unusual about him?”
“When I was prepping him, I found an empty ampule of morphine in his field jacket. There was sulfa on all three wounds. I found bandages compressed against the wounds on his hip and shoulder that stopped him from bleeding out.”
“So the medics took care of him during transport,” said Grannit.
“No, that’s my point. The medic in the ambulance said that’s how they found him.”
“We’re the ones who found him,” said Grannit, puzzled.
“And you didn’t notice this?”
“No. You’re saying somebody gave him first aid before we got there?” asked Grannit.
“That’s what the medic said,” she replied. “I don’t think the sergeant was in any shape to do it himself, do you?”
They had reached Mallory’s cot in the recovery tent. His lower face and neck were encased in a yoke of bandage, an IV drip fed his arm, oxygen tubes straddled his nose. His face looked swollen as a football. Skogan wrote Mallory’s name on a strip of tape and fixed it to his cot.
“Least we know his name now,” she said. “He was lucky that bullet hit him in the jaw. It was headed toward his brain.”
“You didn’t happen to save the bullets, did you?”
“We’re a little busy right now.”
“It’s important. Ole’ll give you a hand,” said Grannit.
“Where you from, Dorothy?” asked Carlson, as he walked away with her.
“A long way from here, kiddo,” she said. “Madison, Wisconsin.”
“No kidding. I’m from Sioux Falls.”
Grannit moved to take a closer look at Mallory. He studied the angle of the wounds, visualizing him back at the checkpoint, trying to re-create the encounter.
He was behind you. You turned and he fired point-blank. He thought the first shot took you out. The second and third were afterthoughts, as you fell. Then he got distracted by the other men and assumed you were dead. He killed Private Ellis, while the second shooter took care of Anderson. Then he killed the second shooter, his own man.
Why?
Because he was hit. Private Anderson returned fire and shot him before he went down. Chest wound from an M1. Possibly fatal, but not right away. So our man didn’t want to take a chance and leave one of his own behind.
Two head shots. No hesitation. Kills his own man. They toss his body next to the other vics, take all their tags, placing a big bet nobody would notice this stranger among them. Drive on to Elsenborn.
Two officers, one private driving the jeep. One lieutenant who does the talking, and probably the shooting. All the way from Twelfth Army, Bradley’s HQ in Luxembourg, almost a hundred miles south.
So who treated Mallory’s wound before we got there?
Grannit shook his head to stay awake and rubbed a hand over his eyes, waves of fatigue washing through him. He’d been gunning for forty-eight hours straight; it was a sudden struggle to keep his thoughts on track.
Fuck it. The trail was cold. Now the Krauts launch this offensive. That tipped over the fucking applecart. No chance he’d ever get to the bottom of this now.
The idea burned a hole in him. He never let go of a case while he was on the job. Why should it be any different over here? Because life was cheaper? Did that make these murders any less important?
Vince Mallory lying there, hanging by a thread, his life shattered. Somebody did this to him. Find out who.
No excuse not to finish the job. He’d made that promise a long time ago, and backed it up ever since.
His mind kept working through the fatigue.
Don’t let go. There’s more to this than you can see.
He needed coffee. He went to look for some.
Captain Hardy of the 291st Engineer Combat Battalion led his small convoy into Malmédy at 7:45 A.M. They found the tent complex of the 67th Evac Hospital on the outskirts of town. Bernie pulled up outside next to a line of ambulances. Hardy stopped his jeep alongside them and barked directions.
“Get your man squared away. Our rally point’s near the cathedral on the
“When I was prepping him, I found an empty ampule of morphine in his field jacket. There was sulfa on all three wounds. I found bandages compressed against the wounds on his hip and shoulder that stopped him from bleeding out.”
“So the medics took care of him during transport,” said Grannit.
“No, that’s my point. The medic in the ambulance said that’s how they found him.”
“We’re the ones who found him,” said Grannit, puzzled.
“And you didn’t notice this?”
“No. You’re saying somebody gave him first aid before we got there?” asked Grannit.
“That’s what the medic said,” she replied. “I don’t think the sergeant was in any shape to do it himself, do you?”
They had reached Mallory’s cot in the recovery tent. His lower face and neck were encased in a yoke of bandage, an IV drip fed his arm, oxygen tubes straddled his nose. His face looked swollen as a football. Skogan wrote Mallory’s name on a strip of tape and fixed it to his cot.
“Least we know his name now,” she said. “He was lucky that bullet hit him in the jaw. It was headed toward his brain.”
“You didn’t happen to save the bullets, did you?”
“We’re a little busy right now.”
“It’s important. Ole’ll give you a hand,” said Grannit.
“Where you from, Dorothy?” asked Carlson, as he walked away with her.
“A long way from here, kiddo,” she said. “Madison, Wisconsin.”
“No kidding. I’m from Sioux Falls.”
Grannit moved to take a closer look at Mallory. He studied the angle of the wounds, visualizing him back at the checkpoint, trying to re-create the encounter.
He was behind you. You turned and he fired point-blank. He thought the first shot took you out. The second and third were afterthoughts, as you fell. Then he got distracted by the other men and assumed you were dead. He killed Private Ellis, while the second shooter took care of Anderson. Then he killed the second shooter, his own man.
Why?
Because he was hit. Private Anderson returned fire and shot him before he went down. Chest wound from an M1. Possibly fatal, but not right away. So our man didn’t want to take a chance and leave one of his own behind.
Two head shots. No hesitation. Kills his own man. They toss his body next to the other vics, take all their tags, placing a big bet nobody would notice this stranger among them. Drive on to Elsenborn.
Two officers, one private driving the jeep. One lieutenant who does the talking, and probably the shooting. All the way from Twelfth Army, Bradley’s HQ in Luxembourg, almost a hundred miles south.
So who treated Mallory’s wound before we got there?
Grannit shook his head to stay awake and rubbed a hand over his eyes, waves of fatigue washing through him. He’d been gunning for forty-eight hours straight; it was a sudden struggle to keep his thoughts on track.
Fuck it. The trail was cold. Now the Krauts launch this offensive. That tipped over the fucking applecart. No chance he’d ever get to the bottom of this now.
The idea burned a hole in him. He never let go of a case while he was on the job. Why should it be any different over here? Because life was cheaper? Did that make these murders any less important?
Vince Mallory lying there, hanging by a thread, his life shattered. Somebody did this to him. Find out who.
No excuse not to finish the job. He’d made that promise a long time ago, and backed it up ever since.
His mind kept working through the fatigue.
Don’t let go. There’s more to this than you can see.
He needed coffee. He went to look for some.
Captain Hardy of the 291st Engineer Combat Battalion led his small convoy into Malmédy at 7:45 A.M. They found the tent complex of the 67th Evac Hospital on the outskirts of town. Bernie pulled up outside next to a line of ambulances. Hardy stopped his jeep alongside them and barked directions.
“Get your man squared away. Our rally point’s near the cathedral on the
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