The Guardhouse Murders by Don DeNevi

Author:Don DeNevi [DeNevi, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Creative Texts Publishers, LLC
Published: 2019-11-09T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

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The Interview

Upon gradually awakening in the wee hours of the following morning, Peter, after an almost 14 hours of solid sleep, yearned for a hot cup of Java. Pan-fried eggs, sunny-side up would be nice, but not as critical as a large cup of steaming coffee. Maybe prior to or immediately after his pending meeting with Captain Hofmeister. He still wondered why he had been singled out for a one-on-one session with the Stockade’s warden.

As he lay back, eyes wide open, on the cold metal cot bolted to the wall, all he could do was wait patiently until summoned, and reflect upon how he would carry out his assignment. He was fully aware that the only way to survive as he moved forward was to keep his wits at their peak.

To do that successfully, he had to have a daily routine, every minute of which was devoted to ensure not being detected. He had to remain flexible, lest he be recognized as the USN Lieutenant who thwarted the attempt on Bob Hope’s life and captured the Mad Ghoul. His assignment depended upon confounding the approach of anyone who knew him personally.

To prepare for such an eventuality, he had developed friendships with a number of the prisoners who would willingly serve as lookouts. With sufficient warning, he could clear the area. He simply had to be adept at switching behavior if an emergency surfaced. Most importantly, he had to trust his first impressions of all strangers, and act upon them accordingly, without reservation or qualification.

By 7:00am, Peter heard the sound of footsteps along the corridor. As he quivered, he quickly roused himself, and then followed the MP from the near-freezing condition of the cell upstairs into the sweltering heat of the first-floor corridor to Captain Hofmeister’s office. There, continuing to shiver slightly, he gratefully stood under a cooling ceiling fan fanning the hot stockade air. Patiently, he waited to be admitted into the captain’s office.

Within minutes, the door swung open and Captain Hofmeister stood silently studying Peter. And, all that the hungry Lieutenant saw in a glance was a freshly shaven, mustached little man wearing funny-looking glasses. As the captain stood rigidly in the doorframe, unsmiling and eyes glaring, he was dressed immaculately in his starched, recently pressed USMC military police uniform. Again, Peter saw a face that looked old, sensing that beneath the imposing appearance of freshness, cleanliness, and the smell of starch, was a neurotic fussiness, an inherent nervousness based upon fear.

Peter sighed, “This nervous-looking donkey isn’t going to be of help in a pinch, and he’s more of a cheap carnival clown than a respected Marine officer, more a buffoon than a systematic murderer.”

Nothing, absolutely nothing, neither a scintilla of a moment, nor a single detail of the captain and his office escaped Peter.

A long, large office, barren with the exception of two framed photographs, one of General Dwight Eisenhower, the other of General Douglas McArthur on the wall behind his desk, greeted Peter as an MP ushered him in.

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