Amerikan Eagle (17 page)

“A hobo walking the tracks found it. He also thought he saw someone in the area who might be of interest, but I haven’t been able to recontact him.”

LaCouture rattled off another string of German and then said, “Go on.”

Sam looked at the blank, smooth face of the German and thought,
Sure, an accountant, a bank accountant who could toss a family from their home for one late mortgage payment without blinking an eye
.

He said, “That’s about it. No other witnesses, not much information. I think the body—”

LaCouture interrupted. “I’m sure you were quite thorough. But from this moment forward, this matter is now under the jurisdiction of the FBI. All right, Detective?”

“Inspector,” Sam corrected dryly. “My position within the department is inspector, not detective.”

“My apologies, Inspector.” The FBI guy smilied without a trace of remorse. “We’ll be talking to your local medical examiner later today, and we want a copy of your report.”

“You’ll get what you want,” Sam said, “but I’d like to know why you’re so interested in this body. And how did you find out about it?”

“You sent a telex to the state police,” LaCouture said.
“We get copies of all those kinds of telexes. The Germans had been looking for this particular character for reasons they’ve kept to themselves.”

“So you can’t say who he is and why he was here illegally?”

“Even if I could, I won’t, because it’s now none of your business,” LaCouture said. “Because we believe the body is that of a German illegal, it’s a diplomatic matter, and because the investigating arm of the German government is the Gestapo, it’s a Gestapo matter. And because we don’t like the Gestapo traipsing across our fair land without an escort, it’s also an FBI matter. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear, but I still want to know—”

LaCouture folded his large hands, and Sam saw the man’s nails gleamed with polish. “You seem to be a curious man. So am I. And I’m curious how a patrol sergeant like you became a police inspector while your older brother is serving a six-year sentence in a labor camp. A labor camp in New York, correct? The one near Fort Drum? The Iroquois camp?”

The German looked like he was enjoying seeing the two Americans sparring. Sam felt his mouth go dry. So Tony’s name was going to come up after all. “Yes,” Sam said. “My brother is serving a six-year sentence. For organizing a union. Used to be a time when that wasn’t illegal.”

“There was a time when booze was legal, became illegal, and then became legal again. Who the hell can keep track nowadays?” LaCouture chuckled.

Sam looked at the German and said, “You’ll get my report.
I’ll have Mrs. Walton type up a copy, should be ready in under an hour. But I still want to know something.”

“I don’t care what you want to know, I don’t have anything more to say to you.”

“The question’s not for you,” Sam said. “It’s for the Gestapo, if that’s all right.”

LaCouture glanced at Groebke. Then he said, “Go ahead, Inspector. But make it snappy.”

Sam said, “This man was half starved. And there were numbers tattooed on his wrist. The numerals nine-one-one-two-eight-three. Can he explain that?”

LaCouture spoke a sentence or two to the German, who nodded in comprehension. Groebke said something slow and definite, and LaCouture told Sam, “He said he doesn’t know the man’s eating habits. As to the tattoo, perhaps someday you will be in Berlin, at Gestapo headquarters at Eight Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, and then he may tell you. But not here, and not now.”

“Not much of an answer,” Sam remarked.

LaCouture motioned to the German, stood up, and grabbed his hat. “Only one you’re going to get today. Now, this has been cheerful and all that, but you mind not wasting our fucking time any longer?”

Sam could feel his face burning. “No. I don’t mind.”

The German made a short bow. “Herr Inspector,
danke
. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Yeah. So long.”

* * *

After they left, Marshal Hanson came right in and reclaimed his seat with a look of distaste that somebody
else could have occupied his place of honor and polluted his office with cigarette smoke. He folded his hands and said, “Well?”

“The FBI guy’s name is LaCouture. His buddy there is from the Gestapo. Groebke. They say the body from the other night was a German illegal.”

“So they’ve taken the case from you. Now a federal matter. Good.”

“Good?” Sam asked. “What’s good about it? They waltzed right in here and took my case away … a homicide! You know how the FBI operates. We’re never going to hear anything more about it.”

“We’re cooperating,” Hanson said gruffly. “Which is the smart thing to do, so we don’t piss off the wrong people and the FBI and Long’s Legionnaires leave us alone. I know this was your first homicide, and you wanted to see it through. But I also know what your caseload is like. If you spend more time on your caseload and less time worrying about a matter now belonging to the Germans and the feds, then I’ll be happy, the people of Portsmouth will be happy, and so will the police commission. Got it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Fine. Now, about the other night. I was glad to see you at the Party meeting. Have you thought about what I said—about becoming more active?”

“No, I really haven’t. With this John Doe investigation, I haven’t considered it much.”

“Do you think I was joking, Sam? This is no longer a request. Soon I’ll be putting in your name for the county steering committee. There’s a vote, but it’s just a formality. And I expect a return favor from you concerning your father-in-law.”

Sam felt as if the day and everything else were slipping away from him; he thought about what Sean had said. Nats versus Staties. “But the mayor, he’s said something similar about me—”

“Divided loyalties, Sam? Or do I have to remind you who signs your time sheet?”

“No, you don’t have to remind me.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” Hanson said, looking triumphant. “What’s ahead for you?”

“I told the FBI they could have copies of my reports later today. And that Mrs. Walton would type them up for them.”

Now Hanson didn’t look happy. “Since when you do start making commitments for my secretary?”

Sam stood up and pushed the chair back toward the desk. The legs squeaked gratingly against the wooden planks. “Since you told me to cooperate, that’s when,” Sam replied.

Sam spent a few minutes at his desk, staring at the piles of paperwork. Then, restless and irritable, he headed for the stairs. Mrs. Walton—frowning because of the extra typing—called, “Inspector?”

“Off for a walk,” he called back.

She smirked. “A walk.”

“Sure. Put it in your log. W-A-L-K. A walk.”

He went down the wooden stairs two at a time, through the lobby, and then outside. It was cloudy, and the salt smell from the harbor was strong.

His very first homicide, taken away from him. And not by the state police; no, by Hoover’s own SS, the FBI. With the assistance of the Gestapo. And the assistance of his boss. Who would have thought?

Dammit.

He started walking away from the police station, heading south. Before him, a small gang of truant boys were huddling around something in the gutter. When they saw him approach, they looked up but kept at work, each holding a paper sack. Cig boys, picking up discarded cigarette butts to strip out the tobacco and then roll their own, selling them for a penny apiece on the streets.

Not much of a crime, but still.

“Beat it, guys,” Sam said. “You’re blocking traffic.”

They scattered, but one boy with a cloth cap and patched jacket and black facial hair sprouting through his pimples said, “Screw you, bud,” and lashed out with a fist.

Something struck Sam’s right wrist. He grabbed at his arm and stepped back, but by the time he reached for his revolver, the boys were gone, racing down a trash-strewn alleyway. He looked at his wrist. Part of the coat sleeve was torn; the little thug had sliced at him with a knife! He pushed the tattered threads together and looked down the empty alleyway, holding his arm.

A few feet in another direction … could have been buried in his chest.

He lowered his arms, kept on walking. He couldn’t do anything about those little bastards. Too much was going
on. Damn Tony for breaking out and making everything even more dangerous. To add to the fun, he had been drafted twice this week: for the state National Guard, and now the county steering committee for the Party. What would Larry Young do when he heard his political rival was sponsoring his son-in-law?

Crap. Where the hell was he going?

Up ahead was the Portsmouth Hospital on a slight rise of land. It was as if his mind were directing him where to go.

Sam found William Saunders sitting at his desk, smoking a cigarette. The doctor looked up from a sheaf of papers. “Inspector Miller, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Looking to see if you’ve had any special visitors lately.”

Saunders tapped some ash from the cigarette. “Alive or dead?”

“Alive, of course.”

“Yeah, I have,” he said. “Two thugs. One working for a gangster called Hitler, the other working for a gangster called Long. Charming visitors.”

“Mind if I ask what they did here?”

“Hell, no,” Saunders said. “The usual crap about autopsy, cause of death, that sort of thing. Stayed all of five minutes and then went on their way. But one interesting thing … They didn’t want the body or his clothing. Funny, huh? You’d think a murder case that has the interest of the feds and the Gestapo would mean they’d want the body. At least to have another autopsy done by a fed coroner. Nope. Our John Doe stays with the county.”

Sam said, “I’d like to look at him again.”

Once again, Sam followed the medical examiner into
the autopsy room. Saunders went to the wall of refrigerator doors. The one in the center said
JOHN DOE
.

Saunders opened the center door and reached in. The metal table slid out, making a creepy rattling noise. Saunders pulled down the soiled white sheet.

Sam stared at the dead man. Once upon a time this man walked and talked and breathed, was maybe loved, and had ended up here, in his city. Murdered.

Who are you?
he thought.

As if he were watching someone else, Sam reached down, turned over the stiff wrist, examined the faded blue numerals again.

9 1 1 2 8 3.

“Inspector?” Saunders asked. “Are you through here?”

“Yeah, I am,” Sam said. He put the wrist down and wiped his hands on his coat. The sheet was placed back over the body, the tray was slid back in, and the door was closed.

“So what now?” Saunders asked.

“The FBI and the Gestapo have taken my case. This John Doe belongs to them. Question is, what do you do with the body?”

“Potter’s field, where else? But if need be, I can keep him here for a while. If you’d like.”

Sam remembered something from a couple of years back about old Hugh Johnson, his deceased predecessor. Hugh had been holding court one night in one of the local taverns when he loudly announced that the most important part of the job was closing the case. That’s it. Close the case and move on. Closed cases meant no open files, no pressure from the Police Commission, and a good end-of-the-year report, to keep your job for the next year.

Just close those cases, boys
, Hugh had said.
Close ’em up and move on
.

“That’d be great, Doc,” Sam said. “Because I’m still going to work the case. It’s mine. No matter what my boss says. Or the FBI and the Gestapo.”

Saunders scratched at his throat, where the shrapnel scar from the Great War glistened out. “Your boss? The FBI? The Germans?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck ’em all,” the county medical examiner said.

“That’s an unpatriotic response, Doc.”

“Glad I surprised you. You get this old, sometimes that’s the only joy you get—that and ticking off the powers that be.”

Sam said, “What are you driving at?”

Saunders raised a hand. “Enough. Leave me be with my dead people, okay? Christ, at least they have the courtesy to leave me alone most hours.”

* * *

When he left the city hospital, Sam knew where to go next. He walked the eight blocks briskly, thinking and planning. The Portsmouth railroad station stood at Deer Street, almost within eyeshot of his crime scene. It was an old two-story brick building with high peaked roofs, which looked as though the architect who had designed it had been frustrated that he hadn’t been born during the time of the great European cathedrals. The last time Sam had been here had been as an errand boy, dropping off that Lippman character for the Interior Department.

Sam made his way past tiny knots of people buying tickets to Boston or Portland or checking on arrivals. He went through a glass door that said
MANAGER
and took the chair across from Pat Lowengard. Pat was a huge man with slicked-back hair who looked like he couldn’t stand up without his office chair sticking to his broad hips. He had on a tan suit and a bright blue necktie and looked surprised to see Sam. His desk was nearly bare, and on the walls were printed displays of train schedules for northern New England.

“Something more I can do for you, Sam?”

“Yeah, there is,” Sam said. “I’m looking for more information about that five forty-five express from Boston to Portland.”

“What kind of information?”

“Let’s just say … is there anybody working at the station who might have been on that train?”

Lowengard rubbed at his fleshy chin. “Gee, I’m not sure …”

Sam waited, but Lowengard kept silent. Sam said, “Well?”

“Huh?”

Sam said, adding a bit of sharpness, “Then find out, will you? I need to know if anyone here was on that train. The sooner the better, Pat.”

The man’s face flushed. He picked up the phone, started talking to his secretary, made a second call. Sam sat there patiently. From outside there was the sharp whistle of a steam engine heading out, its engine hissing and grumbling.

Lowengard put the phone down. “You’re in luck. A stoker named Hughes was on that train. He’s in the marshaling
yard. I told his boss to send him over. That all right?”