Carella was frankly puzzled. There hardly seemed anything of nightmare proportions in the sex Jimmy and Roxanne had shared that day, unless it was fear of punishment. Perhaps Jimmy was tortured by the idea of getting caught. Running the gauntlet was never any fun, even back in medieval times, and the modem street-gang version was no improvement on the original. Jimmy probably worried like hell about what had happened that day with Lloyd’s woman. He must have been familiar with gauntlet runs, must have visualized himself in the victim’s position — lead pipes crashing on his skull, tire chains flailing his chest, booted feet stomping him into the ground.
Thoughts like that could give a man nightmares, sure enough. Must have walked the streets expecting Lloyd’s hand to fall on his shoulder at any moment — Hello, Jimmy baby, I hear you done my woman. Jimmy must’ve had his defense all prepared, must’ve concocted a rape story to rival that of the Sabine Sisters — No, Lloyd, you got it all wrong, man. I didn't do her, it was the other guys. I'm the one tried to stop them, in fact. It wasn’t the truth he’d spilled out to Major Lemarre, it was his defense. He must’ve thought he was caught at last, the way Lemarre kept circling that nightmare, coming back to it over and again, getting closer and closer to that rainy day in the basement. So he’d dragged out the rape. This is what really happened, Doc. This is what really happened, Lloyd. Let the other guys run the gauntlet. I'm the good guy. I tried to stop them.
Well, maybe, Carella thought, and looked at the clock again. It was time to call St. Louis. He dialed the area code and then the number and listened to the phone ringing on the other end. He wondered what St. Louis was like. He had never been to St. Louis. He visualized cowboys running cattle through the streets. He visualized tough guys drinking rotgut in saloons or dancing with girls wearing net stockings and red garters.
“National Personnel,” a woman’s voice said.
“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad, Isola,” he said. “I have a packet here from Captain McCormick at Fort Jefferson...”
“Yes, Mr. Carella?”
“And I need some further information.”
“Just one moment, sir, I’ll put you through to Mr. O’Neill.”
“Thank you,” Carella said.
He waited.
“O’Neill,” a man’s voice said.
“Mr. O’Neill, this is Detective Carella, 87th Squad, Isola. I have a packet here from Captain McCormick at Fort Jefferson, and I need some further information.”
“What sort of information?” O’Neill asked.
“I’m investigating a homicide in which the victim was a man named James Harris, served with the Army ten years ago, D Company, 2nd Battalion...”
“Let me take this down,” O’Neill said. “D Company, 2nd Battalion...”
“27th Infantry,” Carella said. “2nd Brigade of the 25th Infantry Division. I don’t have a platoon number. He was in Alpha Fire Team of the 2nd Squad.”
“Rank?”
“Pfc.”
“Service number?”
“Just a second,” Carella said, and consulted Jimmy’s file. He found the number and read off the eight digits slowly. O’Neill would later be feeding this into a computer, and Carella didn’t want any errors.
“Discharged or deceased?” O’Neill asked.
“Both,” Carella said.
“How’s that possible?”
“He was discharged ten years ago and killed last Thursday night.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. I meant... what I meant, we have the records here for anyone who was either discharged or killed in action. The Department of the Army would have the records on anyone retired from the service, or with the reserve. This man was discharged, you said?”
“Yes.”
“Honorable discharge?”
“Yes. Full disability pension.”
“He was wounded?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“December fourteenth, ten years ago next month.”
“Okay,” O’Neill said, “what is it you want to know?”
“The names of the other men in his fire team.”
“On the date you just gave me?”
“Yes.”
“That might be possible,” O’Neill said. “Depends on who filed the action report.”
“Who normally files it?”
“The O.I.C. Or sometimes the—”
“Would that be the officer in command?”
“Yes, or sometimes the non-commissioned officer in command. There’s usually a second lieutenant in charge of a platoon, and an E-7 assisting him. If neither of those two witnessed the particular action that day, then the squad leader may have filed the action report, or even the E-5 leading the fire team. Do you understand how this is broken down?”
“Not exactly,” Carella said. “In my day the squad was the basic unit.”
“Well, it still is, but now the squad’s broken down into two fire teams, Alpha and Bravo. You’ve got five men in each team, with an E-6 leading the full squad, for a total of eleven men. The way each fire team breaks down, there are two automatic riflemen who are Spec 4’s or E-3’s, a grenadier who’s usually an E-4, two riflemen who are E-3’s, and an E-5 leading them.”
“I don’t know what all those numbers mean,” Carella said. “Spec 4’s, E-3’s...”
“Those are designations of rank. An E-3 is a Pfc., a Spec 4 is a Specialist 4th Class, a corporal. An E-5 is a three-striper, and so on.”
“Mm-huh,” Carella said.
“What I’m suggesting is that the action report may possibly list the men who were in Harris’ fire team.”
“Would that be in his personal file?”
“Yes,” O’Neill said.
“Well, I’ve got his file right here, and the action report doesn’t mention any other men in the fire team.”
“Who signed the report?”
“Just a minute,” Carella said, and dug through the sheaf of papers again. “A man named Lieutenant John Francis Tataglia.”
“That would’ve been his platoon commander,” O’Neill said. “That’s his Field 201-File you’ve got there, huh?”
“Yes.”
“And the action report doesn’t name the men in his fire team, huh?”
“No.”
“Would there be what we call a Special Order in his file?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an order assigning a man to such and such a squad, and sometimes it’ll list the other men in the squad by name, rank and service number.”
“No, I didn’t run across anything like that.”
“Well then, I guess we’ll have to cross-check with Organizational Records. That may take a little while,” O’Neill said, “May I have your number, please?”
“Frederick 7-8024.”
“That’s in Isola, right?”
“Yes, the area code here—”
“I have it. What was your name again, please?”
“Detective Second/Grade Stephen Louis Carella.”
“You’re with a local law-enforcement agency, am I right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get back to you,” O’Neill said, and hung up.
He did not get back till close to eleven a.m. Carella had gone down the hall to Clerical for a cup of coffee, and was just returning to his desk when the telephone rang. He put down the paper carton and picked up the receiver.
“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.