“Major Tataglia,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
Both detectives shook hands with him, and then took seats opposite his desk. The sergeant backed out of the room like an indentured servant. The door whispered shut behind him. From somewhere out on the drill field, they could hear a sergeant bellowing marching orders, “Hut, tuh, trih, fuh,” the repetitive chant oddly and overwhelmingly evocative. For Carella, it recalled his own basic training so many years before. For Meyer, inexplicably, it brought back with an almost painful rush the days when he played football for his high school team. Beyond the major’s wide window, November sprawled leadenly. It was a good month for memories, November.
“As I told you on the phone,” Carella said, “we’re investigating a series of homicides—”
“More than one?” Tataglia said. “When you told me you were looking for information about Harris, I assumed—”
“There’ve been three murders so far,” Carella said. “We’re not sure they’re all related. The first two most certainly are.”
“I see. Who were the other victims?”
“Harris’ wife, Isabel, and a woman named Hester Mathieson.”
“How can I help you?” Tataglia asked.
The top of his desk was clear of papers and even pencils. A brass plaque read Maj. J. F. Tataglia. A folding triptych picture frame showed photographs of a dark-haired woman and two little girls, one with dark hair, the other with hair as blond as the major’s. He touched the tips of his fingers together and held them just under his chin, as though in prayer.
Meyer kept watching him. With his extrasensory olfactory awareness, he detected the scent of cologne emanating from behind the major’s desk. He had never liked men who wore cologne, even if they were athletes being paid to advertise it on television. He did not like Tataglia altogether. There was something prissy about the man, something too starchily precise. He kept watching him. Tataglia had apparently decided Carella was the spokesman here; Meyer watched Tataglia and Tataglia watched Carella.
“We have reason to believe Harris may have contacted an old Army buddy regarding a scheme of his,” Carella said.
“What sort of scheme?”
“An illegal one, possibly.”
“You say possibly...”
“Because we don’t really know,” Carella said. “You were in command of the 3rd Platoon, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Were you present when Harris was blinded?”
“Yes. I later filed the action report.”
“And signed it as commanding officer.”
“Yes.”
“That was on December fifteenth. He was blinded on December fourteenth — is that correct? — and you filed the report on December fifteenth.”
“Yes, those are the dates,” Tataglia said.
“Had you been recently promoted?”
“Yes.”
“Before the action in which Harris...”
“Yes, a week or ten days earlier. We’d begun Operation Ala Moana at the beginning of December. Lieutenant Blake was killed shortly after the choppers dropped us in. I was promoted in the field. For the rest of the operation, I was acting O.I.C.”
“You were promoted to lieutenant?”
“Yes, second lieutenant in charge of the entire platoon. This was no simple vill sweep, you understand. This was a vast encircling maneuver involving a full battalion — mechanized units, artillery, air support, the works. The day before Harris got blinded, our recon patrol found an enemy base camp a mile to the southwest. We were marching toward it through the jungle when we got hit.”
“What happened?”
“An L-shaped ambush. The first fire team was fully contained in the short side of the L. Bravo was just entering the long side. There was nothing we could do. They’d closed the trail and lined it with rifles and machine guns, and we were caught in the crossfire. We hit the bushes, hoping they hadn’t been lined with punji stakes, and we just lay there returning fire and hoping Bravo would get to us before we all were killed. Bravo came in with the 3rd Squad right behind them, a machine-gun squad. It was a pretty hairy ten minutes, though. I was amazed we got through it with only Harris getting hurt. A grenade got him, almost tore his head off.”
“No other casualties?”
“Not in Alpha. Two men in Bravo were killed, and the 3rd Squad suffered some wounded. But that was it. We were really lucky. They had us cold.”
“Would you remember which of the men Harris was closest to?”
“What do you mean? In the action? When he was hit?”
“No, no. Who were his friends? Was there anyone he was particularly close to?”
“I really couldn’t say. I’m not sure if you understand how this works. There are forty-four men in a platoon, plus the commanding officer and the platoon sergeant. The lieutenant will usually set up his command post where he can best direct the action. I was with that particular fire team on that particular day because they were first in the line of march.”
“Then you didn’t know the men in Alpha too well.”
“Not as individuals.”
“Even though the operation had started at the beginning of the month?”
“I knew them by name, I knew their faces. All I’m saying is that I had very little personal contact with them. I was an officer, they were—”
“Yes, but you’d only recently been promoted.”
“That’s true,” Tataglia said, and smiled. “But there’s not much love lost between top sergeants and the men under them. I was an E-7 before Lieutenant Blake got killed.”
“How did he get killed?” Meyer asked.
“Mortar fire,” Tataglia said.
“And this was?”
“Beginning of the month sometime. Two or three days after the drop, I’m not certain of the date.”
“Would you know if Harris kept in touch with any of the men after his discharge?”
“I have no idea.”
“Have you been in contact with any of them?”
“The men in Alpha, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“No. I correspond regularly with the man who commanded D Company’s 1st Platoon, but that’s about it. He’s a career soldier like myself, stationed in Germany just now, got sent over shortly after the reunion.”
“What reunion is that, Major?”
“D Company had a big reunion in August. Tenth anniversary of the company’s arrival overseas.”
“Where’d the reunion take place?”
“Fort Monmouth. In New Jersey.”
“Did you attend the reunion?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did your friend?”
“Yes, he did. He mentioned it in one of his letters to me. Actually, I’m sorry I missed it.”
“Well,” Carella said, and looked at Meyer. “Anything else you can think of?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Meyer said.
“Thank you very much,” Carella said, rising and extending his hand.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” Tataglia said.
The D.D. report was on Carella’s desk when they got back to the squadroom. Meyer asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee, and then went down the corridor to Clerical. The clock on the wall read 3:37. The shadows were lengthening; Carella switched on his desk lamp and picked up the report. A handwritten note was fastened to it with a paper clip.
Carella took the paper clip from the report, crumpled Hawes’ note, and threw it in the wastbasket. Hawes was a better typist than most of the men on the squad The report looked relatively neat: