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*

7. Small Talk

7. Small Talk

Hawkeye could scarcely contain his irritation as he stormed out Potter's door. Radar looked up in concern. "Hawkeye?"

"Later," Hawkeye grumbled, then let himself out into the compound. He advanced several steps then halted abruptly. He stood breathing heavily, willing himself to calm down.

"Captain?"

At the soft voice he whirled. Margaret had followed him into the yard. She shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable. Hawkeye looked away. "Major."

Margaret approached. Hawkeye battled his vexation. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, least of all her right now.

"Captain," she repeated softly, "I appreciate how you must feel."

Hawkeye could barely manage to be civil. "Do you." He paced tightly back and forth, fretting with agitation. "BJ is innocent. Innocent! But I seem to be the only person in the world who understands that."

Margaret placed a gentle hand on his sleeve, stopping him. "You're not the only one who understands it. You can believe that or not."

Hawkeye looked down at her, and felt his nervous energy subside. "Thank you, Major."

"You're welcome."

Margaret smiled up at him with the closest thing to friendliness that he could remember seeing from her. Almost against his will he found himself smiling back.

"Pierce!" came a sharp cry from across the compound.

Margaret hastily removed her hand, as Frank Burns came up. He looked from one of them to the other, no doubt perturbed by their sudden, unexpected rapport.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

Margaret said, "The police are searching for --"

"That's not what I meant." He looked uneasily from Hawkeye back to Margaret. "You were ... touching him."

Margaret opened her mouth, but seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

"It was a vermin-control exercise, Frank," said Hawkeye.

Frank looked up innocently. "Vermin?"

"That's right. It's time for my semi-annual delousing. The major here was just verifying that, as suspected, I'm infested up to my armpits."

Frank jumped back. "You'd better get rid of those things before you come back to the Swamp!"

"Relax, Frank. I plan to swim through a vat of DDT in just a few minutes."

"Good!" Frank twitched and stepped back a couple of feet. "Ew. Lice!"

Hawkeye clamped down on his smile. Under the circumstances, he found Frank's predictability oddly reassuring.

"Major," said Frank sharply, "I suggest that you let this infested ignatz make his own way to the dispensary. You and I ought to ... check on our supply situation, before any wounded come in."

Hawkeye couldn't help lifting up his eyes at such a sorry attempt at subtlety.

"My girls are already checking the status of our supplies," said Margaret smoothly.

Frank's face fell. "They are?"

Margaret nodded. "Standard procedure. They're doing a full inventory before Lieutenant Carlyle's replacement arrives."

"But that could take hours!" Frank cried. "And, and the lull could be over any minute!"

"All the more reason to let them finish without any interference, Frank," said Hawkeye.

Frank turned on him. "You keep out of this, Mr. Lice Breath!"

"That's Doctor Lice Breath," corrected Hawkeye.

"I hope they crawl up your nose!" Frank yelled, then marched off with his fists clenched.

Hawkeye shook his head. Frank's escapades, however amusing, did wear on him. His day had been such a series of ups and downs that Hawkeye suddenly felt exhausted.

Margaret's voice broke in on his reflections. "Assuming that you aren't going for a swim any time soon, Captain, how about if I buy you a drink?"

Hawkeye looked over at her in confusion. "Really? Why?"

"Because you look like you could use one." Margaret started walking down the road. Bewildered, Hawkeye fell in beside her. "Besides," she continued, "I'd like to hear what Rosie might have to say."

"Rosie."

"According to Chief Pak, Lieutenant Carlyle met Private Panatela there. Since Private Panatela is currently unavailable, Pak could only have found that out by talking to the private's friends. Maybe some of those friends are still around. It's possible that one of them might know why Lieutenant Carlyle was upset the day of the murder."

Hawkeye trudged along beside her, but his feelings weren't hopeful. Pak had also mentioned that most of Panatela's unit was out on maneuvers. In any case, it was early in the day to expect any soldiers to be hanging around Rosie's Bar.

His misgivings appeared to be confirmed when he pushed aside the hanging curtain that served as the door to the bar. Only a few military folk were present, scattered among the empty tables in quietly talking groups of two or three. A couple of isolated holdouts sat by themselves, nursing their drinks and staring into space. Rosie was working her way through stacks of used glasses behind the bar, evidence of a lunchtime rush that had now passed.

The stale scent of food pricked Hawkeye's nostrils. He'd been so busy today, he'd forgotten to eat.

Almost as if she'd read his mind, Margaret asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

Hawkeye checked his watch. "It's a little late for lunch."

"That's all right." Margaret approached the bar. "Hi, Rosie. What have you got on the stove?"

Rosie wiped a glass and set it in its place. "All I have left now is soup."

"What kind of soup?" asked Hawkeye.

Rosie picked up another glass. "You don't want to know."

Before Hawkeye could speak, Margaret said, "Fine. We'll take a bowl of that."

Rosie slanted them a look. "Both of you?"

"Just the captain," said Margaret.

Holding the look, Rosie backed up a step, then called instructions in Korean over her shoulder. She returned to the bar. "Anything to drink?"

"An Old Fashioned," said Margaret.

"A beer," said Hawkeye.

"Make that two beers," said Margaret.

As they climbed onto the bar stools, Rosie popped off the caps and set the beers in front of them. Carbonation wafted from the narrow mouths of the bottles. Hawkeye picked up his beer and took a healthy slug. It was warm, but it was wet. It hit his empty system like a bucket of water over the head.

Margaret leaned her elbows on the bar. "Rosie, do you remember a Private Panatela?"

Rosie bustled among the dishes. "Not by that name, I don't."

"He was in here about a month ago," Margaret continued. "You might have seen him with Lieutenant Carlyle."

"Sure, I know who he is," said Rosie. "I said I just didn't know him by that name."

One of Rosie's female helpers emerged from the back room, carrying a brimming wooden bowl. She set it in front of Hawkeye along with a spoon that actually looked clean.

"Well, what name did you know him by?" Margaret asked.

"Mr. Big," said Rosie. "Among others."

Cautiously Hawkeye peered into his bowl. Tiny beads of orange grease floated on top of a broth that was an indeterminate shade of brown. He wished he could identify more of the chunks that lay semi-submerged in there.

Margaret lowered her voice. "Are any of Private Panatela's friends in here now?"

"No, that whole unit is out on maneuvers. They left Thursday morning."

Hawkeye shook his head as he picked up his spoon. Rosie was usually on top of the news, as she had once again demonstrated. Experimentally he poked at his soup.

"Besides, Panatela didn't have many friends," Rosie continued. "Just the other strangers."

Hawkeye had isolated a white lump from the stew. He held it out on his spoon for inspection. "What's this?"

"Bean curd," Margaret answered shortly. To Rosie she asked, "What strangers?"

Hesitantly, Hawkeye put the thing in his mouth. The broth had a thin, vegetable taste, but the white thing didn't taste like much of anything at all. When he bit into it, its texture reminded him of the thickened skin of week-old gelatin. He made a face, chewing reluctantly.

"That's what they called themselves," said Rosie. "The Three Strangers. It was their little joke. They wanted everyone to call them by their nicknames: Tall, Dark, and Handsome. But the joke backfired. People start referring to `Dark' as `Shady Dan.'"

"That was Private Panatela?" asked Margaret.

"Right. Only I not hear the Panatela part until Chief Pak tells me about him, just Shady Dan. So he comes up with a new nickname: Big. That was the name he was using when he met Lieutenant Carlyle."

Hawkeye had routed out a flattened, yellowish thing with wrinkly edges. He presented it to Margaret. "What's this?"

"Chinese cabbage," she answered. "So the Three Strangers came to be known as Tall, Big, and Handsome?"

"That's what they wished," said Rosie. "But nobody else called them that, except for Lieutenant Carlyle."

Tentatively Hawkeye tasted the spoonful of cabbage. It was a little stringy, but not altogether bad.

"What did everyone else call them?" asked Margaret.

"Mean, Dumb, and Ugly," said Rosie. "Private Panatela was Dumb."

"Flattering," said Margaret.

Rosie scrubbed a glass clean with a vengeance. "Man, those three were bad news."

Hawkeye's attention was finally caught. He looked up. "In what way?"

Rosie leaned closer, as did Hawkeye and Margaret. "Scuttlebutt says they were dealing on the black market. Drugs, mostly, but also other supplies." She straightened. "You know my standards. When I hear about this, I throw the bums out. I run a family bar."

Margaret looked startled and alarmed. "Did Lieutenant Carlyle know about this?"

"I tried to warn her. But she believed that Shady Dan. He told her this story about how he gives the supplies to the orphans. Maybe he even did a few times. But most of the stuff they sold for profit."

Margaret gave Hawkeye a desperate look. He could guess what she was thinking. If Lieutenant Carlyle had finally figured out that her boyfriend was dealing on the black market, she might have threatened to expose him. The three may have conspired to get rid of her. But clearly Panatela hadn't committed the actual crime.

"What can you tell me about the other two Strangers?" Hawkeye asked.

"Handsome was shorter than the others," said Rosie. "Brown hair, I think. Good looking, too. In fact, they all were, if you didn't know about their activities."

"But you never heard any other names?" asked Margaret.

Rosie shook her head. "Just nicknames." She appeared to think back. "Handsome was a corporal. The other two were privates."

Margaret sighed. "There are a lot of corporals and privates in this man's army."

Hawkeye said to Rosie, "Tell me about Tall."

"Him!" Rosie barked a humorless laugh. "He was the worst of the bunch, a real slime ball."

"Was he tall?" asked Margaret.

"Oh, yeah. Taller than you, Doc -- I think. Not by much."

Hawkeye's stomach developed a knot. "Rosie, was he by any chance a blond-haired man, thin-to-medium build, clean-shaven, with blue eyes?"

"What, you think I look into his eyes?" Rosie considered. "Maybe they were blue. I don't remember."

Hawkeye said slowly, "And you told Chief Pak all this?"

Rosie laughed. "Like he'd want to know! As soon as he find out Shady Dan's hair color, he's right back out the door."

Hawkeye slid off his bar stool, fumbling in his pocket for change. "Thanks, Rosie."

Margaret jumped down beside him. "Where are you going?"

Hawkeye plunked down a dollar and a few coins, suspecting that would more than cover his tab. "Back to Potter's office. It seems as if the police could use help from people like us after all."

He strode out the door. Margaret hesitated, then ran to catch up. She lowered her voice as they hurried along the street. "So you think Tall killed Lieutenant Carlyle?"

"He matches the description," said Hawkeye.

"So does Captain Hunnicutt," Margaret reminded him.

"Yeah, but BJ isn't dealing on the black market." He walked on, considering. "I wonder if there's some way to verify Tall's blood type."

"You'd need to know his name for that."

They had just passed under the Best Care Anywhere sign, when a female voice called, "Major!"

Hawkeye broke stride and looked around. Lieutenant Kellye ran toward them, waving her hand to get their attention.

Margaret put on a professional voice. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

Kellye drew up, panting. "Major, I've been looking all over for you."

"Well, you've found me. What is it?"

Kellye glanced uncomfortably at Hawkeye. "May I talk to you?"

"What about?"

Kellye was uncharacteristically hesitant. "There's a problem in Supply."

Margaret had never been celebrated for her patience. "Can't it wait, Lieutenant?" she snapped.

Kellye looked apologetic. "I'm afraid not, m'am."

Margaret sighed, then looked unhappily at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye shrugged. "Take care of your problem, Major. When you're free, you know where to find me."

"Very well." Margaret started off after Lieutenant Kellye. Hawkeye couldn't help noticing how Kellye broke into a jog every few steps, only to slow down again to match Margaret's unvarying, forceful pace. He certainly didn't envy whichever lieutenant had discovered the miscount in the tongue depressors, or whatever else it was that was preventing Margaret Houlihan from following up on Lieutenant Carlyle's death.

Hawkeye entered the outer office. Radar was on the phone, so Hawkeye walked on through. He rapped, then pushed open the door to Potter's office. An empty room greeted him. He blinked in surprise, then stepped back through the door.

Radar hung up the phone.

"Where's Potter?" Hawkeye demanded.

"You just missed him." Radar grabbed some paperwork and carried it to the file cabinet. "He went into town to apologize to the Paks."

"What do you mean?"

Radar returned to his desk. "Apparently Chief Pak didn't like what you and Major Houlihan had to say about his work on the case."

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Hawkeye tagged along as Radar made another trip to the file cabinets. "All we did was show him another piece of evidence. He does want evidence, doesn't he? Forgive me, but I was under the impression that, back home at least, detectives often use evidence to help round out their cases. I wasn't out to impugn his policehood."

"It's no good yelling at me, Hawkeye. I'm just telling you what happened."

"I know." Hawkeye made an effort to slow down. "I'm not yelling at you, Radar. Listen, can you tell me where Colonel Potter went?"

"I'm not sure." Radar slammed the cabinet drawer, then returned to his desk. "I think he was gonna take the Paks out for dinner and drinks. He said he was looking for a place that specialized in humble pie."

Hawkeye clamped down on his irritation. "Unfortunately, he's not here for me to tell him that his anticipated need for such a repast is greatly exaggerated."

Radar squared a stack of papers. "Am I supposed to know what you're talking about, sir?"

"Not really." Hawkeye hitched a hip over the edge of Radar's desk. "Tell me this, did you know if Pak was going to check that bracelet for fingerprints?"

Radar looked at Hawkeye unhappily. "He did already."

Hawkeye knew what the answer would be before he asked. "And?"

"Nothing," said Radar gloomily. "Just a bunch of smudges." Radar's face so keenly showed his disappointment that it was almost painful to look at him.

Hawkeye refused to be discouraged. He clapped his young friend on the shoulder. "Buck up, Radar. I might have uncovered another suspect."

"Really, sir?" Radar's voice held little enthusiasm. Clearly the recent setbacks had taken their toll on his optimism.

"Do you know Private Panatela's unit?"

"Sure. They're defending the ridges outside of Koyang-ni, about eight miles west of here."

"Can you get their clerk on the phone?"

"I'll try. But there was action in that area only last week. The lines could be down, or they might be on the move or something."

"Try, Radar."

"Yes, sir."

Hawkeye paced as the call went through. He turned quickly when Radar got a response.

"It's Corporal Keotunian," said Radar, handing him the phone.

Hawkeye snatched it up. "Corporal? Captain Pierce here, MASH 4077th."

"Yeah, Captain?" The raspy growl was hardly inviting. "What do you want?"

Hawkeye frowned at the man's attitude. "I want to ask you some questions about Private Panatela."

"Who?"

"Daniel Panatela, PFC. He's assigned to your unit, isn't he?"

"Look, Captain. I already told the police, I don't know nothin' about him. You want to talk to him, you gotta wait 'til he gets back from maneuvers, same as everybody else."

Hawkeye felt his anger making a return appearance. "I don't want to talk to him. I just want to ask you who his buddies are."

"Why don't you ask Corporal Randall?" sneered the man.

"Who?"

"Hey, I was sure you'd remember Randall. The gooks got him at the end of a recon mission. Their knives messed him up pretty bad -- but that's not what killed him, right, Doc?"

Hawkeye went cold. Corporal Randall was Bigelow's morphine victim. Hawkeye hadn't realized that he and Panatela had belonged to the same outfit.

Hawkeye drew a breath. "Listen, I'm sorry about that. The medicine was tainted; we're not sure how."

"Accidents happen, don't they, Doc?"

"Well, not very often, but sometimes, yes, they do." The whole conversation had shifted for Hawkeye, now that he understood the source of Keotunian's belligerence. Considering what had happened, Hawkeye could hardly blame him. "Was Randall a buddy of yours?"

Like a flicker of lightning, a memory flashed across Hawkeye's brain. His own words came back to him in a reverberating echo: I take it that Corporal Randall is a buddy of yours. And with the words came the image of a face: haggard, dirt-smeared, the blue eyes shifting nervously under tousled, dirty blond hair. A man of thin-to-medium build who was only slightly taller than Hawkeye.

Hawkeye took a fresh grip on the phone. "Corporal, listen, forget that question. Tell me this: is a Sergeant High assigned to your unit?"

"Who?"

"High. I'm not sure how you spell it."

"We ain't got no Sergeant High."

Hawkeye thought quickly. "He might be a private, not a sergeant. Can you check?"

"I s'pose," the man grumbled.

Hawkeye waited tensely. Radar, alerted by Hawkeye's change of mood, drifted closer. "Are you onto something, sir?"

Before Hawkeye could answer, Keotunian returned. "We don't got any Highs," he said. "That's H-I or H-I-G-H."

"Try H-Y," Radar whispered.

Hawkeye said into the phone, "Can you check H-Y?"

More grumbling came over the line, and the sound of folders shuffling. "No H-Y either."

Hawkeye said, "How about --"

"Look, Doc, I'm telling ya. We ain't got nobody here by that name."

"But you have photographs," said Hawkeye. "In their files."

The man said across Radar's whispered warning, "Those files are confidential, Doc."

"But they contain their physical descriptions --"

"Listen, Doc, nobody gets into those files but me and my CO. You want more than that, you gotta get higher authorization. Goodbye."

"Wait --" The line went dead in Hawkeye's hand. Thoughtfully Hawkeye replaced the receiver. He rose slowly, his whole body thrumming like a plucked string.

Radar gazed at him intently. "What is it, sir?"

"Sergeant High." The strength of his intuition suffused Hawkeye with certainty. He looked down at Radar. "`High' is another word for `Tall.'"

Radar watched wide-eyed. "Is it, sir?"

Hawkeye shook his head with wonder. "They all knew each other."

Radar's voice was hushed. "Who knew who, sir?"

"The Three Strangers: Randall, Panatela, and High."

Radar began to look a little desperate. "Three ... strangers, sir?"

The door burst open and Corporal Klinger walked in. His recently ravaged outfit had been exchanged for something considerably more casual. Klinger now wore a black-and-white checked baby doll dress with a ruffled skirt, accessorized with a lime-green scarf and matching earrings. Saddle shoes and the ever-present rifle completed the ensemble.

"A bit understated for you, isn't it, Klinger?" Hawkeye commented.

"Major Burns insisted that I put on something decent in front of the police," Klinger replied. "For once I happened to agree with him. My former outfit was a disgrace."

Klinger's first sentence Hawkeye's caught attention. "Are the police still in camp?"

"No, that's what I came to tell the corporal," said Klinger. "All nonmilitary personnel are now off the base."

"I take it they didn't find anything."

Klinger twiddled his fingers. "They're clearly lacking the Klinger touch."

Radar said, "Captain Pierce thinks he knows who the killer is again."

Hawkeye couldn't help cringing at the word "again." Judging from Klinger's noncommittal expression, their colorful sentry had his doubts as well.

"No fooling, sir?" Klinger asked politely.

Hawkeye started to pace. "Okay, I may have been wrong about Panatela, but this time I'm sure. Sergeant High was in post-op that morning. That places him in camp right near the scene of the crime at an hour exactly consistent with Lieutenant Carlyle's time of death."

Klinger wrinkled his brow. "Who's Sergeant High?"

"He's three of the strangers," said Radar softly.

"I talked to him," said Hawkeye. "I didn't notice it at the time, but I suppose he could be mistaken for BJ, if you didn't see him clearly and didn't know either of them personally."

"So you think he's our serial killer?" said Klinger.

"Oh, he's more serial than anyone previously suspected," said Hawkeye. "He killed Corporal Randall."

Klinger's eyes bulged. "What?"

Radar stared beside him. "How?"

"I remember now." Hawkeye paced furiously. "He came in right after Bigelow mentioned that Randall was due for morphine soon. He certainly overheard that."

Radar said, "But I thought Lieutenant Carlyle mixed up the morphine wrong."

"That's what everyone thinks," said Hawkeye. "Even though nobody can figure out how she could have made that mistake. Well, I don't think she made a mistake. I think High overheard Bigelow's comment. She had been stocking the supply cabinet; it was right near the door, still open. He could easily have hidden behind the curtain when he pretended to leave, then doctored the two morphine bottles closest to the front of the supply cabinet, convinced that Bigelow would use one of them to give Randall his shot."

"Where'd he get the morphine?" asked Klinger.

"High was dealing on the black market. Mostly drugs, as Rosie recalled. It's not so improbable to believe that he might have had some on him at the time. Damn!"

Radar's eyes were like saucers. "What is it, sir?"

"The door. It opened and closed behind me when I went to get coffee."

"The door opened and closed," said Klinger flatly. "Is that unusual, sir?"

"Don't you see?" Hawkeye said excitedly. "I heard a noise. When I looked around, no one was there. I'll bet it was High, peeking out the door to post-op before making his escape. When he saw me there, he closed the door and waited a few minutes until the coast was clear." He smacked a fist into his palm. "If only I'd opened that door, as I'd almost started to. I would have seen High right there."

"Why would he want to kill Randall?" asked Klinger.

"That part I'm not sure about," said Hawkeye. "But they must have had some sort of falling out among themselves. For all we know, he even may have been responsible for Corporal Randall's injuries; when he failed to kill him in the field, he came here to finish the job. It might also explain why Lieutenant Carlyle was so agitated the day before."

"What are we gonna do?" asked Radar.

"Obviously," said Klinger, "we gotta tell the cops about this Sergeant High."

Hawkeye shook his head, still pacing. "Sergeant High is an alias, probably something Tall has used before in his illicit dealings."

"The clerk at Randall's unit didn't know nothing about him," Radar explained.

"Okay," said Klinger, "now who's Tall?"

"Another alias," said Hawkeye. "These guys called themselves the Three Strangers: Tall, Dark, and Handsome."

"Cute," said Klinger.

"Well, we gotta do something!" Radar wailed.

"If I could only look at those personnel records," Hawkeye muttered, "I'd be able to identify this Sergeant High myself, regardless of any alias."

"I don't think Corporal Keotunian will show you his files," said Radar glumly, "on account of as he sort of kinda hates your guts."

Klinger looked puzzled. "Why does Keotunian hate the captain?"

"Because he thinks our unit killed Corporal Randall." Hawkeye mulled. "Say, Radar, what have we got in the bribery department?"

"I'll see." Radar hurried to the big file cabinet and pulled out the quartermasters sheet. He set it on the desk to flip through it, while Hawkeye and Klinger hovered over either shoulder.

Klinger pointed. "Ham. That might be good."

"I could throw in some chocolate my ma sent me," said Radar.

"How about a used pair of lavender gloves?" Klinger offered.

"Not a chance," said Hawkeye. "The last thing that unit needs is anything that would help mask their fingerprints."

"I know!" Radar pulled open his bottom desk drawer. Pawing aside some papers, he lifted out a slim, rectangular box. The musky odor hitting Hawkeye's nostrils notified him of its contents before Radar had a chance to speak.

"I got these cigars left over," said Radar. "They belonged to Colonel Blake."

The mention of their former CO threw a pall on the conversation. Hawkeye asked, "Radar, are you sure you want to part with them?"

"I guess so, sir," said Radar. "I don't think I wanna smoke anymore."

Hawkeye placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Corporal O'Reilly."

"I do my best, sir," Radar replied despondently.

Hawkeye patted Radar's shoulder briskly. "You do very well. Now, gather up our Care package and requisition a jeep. We're heading out to win Corporal Keotunian's heart through his stomach -- or his lungs, as the case may be."

Klinger frowned. "You're sure you don't want to tell the police about this first?"

"Positive. Pak went on the warpath just because I suggested that he look up Danny boy's last name. There's no way I'm going to put him onto Sergeant High's trail until I'm one-hundred percent certain that I've got the right man. Radar?"

The 4077th's clerk was stuffing his personal chocolate into the same bag he'd used for the cigar box. "Almost ready, sir. Hey, Klinger, can you watch the office for me?"

Klinger set his rifle against the wall and strutted toward the desk. "A Klinger is proud to serve!"

"Since when?" said Hawkeye. "Radar, do you know how to find this place?"

"Oh, yeah, sir, I've seen the maps and everything. It gets a little hairy going through the mountains, but I can find it okay."

"Then let's get going, and see if we can help Justice be a little less blind."