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Jackson sat at Rasberry’s desk, and the others found chairs.
“Everyone knows everyone, correct?” Jackson asked.
“I haven’t met this gentleman before, Mr. Justice,” Colonel Thomas said, indicating Cronley.
“Mr. James Cronley of the Directorate of Central Intelligence,” Jackson said. “Colonel Tom Thomas, the Nuremberg Military Post provost marshal.”
The two wordlessly shook hands.
“Let me set the stage politically before we ask Mr. Ziegler to tell us what he has learned so far,” Jackson began. “About an hour after I learned—at about eight this morning—of the death of former Sturmführer Luther Stauffer, I had a telephone call from Admiral Souers.
“Admiral Souers, Colonel Thomas, is the director of the Directorate of Central Intelligence—the DCI—and is a close personal friend of President Truman and myself. The admiral said it had come to the attention of the President that a prisoner in the Tribunal prison had committed suicide by cyanide capsule.
“I think it germane to put delicacy and discretion aside and tell you, verbatim, what Admiral Souers then said: ‘Bob, Harry’s really pissed off. He told me to get you on the horn and tell you he wants to know, quote, What incompetent sonofabitch let this happen? I want to hang those Nazi sonsofbitches, and I can’t do that if they’re committing suicide, unquote.’”
Cronley saw on Colonel Thomas’s face that he was shocked and made very uncomfortable by what Jackson had just said.
“Colonels Cohen and Rasberry tell me they did not inform anyone of Stauffer’s suicide, pending an investigation, so I am wondering, Colonel Thomas, if you told anyone.”
“Sir, the protocol is that whenever something like this, anything significant, happens at the Tribunal prison, I am to immediately notify the USFET provost marshal. I did so. I can only presume that he relayed this information, probably by telephone, to the provost marshal general of the Army.”
“Who then rushed over to the White House,” Jackson said. “Let me say that I don’t think that either Colonel Cohen or Colonel Rasberry are incompetent, and I have no intention of hanging either of them out to dry unless there is clear evidence that I’m wrong. But I do intend to get to the bottom of this. So, Mr. Ziegler, you have the floor. What have you learned so far?”
Cronley’s mouth went on automatic.
“Sir, can I suggest we start with Sergeant Wagner?”
“Jesus Christ, Super Spook!” Colonel Cohen protested.
“Who the hell is he?” Colonel Thomas asked.
“Why?” Justice Jackson asked.
“Sir, because he was there when whatever happened happened.”
“Ziegler, have you talked to Sergeant Wagner?” Jackson asked.
“Yes, sir. He was the first guy I talked to.”
“And?”
“I think Jim is right, sir. It would probably be valuable for everyone to hear his take on what went down.”
“Ken,” Jackson ordered, “please go to the day room and ask the sergeant to join us.”
—
Sergeant Casey Wagner walked into the office, took a quick look around, and then marched to precisely eighteen inches from Justice Jackson’s desk, where he came to attention, saluted, and then barked, “Sergeant Wagner reporting as ordered, sir!”
“You don’t have to salute me, son,” Jackson said, smiling. “Take that chair and tell us what happened in the prisoners’ mess this morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have to ask,” Colonel Thomas asked, “just who is this sergeant?”
“He works for me, Colonel,” Cronley said.
“Son, where were you when the cyanide incident happened?” Jackson asked.
