“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.