Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 44, No. 4, April 1980

Daniels pointed to a small wooden fire escape with a flight of stairs extending from the second story to the ground. “The car was on fire,” Daniels continued. “It had been blown apart. One tire was rolling down the driveway and a car door was lying at the foot of the stairs.”

“Was Lieutenant Benton still inside the wreck then?” Lansing asked.

“No, sir. He was lying on the ground about eight feet from the car. I didn’t even recognize him at first, his body was burned so badly. Damn! It was the worse thing I’ve seen since ‘Nam’.”

“He was dead when you found him?”

“Not quite, sir. I knew he’d never make it, though. He tried to talk, but his mouth filled up with blood and he couldn’t get the words out. All he could manage to say was... well, it sounded like ‘Sm—’.”

“Sm—’?” Lansing knitted his eyebrows. “You mean ‘S’, ‘M’...’ something?”

“That’s what it sounded like, sir,” Daniels repeated. “ ‘Sm—’.”

“Thank you Specialist,” Lansing said. Turning to the MP he said, “I want you to keep everybody away from that car until a team from the CID lab department has a chance to go over every inch of it. Don’t let anyone take any metal scraps or mementos from that wreck.”

“Yes, sir,” the cop replied.

Lansing approached a small group of bystanders. “Are any of you from Benton’s section?” he asked, saluting a full-bird colonel even as he spoke.

“I am, sir,” said a muscular man dressed in fatigue trousers and an O.D. green tee shirt. Three chevrons with two rockers on his baseball cap revealed he was a sergeant first class.

“I’d like to talk with you privately, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Major, I’m Colonel Gibb, post commander of Montgomery Barracks,” the full-bird declared. “Aren’t you going to discuss this incident with me?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll talk to you later this afternoon.”

“Major.” Gibb spoke with irritation. “This is my post.”

“I appreciate that, Colonel,” Lansing assured him. “But it’s my investigation.”

The Sergeant led Lansing through a side door entrance into the basement of the headquarters building. Entering a bleak corridor, they walked to an ultrasecurity door with steel bars and a sign declaring ‘S-2’. An S-2 section deals with Army Intelligence. S-2 material ranges from confidential to top secret-crypto. For this reason, S-2 was guarded by strict security measures.

“Please excuse my appearance, sir,” the Sergeant said. “I was working inside when I heard the explosion. Our air conditioning is shot and it gets damn hot in there.”

“Lieutenant Benton worked for S-2?”

“Yes, sir,” the NCO replied. “Do you think his car was sabotaged or could this just be a freak accident?”

“I’d like to know your opinion, Sergeant.”

“I don’t know why anyone would want to kill the Lieutenant.”

“Benton’s last words, actually his last attempted words, were ‘Sm—.’ Do you have any idea what that might mean?”

“He might have been talking about a certain project.”

“What project?”

“I’m really not at liberty to say, sir. You’ll have to talk to Captain Cross about it.”

“Cross?”

“The officer in charge of our S-2 section. He’s not here today. The Captain had to attend a security conference in Bamberg. He should be back this evening.”

“If Cross is the OIC and, I take it, you’re the NCOIC,” Lansing mused, “am I correct in assuming Benton was the executive officer for your section?”

“Yes sir.” the Sergeant shrugged, “The Lieutenant wasn’t a bad XO.”

“But not your sort of officer?” Lansing guessed from the NCO’s tone.

“He was a little too liberal to be a good military man. He thought the Salt Treaty was great and detente was wonderful. I figure the only commie you can trust is one that’s been dead for ten years.”

“You didn’t get along?”

“We just didn’t discuss subjects that could only lead to an argument,” the NCO explained. “We worked together, but we kept our mouths shut unless we had to talk about business.”

Lansing nodded. “Who else is in your section?”

“Two clerks. One of them, PFC Dinsdale, is still learning the ropes. His military occupation specialty is 78D20, but Headquarters Battery doesn’t need another legal clerk and we lost Spec. Four Lundy last week, so we got him.”

“Lost? You mean Lundy’s term of service ended?”

“No, sir. We would have broken in a new replacement before he left. Lundy was killed in an accident in the billets. He got drunk one night, fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. Lundy didn’t drink much. I guess he wasn’t very good at holding his liquor. It’s a pity. He was a damn good soldier, by today’s standards.”

“Interesting,” Lansing said to himself quietly. “You said there are two clerks with S-2. If Dinsdale is a trainee, I assume the other has been here longer.”

“Yes, sir. Specialist Smothers has been with S-2 for more than five months.”

“Smothers?” Lansing raised an eyebrow, “Where is he now?”

“He’s also the section driver. He took Captain Cross to Bamberg.”

“I’ll want to talk with him,” the Major said grimly. “His name begins with ‘S-M’.”