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Drudgery

By

David Charles

 

 

Knock, Knock.

This is the fifth room I’ve stopped at on the first floor and I have a ton of screening interviews to go in this forty-year old, stucco-covered, concrete, three-story barracks that houses hundreds of Marines from the 7^th Communications Battalion of the 3^rd Marine Division in Okinawa, Japan. My job this afternoon is to interview anyone I make contact with.

The drab-gray door is opened by a young man wearing an olive green T-shirt, camouflage trousers and black combat boots. He is sporting a haircut that is short on top shaved to the skin on the sides of his head, a style Marines affectionately call high-and-tight.

               “Good afternoon,” I say holding up my credentials. “I am Investigator Charles of the Criminal Investigation Division and I’d like to ask you a couple quick questions.”

               “Me? Why’s CID looking for me?”

               “Don’t worry,” I go on. “We’re not looking for you personally. There was a report of some property stolen from Room 209 upstairs and I am checking with everyone living in this barracks to see if they know anything about it. Sometime earlier this week someone took a laptop computer that belonged to Lance Corporal Spillers. Do you know anything about where that laptop might be?”

               “Not really. Lots of laptops around here.”

               “This one is silver with black trim and has ‘Tim Spillers’ etched into the back of it.”

               “Na, sorry.”

               “That’s alright. What’s your full name, rank and unit? I’ve got to document the people I talk to about this.”

               “Okay. Lance Corporal James J. Goss, Headquarters Company.”

               “Do you live in this barracks room?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Thanks. Have a great day. If you do think of anything, please give us a call.”

               “Sure,” Goss says, and begins to close the door.

               “Oh by the way, does anyone living in this room have a laptop?” I ask.

               “Yeah, I do.”

               “Can I see it?”

               “Sure.”

Goss heads into the room, and I follow to where a black laptop lays on a desk beneath a wall mirror.

               The man in the mirror is twenty-five years old. His face already is grim with experience in law enforcement. He is about six feet tall, gangly, well within the Corps strict weight limits, and sometimes considered gawky. His brown hair is cut to Marine regulations – the short hair on top of his head fades to nothing at the ears. The eyes are blue, alert, like lights on a police cruiser, and go well with his hawk-like nose. The Attire is casual civilian, appropriate to the heat of Okinawa, an island south of Japan. The detective’s big shirt nicely hides the weapon on his hip while a perps attention would be drawn to the CID badge hanging off the pocket. I look myself in the eye, already regretting that I will follow standard operating procedures spending several hours to speak with dozens of people in an effort to retrieve a laptop computer that may well have been left unsecured and unattended by its owner, only to have the case remain unresolved. But this is how it must be done. This is how I must spend my time. So what if I have better things to do – what better things? Hell, marines shouldn’t have to put up with crime in the barracks they call home.

Goss turns around with the laptop, obviously not the laptop I’m looking for.

               “Alright,” I say. Glancing around, I see only the black laptop in Goss’s grease-stained hands. No sign of the stolen laptop. “Just remember to call if you do hear anything.”

               The door closes behind me as I cross the hallway in two steps and knock on the next drab-gray door.

The afternoon continues.

            Knock, Knock.

“Who’s there?” comes the muffled reply from within the room.

“Investigator Charles, CID. Open up.”

Behind the door, the room comes to life with the rustled hustle of shove-it-under-the-bed, put-it-in-the-wall-locker, throw-it-out-the-window. It’s Saturday and only Chesty Puller whispering in God’s right ear knows what is going on behind closed barracks doors on a Saturday morning. The drab-gray door is opened by a young man in an olive green T-shirt, green running shorts and white socks.

               “Good afternoon. I am Investigator Charles of CID and I’d like to ask you a couple quick questions.”

               “Why?”

               “There was a report of some property stolen from Room 209 upstairs and I am checking with everyone in this barracks to see if they know anything about it.”

“There’s always junk goin’ missing ‘round here.”

“Really? Well sometime earlier this week someone took a laptop computer that belonged to Lance Corporal Spillers. Do you know anything about where that laptop might be?”

               “Uh-uh.”

               “This one is silver with black trim and has ‘Tim Spillers’ etched into the back of it.”

               His answer is a right–to-left shake of his head. I note he has a Horseshoe haircut: flat-top, high-and-tight cut so short that the crown of his head rises above the hair and the little hair remaining around Mount Baldy forms the shape of a horseshoe with the opening to the back. Ought to be called the Mule cut or the Friar. Wannabe Tough Nuts wear a Horseshoe.

               “You mentioned other items “going missing around here.” What else has been taken?”

               “My stuffs were taken from the dryer last week.” He said.

“Did you file a report?”

“Nah – but I heard of Gameboys and other stuff disappearin’ too. I don’t know nothin’ else ‘bout it.

               “Sounds like you’ve got a thief in the barracks,” I say shaking my head in sympathy. “Tell everyone to keep their eyes open; he’ll probably get himself caught. What’s your full name, rank and unit? I’ve got to document the people I talk to about this.”

               “Okay. Lance Corporal Robert Benson, Headquarters Company.”

               “Do you live in this barracks room?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Thanks. Have a great day. If you do think of anything else, please give me a call.”

               “Sure,” Lance Corporal Benson says and begins to close the door.

               “Oh by the way, does anyone living in this room have a laptop?”

               “Nah.”

               “Alright. Just remember to call if you hear anything.”

               I step back into the hallway and the door closes. I take the same ten steps down the hall to the next set of doors and pick one. . .

Knock, Knock, Knock. Now at the twenty-seventh room, this door is marked with a two foot gouge that reveals many layers of paint, each one a different drab shade of Battleship gray.

The drab-gray door is opened by a young man in an olive green T-shirt, camouflage trousers, black combat boots and an unbuttoned camouflage blouse with “Wyznowski” over one pocket.

               “Good afternoon. I am Investigator Charles of CID and I’d like to ask you a couple quick questions.”

               “Huh?”

               “There was a report of some stolen property from Room 209 upstairs and I am checking with everyone living in this barracks to see if they know anything about it. Know anything about a laptop computer that belonged to Lance Corporal Spillers?”

               “Don’t know him.”

               “How about the laptop? It is silver with black trim and has ‘Tim Spillers’ etched into the back of it.”

               “No, man. Don’t know him.”

               “That’s alright. What’s your full name, rank and unit? I’ve got to document the people I talk to about this.”

               “Ya’ need my stuff?”

               “Yep. It’s how we prove we actually did our job.”

               “Geez,” he says. “Lance Corporal Benjamin J. Wyznowski, Support Company.”

               “Do you live in this barracks room?”

               “I stay here, Yeah. But it don’t feel much like home.”

               “Thanks. Have a great day. If you do think of anything, please give us a call.”

               “Okay.” Lance Corporal Wyznowski starts to close the door.

               “Oh by the way, does anyone living in this room have a laptop?”

               “Jones. My roomate.”

               “Can I see it?”

               Wyznowski steps back and I walk into the room noting the posters all over the walls. I see everything from Playboy bunnies to Bugs Bunny with Michael Jordan. Wyznoski points at a wall locker with posters of people I don’t recognize and I think of how quickly generation gaps open up these days. I tug on the combination lock and look back at the Marine.

               Wyznoski shrugs, “He’s on float. I dunno how to open it.”

“Alright. Just remember to call if you hear anything.”

               The door closes as I leave the room. I cross the hallway in two steps and knock on the next door.

Knock, Knock, Knock. The twenty-eighth room . . .

 

Knock, Knock, Knock. It’s now the forty-third room I’ve stopped at. I’m part way through the second deck and I am betting I could say the answers before they come out of the next Marine’s mouth.

The drab-gray door is opened by a young man in an olive green T-shirt, camouflage trousers and black combat boots. His skin is as dark as his boots and his hair floats like a shadow on top of his head.

               “Good afternoon. I am Investigator Charles of CID and I’d like to ask you a couple quick questions.”

               “Me? You say CID’s lookin’ for me?”

               “Calm down, please. There was a report of some property stolen from Room 209 and I’m checking with everyone to see if they know anything about it. Sometime earlier this week someone took a laptop computer that belonged to Lance Corporal Spillers. Do you know anything about where that laptop is?”

               “Lance Corporal Spillers? Isn’t he Lance Corporal Harris’s roommate just down the hall?”

               “Yes, that’s right. Why?”

               “When Harris left for Thailand a couple days back, he asked me to hold onto his laptop for him. Harris said he was afraid Spillers would steal it. If it was stolen, why would Harris want me to secure it for him?”

               “If it wasn’t stolen, why would he need you to lock it up down here when he has a locker in his own room?”

“Good point. Do ya’ want to see Harris’ laptop he left?”

               “Definitely.”

               “It’s in here in my wall locker.”

Private First Class Fernandez leads me into his room where another young male with a high-and-tight haircut is lying in his bunk, looking up from his paperback book to watch us, the shape of what appears to be a partial six-pack under his pillow. PFC Fernandez spins the dial on a combination lock until it opens. Opening the locker, he pulls out a silver colored laptop with black trim and hands it to me. Turning it over we both see ‘Tim Spillers’ etched into the back.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Fernandez exhales, “it is Spillers’ laptop!”

 

 

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