CONFESSION DAVID CHARLES
 
After reviewing the new case just reassigned to me by the Chief Investigator, I just had to talk to the duty investigator.  “A Criminal Investigator like you had all this on the Marine and he waived his rights and actually talked to you and you still couldn’t get him to come clean?” I smiled at my friend, Sgt Pat Pierce, who was a damn good interviewer. The guys in the office often compared confessions, bragging which was best or the most creative or whatever. That was how we got better at it and I learned from Pat most often. I had once seen Pat praying with a suspect in his office. They were both down on their knees on the stale, dingy-green carpet, hands in praying position and everything. “Go ahead” Pat was saying, “tell God exactly what it is you are asking forgiveness for.” Sure enough, the young marine kneeling in his office continued his prayer, “Lord, forgive me for taking my roommate’s ATM card and taking his money with it. It doesn’t matter how much I needed the money, or why, or that Joey was stupid enough to have his pin number with his card. It was wrong to steal and I am asking for forgiveness.” “Good,” only a cold trickle of sweat revealing the effort Pat was putting in, “but now tell God how much money you took and what you did with it.” “Lord,” the suspect continued, “I took two hundred and twenty dollars from Joey’s account. It was all the funds he had available. I thought the bank would give him his money back but that’s not what’s important. I used that money to go out and have a good time cause I’ve been sending all my money back home State-side to my wife and I needed a break from everything. Lord, even though I needed that break, there’s no excuse and I am sorry for what I did to Joey.” Pat was quite proud of that confession but had no luck with the previous Friday night’s duty call. A young Marine, I’ll call him Mogan David, had hit another Marine over the top of his head with a wine bottle at the enlisted club. The Victim in this case, who was dancing with Mogan David’s “newly ex-“ girlfriend at the time, had sustained a severe laceration of the scalp requiring some eighteen stitches to close up. The black, crusty, dried blood along the red, puckered scar in the crime scene photos had spoken to the training days that the Vic would have to spend on limited duty. “You won’t get that guy to confess.” Pat assured me. “I did a good job on him but he wouldn’t give it up for nothing! He didn’t come clean to me that night; he’s not gonna come clean to you - that’s for sure!”   I had done some background checking. Mogan David was from an urban area in Mississippi, had a high school diploma and average intelligence, was single, and had a minor record for fighting and a questionable tattoo that had been waived for him to enlist in the Marines almost two years before. This grunt was from the mean city streets and I knew I could loosen his tongue if I took off the usual kid gloves. I quickly made arrangements to re-interview the suspect. Mogan David had waived his rights once but the longer I waited the more likely he would ask for a lawyer or just clam up altogether. I had called his unit first sergeant and set the time. I would pick him up from the company gunny’s office and bring him back when I was done. I also set things up in my office just the way I wanted them to be when Mogan David marched in. I made Polaroid pictures of the dark-colored, broken bottle in the evidence locker and put them with the others. I took some old, practice fingerprint-lift cards and laid them on my desk along side of the pictures. I took the case file, which already had statements Pat took from witnesses, and added a pile of extra (blank) papers to make the file look even more impressive. Last, I prepared a photo line-up, minus one photo, so it was ready to add Mogan David’s. When I arrived at the Charlie Company office, a sullen, tall, dark-skinned Marine sat in a chair in the hallway, waiting for me. Mogan David looked like he had been sleeping -- guilty people often do sleep while detained and waiting for the inevitable interrogation. He recognized me for a criminal investigator right away. What with my coat barely covering the basic issue .38 revolver in the holster at my side and the tie that I was wearing, I definitely stood out from the camouflage-utility clad Marines all around me. I ignored the sulking Mogan David, silently stepped into the Gunny’s office and closed the door. There wasn’t much the Gunny and I had to say at that point but I took my time so Mogan David could stew a little more out in the hallway. After about ten minutes of small talk, I stepped back out into the hall. “Get up Lance Corporal,” I said gruffly, “you’re coming with me.” I didn’t even wait for Mogan David to stand; I started for the door. I kept an eye on him to ensure he was in fact coming and of course for my own safety. I noticed that his uniform was squared away, clean and pressed, except for the wrinkles from where he had slouched in them waiting for me. I walked to my unmarked, G.I.-issue sedan, opened a door for Mogan David and waited for him to approach. “I’ve got to cuff you now,” I said, pulling out the stainless steel bracelets connected with a couple links of chain. “Them’s the rules.” I turned Mogan David towards the side of the car, cuffed and searched him with efficiency, put him into the back seat, and closed the door without another word. We drove across base in silence.   “Are you going to give me any problems when I take those cuffs off?” I asked as we settled into the Investigations Office. “No sir.” Mogan David replied. I took the cuffs off. He rubbed his wrist, took a deep sigh, and then slouched slightly, just the response I was waiting for. “Stand with your heels and back against that wall over there.” I directed him to six feet of open, bare, flat-gray, concrete wall. “Bring your feet together so you are at your full height,” I ordered. He came to the position of attention and stood there like a wooden Indian statue as I took a couple Polaroid photographs, waited for them to develop, compared them, and finally added one to the last opening in the photo line-up of all olive-drab clad, young, black men with close hair cuts. Mogan David only moved his eyes, soberly watching me the whole time as I slipped the line-up back into the fat case file. Moving to the fingerprinting stand, I directed him in the dance that is fingerprinting. I inked each finger, and rolled and pressed out each standard print. I then covered the entire face of his hands with the harsh smelling ink and rolled the palm prints onto regular, blank sheets of paper. Palm prints are rarely done but I wanted him to experience the full evidence gathering. Then I pointed out the special, greasy, hand cleaning cream and paper towels. I silently compared his prints to the developed ones I laid out earlier and glanced over the fat file while waiting for him to clean his hands to his satisfaction, which he dragged out for quite a long time. I could practically see the wheels turning in the Jarhead’s brain as the greasy smell mingled with the foul ink odor. “Okay,” I said gruffly, “let’s get you back to your unit,” and I headed for the exit. Turning I saw he followed with a perplexed look on his face. Outside the sedan, Mogan David volunteered, “Aren’t you going to talk to me?” Repressing a smile and aiming my best scathing look at the target I saw in his face, I barked out my best drill instructor impersonation, “Why the hell would I do that? You’ve already lied to an investigator. I’ve got eyewitnesses to what happened, plenty of people who saw you at the club and can pick out your photo. I’ve even got pieces of your broken wine bottle and several good fingerprints that I’m sure are yours. Why the hell would I want to sit around and listen to your damn lying?” Mogan David stared at me with a wide-eyed, amazed look on his face. The wheels went back to turning behind those eyes and his face fell. “I won’t lie to you. I promise. Just let me tell you what happened.” “Alright,” I started flatly and then added a bit more edge to my voice, “But you had better not be wasting my time.” We walked back into the building. Passing by Pat’s office doorway, the investigator who took the duty call, I couldn’t resist a wink. Stepping into my office, I pointed out a chair for Mogan David. I read him his rights and had him sign the waiver of rights form. “Go ahead,” I said, “tell me what happened.” “That bitch told me she was dropping me. Just like that. No warning. Nothing. We’re just sitting there at the club and you know, she turned and said she found somebody else and didn’t want to say nothing else ‘bout it. She just got - got right up and walked over to some asshole at the bar and kissed him! Just like that! She just walked away from me and went to this guy she must have been havin’ on the side and just ignored my ass! So I got that bottle of wine knowin’ I was gonna crack his head wit’ it. I sat watchin’ ‘em dance and drinkin’ that wine. I weren’t gunna waste good wine . . . and I wanted the bottle to break when I hit him, so I jus’ sat dere’ and drunk it whi’ they’uz dancin’. Once it was empty, I up and headed for the dance flo’. He ne’er even saw me cumin! Whack! I broke it ova’ his head and laughed in that bitches face when he hit the flo. They had it comin’, treatin’ me like that and all!” “Damn,” I replied when he finished telling the story. “No damn wonder you busted that jerk over the head! Now I understand. You know, if the commander hears this he’ll understand what happened too. What you need to do is write what you just told me down on this tablet of paper so everyone in the command who needs to can understand what happened!” As Mogan David was busy writing out his statement, I stretched my legs, thinking about how this Marine’s commander was going to throw the Uniform Code of Military Justice right at him regardless of why he injured the other Marine. As I stepped through the doorway to my office, Pat quickly pulled me out of Mogan David’s earshot. I was happy to confirm he was listening in and learning from me this time. “How the hell did you get him to talk like that?” He whispered. “You barely said anything to him!” “First, you just gotta learn how to read and handle certain people,” I started out with mock seriousness. Then I smiled and continued with a lighter tone, “Second, I heard your usual silky smooth self didn’t work for you this time. Wait until later when I’ve got the signed confession and have brought him back. Then I’ll let you in on how I got him.” I put away the smile, slipped the stone-faced mask back on, and walked to my office to wrap up the confession.       Born and raised in a small town in the South, David Charles joined the US Marine Corps as a teenager during the Cold War period. Having joined for law enforcement training, his first Marine job after “recruit” and “student” was as a military policeman. Once he cut his teeth guarding gates and on patrol, David became a Marine criminal investigator. Most of his career was in military law enforcement minus some out of specialty assignments, including three years on recruiting duty. Most of David’s writing is drawn from his direct military experience, but his interest in sharing the military story has led him to help others share their stories, as can be seen in “First Combat Convoy” and “Corporal J’s Housecleaning.” David’s military decorations (in order of precedence from lowest to highest) include the Marine Corps Recruiting Service Ribbon, Navy and Marine Corps Overseas Service Ribbon, Sea Service Deployment Ribbon, Humanitarian Service Medal, Global War on Terrorism Service Medal, National Defense Service Medal, Marine Corps Good Conduct Medal, Navy Meritorious Unit Commendation Ribbon, Navy Unit Commendation Ribbon, Navy & Marine Corps Achievement Medal, Navy & Marine Corps Commendation Medal, and the Meritorious Service Medal. David has been married for over a quarter century to a supportive, loving wife and has two children. His son is currently a US Marine and his daughter is a college student. He credits MCWS for making his dream of becoming a writer come true. David has also assisted in developing Milspeak Creative Writing Seminars.