Free The Second Objective by Mark Frost

daybreak, over breakfast, the CID prosecutors laid out what they hoped to hear from these suspects before their courts-martial. Grannit liked what he heard about due process in a military tribunal: They required less burden of proof during war time, which meant no lawyering bullshit from defendants’ counsel. But Supreme Command wanted this mess scooped up and thrown out with the trash, and no ink spilled in the press with the war headed into the final innings. Home-front spirits were riding high, and nobody wanted to spoil Mom and Pop’s Sunday dinner dwelling on the sordid details about these greedy, thieving pricks.
    “How we going to do that, Earl?” they asked.
    “You need confessions,” said Grannit.
    “What we’re hearing so far,” said one of the senior MPs, “is that none of ’em wants to cooperate.”
    None of them had a solution. Grannit held back, reminding himself that CID was a brand-new unit, less than four months in the field, organized to handle major felony crimes committed by GIs against fellow soldiers or civilians. With such limited time to get on its feet, they’d barely had a chance to print manuals, let alone train their personnel. To keep peace at home when the war broke out, Uncle Sam handed every working American cop a draft exemption. Grannit had tried to enlist during the first weeks of the war, but NYPD brass said he was too valuable to let go. Twenty-seven months and one pricey midtown lawyer later, he had argued his way off the force and into the army without forfeiting his pension. The next day they shipped him to the new Criminal Investigation Division training base in Michigan.
    His superiors had never worked a day in civilian law enforcement. They were career soldiers in the Military Police, straight as their standard-issue neckties. You wanted traffic control in a crowded staging area, a fight in a dockside bar suppressed, or chain of custody maintained on prisoners of war? That played to the MPs’ strengths—logistics, discipline, and security; all beat-cop talents—but they were ill equipped for felony detective work. In less than a week the men trying to run CID realized Grannit knew more about organizing a criminal investigation force than they did. The railroad case had taken six weeks to crack, and Grannit had quarterbacked the effort. Now they were waiting for him to send in the next play.
    “What you got here is a massive racketeering operation,” said Grannit. “Organized crime, like we had on the Brooklyn docks.”
    “You work those cases?”
    “A couple.”
    “How’d you break ’em?”
    “Hook a small fish. Small fish gives up a bigger fish. Roll ’em over like that all the way up the line.”
    “HQ needs this to go away today,” said the senior CID man.
    “Then for starters,” said Grannit, “let me talk to ’em.”

    Grannit strolled through the holding area in the ballroom, studying faces. He picked out six men, including Corporal Eddie Bennings. They were hustled upstairs to the fourth floor and tossed into a room. Grannit had some MPs empty out the furniture, turn off the heat, and open the windows to the balcony. He let the suspects stew for an hour in the freezing cold, with orders to keep silent. The first time the MPs outside heard one of them say a word, they marched in and took away their matches and cigarettes. Whenever one of them dozed off, the MPs kicked him awake.
    Two hours later, Grannit walked into the hotel room, followed by the three biggest MPs in the unit, swinging their nightsticks. Grannit wore a brown civilian suit with no badge or insignia. He explained to the prisoners that during the next fifteen minutes they were each going to write and sign a confession detailing their involvement in the battalion’s black-market activities. He set paper and pens down in the middle of the floor and lit a cigarette. The six men looked at him and one another, but no one moved toward the pens.
    Grannit finished his cigarette, walked over