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“You understand what that is?” the young man asked.
“I’ve never seen one before, but yes, sir, I think I understand what it is.”
Jesus Christ, what’s going on around here?
“There’s one just like it with my name on it in my room, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, now what’s happened?”
“About 0015 hours, sir, an MP patrol responded to a call of shots fired, ambulance required, at the parking lot of the WAC NCO club. MP protocol requires that the CID be notified whenever there’s shots fired. I was working late at the office and took the call.
“When I got there, there were three bodies, white males, in a 98th General Hospital ambulance, all with bullet wounds to the head. A fourth man had taken a bullet in the shoulder and was being loaded into an ambulance—”
“They sent MPs with him, I hope?” the young man interrupted.
“Sir, I don’t know if they did, or not.”
“Okay, priority one, get on that phone and make sure there are at least two—four would be better—MPs sitting on this guy and that no one but doctors gets near him.”
Augie looked at him and thought: I don’t know if this guy has the authority to order me to do that, but it’s a good idea.
“Yes, sir,” Augie said.
“Freddy, didn’t you tell me Colonel Whatsisname, the provost marshal, lives in the hotel?”
“Kellogg, sir,” Hessinger furnished. “He does.”
“Try to get Colonel Kellogg on the phone. Ask him to come here right away. Tell him it’s important. If he’s not in the hotel, find out where he is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cronley turned to Augie: “You heard me, g
et on the goddamned phone, whatever your name is, and make sure MPs are sitting on the guy in the hospital.”
“Yes, sir. My name is Ziegler, sir.”
[ THREE ]
Colonel Arthur B. Kellogg, a portly forty-six-year-old in uniform, came through the door of Suite 507 five minutes later.
“Your man caught me as I was going through the lobby, Cronley. There’s been a . . . an incident I suspect you’ve already heard about. Hello, Mr. Ziegler.”
“Good evening, sir. I guess I mean ‘good morning.’”
“What the hell went down at the WAC club? Three dead?” Kellogg said.
“And one wounded, sir. Not counting the hysterical WAC they had to sedate before they could get her in the ambulance.”
“What hysterical WAC?” Cronley asked.
“Miller, Florence J., Tech Sergeant,” Ziegler reported. “One of yours?”
Cronley nodded.
“We need MPs sitting on her, too,” he said.
