The War Within

by Mariole

Death is expected as part of war, but some mysterious deaths at the 4077th send Margaret and Hawkeye investigating. *COMPLETE*

2. Small Minds

2. Small Minds

"Suicide!" Margaret Houlihan nearly stamped her foot. "Colonel, I won't accept that. Not from one of my girls!"

Colonel Potter came around his desk to face her. Although he was a vast improvement over their last commanding officer, Potter was still a little too soft, in Margaret's opinion. Everyone knew that there was "army" and there was "Army." To Margaret's annoyance, Potter was too willing to accommodate the little "a" in his ranks, to the detriment of the unit.

Potter seated himself on the edge of his desk. "I don't know what you want me to say, Major. I looked in on the postmortem myself. All the evidence points to death by asphyxiation. We have what could be construed as a suicide note, and we have a possible motive in that Lieutenant Carlyle almost certainly prepared the morphine that was directly responsible for Corporal Randall's death."

Margaret had seen the plaintive note that Ellie Carlyle had written on the night of her death. It was addressed to Gwen Wilson, her tentmate and closest friend at the 4077th. "Dear Gwen: It's so hard to tell you this. I'm afraid I've badly let down your trust in me. I'm sorry. Tonight, I'm going to set matters right. If I don't see you again, forgive me. Your friend, Ellie."

Lieutenant Wilson had found the letter sticking out from under Carlyle's pillow, after Margaret had detailed Bigelow to assist her with clearing out Carlyle's things. Margaret lowered her voice. "I know it looks bad, Colonel. But I'm telling you, Lieutenant Carlyle would not kill herself. No self-respecting nurse would."

Potter met her eyes steadily. She had to hand it to the old man; he was hard to fluster. "What's your explanation then, Major? It's impossible to believe that Lieutenant Carlyle could have accidentally hanged herself. What does that leave -- murder?"

Margaret felt uncomfortable under that penetrating gaze. She lowered her gaze. "I suppose it would have to be."

"If it's murder, then we need a suspect. Is there anyone that you suspect, Major?"

Margaret straightened her back. "I wouldn't know, Colonel. I don't get involved in the girls' personal lives."

"Well, then, how about Lieutenant Wilson? Does she suspect anyone?"

"Lieutenant Wilson hasn't mentioned any suspicions to me. She appeared to accept the suicide theory based on what she'd seen, but she's probably still in shock."

"But you're not," said Potter. "If you can show me some evidence that points to this as a murder, I'd be eager to see it."

Margaret turned aside, thinking. "I don't have any evidence yet, Colonel. But some things don't make sense."

"Such as?" Potter persisted.

"The timing, for one thing. Private Goldman, who was on sentry duty, doesn't recall seeing Lieutenant Carlyle anywhere around post-op at the time of the incident. If we're assuming that Corporal Randall's death influenced her decision to kill herself, she would have had to find out about it by listening at the door without anyone seeing her, then return to her tent to write the note, then run off to find a rope so she could hang herself in the few remaining minutes before it became fully light. That seems like an awfully quick execution of such an irreversible decision."

Potter rose. "Major, if you want to pursue this further, you have my permission to do so. But I remind you, the MPs were satisfied that the preliminary evidence pointed to suicide. Your only argument so far is that you don't think that any nurse would commit suicide, including this young woman who's only been assigned to the 4077th for a few weeks and whom you admit you hardly know. Unless you can uncover some evidence to the contrary, I can't see pushing this investigation any farther."

Margaret held up her chin. "Very well, sir. Since I have your permission to continue the investigation on my own, I intend to do so. But may I remind you that the Military Police are not trained detectives. It's possible that a homicide expert would uncover irregularities in Lieutenant Carlyle's death that an untrained person could easily miss."

"Major, the only `homicide experts' around here are the ones who carry guns. If you like, I could call in the local police. They might have some relevant experience. But I'd need a little more to go on before I'd feel comfortable taking that step."

"All right, Colonel. I'll see that you get it."

"Good luck, Major. Dismissed."

Margaret exited smartly, ignoring Radar's curious stare as she marched through the outer office. She let herself out onto the compound. The midday sun had dried the morning dew. The world smelled fresh and clean, and a bird sang. What an incongruous setting to walk into, considering her dismal thoughts.

Margaret really wished that Potter had called in someone with more authority than the local MPs. She knew that she might very well turn out to be no more capable of carrying out a murder investigation than some muscle-bound clod with a rifle. Still, she had to start somewhere. That place ought to be the lab, where her nurses were already sifting through yesterday's events for clues.

Kellye and Wilson were there. Morphine bottles were lined up in neat rows. Test tubes, clearly labeled, were arranged in racks before them.

Margaret entered with a firmness of step that she hoped would come across as professionalism, rather than the crabbiness that she feared was an all-too-common interpretation. Kellye looked merely sad, but Wilson's face showed a severe strain. "Ladies, report."

Kellye indicated the aligned columns of morphine bottles. "We've finished testing all the bottles that were in the supply cabinet, Major. All of these have the correct solution of one-quarter grain in suspension."

"Any impurities or irregularities?"

Wilson shook her head. "We aren't really set up to test for that, Major. We'll have to send the vials to Tokyo for a complete analysis."

"I see." Margaret was puzzled. "So how did Corporal Randall die of an overdose?"

Kellye indicated two bottles that had been set aside. "These two bottles were near the front of the supply cabinet. Bigelow used one of them when she administered the patient's medication."

"And?" Margaret prompted.

Wilson answered. "The solution is equivalent to four grains per prepared dose."

"Four grains!" Margaret was thunderstruck. Four grains was enough to ensure an overdose in anyone. "How could Lieutenant Carlyle accidentally prepare a solution sixteen times the regular strength?"

"I don't know, m'am," Wilson said despondently. "I would have thought it would be impossible."

Margaret considered Wilson's emotional stability, then decided to ask the question. "Wilson, you seemed closer to Lieutenant Carlyle than anyone else in camp --"

"Before you ask me, m'am," Wilson interrupted, "I've already said that I don't know why she killed herself. I know that she kept a lot of things to herself, but it's hard to accept that anyone would make that kind of decision."

Margaret didn't care to raise the homicide issue yet. Instead she said, "I know, Wilson. Let's set aside the suicide question for now. What I hoped you could tell me was anything you might have noticed about Lieutenant Carlyle's emotional state before her ... decision."

Margaret couldn't help but notice the covert glance that Wilson flashed at Kellye. Kellye looked sadder than ever, while Wilson swallowed and took a breath. "She seemed upset."

Margaret narrowed her eyes. "When?"

"The day before. She was ... agitated."

"Do you know why?" Margaret prompted.

"She didn't say. You know how quiet she was."

"And you didn't try to draw her out?"

Wilson shook her head, and a tear brimmed. "No, m'am. Maybe if I had --"

Margaret stood tall. "Lieutenant, you cannot blame yourself for something that you could not possibly have foreseen. You would be foolish to do so. Do you read me, Lieutenant?"

Unhappily Wilson nodded, but Margaret could almost see the guilt pressing on the young nurse like a weight. Much as she disliked this emotionalism, she had no choice but to pursue her line of questioning. Perhaps the need to think rationally would help Wilson regain some control. "Lieutenant, do you have any idea what Lieutenant Carlyle might have been upset about?"

Wilson evaded her eyes. "Not really, Major."

"Wilson," said Margaret sharply, "this is a critical matter. If you have any speculations, even unproven ones, I'd like to hear them."

Wilson met her eyes unhappily. "Ellie had problems off and on. I thought that last night was just more of the same."

"What kind of problems?" Margaret persisted.

"Man troubles, I thought."

Of course. How blind could she be? Margaret felt herself grow cold. "One of the doctors here?"

"No, m'am. He was a soldier with one of the units stationed nearby."

"Do you have a name?"

"I'm sorry, m'am. She only ever called him her `big fellow.'"

"I see." Margaret felt a twinge of disgust. She always hoped that her nurses would conduct themselves with the dignity appropriate to their station, but this sounded like a typical tawdry affair. Funny, Lieutenant Carlyle hadn't struck her as the type. "Do you think her preoccupation with this ... man person could have led to her making a mistake in the morphine preparation?"

Wilson shrugged helplessly. "I don't understand how, Major. How could she prepare eighteen bottles perfectly, then overdose the final two? How could she so drastically alter the quantity without noticing it? And if she did remember doing it -- in her note she sounds so guilty -- why didn't she just pull the bottles she'd prepared and recheck them? Why go off and kill herself, instead of removing the bottles from the supply cabinet before Bigelow or anyone else could use them on another patient?"

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. Wilson's points were well taken. Still, she knew that Potter would want more than this to get a qualified investigator in here. After all, an upsetting affair with a boyfriend could have any number of outcomes, with only a remote chance of one of them leading to murder. Well, at least Carlyle's unhappy love life gave her another avenue to explore.

"Thank you, Wilson. You and Kellye carry on. Please document all your findings so I can take them back to Colonel Potter."

Wilson nodded unhappily. "Thank you, Major."

"Not at all."

Margaret headed out of the lab, momentarily buoyed by the discovery of the as-yet unknown boyfriend. But she needed more information, details that only a doctor could give. Therefore, next stop: post-op.

She entered the ward from the outside door. Able was conferring with the doctor on duty at the other end of the aisle. They both looked up as she entered. BJ's innocent and clean-cut face greeted her with an expression of surprise. Margaret slowed fractionally. For some reason she had expected to find Pierce on duty, even though she now recalled that he had just worked the night shift. Still, Hunnicutt might know something. She approached the pair quietly.

The patients, one on each side of her, looked up curiously from where they were reading, idling away the time until the ambulance could ferry them to the 121st. No doubt they were eager to leave this hospital, with its alarming spate of unexpected deaths. Margaret couldn't blame them. She wondered which vehicle would reach the 4077th first: the ambulance, or the morgue wagon.

When she reached BJ's side, she said softly, "May I have a word with you, Doctor?"

"Of course. Nurse?"

Able took the clipboard. "I'll take care of it, Doctor."

"Thank you."

BJ followed Margaret into the little alcove between the duty station and the doors to Radar's office, behind the sheet hung as a screen. BJ kept his voice low. "What can I do for you, Major?"

"Did you assist with the postmortem on Lieutenant Carlyle?"

"Actually, Major, I didn't. I had my hands full trying to reassure our two patients here that they hadn't stumbled into a horror film."

"I know what you mean." Margaret winced, remembering how her own morning had been spent trying to calm down and organize her team of nurses. The shock had affected every one of them to some degree. The normally unflappable Bigelow was shaken to her core, and Wilson had been near hysterics. "So, Dr. Pierce conducted the autopsy?"

"I think Colonel Potter was with him some of the time."

Margaret muttered, "Yes, but the colonel still thinks it was suicide."

BJ looked at her sharply. "And you don't?"

Margaret flashed him a look, then turned away. "I need to find Pierce."

BJ caught her elbow. "Hold it, Major. Do you know something that the rest of us don't?"

Margaret gave him a steely look. "None of my nurses would kill themselves, Doctor. And they certainly wouldn't leave badly prepared morphine bottles around for one of their unsuspecting colleagues to inject into a patient." She shook off his hand. "Get out of my way, Captain."

She exited through Radar's office and out the front door of the hospital. The Swamp stood just across the way. Margaret put a neutral expression on her face as she approached. Major Burns would be there, probably catching up on his correspondence or journals. He was officially on duty for the second shift, but as their last two patients were being shipped out within the hour, it really only amounted to being on call. The thought of the unexpected free time kindled a spark of anticipation in her. Not that she would show it. She knew that Pierce and Hunnicutt suspected the true nature of her relationship with Frank, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of confirming it if she could help it.

The tent flaps were rolled up on Frank's side to let in the daylight and the breeze. She could see his head silhouetted against the mosquito netting as she approached. He was reading a book. As she neared, he looked up at the sound of her footsteps. She couldn't see his expression, but his shadowy outline shut the book, then rose to open the door for her.

She met him at the door. He was smiling at her. How could he smile, when everyone else was so upset? Margaret pushed back her annoyance. No doubt he was just trying to cheer her up.

"Major," she greeted him.

"Major," he replied. He held up the book he'd been reading: the Bible. He flipped it open to the page he'd been on, marked by a finger. "My times are in Thy hand," he read, and bobbed his eyebrows at her.

Margaret stared. Sometimes Frank could be a little hard to follow. "What?"

"That's not all. Listen to this!" He flipped to another entry. "For you have been bought with a price; you are not your own."

Margaret didn't get it. "Frank, what are you trying to say?"

"Suicide!" he said, as if surprised that she didn't make the connection. "It's specifically forbidden by the Bible."

Margaret believed in the Bible, but these quotes seemed a little stretched to her. "Frank, I don't think that this really pertains to --"

"It couldn't be more obvious," Frank interrupted. He waved the book at her. "This is clearly saying that God has a purpose for every person's life. Suicide interferes with His plan. Therefore, anybody who'd kill themselves is somebody we're better off without!"

Margaret couldn't help but grit her teeth over such a callous attitude. She reined in her temper and said, "Have you run any of these references by Father Mulcahy?"

Frank pressed his lips together, an unfortunate habit of his that made them entirely disappear. "What do you expect from a priest? He absotively oozes compassion. It's enough to make you sick!"

Frank turned perfunctorily and went back inside. Margaret sighed, then followed him in.

Pierce's side of the Swamp was dim, his cot a mass of rumpled blankets behind the lowered flaps of the tent. All she could see of Hawkeye himself was a tuft of black hair protruding from the pillow end of the cot. He was certainly asleep.

Frank had attempted to compose himself, and now turned to face her. "Well, then -- Major," he said. "How can I help you?"

Margaret made her voice crisply professional, just in case Pierce really wasn't asleep. "Actually, Major Burns, I'm here to see Captain Pierce."

Frank's face went slack. "What do you want with that nim-nelly?" Without waiting for a response, he barked, "Pierce!"

The body under the covers jumped, then the tuft of hair disappeared as Pierce pulled the covers over his head.

Frank swatted Pierce's feet with his Bible. "Wake up, Captain!"

Pierce twitched under the covers, curling up as if seeking escape.

"Now, you slacker!" Frank yelled, making Margaret wince.

Pierce flung back the covers. His face was screwed up in annoyance, although his eyes were closed. "What is it, Frank?"

Frank put a sarcastic lilt into his voice. "Major Houlihan wants to speak to you."

"Oh." Pierce lay there a moment, then pulled the covers back over his face.

Frank's face went red. "Captain Pierce!"

Margaret put out a hand. "Just a moment, Major." She cleared her throat, then tried that reasonable tone that was sometimes effective with the troublesome draftee. "Captain Pierce, I wondered if I could discuss Lieutenant Carlyle's autopsy results with you."

The covers shifted, then slowly Captain Pierce's face reappeared. His hair was tousled, his skin pale, and his eyes rather bloodshot. Margaret reflected that, with all the events this morning, he must have been on duty for more than sixteen hours. For all his irritating habits, Pierce was a dedicated physician. Margaret put on a winsome smile and softened her voice in compensation for cutting into some of his precious off-duty time.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she said. "But Colonel Potter has given me permission to investigate further into Lieutenant Carlyle's death."

Pierce lay without moving, except for blinking his eyes. Margaret couldn't tell if he was thinking, or about to fall back asleep. "What do you want to know?" he said finally.

"I'm ... not really sure. I guess, just -- did you notice anything irregular about her death?"

"You mean, other than why a twenty-three year old nurse, who appears to be competent in every other way, decides to hang herself instead of simply checking the dosage of some morphine that she might have accidentally prepared incorrectly?"

Margaret smiled. Whatever Pierce's faults, and they were legion, he was quick-witted, she had to give him that. "Yes, Captain. That's the kind of thing I mean."

Pierce sat up groggily, long limbs akimbo, letting the blanket fall where it would. Absently he scratched his cheek, his fingernails grating on the stubble. "She definitely died of asphyxia," he said, "but I'm not so sure about the time of death."

"In what way?"

"Both livor mortis and rigor had started to present. Based on that, she might have been there an hour or two before Wilson found her."

Margaret said carefully, "That would be before Corporal Randall received his injection, wouldn't it?"

"Ah, who cares!" Frank interjected. He walked toward his desk chair in a huff. "She was clearly deranged. Who needs a nutcase for a nurse?" He threw himself into the chair, and opened the Bible again.

Anger flared within Margaret's chest. Frank could be so irritating. She turned on him with her sharpest voice. "I'm trying to establish whether or not Lieutenant Carlyle was murdered!"

"Murdered?" Frank stared at her, open mouthed. "Honest Injun?"

Margaret eased up her attack. "Well, we don't know for certain, Frank. That's what I'm trying to find out." She turned back to find Pierce lost in thought. "Doctor?"

Pierce slowly lifted his eyes toward her. "So you doubt the suicide theory, too?"

Margaret was confused. "What do you mean, `too?' Didn't you put suicide on the death certificate?"

Pierce shook his head, clearly disturbed. "I left the manner of death undetermined."

"You did?" Margaret mentally backpedaled. "But, Colonel Potter gave me the impression that it was already decided."

"I'm not a forensic pathologist," he said. "Give me somebody whose heart is still beating, and I'll make as many pronouncements as you want. Once they pass the four-minute mark, I start feeling a little out of my depth."

"So you think it could be murder."

"Major, I'd feel uncomfortable making that strong a statement. I was planning to leave it up to the ME in Seoul to make the final assessment. Now I'll definitely ask him to do a full autopsy, if you suspect possible foul play."

"You didn't do a complete autopsy?"

Pierce shook his head. "An external investigation only, plus x-rays and a blood sample for toxicology testing. I couldn't see cutting her up, based on what we found."

"You and Potter."

"Yeah," he said distractedly, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "The findings were consistent enough, but little things kept bothering me."

"Such as the timing?" Margaret prompted.

"Well, that, but mostly her undershirt."

"Her ... undershirt?"

"It was bunched around her neck," Pierce explained. "The rope had pulled it tight, so it left strange marks. But I couldn't help wondering, if Lieutenant Carlyle was really going to hang herself, why she'd tuck a rumpled undershirt around the noose."

"Obviously," Frank butted in, "she didn't want to get rope burns."

"Then why rumple the undershirt?" said Margaret. "Why not wrap it around her throat smoothly?"

"Why wrap it around at all?" said Pierce. "It had to have interfered with the noose. If you're planning on hanging yourself, wouldn't you want to go about it efficiently, and not draw it out any more than you had to?"

"Well," challenged Margaret, "what do you think?"

Pierce sat straighter. "I think that Frank is right."

Frank looked over at the unexpected compliment. "I am?"

Pierce nodded. "I think that this is a case where rope burns would be inadvisable."

Frank frowned. "What do you mean?"

"If we could have seen the rope burns clearly, then we might also have been able to see the marks of the hands that actually strangled her." Pierce threw back the covers, reaching for his bathrobe.

"Major," he said, "would you like to view the body with me?"

Frank curled his lip. "Oh, this is morbid!"

"I meant Major Houlihan," Pierce said sharply. He met Margaret's eyes, his own filled with anxiety. "I must be an idiot," he said, "or asleep on my feet. The undershirt! Why didn't I think more about that before?"

Margaret smiled. "Possibly because you were asleep on your feet."

Pierce fumbled for his boots. "That's gracious of you."

"Well, I think you're a bunch of dumb dodos." Frank turned his back on them. "Have fun with your body."

"Frank, you should be more interested in this," said Pierce, lacing his boots.

"It's all a wild goose chase, you'll see!" he retorted, then pretended to read his Bible. "Why?"

"Because if anyone gets away with murder around here, they'll certainly want to make you their next victim."

"Snot!" Frank yelled, then crossed his legs, holding up the Good Book.

Margaret sighed. Sometimes Frank could be such a disappointment.

Pierce stood and belted his robe, then combed his fingers through his hair. He favored her with one of his rare, companionable smiles. "Well, Major, let's see if this poor dead woman can tell us any tales."