Songbird Under a German Moon (25 page)

“This is a great photo, Frank. If Kat were to head home and start her movie, it might have made it to the back page of the Society Section. But now…”

Frank felt his hands begin to shake, and he was unsure if he was hearing correctly. He knew where Officer Frey was leading the conversation, but he didn't know what to say—how to stop his words.

“Now that Katherine Wiseman is dead, this photo is going to make the front page of a thousand papers. No, make that ten thousand papers. Everyone is going to know this photo, Frank. And how lucky for you. You got the worst assignment known for a combat photographer, taking photos of showgirls—and now it's the best luck you've had. I saw you signed up for high school classes too—need to finish, do you, so you can get a better job? That's not going to be needed now. Not with this photo of Katherine Wiseman.”

Frank felt sick, and he wondered if he'd lose his lunch. Pain tightened around his gut and moved to his chest. He looked to Denzel, waiting for his friend to comment, disagree, anything. Denzel met his gaze, but his face remained expressionless.

Denzel's not falling for this, is he?

“Do you—you really think—” Frank swallowed hard, forcing down the mix of anger and pain that tried to force its way up his
throat. “Do you think that I would do this? I can't believe you're saying that.” Frank scooted to the edge of his seat, reaching a hand to Denzel as if reaching for a lifeline. “You know me. We've worked together for years. I'm a good man—a Christian man—I would never do such a thing.”

Denzel cleared his throat. “You put yourself there, on the crime scene, Frank. You told us you walked up that trail alone…”

“If there were any chance I was guilty, do you think I would have admitted to you that I was on that trail?” Frank ran his fingers through his hair and then lowered his gaze. He wished Marv were here. Marv would stick up for him—wouldn't he?

Dear God, please. I know I haven't been talkin' to You much lately, but I need Your wisdom. You've got to help me out here.

“
Frank,” Officer Frey said softer, gentler than the harsh tone he'd used earlier.

Frank lifted his face, wiping the sweat beading across his brow. He met the man's gaze, and then Officer Frey laid out the other photos on the desk. The photos of Kat in the water. The ones of her floating, eyes closed, pale, dead.

“Did you do this, Frank?”

“No, sir. I didn't.”

“If you didn't, do you know anyone else who would have a motive to kill such a beautiful woman?”

Frank shook his head. “No, I'm sorry. I don't know that either. I mean if she wasn't robbed or—hurt.” Frank thought of the letters. He couldn't discuss them, even if they'd save him from these accusations. Not that they held any answers, only more questions.

“I can't think of any other motive either—not a good one. Not one that's worth pouring time and resources into. Besides, there's the fragility of our situation to consider. If I even mention the word
murder,
it's going to stir up a lot of old fears that have been boiling under the surface. Right now, everyone's getting along as well as can be expected. Jews are living among the Germans again. American GIs are welcomed around German tables for dinner. Displaced persons are finding jobs, homes. Fear leads to many unpleasant things. Old pains could be resurrected. A lot more people could lose their lives if they turn on each other. All the good we've done could vanish overnight.”

Frank nodded, understanding what the man was saying. There would be fear. There could even be further problems between the numerous nationalities living within the borders of the town.

Maybe they should be afraid. More things, worse things could happen if the killer isn't caught—if there is, in fact, a killer.

Frank thought about it for a moment. To say Kat was murdered opened the door to looking for a murderer. Someone who set out to hurt her. Someone who would have a reason to do such a thing.

Maybe the letters had no connection. Maybe the letters were just a way for someone to try to get the Americans to leave.

Maybe Officer Frey's right—maybe it was suicide.

“And then there are the other USO women we have to think about,” Officer Frey continued. “I can't imagine them wanting to stay if they think they could be next.”

“Yes, I could imagine that happening,” Denzel commented, finally saying something.

Betty could leave. I'd never get to know her.

But maybe she should leave—maybe it's dangerous. Maybe she should go where it's safe.

The two thoughts battled each other.

Frank wanted her safe, but he also wanted her here. Near him.

“I understand all this, sir.”

“I don't think you do, Frank.” Officer Frey leaned forward in his seat. “I honestly don't. But if I were to investigate, you know now the direction I'd head first.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“I don't want to investigate. I'd like to stick to my initial conclusion that Katherine Wiseman lost her life at her own hand.”

“Thank you, sir.” Frank let his arms drop to his sides, letting tension slide off his shoulders.

Officer Frey nodded, and then he turned his attention to Denzel. “Denzel, from what I hear, there will be newspapermen arriving soon. I've prepared a statement discussing Katherine Wiseman's unfortunate suicide.”

Officer Frey lifted a satchel from the floor, took out a slip of paper, and placed it in front of Denzel. “I'd like this release to go out to each reporter, and”—He took the angelic photo of Kat and also placed it in front of the man—“and this photo. The statement talks about the death of Katherine's husband, and her gracious attempt to perform one more time for the servicemen she loved, before being overcome by grief. It's a touching story, if I say so myself. It's a nice final tribute to a beautiful woman.”

Officer Frey rose, returned the rest of the photos to the envelope,
tucked them into his satchel, and then walked to the door. “I'll walk you out, Frank. You can attend the press conference with me.”

“If it's okay with you, sir, I'll sit this one out.” Frank stood, willing his legs to support him.

“The newspapermen might be interested in speaking with you—in hearing the thoughts of the man who took this last, beautiful shot of Katherine Wiseman.”

“No offense, sir. I'd rather stay out of this. I'm sorry she's gone, and I don't need any honors.”

Officer Frey nodded. “I understand, Frank. I think you're making a wise decision. Let's let Katherine's memory remain, with all the wonderful things she accomplished in her lifetime. She's responsible for her life—and her death. Let's not muddle that up with opinions.”

Frank walked aimlessly down the cobblestoned street, unsure of what had just transpired in Denzel's office.

“What was that about? How could Frey think I had anything to do with this?”

He stopped short when he realized he was mumbling to himself. He turned and stared at a small church, replaying the events of the last twenty minutes over and over in his head. Trying to make some sense of the situation. Finally, he realized what he was staring at.

Unbelievable
. Frank hadn't noticed the small church before, even though he'd walked from his house to headquarters and back numerous times. It was a small, brick building, tucked between two taller, partially destroyed structures, as if forgotten. Its size and location had probably protected it from the bombs. While the commercial buildings around it had crumbled, the small church stood.

He stepped to the side as other soldiers and citizens walked by.

As Frank gazed at the church, awed that even the stained glass windows were still in place, he thought about a scripture passage his mother had taught him as a child, “And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.”

A rain of bombs fell, and this church still stands. If God protected it—He can protect me.

The thought filled Frank's mind even before he had time to process it. What amazed him, really, was that during his whole time in the war he'd never felt as attacked as he did now. When he flew bomber missions, an unseen enemy shot at their plane, but it wasn't him—personally—they were shooting at. It was the larger threat the plane represented.

There'd even been times during his undercover missions when he'd thought his cover had been blown, yet the tension he felt then was nothing compared to the ache inside of him now.

When Officer Frey—someone on
his side—
hurled those words, those accusations, it hurt. What rained upon him, pelted him hard, wasn't a physical attack, but fear. Fear that his effort to learn the truth about Kat would lead to unthinkable accusations. That by trying to find her and help her, he would be considered a potential suspect should her death be ruled a murder.

The thought of hurting another human being like that sickened him. And then, the realization that others would believe it. An accusation like that would hit every paper, just as Kat's death was about do. Marv might be able to come to the rescue, but not before Frank's name was slandered. That would be something no one would forget.

Poor Mom
. Even though Frank knew she'd never believe it, he also knew her life would never be the same.
She'd never recover.
Lily's death had already shattered her heart. He wasn't sure she could handle more.

Lord, please don't let that happen—please.

Frank walked down the cracked sidewalk toward the church, feeling the pull of fellowship with God that he hadn't felt in many months—not since the battles had ended. It had been easy to pray, to read God's Word, and to think about eternity when he knew tomorrow he'd fly over enemy territory or head into dark alleyways. Sometimes he and the other guys would even pray together and encourage each other before the flight. Maybe that was because if the danger was close, they wanted—they needed—God closer.

Frank touched the door handle of the church, expecting it to be locked. Instead, the latch turned, and the door opened.

“Hello?” He stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the light.

The room was small, dim. There was a narrow aisle and no more than ten worn, wooden pews on either side. Candles flickered at the altar. One woman—he assumed from her slumped position that she was older—sat in the front right corner, head lowered and covered with a shawl that hid most of her face.

He took in a deep breath, almost expecting to breathe in the same scent of flowers and women's cologne as he would at his church back home. Instead, odors of old wood, dust, and mildew met his nose. But that didn't matter. Peace overwhelmed him as he continued forward. Frank moved to the back pew, and his legs seemed to give out as if unwilling to carry his weight any farther.

In front of the wooden pew was a kneeling bench—dirty, torn, inviting—and he sank onto his knees. A million thoughts swirled around his head as Officer's Frey's words played in his mind.

You walked up that trail alone…

Everyone is going to know this photo…

How lucky for you…

He folded his hands and rested them on the back of the pew in front of him. Then he rested his forehead on his hands and realized they were shaking. Frank opened his mouth to pray, but the words didn't come. It was as if all the worries had built a wall between him and God. Even now, even here, he couldn't escape them.

“I want to give everything to You, God. Help me,” he finally whispered. “I'm sorry I didn't come to You sooner, more often. Forgive me for forgetting You when things were going so well. How did I ever think I could handle life without Your daily help?”

The prayers continued, one at a time, as he had the strength to pray them.

“Protect”—he blew out a soft breath—“protect those that remain.”

That was his greatest fear—that whoever killed Kat would strike again.

“You are the Protector,” he prayed. “You watch over them even when I'm not there.”

He still had a nagging in his heart that told him there was more going on with Kat's death than what was seen on the surface.

Should I trust this feeling, Lord? Should I continue to seek answers—even if I might be the one accused?
He yearned for God's answer, right now, out loud. Even a letter, a telegram would be nice.

Am I putting the lives of the other USO women at risk because I'm afraid of hurting my own reputation? Or because I'm afraid of losing Betty?

“Lord, I don't know what to do. I've never felt so helpless as I did in that room. And my friend—even my friend didn't stand up for me.”