M-9 Read online

  M-9

  A Chelmin and Spaulding CID Mystery

  Marvin J. Wolf

  Copyright © 2019 Marvin J. Wolf

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  For Tomi, my smart, tireless and always faithful daughter.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am indebted to my former screenwriting partner, Larry Mintz, who showed me how to write dialog and structure a story, and to my wonderful daughter, Tomi, whose labors permit me the time and space to write every day.

  Prolog: Fort Fremont, California, February

  Pelted by cold morning rain, a freight train slowly backs into a siding before slamming to a stop beside a half-sheltered platform fronting an enormous warehouse. A bulky man in a knee-length, olive-colored raincoat appears. On his white hard hat is a decal with the chevrons of a sergeant first class. From his pockets come a small walkie-talkie and a key ring. His breath a white cloud, he speaks into the radio; a few seconds pass before the train lurches forward ten feet to stop at a spot where two boxcars may be entered safely from the platform.

  Selecting keys from the ring, the sergeant unlocks and tugs open two boxcar doors in turn, then turns to yell something into the warehouse. Forty young men in civilian clothes and closely cropped hair shuffle onto the platform.

  The sergeant waits until all the men have crowded onto the platform’s roofed portion. “Listen up,” he bellows. “Form two ranks, one behind the other.”

  The men jostle one another, trying to stay dry until the sergeant is satisfied. “I’m Sergeant First Class Mentone,” he growls. “You men in the front rank: Raise your left hand.”

  Nineteen raise their left hands. One raises his right.

  “You! In the blue shirt,” Mentone yells.

  A plump young man in the first row glances down at his shirt.

  “Yes, you, Einstein. Your left hand. No, your other left hand.”

  As the others laugh, the blushing youngster drops his right and raises his left.

  “You are to enter the boxcar on the left—your left—single file, and you are each to carry one box at a time—just one—into the warehouse,” Mentone bellows. “Sergeant Edwards will show you where to stack the boxes. He’s the tall, skinny man in a hard hat like mine.

  “You in the second rank will unload the car on your right. Carry one box at a time. Specialist Mendoza will show you where to stack them. Mendoza is the short one with a mustache and a hard hat.

  “You will unload all the boxes on each car. When you finish, I’ll give you a break, and we’ll try to have hot coffee and sweet rolls here for you.

  “Any questions?”

  In the second row, a muscular teen with acne marring his handsome face raises a hand.

  “What if we could carry two boxes? Wouldn’t that be faster?”

  Mentone frowns. “Listen closely, peckerhead. If you learn nothing else while you’re here for basic training, get this into your thick skull. There are many ways to do things. There is the right way, lots of wrong ways, and there is the Army way. The Army way is what your sergeant or officer tells you. I don’t give a rabid rodent’s rectum how many boxes you think you can carry—today you will carry one at a time.

  “Anything else?”

  Silence.

  “Get to it.”

  One

  The boxes in the left car held a dozen pairs of combat boots each. By his second roundtrip, Will Spaulding understood Mentone’s reason for limiting each man to one box: The aisle between pallets of boxes stacked to the roof was too narrow to allow two men to pass each other if either one carried more than one box.

  By Spaulding’s sixth trip, the boxcar was a third empty, and he was soaking wet. Then he saw the body—only a bare foot and a few inches of the ankle were visible in the gap between a row of boxes and the wall, but he knew it was a dead woman before he set his box down and knelt to take her ankle pulse with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

  He scrambled to his feet, and oblivious to the complaints of those behind him blocked further entry into the car. “Turn around and go find that sergeant,” he said, his voice ringing with authority. Then he turned to the men carrying boxes. “Put 'em down and go back into the warehouse,” he said and stood aside.

  Mentone returned to find an athletic young man of average height with a stubble of light brown hair, a receding hairline, and a sunburned but unremarkable face framing piercing blue eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the sergeant bellowed.

  Will spread his hands in a calming gesture. “There’s a dead woman in there, Sergeant.”

  “A dead what?”

  “A woman. Please call the police.”

  “Stand aside, Private,” he said and strode into the dim interior, Will at his heels.

  “There,” he said, pointing.

  Mentone bent to see. “What the hell?”

  Mentone straightened up, then pointed to the boxes surrounding the foot. “Get those boxes out of there, Recruit, so I can see what we’ve got here.”

  “With respect, Sergeant First Class Mentone, I’m certain that the police would not want me to disturb the scene until they can examine it.”

  The sergeant took a half step forward until he was almost nose to nose with Spaulding. “My job is to get these boots unloaded. Your job is to do what I tell you, Recruit. Now move it.”

  “Sergeant Mentone, please listen to me. It will take the police a few hours to investigate this crime scene. They will want to see every box in the car, including the ones we’ve already unloaded. So, this car will not be unloaded until they’re done. Not your fault, not mine, just the way it is.”

  Mentone’s face contorted into a snarl. “Report to Sergeant Edwards. Tell him that I said you should wait in the office until I get there. Now go!”

  §

  The rain had slowed to an annoying drizzle when Special Agent Rudy Chelmin knelt next to the body. He played his flashlight beam across it and then leaned in to feel the corpse’s ankle. He rose awkwardly and with effort, leaning against the wall for support, then moved to the boxcar door, where two uniformed MPs waited. “Get that quartermaster sergeant back here,” he said and searched his pockets for cigarettes until he remembered that this was the second day of his fourth attempt to quit smoking.

  Mentone appeared in the warehouse door.

  “Couple questions,” Chelmin said. “Who found the body?”

  “A recruit on the work detail.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I told him to wait in my office.”

  “Good thinking, Mentone. I’ll want to see him but in a minute. Other thing is, what happened to all the boxes that were on this car before I got here?”

  “They were unloaded and stacked in the warehouse.”

  “Can you tell me which ones were the closest to the body?”

  Mentone shrugged. “We just stacked them as they came off the car.”

  “Should have left them on the car. All of them. Now listen, and this is very important—I’ve got an FBI forensic team coming down from San Francisco. They’ll be here in a couple of hours. The county medical examiner is coming from Salinas. I’ll get some MPs to guard those boxes. Nobody is to touch them, and I’ll need every man on that work detail back here to be fingerprinted—their prints are all over those boxes.”

  Mentone shook his head in exasperation. “I should have listened to that recruit. He said you’d want to look at the boxes and to leave them on the train.”

  This got Chelmin’s attention. “Who said that?”

  “Some recruit. Mouthy kid, the one who found her. But what the hell, he’s a fucking new recruit. Doesn’t even have a uniform yet.”

  “Get him,” Chelmin said. “I’ll be inside.”

  Two

>   Will found Chelmin inside the boxcar on his hands and knees with a flashlight and an evidence bag.

  “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

  “I’m not a sir,” Chelmin replied, getting to his feet with obvious difficulty. He was a slender, fit, smallish man, five-feet, seven inches tall, with a full head of steel-gray hair in a cut that looked both military and not, at the same time. He was dressed in an off-the-rack business suit with a plain white shirt and a forgettable tie.

  Chelmin fished in his back pants pocket and took out a badge. “Army Criminal Investigation Division—Special Agent Chelmin. A civilian. Who are you? How did you come to find this body?”

  “Private Will Spaulding. I was on the detail, and as I came down the center aisle carrying a box of boots, headed for the door, I saw her foot and a little bit of ankle sticking out by the wall, so I knelt down, felt for her ankle pulse, and realized that she was dead.”

  “Let’s pause here,” Chelmin said. “If all you could see was the foot and a little ankle, how did you know it was a woman? And how could you tell she was dead?”

  “Nail polish on the toes told me it was a woman. Most likely, anyway. Her skin was deathly pale, there was no pulse in her ankle, and she was in full rigor mortis. Plainly dead.”

  “You told Mentone to leave the boxes in the car. Why?”

  “Because I knew that whoever investigated this murder would want to examine everything that was part of the crime scene, and that included the boxes. Especially the boxes nearest the body.”

  Chelmin searched his pockets again and again found no cigarettes. He said, “You just happened to know that this woman was murdered, Private Spaulding?”

  “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t suicide. I’d need a medical examiner’s report to be certain.”

  “And how do you come by this particular wisdom?”

  Spaulding opened his mouth, but the investigator raised his hand. “Let’s come back to that. First of all, how long have you been in the Army?”

  “Since a little past noon, yesterday.”

  “Where was that, where were you were sworn in?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “That’s home?”

  Spaulding shook his head, no. “Barstow. My whole life, except when I was away in college.”

  Chelmin took a minute to peer closely at Spaulding’s face, taking in the tiny lines framing each eye, noticing for the first time his slightly receding hairline.

  “How old are you, Private Spaulding?”

  “Twenty-seven, day after tomorrow.”

  “You enlisted because you couldn’t find a job?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “What did you study in college, Private Spaulding?”

  “Criminology and criminal justice.”

  “You were a cop in Barstow?”

  “Detective. For the last ten months. Before that, I was on patrol for four years.”

  “This your first dead body, Spaulding?”

  Will shook his head. “No. There’s been quite a few.”

  “Let’s look at this body, Detective, and see what she tells us before the FBI gets here.”

  The nude woman lay on her back, her arms crossed high on her chest, making small mounds of her breasts. Chelmin played the beam from his flashlight over the body. “Kneel down there and tell me what you see.”

  Spaulding sank to his knees and, without touching the woman, peered closely at her.

  “Gloves?”

  Chelmin reached into his coat pocket and wordlessly handed Spaulding a pair of disposable latex gloves, then watched as he expertly pulled them on.

  Spaulding placed his gloved left hand high on the woman’s throat and gently probed with his fingers. Then he asked for the flashlight and, in its beam, lifted each eyelid in turn and peered closely at the eye.

  He stood up. “No cuts or bullet holes, although I’d have to turn her over to be certain. No bruises on her neck and her hyoid bone seems intact. And no visible petechial hemorrhaging. I don’t think she was strangled.”

  Chelmin shook his head. “What else?”

  “Ligature marks on her legs, hips, chest, wrists, and arms. She was bound very tightly for quite some time. Her backside will probably show signs of lividity. She was killed elsewhere. Should I roll her over?”

  “I’ll wait for the coroner. You go back to your unit, get on with your in-processing or whatever it is they’ll have you doing before basic training starts.”

  “Yessir,” Spaulding said and turned to go.

  “Two more things, Private. Have you ever seen this woman before?”

  Spaulding shook his head. “No. Why would I have?”

  “Just curious. Other thing is, what’s your full name?”

  “Willson Voit Spaulding. Two els in Willson.”

  “Who hung that on you? Your family’s in sporting goods?”

  “My father was William Spaulding. He was an Army helicopter pilot— died in Desert Storm when I was two. My mom then drank herself to death. My father’s older brother and his wife took me in and raised me. He called me Willson, for ‘Will’s son,’ so I’d remember my dad. Voit was my mom’s maiden name.”

  “That will be all, Spaulding. Thanks for your help.”

  Three

  Chelmin eased into the warehouse office so silently that when Mentone looked up from his desk to see him standing there, he flinched. “Whoa! How long you been standing there, Mr. Chelmin?”

  “Not long. The fibbies are going over the boxes now. The medical examiner is ready to cart the body back to his lab for an autopsy, but he thinks this lady’s been dead about two days or a bit longer. Who knows where this train was two days ago?”

  “This train starts in Chicago, where it picks up a load of shoes, boots, cammies, dress uniforms, skivvies, socks, and headgear. Then it makes a circuit of the whole country, dropping off stuff at major military bases. The last stop before here is the Marine Supply Base in Barstow. Left there two days ago and went to Los Angeles, where it dropped the last four or five cars. Another engine will take those cars down the coast to San Diego for the Marine Corps Recruit Depot. The rest of the train heads north, to here. Its next stop is Fort Lewis, up in Washington State.”

  Chelmin nodded, thinking. “Comes every month?”

  “Every three months. Four deliveries a year,” Mentone said. “Anything else you need to know?”

  “Not now,” Chelmin replied over his shoulder, already heading for the door.

  Four

  Chelmin found all four desks in the CID bullpen empty, but by the time he had helped himself to a cup of black coffee and taken a bite from a stale plain doughnut, a short, heavy woman of perhaps fifty, with dyed blonde hair, returned carrying a box of glazed doughnuts.

  “Mr. Chelmin, you should have waited,” she said. “These are fresh.”

  “Thank you, Emily, but you should know by now that I like the plain ones.”

  “Couldn’t you just try a glazed? You might like it.”

  “Some other time. Right now, I’d like you to call the Barstow Police Department and get the chief on the line for me.”

  “This is about that terrible murder down at Quartermaster?”

  “Make the call, please. Quitting time in an hour.”

  “That’s Barstow, California?”

  “The very same.”

  A tall, powerfully built man in his forties pushed the office door open and entered, carrying a large corrugated box, which he laid carefully on his desk.

  “Catch that barracks thief, Wagner?”

  “Not yet, Boss,” the heavy man replied in a voice that seemed much too high for a man of his size. “But I confiscated a shitload of contraband.”

  “You mean booze and skin magazines, right?”

  “Among other stuff, right.”

  “Other stuff like drugs, guns, knives and such?”

  “A stiletto. An airline bottle of vodka, two roaches, and matchbox full of what might be oregano. And h
alf a box of 5.56 ammo.”

  “Nice work. Keep in mind, Wagner, that skin magazines, marijuana, and booze are illegal, but they are usually good for morale. Barracks thieves are very bad for morale and unit cohesiveness. Got any leads on who’s busting into all those lockers?”

  “Could be a janitor. Maybe a cook, or a supply clerk—someone who’s around while the troops are out for training.”

  “In other words, after a week of investigation, you don’t have any idea who is stealing wallets in Alfa Company, Ninth Training Battalion?”

  “I’m getting there, Boss. Uh, you need any help with that Quartermaster murder?”

  Chelmin needed help, but he knew that turning Wagner loose on the investigation would only make his own job harder. He’d been trying to get him transferred, but Wagner was two years from retirement, had bought a house in Monterey, and had the right to refuse any transfer of more than a hundred miles. That left only Fort Hunter Liggett and the Presidio of Monterey, where Wagner was well-known and slightly less popular than typhoid.

  Emily looked up and waved at Chelmin. “Chief Spaulding, on line four, Mr. Chelmin.”

  “I’ll take that in my office,” he said, wondering why he felt surprised.

  Half an hour later, Chelmin put down the phone and called Emily into his office.

  “I need to speak with the San Bernardino County Sheriff, then the FBI, and the DEA in Los Angeles.”

  “But Mr. Chelmin, it’s almost five o’clock.”

  “Come in a little later tomorrow. Wagner and I know how to make coffee.”

  Five

  “You wanted to see me, First Sergeant?”

  “You’re Spaulding, right?

  “Yes, First Sergeant. We don’t get name tapes to sew on until tomorrow.”

  “Right. Go back upstairs to your squad bay, pack up everything you own, including all your field gear, and be back down here in thirty minutes.”