Chapter 22
GACA
A FLUTTERING, NOT quite buzzing sound rattled down
the law center’s main hallway, and Jon Kirkwood ducked his head
just in time as Chopper, the errant cockroach, made a low pass at
him, winging his way back to the nest he had built in the hole
where the water pipe came through Charlie Heyster’s office wall.
Michael Carter had flattened himself against the bulkhead, banging
his back against the photographs of President Lyndon B. Johnson,
the commandant of the Marine Corps, General Leonard F. Chapman Jr.,
and the commanding general, III Marine Amphibious Force, Lieutenant
General Robert E. Cushman Jr. When he stepped away after the
dive-bombing roach had made his pass, the three pictures fell to
the floor, shattering the glass from their frames.
“Now look what that bug has caused!” Carter wailed,
and knelt to collect the broken shards while Staff Sergeant Pride
sought out the office broom and dustpan in the utility room.
Chopper had gotten fat on granules of Carnation
Coffeemate dry creamer, and today had a hard time launching from
the open shoe box full of oatmeal-raison-walnut cookies that Vibeke
Ahlquist had sent to Terry O’Connor, which he in turn set out at
the enlisted coffee mess for everyone to enjoy. The now overweight
North Florida palmetto bug especially appreciated the captain’s
gesture.
When Sergeants Michael Fryer and Donald T. Wilson
stepped through the door at the end of the hallway, it had
surprised the insect as he grazed on the sugary treat. Fearing a
swat from the two strangers, he jumped skyward and spread his
sails, beating his way to shelter and safety.
Kirkwood and Carter had just finished a short talk
with Derek Pride when they saw the two free Marines step through
the back door and start down the passageway toward them when the
big roach flew by, causing stick man to wreck the
photographs.
“Damn, that bug’s as big as a helicopter!” Wilson
exclaimed, seeing the flying monster dip past Kirkwood and
Carter.
“Everybody says that,” Terry O’Connor said with a
laugh as he and Wayne Ebberhardt stepped out of the defense
section’s office and welcomed the pair of visitors.
Just as the five men finished shaking hands, Major
Dudley Dickinson, First Lieutenant Melvin Biggs from the provost
marshal’s Criminal Investigation Division, and a military policeman
with a yellow Labrador retriever burst through the front
door.
“Everyone stand up and step away from your desks
and then stay put!” Dicky Doo shouted in a deep,
drill-instructor-style growl to show he meant business. “Stanley,
you and Captain Bailey-Brown step out of your office, too!”
Then he looked down the hall at the defense
section.
“All of you men, come on up here!” Dickinson
bellowed. “Is there anyone left inside your office?”
“No, sir,” Jon Kirkwood said, walking slowly toward
the administration section and law center’s front entrance,
followed by the two sergeants, who only came to say hello and thank
you, and the three captains.
Terry O’Connor laughed when he saw Charlie Heyster
bound through the front door and try to go to his office, but had
the CID officer cut him off.
“Skipper, you’ll have to wait out here with the
other men,” Lieutenant Biggs said, noticing that the
narcotics-sniffing dog had focused his attention on the former
prosecutor and now temporary military justice officer, and had sat
down on point in front of the major-select.
“That’s okay, lieutenant,” Dicky Doo said, and put
his hand on Heyster’s shoulder. “He’s not part of this
investigation. This is our deputy staff judge advocate and military
justice officer, Major-Select Charles Heyster. I think it’s fine if
he goes to his office.”
“Sir, if you please,” Biggs answered, still looking
at the dope dog, and then glancing up at his handler, who shrugged
and smiled. Then he looked at Charlie Heyster and Major Dickinson.
“Just to do this thing right, if you gentlemen don’t mind, it would
really work best if you both joined the other officers and enlisted
Marines standing over there. That way no one can say we singled
anyone out. It’ll make our investigation much more compliant with
Marine Corps guidance regarding search and seizure, and inspections
of this nature.”
“Oh, certainly,” Dickinson said and smiled. Then he
took Charlie Heyster by the arm and led him next to Stanley Tufts
and Philip Edward Bailey-Brown.
“Is this your entire staff?” Lieutenant Biggs
asked, looking at Staff Sergeant Pride and Lance Corporal Happy
Pounds standing by him, both men smiling so much they nearly
laughed.
“Well, Captain Bushwick is in Okinawa, about three
weeks past due from when I wanted him back here,” Dicky Doo said,
and flushed red when he thought of how the Brothers B had rooked
him into taking turns on rotating duty at Camp Butler. Dickinson
had devised a way to see his wife by taking a turn at the temporary
assignment, split three ways. Captain Bailey-Brown had gone first,
but when Miles Bushwick went for his week-long turn, he managed to
convince the Fleet Marine Force Pacific staff judge advocate that
to preserve continuity in the work, one attorney should take care
of the entire assignment. Bushwick managed to stay on the rock, and
would rotate home from there. Rightfully, Dicky Doo felt
used.
“Anyone else not here that we didn’t see in the
barracks?” Lieutenant Biggs said, writing down Bushwick’s name in
his notebook.
“All of our enlisted people, except these two and
our visitors, you saw when you went through the barracks,”
Dickinson said, nodding at the investigator.
“Gentlemen, Sergeant Jim Reilly and his partner
there, Manfred, will conduct a narcotics inspection of your working
area,” Biggs announced. “All quarters will be searched equally. No
one has been singled out, nor do we have anyone who is a specific
suspect at this time. If you have any contraband in your
possession, or wish to surrender any contraband in your working
space, please do so at this time. Surrendering such contraband will
not exonerate you from any charges for possession of narcotics or
any other controlled substances, but it may help reduce some
charges that may be brought against you. If you do fall under
suspicion for possession during this inspection, you will
immediately be informed of your rights and then taken into custody.
Is that clear?”
“Knock yourself out, Lieutenant,” Terry O’Connor
said, and cracked a wide smile at Charlie Heyster. “Help yourself
to any and all quarters. We have nothing to hide.”
“Come, Manfred!” the handler called at the dog and
pulled hard on his lead. The Lab got up, turned, and then looked
back at Charlie Heyster and sat down.
“Search!” the handler ordered again, and pulled the
dog away from the captain.
The first office he let the retriever sniff out was
the prosecution section.
“Lieutenant Biggs, we have the evidence locker in
that room, so the dog will alert on the dope that we keep in
there,” Dickinson called to the investigator and dog handler as the
Lab sniffed the desks, and then sat down in front of Heyster’s old
workplace.
“Do they keep evidence in this desk?” the handler
asked, pulling open the side drawers, looking for anything that
might have set off the dog.
“Of course, they work on cases and handle evidence
at those desks, so you’re probably going to get false positive
readings,” Dickinson suggested, seeing the canine detective sitting
stubbornly at Heyster’s old desk.
“He didn’t alert on any of the other desks, just
this one,” Lieutenant Biggs said, now concerned that he may have an
officer who dealt in dope.
“That’s the lead prosecutor’s desk, so he may have
spilled some in the drawers when he handled the evidence,”
Dickinson offered, and then looked at Heyster, who had now broken a
sweat.
“Why don’t we come back to this one later,”
Lieutenant Biggs suggested, and then led the handler down the
hallway, where they checked the head and the utility room, and then
went to the defense section. The dog walked straight past the
cookies on the side table and never gave them a second
thought.
“Now, that’s impressive!” Wayne Ebberhardt said,
looking at Terry O’Connor. “Old Manfred has his shit wired for
sound. My dad’s black Lab, Captain Morgan, he would have gobbled up
those cookies before you could have pulled his head back.”
“These dogs are well trained,” Dickinson said, and
put his hand over Terry O’Connor’s and Wayne Ebberhardt’s shoulder,
and then looked at the two sergeants and smiled. “Congratulations
on your good work, Sergeant Fryer and Sergeant Wilson. General
Cushman told me that he fully agreed that you two deserved a second
chance. Glad to see you’re free and clear.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fryer said and put out his hand
for Major Dickinson to shake.
Donald Wilson extended his hand, too, and shook the
major’s in turn after Fryer.
“Your recommendations to the general really helped
us, sir,” Wilson said, and then glanced back to see the wide-eyed
expressions on the faces of all the officers, except for Heyster,
who still seemed distracted and watched the doorway of the defense
section, waiting for the dog and investigators to emerge.
“You spoke up for our boys?” Jon Kirkwood said to
Dicky Doo. “I knew that several people went to bat for them, but
you, sir? You did that? I’m impressed, and grateful on behalf of my
client.”
“Yes I did, and why not?” Dickinson answered, and
then put his arms around the shoulders of the two sergeants. “You
know, in Korea, I made it to sergeant. Then I went home, put myself
through college and law school, using my G.I. Bill, and then
returned to the Marine Corps with a commission. I knew a few good
men in my time. I know one when I see one. These two fellows set a
fine example for any Marine, officer or enlisted.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jon Kirkwood said, and with a big
smile put out his hand for the major to shake.
“Right on, Major!” Terry O’Connor followed, and
shook Dickinson’s hand, too. So did Wayne Ebberhardt and Mike
Carter.
“All clear down here, Major Dickinson,” Melvin
Biggs called through the hallway. “Since we didn’t find anything
stashed in that desk in the prosecutor’s office, I’ll write it up
as the dog alerting on residue left behind from handling
evidence.”
“Well, I guess that wraps it up, then,” Charlie
Heyster said, and then sighed happily.
“We still need to check those two front spaces,”
Biggs replied, pointing at Major Dickinson’s office and Captain
Heyster’s.
“Oh, that’s my office and the one next to it is my
deputy’s,” Dickinson said, and walked to the front door of the law
center. “There’s nothing there.”
Then he put his arm over Melvin Biggs’s shoulder
and began walking the lieutenant toward the door.
“Like you said, it is possible that we lost some
evidence receipts along the way when we turned the dope over to
your people to destroy,” the major said, shaking his head. “Staff
Sergeant Pride is so meticulous, though, keeping track of
everything right down to the gnat’s ass, I felt certain that
someone had ripped off the evidence locker. Nobody’s perfect, not
even our man Pride. We’ll have to be more careful with our
accounting. I guess it’s my bust. Sorry to have wasted your
time.”
“Sir,” Lieutenant Biggs said, stopping short of the
front door, and then looking back at the dog handler, who frowned
at him. “To do this inspection by the book, we really ought to
cover the entire building. We still ought to check those two
offices. No one could complain or raise any suspicions then, saying
that we conducted our inspection improperly or favored
anyone.”
“Major Dickinson, sir,” Terry O’Connor said, and
stepped close to the lieutenant by the front door, “I think it
would make the troops feel better if you checked the whole
building, too. They wouldn’t feel as though you singled them out
and then excluded yourselves. You and Major-Select Heyster, that
is.”
“Damn it, O’Connor, you’re wearing my patience
thin,” Dickinson growled, and then had Charlie Heyster interrupt
him.
“This officer has a busy schedule, and you’d
require him to waste his time on a wild goose chase just to make
the enlisted people feel better,” Heyster said, taking his pipe
from his pocket and slapping it across the palm of his hand.
Manfred immediately sat down and looked at the
captain.
Dicky Doo noticed the dog pointing on alert this
time, and his face drained pale as he looked at Terry O’Connor, who
stepped back to the side of Jon Kirkwood and beamed a wide smile at
him and nodded.
“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” Major Dickinson said, and
then took Charlie Heyster by the arm. “Why don’t you and I go sit
in my office until these people finish.”
“Right after we check your office, Major Dickinson,
then you can go in and have a seat, both of you,” the lieutenant
said, and accompanied the dog handler as he searched the major’s
workspace.
No one spoke for the five minutes it took for the
dog to clear Dicky Doo’s office. The lieutenant waved at the major,
and allowed him and Captain Heyster to go inside and have a seat.
Then they went into the shyster’s workspace.
Terry O’Connor looked at Michael Carter, who leaned
against the wall and had tears dripping from his eyes.
“They’re going to bust Charlie, aren’t they,”
Carter whispered, his voice quivering as he spoke.
“It’s okay, Mikie,” Jon Kirkwood said, and put his
arm around the sad palm tree of a man.
“Good boy!” a voice from inside Heyster’s office
spoke. Then in a moment the lieutenant walked out carrying the
captain’s leather pouch filled with pipe tobacco and went into
Dicky Doo’s office.
“Look here! You cannot arrest me! Those assholes
out there in the hall planted that in my tobacco pouch,” Heyster
protested, and then hurried out to the hallway and pointed at Jon
Kirkwood. “He did it! He put that in there! He put that fucking
cockroach in my tobacco, too, and now he’s trying to frame
me!”
Lieutenant Biggs hurried after the captain and took
him by the hand.
“Sir, I need to advise you of your rights,” Biggs
said, and then led Charlie Heyster to the chair by Derek Pride’s
desk and sat him there.
“I know my fucking rights, Lieutenant!” Heyster
snapped. “I’m a fucking lawyer, for Pete’s sake! The damned lead
prosecutor!”
“Sir, I must charge you with possession,” the CID
investigator said, and took out handcuffs and put them on the
captain’s wrists. “We will go to the provost marshal and book you.
Then I imagine that the chief of staff and the commanding general
will take action on the charges. Typically, you will be confined to
your quarters. It’s just a possession charge, sir.”
When Michael Carter heard the lieutenant’s comment
that it was just a possession charge, he thought about Raymond the
Weasel. That was just a case of simple possession, too, and Charlie
Heyster railroaded the man.
“Lieutenant,” Terry O’Connor said, and walked to
the investigator, “I think it will be more than simple possession.
I have some photographs you will want to see, and you will want to
take statements from me and the men who accompanied me when we took
those photographs.”
“Pictures of what, sir?” Lieutenant Biggs asked,
and then looked back at Heyster, who now looked wild-eyed at Terry
O’Connor.
“We observed and photographed Captain Heyster
exchanging a package that looked like narcotics for an envelope
that appeared to contain money,” O’Connor said, and shook his head
at the former prosecutor.
“Do you know who he made the exchange with, sir?”
Biggs asked, and motioned for the dog handler to stand by the
handcuffed captain.
“Yeah,” O’Connor said, and frowned at Heyster. “A
man who’s sitting in one of your dog kennels right now. Randal
Carnegie. My troops call him the Chu Lai Hippie.”
“Do you recall the date and time of that exchange
by any chance?” Biggs asked, jotting notes on the pad he took out
of his pocket when O’Connor started talking. “Yes, Lieutenant, I
wrote a detailed report the evening that we took the pictures, and
I put it in the envelope with the photos. They’re also stamped on
the reverse side of each print with the date and time that the
shots were taken, along with the signature and service number of
the photographer.”
“Wouldn’t have been back in July, would it?” Biggs
now smiled. “Gunny Jackson and I personally busted Carnegie with a
package of Buddha that looked awfully like the wrappings on some we
turned in as evidence last spring.”
“I think that we can safely say the packages are
one and the same,” O’Connor said, and then smiled at Charlie
Heyster.
Happy Pounds eased close to Staff Sergeant Pride,
looking at the disgraced officer slouched in the chair by the admin
chief’s desk, his hands clamped in steel cuffs.
“Gaca, man,” he said, and shook his head.
“Gaca!”
“Yeah,” Pride answered. “That’s gaca all right.
Big-time gaca. Just goes to show. Damned sure happens, doesn’t
it.”
Pounds nodded and looked at Terry O’Connor and Jon
Kirkwood, who frowned at the two enlisted Marines and blinked their
eyes, confused.
“Gaca?” O’Connor said, shrugging his shoulders and
then glancing at his best friend.
“What’s that?” Kirkwood asked, completely puzzled
by the strange word.
“Gaca,” Pride nodded. “You’ve heard people say what
goes around, comes around. Right? Get it? Goes around, comes
around. It’s an acronym. We say, gaca.”
“SO THE LONG good-bye has finally arrived for you two!” Terry O’Connor said to Movie Star and Wayne Ebberhardt as the two men stood by the office jeep, their seabags and the captain’s Marine Corps-issued, green, rubberized nylon, Valpac suitcase piled in the backseat. All their buddies from the law center had come to the curb to say farewell to the two homeward-bound Marines.
“You know why I’m glad to see you guys go? Because
that makes peckerhead O’Connor and me next!” Jon Kirkwood said,
laughing and standing by Michael Carter and Happy Pounds, and the
new office driver, a kid named George Mason from Vicksburg,
Mississippi. The enlisted Marines had already christened the new
man College Boy, because of his name being the same as the
university in Fairfax, Virginia.
Corporal Jerry Farmer and Sergeant Dick Amos, the
wing law center’s two other enlisted legal specialists, stood on
the opposite side of the jeep and shook hands with the two
departing friends.
“Excuse me, Captain Kirkwood, but I’m next!” Carter
beamed. “I rotate in October, and you two have to wait until
December.”
“Okay, I’m glad to see you two go because Mikie’s
next, and then it’s peckerhead and me!” Kirkwood said with a
laugh.
“We made a promise to Tommy McKay,” Terry O’Connor
said, and looked at all the Marines present, enlisted and officer
alike. “July Fourth in Denver! We’ll all be home by then. No
excuses! We’re going to meet up at the bar at the Hilton Hotel at
five o’clock in the afternoon, Mountain Standard Time. If you’re
not there, you’d better have a good excuse! That includes you,
Sergeant Pride, and you guys, too, Sergeant Amos, Corporal Farmer
and Corporal Pounds. And especially you, Movie Star. Where would we
be without you there?”
Wayne Ebberhardt hugged his buddies hard. Then they
all hugged Movie Star. Even Michael Carter, who still had not
gotten past the event in the barracks. His confession about it with
Father Flannigan, the wing Catholic chaplain, had gone badly, so
that added to the stick man’s guilt.
“I think that you need to find a new girlfriend,
and you should let Rosie Palm rest with her five sisters for a
while,” Carter said, and then laughed at his own joke.
“Oh, good one, Mikie!” Ebberhardt said and laughed,
wrapping his arm around James Dean and rapping his knuckles on the
man’s head.
“They never say no!” Movie Star said with a laugh,
and then put on his black-plastic-rimmed Foster Grant sunglasses.
“Captain Carter, believe me, when I get home, and back on the beach
at Malibu, Rosie Palm will be hard pressed to take me out on a
date.”
“You’re one fucked-up individual, you know that,
Movie Star?” Archie Gunn said, walking up to the group with Buck
Taylor at his side, and Mike Schuller shutting off the engine to
the jeep in which he gave the two men a lift when he saw them
walking toward the law center.
“Wayne, you and Movie Star know we couldn’t let you
two catch that freedom bird without a proper farewell from us
flyboys, and, of course, the brig warden, too,” Taylor said with a
laugh, and put out his hand for the two Marines to shake.
“Damn, I’m glad you guys came over to say so long,”
Ebberhardt said, and then hugged both pilots and the warden.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Lobo said,
and wrapped his arm around Lance Corporal Dean and gave him a hard
squeeze. “We’re kind of like family. After all we’ve seen
together.”
Mike Schuller looked at Wayne Ebberhardt and
smiled.
“I got orders back to the division,” the lieutenant
said and then sighed.
“I don’t know if it’s a move up or a step down.
I’m getting command of a company, though, so I think it’s probably
a move upward.”
“You did good at the brig,” Wayne said. “It’s their
loss and the division’s gain. Where’re you going?”
“Up to Ninth Marines, with Lieutenant Colonel Jack
Hembee!” Schuller said and then laughed. “I got you good! I am so
happy I could bust! Colonel Hembee put in the word to General Davis
that he wanted me commanding one of his companies. So I got the
blessings from on high!”
“Super news!” Ebberhardt said, and hugged the
lieutenant.
“I had to extend my tour for another six months,
but shit, I got a company!” Schuller said.
“You know, they didn’t call Jack Hembee Major
Danger for nothing,” Terry O’Connor reminded his happy
friend.
“Yeah,” Wayne Ebberhardt said. “That’s Colonel
Danger now, so you better keep your head down. The incoming rounds
will probably get a lot bigger. I’m serious. You watch your ass.
You hear me?”
“Loud and clear my friend, loud and clear,”
Schuller said, beaming at his friends.
“Hey! How about a picture, guys?” Staff Sergeant
Pride shouted, and stepped back with his camera to get a snapshot
of his pals.
“College Boy,” O’Connor called to the new driver
who sat behind the wheel of the major’s jeep, “do us a favor and
shoot the flick for us, so Staff Sergeant Pride gets in it, too.
That way we have the whole gang!”
“Okay, you guys,” George Mason said, and then took
the twin-lens Roleflex camera from the staff sergeant and hung it
around his neck. He looked down into the ground-glass viewfinder
and then slowly released the shutter, capturing the faces of Dick
Amos, Jerry Farmer, Happy Pounds, James Dean, Derek Pride, Buck
Taylor, Archie Gunn, Michael Schuller, Jon Kirkwood, Terry
O’Connor, Michael Carter, and Wayne Ebberhardt.
“Just one guy missing from the shot,” Ebberhardt
said, thinking about his pal, T.D. McKay.
“Hey, wing photo took that picture of me, Jon, and
Tommy when we got our medals last spring. Nice big color print,
too,” Terry O’Connor said with a smile. “I’ll get copies made and
send one to everybody here. That way we have the whole fucking crew
immortalized!”
“Okay, I’ll look for it,” Wayne Ebberhardt said,
sitting in the front seat of the jeep while Movie Star piled on top
of the baggage in the back. Then as George Mason backed the vehicle
from the group and pulled into the street to get his passengers to
the freedom bird, the captain shouted to his friends, “Denver,
guys! Don’t forget! The Hilton Hotel bar, July Fourth at five
o’clock. Be there or you better be dead!”
Terry O’Connor waved as the jeep rolled slowly down
the block, and sang with his loudest voice: “Good-bye, Ruby
Tuesday. Who could hang a name on you? When you change with every
new day. Still I’m gonna miss you!”