-colored hair and hard gray eyes. Although he treated Lansing with proper military courtesy, his manner was still brisk and businesslike.

“Sergeant Smith met me at the gate and explained why you’re here.” Cross told Lansing as he escorted him downstairs into the basement corridor once more. “We must discuss this matter privately.”

The captain moved to the barred S-2 door and unlocked it. He ushered Lansing inside before securing the entrance.

“I didn’t think my clearance was sufficient to enter another unit’s intelligence section,” the Major remarked.

“I’m authorized to clear you concerning a ‘need to know’ security matter.” Cross replied. “However, what I’m going to tell you must be regarded as strictly confidential. Not one word of this can appear in any written reports, documents or other official or unofficial papers.”

Cross led Lansing through a short corridor to a thick steel door. Unlocking the tomb-like entrance, the Captain and Lansing stepped into a small conference room with four metal chairs surrounding a Plexiglass table. Cross closed the door and slid a thick steel bolt into place before he spoke.

“How familiar are you with ABC warfare, Major?” he asked.

“ABC? That’s Atomic, Biological and Chemical, right?” Lansing replied.

Cross nodded. Slowly pacing along the artillery-red carpet, the Captain locked his hands at the small of his back as he continued. “To put it simply, we were conducting an investigation to determine the possibility of a special ABC device to be adopted for USAEUR defense purposes.”

“What sort of device, Captain?”

“All I can tell you is its codename was SMITTEN.”

“Germ warfare? Isn’t that contrary to the Geneva Convention?”

“Actually, we know the Soviets and the Chinese and many of our so-called allies are working on chemical/biological weapons. However, SMITTEN was not some sort of man-made plague, as one reads about in cheap spy novels. It was a project similar to the proposed neutron bomb.”

“You’re using the term was as if to indicate the past tense.”

“Indeed,” Cross confirmed. “SMITTEN was abandoned last month. Mind you, we were only considering the possibility of SMITTEN. We were not conducting chemical, biological or nuclear experiments in the Federal Republic of Germany or anything like that. To the best of my knowledge, there is no ABC research in progress by the USAEUR.”

“But you still believe Lieutenant Benton was trying to say ‘SMITTEN’ before he died?”

“It does seem the most likely possibility.” The Captain shrugged!

“ ‘S M’ may also mean ‘Smith’ or ‘Smothers’.”

“Are you suggesting either of my men would want to kill my executive officer?” Cross frowned. “What reason would they have?”

“You’d have a better idea about that than I,” Lansing replied. “However, it is obvious Lieutenant Benton and Sergeant Smith didn’t get along very well.”

“No, they didn’t,” Cross admitted, extracting a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. “Smith tended to regard Benton as a Leftwing radical and the Lieutenant considered Smith to be a Right-wing reactionary.”

“Were either of their assessments accurate?”

“Not really.” The Captain lit his cigarette with a sleek butane lighter. “They both exaggerated the other’s, politics. Although, frankly, I’m much more conservative then Benton was, but not to Sergeant Smith’s extremes.”

“So you were stuck in the middle of their arguments.”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“What did Benton and Smith think of the SMITTEN project?”

“Well, Benton was horrified by it. He favored an international ban on nuclear weapons and he thought wars should be avoided by special committees in the United Nations.” Cross sighed. “Of course, Smith’s attitude was exactly the opposite. He favored SMITTEN, considering it a valuable weapon for our NATO and USAEUR defenses. He was very angry when the project was rejected. He accused Benton of undermining SMITTEN, encouraging that it be scrapped.”

“How did you feel when SMITTEN was turned down?”

“I was disappointed. From what we completed of the investigation concerning possible use for SMITTEN, my personal conclusion was very similar to Sergeant Smith’s. I believe SMITTEN could have been a useful defense weapon. I think it was more practical and stable than the neutron bomb and many more conventional weapons. However, Lieutenant Benton’s attitude had nothing to do with the project being rejected.”

“Why was SMITTEN scrapped?”

“Washington killed it,” Cross explained, gesturing helplessly with his hands. “Actually, I suppose they were right. The Salt Treaty is supposed to reduce our number of nuclear weapons so SMITTEN may have angered the Russkis. Besides, ever since the Three-Mile Island mishap, public opinion toward nuclear energy is very negative.”

“But Sergeant Smith still blamed Lieutenant Benton for SMITTEN’s demise?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What about Specialist Smothers?”

“He knows there was a project called SMITTEN, but he never really knew what it was.”

“I mean, what do you think of Smothers?”

“Oh, he’s not a bad kid. Nothing outstanding, but not bad.” He came back with me from Bamberg. “He’s probably put our truck in the motor pool by now.”

“Truck?”

“A duce and a half. S-2 goes into the field for training maneuvers just like any other section. More than most. We not only carry radios for communication during war games, we also take along maps, charts, a number of special logs, manuals and other equipment,” Cross explained. “After Smothers has finished in the motor pool, he’ll head for the billets. That’s Headquarters Battery, of course. It’s right across the street from this building if you want to go there tonight.”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Lansing yawned. “We’ve all had a long day.”

“I can expect to see you in the morning then?” Cross inquired as he unbolted the steel door.

“Probably in the afternoon,” Lansing corrected. “I’m going to Ansbach first to draw the 201 files of everyone in S-2.”

“Including mine?” the Captain asked with a start.

Lansing nodded.

“I think you’ll discover getting the 201 files of S-2 personel to be rather difficult, Major.”

“Solving a murder case is often difficult, Captain,” Lansing replied. “But I always solve them.”

SP5 Wendy Davis, Lansing’s personal secretary, was humming contentedly as the Major entered his office at CID headquarters. He glanced at the attractive twenty-six-year-old WAC with curiosity as he moved to his desk.

“You seem in good spirits this morning.”

“We have reason to be, sir.” She smiled. “Major Conglose just left. He’ll be on leave in France for the next thirty days!”

“I hope he enjoys himself,” Lansing commented, trying to conceal his relief. Conglose was also a CID officer, but he regarded Lansing as a rival that somehow threatened his status in the military. Lansing was pleased to hear that Conglose was gone, because the senior Major frequently interfered with his investigations.

“How’s your wrist, sir?” Wendy inquired.

“It feels like it was never broken,” Lansing assured her as he placed a briefcase on his desk. “I was glad to get the cast off.”

“Did you get the 201’s from Ansbach?”

“Finally,” Lansing replied. “I had to wait to be cross checked by both CID headquarters in Nuremberg and Army Intelligence. Of course, they can’t just hand out personnel files concerning S-2 without taking proper security measures.”

“Oh, yes!” Wendy exclaimed. “Specialist Woods and Specialist Bartholomew completed the autopsy and lab investigation. Their reports are on your desk.”

“Thank you.” Lansing fished the file folders from his IN box. The autopsy revealed no surprises. Lieutenant Benton had died from numerous injuries caused by the explosion. His lungs had been ruptured, his spinal column severed, and he’d suffered considerable internal bleeding from “lesser” injuries. The lab report, however, was more provocative. “This is interesting,” Lansing muttered. “Bartholomew believes the explosive was an RDX composition, possibly C-four.”

“What’s that mean?” a confused Wendy inquired.

“It means two things. First, Benton’s death was no accident and second, the killer used plastic explosives.” Lansing continued to read the lab report, then added, “There was bits of primacord and fragments of two timing devices found in the wreck. That means the bomb wasn’t supposed to go off as soon as the ignition was switched on.”

“Why would the killer use two timing devices?” Wendy asked. “In case the first one failed?”

“Perhaps,” Lansing mused. “But Bartholomew’s report suggests there were actually two explosions, two bombs. I suspect the first was intended to disable Benton’s car, probably after he’d driven off post, to make him lose control of the automobile. The second bomb was to make certain he didn’t survive the crash.”

“So it was suppose to look like an accident?”

“Yeah, the S-2 section at Montgomery Barracks seems to have more than its share of accidental death,” Lansing remarked thoughtfully. “Wendy, you’ve got your work cut out for you today.”

“Okay, sir,” she sighed. “Hit me with the bad news.”

“I want you to find out what happened to the corpse of a certain Spec. Four Lundy. He supposedly broke his neck by ‘falling’ down a flight of stairs, so his body was probably shipped back to the States. When you find out where he is, I want you to get in touch with the nearest CID headquarters in the city, county or state where the late Specialist Lundy now resides. Tell them I want an autopsy. If there’s any possibility Lundy’s neck may have been broken before he tumbled down those stairs, I want to know about it.”

“Wow!” Wendy exclaimed, shaking her head. “That’s some order.”

“Just do the best you can, Wendy. I’m going to read through these 201 files briefly and then head back to Montgomery Barracks.”

“Whoever this murderer is, if he killed Lundy as well, he must be awfully ruthless, even by killers’ standards,” Wendy remarked.

“Yeah,” Lansing agreed. “And if he intended to cause a car wreck to give the impression that Benton died by accident, he didn’t care if innocent by standers were killed in the process. I’d say that’s pretty ruthless.”

Specialist fourth class Dale Smothers emerged from the S-2 section and met Lansing in the basement corridor. A short, thin young man with jet black hair (striking because his complexion was extremely pale), Smothers nodded nervously to Lansing’s suggestion that they step outside to talk. The Spec. Four’s entire body seemed to quiver as he and Lansing moved through the exit and walked onto the driveway behind the head shed.

“That’s it, huh?” Smothers inquired, referring to the charred patch of ground where Lt. Benton’s Datsun had been.

“That’s it,” Lansing confirmed.

“How well did you know the XO?”

“Not real well, I guess,” Smothers replied as he started to put his hands into his pants pockets. Realizing he was violating military dress regulations, Smother jerked his hands free, then fluttered them about awkwardly as if trying to decide what to do with them.

“How do you feel about his death?”

“Oh! Well, that’s awful.” The SP4 balled his hands into fists by his sides.

“Yeah,” the CID Investigator muttered as he decided to change his line of questioning. “Tell me about Lundy. He was in your section, so you probably shared a room with him. What was he like?”

“Lundy?” Smothers seemed startled, his nose was running and he sniffed hard before replying.

“He was okay. We were never buddies, but we got along all right. He sort of kept to himself. You know, sir?”

“I’d appreciate an explanation.”

“Well, Lundy read a lot, stayed in his room most of the time. Now, me, I try to get out of this place every night. I like to go down town and boogie.”

“We’re you boogying the night Lundy died?”

“No, sir. I was sound asleep in my room in the barracks.”

“Most drunks are pretty loud. Didn’t he wake you up?”

“I don’t think he came into the room, sir.”

“How did it happen?”

Smothers shrugged. “I guess Lundy was just drunk. He must have stumbled over to the stairs and fell. The NCO in Charge of Quarters Duty found him.”

“Didn’t Lundy attract a lot of attention? Didn’t he scream when he fell?”

“I don’t think so. Nobody ever mentioned hearing a scream.”

“Did he get drunk very often?”

“No, sir. That was the only time I ever recalled that he got loaded,”

“So Lundy didn’t drink much and he seldom left his room, but he did both that night.”

“That’s right. He was working late that night. As soon as he was through, he must have gotten liquored up.”

“Working late? Why was Lundy working any later than you?”

“Well, each of us has, special skills that help the section. Like me, I’m a truck driver. Lundy, he was good with radio equipment. Planned to become a TV repairman when he got out. He and Sergeant Smith both stayed late that night to get the equipment ready for a field trip later that week.”

“Smith, huh? How do you feel about nuclear energy and atomic weapons?”

“I don’t really think about it very much,” Smothers answered, surprised at Lansing’s sudden change of subjects.

“Most people have an opinion about such things,” Lansing said with a shrug. “According to your 201 file you spent some time in a reform school a few years ago. What happened?”

“Well, er, when I was about fifteen I stole a couple of cars. The cops caught me and they sent me to Shea’s Correctional Center, I guess I was always sort of keen on machines. I do my own maintenance on the section truck, you know.” He sniffled again, wiping his nose with a shirt sleeve.

“No, I didn’t know that,” Lansing replied, “But I’m not surprised.”

Sergeant first class Edgar Smith descended the stone stairs in front of the Montgomery headquarters building. He was surprised to see Major Lansing standing by the white Volkswagen, waiting for him. The NCO saluted as he approached.

“How’s the investigation going, sir?” Smith asked.

“I’m still collecting new information, Sergeant,” Lansing replied as he returned the salute. “For example, I read some interesting material about you in your 201 file today. I didn’t know you were a demolitions expert in Vietnam.”

“Oh!” Smith nodded. “I get your point.”

“Did you ever use any plastic explosives? Composition-four maybe?”

“Was C-four used to blow up Benton’s car?”

“Perhaps,” Lansing shrugged. “Are you familiar with it?”

“Sure,” Smith nodded. “It’s nice stuff. Stable, flexible and damn powerful. Of course, C-four isn’t the easiest explosive to come by. I doubt if a single arms room In Montgomery Barracks has a single ounce of it, and plastic explosives aren’t the sort of thing you can whip up in your garage.”

“True, but one could probably buy them from the German black market.”

“If one knew a few German hoods or had some sort of clandestine connections,” Smith agreed. “Which I don’t. Of course, I don’t expect you to believe me.”

“Well, I don’t disbelieve you.” Lansing smiled thinly. “Captain Cross told me about SMITTEN. He said your were pretty upset when it was rejected.”

“Sure I was. So was the Captain. Hell, it was his ideas to start the investigation to consider SMITTEN for USAEUR.”

“But you were angry with Lieutenant Benton when SMITTEN failed.”

“Well, he did everything he could to louse it up. Damn right I was angry. Thanks to detente and these disarmament agreements, we’ve already given the Reds a military edge. SMITTEN could have added to our defense ability in Europe.”

“Would you say Benton committed treason by opposing the project?”

“Treason might be an exaggeration for what he did.”

“Might be?”

“What are you suggesting, Major?”

“You may have felt that Benton acted contrary to the national interests of The United States.”

“So I lulled him?” Smith snorted. “Honestly, sir. That would be pretty damn stupid. Killing Benton wouldn’t restore SMITTEN. You don’t think I go around knocking off people just because they do something I don’t like?”

“No,” Lansing mused. “I don’t consider you to be the psychotic type. However, if you thought

Benton acted against America’s defense interests once, you may have felt he’d do it again.”

“So you think I killed him because of what he might do in the future?”

“Just a possibility, not an accusation,” Lansing assured him. “By the way, I understand Lundy was working late with you the night he had his accident.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he seem upset when you last saw him?”

“Well, actually, Lundy was rather moody for a number of days before the accident. I don’t know what was eating him. Whatever it was, it must have driven him to the bottle that night after he left S-2. Captain Cross could tell you more about that.”

“Cross?”

“Yes, sir. He gave Lundy a ride in his car after work. I understand he dropped Lundy off at the billets that night too.”

“Then Cross was with Lundy when he got drunk?”

“That’s right, sir. The Captain took him to his quarters at the officers’ bachelor section in the housing district near Nuremburg. Cross had a television set on the fritz and he wanted Lundy to fix it. Afterwards, they stopped at a tavern, Cross bought him a few drinks and... well, you know what happened then.”

“Maybe I don’t know,” Lansing remarked. “Maybe you don’t either.”

The bartender in the Montgomery Barracks officers’ club poured a scotch on the rocks for Captain Cross. Lansing slid onto the stool beside Cross as the Captain sat by the bar, sipping his drink.

“Had a long day, Captain?” the CID investigator inquired.

“Oh, hello, Major.” Cross smiled weakly. “Join me in a little bracer?”

“No, thanks. I’m still on duty.”

“I take it that means you have a few questions for me,” Cross remarked, glancing around the nearly empty cocktail lounge. Although dimly lit, the room was obviously occupied by only a few patrons, all of whom were indulged in their own conversations. “Here is as good a place as any to ask them.”

“All right,” Lansing agreed. “When you were telling me about the SMITTEN project, why didn’t you include the fact that the USAEUR adoption program was your idea?”

“I didn’t really see what that had to do with it.”

“It might have quite a lot. Didn’t you resent Benton for going against your brainchild?”

“Perhaps a little bit,” Gross admitted. “But he wasn’t responsible for SMITTEN’s rejection. I told you before that it was Washington that scrapped SMITTEN not Benton.”

“You seem to take such a setback quite calmly, Captain. If SMITTEN had been successful you’d be a shoe-in for a promotion this year.”

“Something else will come up. I’ll make rank sooner or later. I’m not in any real rush. I’m still young.”

“Yes, you are. You’re quite young for the rank you’ve already achieved. Of course, your ROTC grades were outstanding and you seem to find the military life quite acceptable.”

“Don’t you, sir?”

“I do now, but it took me some time to find an MOS that suited me. Of course, I’m an Officers’ Candidate School graduate. I never went to ROTC. You must have gotten a head start at a younger age.”

Cross shrugged. “I was in an orphanage or two that had pretty strict discipline. Maybe that helped.”

“Yes, I remember that from your 201 file. Your foster parents lost your adoption papers in a fire. The Army must have been quite distressed not to have a birth certificate or any document to replace it.”

“They were.” Cross extracted a pack of cigarettes and a butane lighter.

“Did Lundy repair your television set?”

“What?” Cross asked, an unlit cigarette dangling from his half open mouth. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, you did take him out for a couple of drinks afterward.”

“I’m sorry I did.” Cross sighed. “I’d hoped to get him to open up, to tell me what had been bothering him. I didn’t think he’d try to drown his troubles after he started talking about them.”

“What was his problem?”

“A girl. He fell in love with a German National. The poor bastard planned to marry her, but she turned out to be a tramp. She dumped him for a kraut from a well-to-do family. I can’t help feeling somewhat responsible for what happened to him. Maybe if I hadn’t taken him to that tavern he’d still be alive today.”

“You took him back to the billets?”

The Captain nodded.

“And did you escort, him to his room?”

“No. The CQ did, I suppose. At least, I told the NCO in Charge of Quarters duty to see to it he got upstairs. Lundy was so drunk tie could hardly walk and his speech was just an unintelligable slur.”

“I see,” Lansing commented. “But he did fix your TV?”

“I don’t know why you’re curious, but yes, he did.”

“One can never have too much information when investigating a homicide case, Captain.”

“Are you talking about Lieutenant Benton’s death or Specialist Lundy’s?”

“Maybe both.” The Major replied as he rose from the bar stool.

Lansing found a telephone in the vestibule of the officers’ club. Dialing the number to his office, the CID investigator stared out a nearby window, observing the dimness of twilight giving way to the darkness of night. SP5 Wendy Davis answered the phone at the other end of the line.

“How’s the investigation going, sir?” she asked.

“I seem to be finding more questions and no answers,” Lansing said. “How have you been doing?”

“I’ve been trying to find out what happened to Spec. Four Robert Lundy’s corpse, but nothing has come back to me yet. I did a little checking on the late Lieutenant Benton, however. Considering the high status of S-2 personnel, I decided to try the Adjutant General’s office. It seems Benton had arranged for a meeting at the end of the month with the A.G. concerning certain suspicions regarding one of his fellow workers, but he didn’t want to say who it was until he had some more solid evidence.”

“I suppose this is too much to hope for, but did he specify what kind of suspicions he had?”

“Afraid not, sir. He only said it was a critical matter.”

“Hmmm, it’s beginning to look like you should be the investigator and I should be pounding the typewriters,” Lansing mused. “I think you’ve put in a long enough day’s work, Wendy. Get some sleep and maybe some news about Lundy will be waiting for us in the morning. I’ve still got a couple things to do here. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

He hung up and walked outside to his car. Climbing into the Volkswagen, Lansing unlocked its glove compartment and extracted a pair of steel handcuffs. Slipping them inside his belt, he turned on the engine and drove to the Headquarters Battery across the street from the head shed. He entered the billets and asked the CQ if Spec. Four Smothers was in his room. As Lansing suspected, Smothers had left Montgomery Barracks in the early evening and had not returned. Lansing thanked the CQ, then left the billets, returned to his car and waited.

Smothers finally returned to the base at 0127 Hours. Although Smothers was dressed in civilian clothes (a flowery shirt, checkered bell-bottoms and platform shoes), Lansing recognized him. Emerging from his car, the Major beckoned to the Spec. Four, urging him to approach the Volkswagen. Reluctantly, Smothers obeyed.

“Yes, sir?” The enlisted man’s eyes were wide open and his speech nervously rapid.

“Please take everything out of your pockets and place it on the hood of my car,” Lansing told him.

“What for?” Smothers inquired.

“We’ll discuss that after you’ve emptied your pockets.”

With trembling hands, Smothers obliged. He removed a wallet, some coins, a pack of chewing gum and two keys from his pockets.

“Now take off your shoes.”

Smothers’ tongue slid along his dry, colorless lips as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Bending slowly, he untied his left shoe and pulled it off. Suddenly, he shot upright and swung the foot gear across his body, the shoe held by the toe, the thick heel a club-like weapon.

Lansing met the attack, the sides of both hands striking Smothers’ forearm. The twin shuto strokes chopped down hard, stopping the arm and forcing the shoe to fall from numb fingers, moving quickly, Lansing caught the EM’s arm and twisted it behind his neck as he propelled him into the car with a knee to the rump.

“Figured you might do something stupid,” the Major rasped as he held Smothers’ wrist between his shoulder blades with one hand to draw the handcuffs with the other. Keeping a knee between his prisoner’s legs to discourage any attempt to stomp or kick backward, Lansing expertly cuffed his hands behind his back.

Using a knee to check Smothers’ left leg. Lansing seized his right ankle and hauled the prisoner onto the curve hood of the VW, scattering the former contents from Smothers’ pockets. Untying the remaining shoe, Lansing removed it. A small package wrapped in brown paper fell to the pavement.

“I pegged you for a junkie the second I laid eyes on you,” the CID investigator explained. “What is it? Cocaine or speed? You’ve been snorting something a lot stronger than snuff. You practically have skid marks on your nostrils.”

“Let go of me, you sonofabitch!” Smothers whined.

“Did Lundy know you were putting this crap up your nose?” Lansing asked. “When he came into the barracks drunk did he threaten to expose you? Is that why you broke his neck and threw him down the stairs?”

“No! I didn’t kill him!”

“Then Lieutenant Benton got suspicious. So you rigged up his car with an explosive surprise, but the timers failed so it didn’t pass as an accident. Right?”

“No! No! I never killed nobody!”

“Well, I’m going to take you over to the detox ward in Nuremburg, where they help you fellows with a drug or alcohol problem dry out. I’ll tell them you came to me for assistance. If you’re smart you’ll play along. You could come out of this with an Honorable Discharge or at least a General.”

“I know the Uniform Code for Military Justice!” Smothers hissed throught clenched teeth. “This is improper search and seizure. I’ll have your ass for this, pig!”

“Sure you will,” Lansing replied. “And I’ll charge you with assaulting a commissioned officer. Wise up, Smothers. This is the best thing that could happen to you.” The Major sighed. “Unless you’re the murderer I’m after. In which case, I’ll know right where to go to pick you up when I’ve completed my investigation.”

Wendy Davis brought Lansing a cup of coffee as he sat at his desk examining an assortment of information concerning the homicide case. He thanked her and gratefully sipped from the steaming cup.

“A CID official from Fort Jackson called earlier this morning, sir,” Wendy said as she perched a buttock on the edge of Lansing’s desk. He tried not to stare as her skirt hiked two distracting inches higher. “Specialist Lundy’s body was transported from them to his family in South Carolina. They should know what happened to the remains by this afternoon.”

“I hope they have something encouraging. This case is one tough nut to crack.”

“Then you don’t think Smothers is the killer?”

“He’s still a prime suspect. At least now he’s locked in a rubber cell in detox instead of running around. Smothers could be our man. He could certainly have planted the bomb, or bombs, and he wouldn’t have any trouble figuring out how to disable an automobile. As he obviously has connections with some local criminal elements in order to get his supply of nose-candy, he could probably get his hands on some plastic explosives too.”

“Sounds like there are a lot of reasons to suspect him.”

“Yeah, but we shouldn’t forget Smith and Cross. The Sergeant hated Benton’s political guts. He may sincerely believe that killing Benton was a patriotic act to defend his country. Of course, a demolitons expert wouldn’t have any difficulty blowing up a car, and I suspect he could manage to find a black market source that dealt in C-four sales, if he really tried to find one. However, I have no idea what motive he might have for killing Lundy... if indeed Lundy was murdered.”

“What about Cross?”

“Well, that secret project that begins with ‘SM’, which I am not allowed to tell you anything more about, was Cross’s baby. Cross, however, claims the project was canceled by Washington, and Benton had nothing to do with its failure.”

“What if Cross didn’t tell you the truth?”

“I’ve considered that,” Lansing replied. “I’m going to take a little trip over to Bamberg today and talk to their S-2 department to try to find out exactly how the project got scrapped. After that, I’m going to inspect the Lieutenant’s quarters. Sometimes the victim can offer some pretty valuable evidence.”

“If Fort Jackson contacts us and confirms that Lundy was murdered, that would suggest Smothers was the killer. After all he was the only one of the suspects in the barracks the night Lundy died.”

“He was the only one that was supposed to be at the billets,” Lansing said. “However, there are very few buildings that have only one entrance, and Headquarters Battery’s barracks is no exception. I’ve already checked it out. The post chapel is built onto the same structure as Headquarters Battery. A basement extends under the chapel to the barracks. From there, one can enter an emergency fire exit stairwell that leads right upstairs. The chapel is never locked or guarded, so the killer could have entered any time without the CQ or anyone else’s knowledge. Both Cross and Smith are familiar with Headquarters Battery, as they’re assigned to the unit, so either man would know about the fire stairs.”

“So all three are still equally in the running,” Wendy sighed.

“Yeah.” Lansing muttered as he rose. “Now we have to eliminate two contestants.”

After discussing the SMITTEN project with the officer in charge of S-2 at Bamberg, Lansing drove to the housing district where Lieutenant Benton had resided. Getting a passkey from the landlord, Lansing mounted a flight of stairs and found a door with 512 on its top panel, Lieutenant Benton’s quarters. Unlocking the door, the CID investigator entered the room.

Benton, like most people, was neither a “neatnik” nor a “slob,” but somewhere in between. The room appeared well-lived-in without being sloppy. The furniture was standard USAEUR issued sofa and chairs of vinyl and metal. An assortment of popular magazines lay on an end table between the couch and an arm chair. Lansing leafed through them briefly, noting the publications included Time, Playboy and Look. A television set and a stereo were also located in the sitting room. Checking a record rack, Lansing discovered Benton had favored rock music and folk ballads.

Moving to the bedroom, Lansing switched on a light. The bed was still unmade. Numerous uniforms and civilian clothing hung in a wall closet. Lansing smiled as he noticed Lieutenant Benton’s garments were hung in USAEUR regulation manner, all facing the same direction with the left sleeve revealed. Even without the constant inspections that the lower ranking soldiers must endure, military conditioning influenced a man’s habits.

Opening a dresser drawer, Lansing searched through Benton’s shaving gear. Inspecting another drawer, Lansing found three books concealed under some socks and underwear. He read the titles with interest; KGB: Past and Present, Soviet Clandestine Operations, and A History of Russian Intelligence Organizations. Opening each book, Lansing discovered all three were from the Army library oh Montgomery Barracks.

Lansing moved back to the sitting room and dialed his office number on the late Lieutenant’s telephone. Holding the receiver to his ear, the Major leafed through the books as he waited for Wendy to answer the phone at the other end of the line. He didn’t have to wait long.

“CID headquarters, Major Lansing’s office. Specialist Davis speaking, sir,” she announced.

“Hello, Wendy,” Lansing said into the mouthpiece. “I had my little pow-wow with S-2 in Bamberg. They told me the project we were talking about earlier today, was canceled by an order from a certain department in Washington, although they didn’t care to tell me which department it was.”

“So Captain Cross was telling the truth.”

“Apparently,” Lansing mused, as he continued to turn pages, glancing down at the books occasionally as he spoke. “I’m calling from Benton’s apartment. The only thing out of the ordinary I’ve discovered are a trio of books that don’t fit in with the rest of Benton’s reading material. I’ll check this place a little more thoroughly before I leave, but...” Lansing stared down at an open book and read silently. “That’s interesting.”

“What, sir?” Wendy inquired.

“A word underlined on a page in one of the books. Maybe its nothing. Did you hear from Fort Jackson?”

“Yes, sir. They found out what happened to Spec. Four Lundy’s body.”

Lansing listened as Wendy told him what the CID section from Fort Jackson had reported to her. When she was finished, Lansing said, “I think I know who the killer is.”

“From what I just told you?” Wendy asked with surprise. “I don’t see how it helps.”

“It helps because the killed doesn’t know about it,” the CID investigator replied. “Thanks for your help, Wendy. I’ll keep in touch.”

SFC Edgar Smith emerged from the S-2 section in the basement of the Headquarters Building of Montgomery Barracks. Major Lansing and Captain Garret Cross waited for him in the corridor.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Smith asked as he closed the steel barred door.

“Yes, Sergeant.” Lansing strolled calmly across the hallway. “I want to talk to both of you.”

“If this is about what happened to Smothers last night, we already know,” Cross remarked.

“No, this doesn’t concern Smothers.” Lansing unzipped his field jacket. The other men noticed the butt of a Government Issue 1911 .45 jutting from his waistband.

“Then why do you want us?” Smith asked, his eyes expanding with surprise as Lansing drew the pistol and worked the slide to jack a round into the chamber.

“What do you think you’re doing, Major?” Cross asked, his mouth a hard line, one eyebrow arched high on his brow.

“I’m arresting you for murder, Captain,” Lansing replied, aiming the .45 at Cross’ chest.

“I assume you have some reason for this accusation,” Cross remarked stiffly.

“Sure. You’re guilty and I have proof.”

“Let’s hear it,” the Captain demanded.

“First, I want to explain to Sergeant Smith why I wanted him to be present,” Lansing stated, his steely gaze and the muzzle of his pistol still trained on Cross. “One should always have a witness for an arrest, of course, but I also think the Sergeant should hear this because it concerns Lieutenant Benton’t reputation.”

“His reputation?” Smith inquired.

“Actually, I’m referring to your opinion of him. You misjudged Benton, Sergeant.”

“And you’ve misjudged me, Major,” Cross said, holding his hands open at shoulder level, “if you honestly think I’m your killer.”

“You’ve been wearing a clever disguise, Captain,” Lansing replied. “But since I’ve penetrated it, I’m no longer in danger of misjudging you.”

“What sort of disguise are you talking about, sir?” Cross asked, his voice revealing cool control of his emotions.

“Specialist Lundy began to suspect the truth about you. Being an enlisted man, Lundy didn’t dare move against you until he had enough evidence. It’s no wonder he was moody the final days before his death. He must have been terrified when you took him for that car ride.”

“Damn it, Lansing!” Cross snapped suddenly. “I admitted I took him to a tavern and he got intoxicated. That doesn’t make me responsible for his death!”

“A well-timed out-burst of anger,” Lansing remarked with a slight nod. “You’re putting on a good performance, Cross, but you’re wasting your time. I suspected foul play concerning Lundy, so I traced his corpse back to the States. The CID at Fort Jackson contacted me this morning. Lundy’s family demanded an autopsy of the body as soon as it arrived. Traces of chemicals, possibly phenobarbital or valium, were found,” Lansing’s flint-like eyes hardened even more. “Lundy wasn’t drunk. You drugged him in order to create the impression that he was. You told me he was hardly able to walk and his speech was just an unintelligable slur. Naturally, you poured some liquor down his throat as well to increase the desired illusion. Even if he tried to tell the CQ about you, nobody would pay any attention to the ranting of a ‘drunk’ GI.

“His mind muddled by whatever you used that night, Lundy reacted as you’d hoped he would. He went up to his room to sleep off the effects of the drugs, or possibly to get a cold shower in the hopes it would revive him enough to think more clearly. Of course, you had already ascended the fire-stairs and you were waiting for him. You caught him alone upstairs. A shuto stroke to the seventh vertebra, a vice with your forearms and a quick twist, a dozen other methods, any of them would have allowed you to snap his neck with ease. Then you tossed him down the main stairway and escaped the same way you’d entered.”

“That’s an imaginative theory, Major,” Cross said flatly, lowering a hand to the inside of his tunic jacket.

“Keep your hands up!” Lansing snapped, thrusting the gun forward.

“I was only getting a cigarette.” Cross said, raising his arms.

“Two men underestimated you and they’re both dead,” Lansing said. “I don’t intend to make the same mistake.”

“What about Lieutenant Benton, sir?” a dazed SFC Smith wanted to know.

“I’m getting to that, Sergeant,” Lansing promised, reaching behind himself with his free hand to draw a set of handcuffs from the small of his back. “But I don’t want to take any chances with Captain Cross. Cuff his hands behind his back and frisk him. Remove everything from his pockets, take his wristwatch and shoes. Be careful not to step between Cross and this gun.”

SFC Smith followed the Major’s orders. His search discovered a pack of cigarettes, a wallet, two pens, a small pocket knife and two lighters, a butane model and a metal Ronson with a press-lever.

“Two cigarette lighters,” Lansing mused as he stared at the grim faced Captain, “I’ve seen you using the butane. Why don’t you use the other lighter?”

“It doesn’t work,” Cross replied with a shrug.

“It feels pretty heavy.” Smith remarked, holding the Ronson in the palm of his hand.

“Don’t fool with it, Sergeant!” Lansing warned, “A lighter may be filled with lead to supply needed weight for a firing device. It might fire .22 or .25 caliber projectiles. Maybe even poison darts.”

“Major,” Smith began with a sigh, “what the hell is going on?”

“Captain Cross is an enemy agent,” Lansing replied flatly.

“That’s absurd!” Cross growled. “I was born in the United States and enlisted when I was nineteen. It’s all in my records. Check my fingerprints if you like.”

“Oh, you’re the real Garret Cross, at least the same man that joined the United States Army claiming to be Cross,” Lansing said. “But I doubt that you were born in America. You’re a sleeper agent, a spy sent to a foreign country to blend in as a native-citizen. A sleeper impersonates an every-day person until he is ordered into active duty, generally some form of sabotage against the host nation. Sleeper agents have been known to wait ten years or longer before finally receiving orders for their mission.

“According to your 201 file, you’re an orphan. Your foster parents supposedly lost your adoption papers. This effectively concealed the truth. While still a child, you were smuggled into America to be groomed for sleeper duty in Army intelligence. Your ‘foster parents’ are probably agents as well who furthered your training for espionage activities. We’ll contact the FBI concerning them and we’ll have everyone that supplied you with any type of references throughly investigated as well.”

Cross’ features darkened. “This is all crap, Lansing. I was the one that favored SMITTEN in the first place...”

“Of course you did,” Lansing agreed. “If you could have succeeded in setting up such a defense system in USAEUR, sabotaging it would be child’s play. If the U.S. forces in Germany were associated with a nuclear disaster in Europe it would certainly hurt our military involvement here and might even result in a total withdrawal of USAEUR troops. The advantages to the Iron Curtain countries would be obvious.

“Lieutenant Benton, however, began to suspect you were an enemy agent. He probably didn’t accept the official version concerning Lundy’s death. Considering his own political views, it must have been difficult for Benton to face the more shadowy aspects of international relations. But he had the courage to look for the truth. Unfortunately, you also suspected him. Maybe you discovered what sort of books he’d gotten from the post library. At any rate, you arranged another ‘accident’ for your CO.

“You couldn’t have known about SMITTEN until you came to Europe, so you must have had an Iron Curtain operative, probably disguised as a German National, somewhere in the country. They supplied you with information, your lethal ‘cigarette lighter’ and plastic explosives. Perhaps you decided to sabotage the car to throw suspicion on Sergeant Smith in case the bomb was discovered. However, Smith is a demolitions expert and he wouldn’t have made the mistake with the timers as you did. Also, Smith had no reason to kill Lundy. Smothers could probably blow up a car, but he probably doesn’t know what C-Four is, let alone how to use it. But an espionage agent, trained since childhood, would.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Major?” Cross said, a slight tremble working its way into his voice, “Benton’s last words were ‘Sm—’. My name doesn’t begin with ‘S m’, Smith and Smothers’ do. The SMITTEN project was scrapped by Washington over a month ago. So why would Benton try to say anything about it if he thought I’d sabotaged his car?”

“Benton wasn’t trying to say SMITTEN or Smith or Smothers’,” Lansing replied. “He was trying to say the name of an organization, SMERSH, a special section of the KGB that deals in espionage, sabotage and assassinations,” Lansing shook his head. “I’ve got you cold, Cross and you know it.”

“All right,” the Captain said, his voice a harsh whisper. “So you’ve got me. But when its all over, my side will be the winner.”

“That remains to be seen,” Lansing said dryly. “Well, Sergeant. Would you like to help me escort Captain Cross to his new lodgings?”

“Yes, sir,” Smith nodded woodenly. “But I do have one question. You said the report from the states claimed an autopsy revealed traces of phenobarbital or valium in Specialist Lundy’s body. I thought he was emblamed before they shipped him out of USAEUR. I’m surprised there was anything left to find.”

“Actually, Sergeant, I wasn’t being entirely truthful,” Lansing admitted with a thin smile. “It is true that the CID at Fort Jackson contacted my office today concerning what happened to Lundy’s corpse. However, his family never ordered an autopsy. In fact, they had the body cremated the day it arrived.”