Scorch City Page 14

  “Wow,” Frings said, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “What is this?”

  Eddings nodded a greeting to a group of workers who were drinking water from a ladle they pulled from a wooden trough.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Eddings,” one of the men said, casting a curious look at Frings, who hung back a little, still taking in these elegant railcars marooned in this field.

  Eddings shook hands with a few of the men, not bothering to introduce Frings.

  “Come on.” Eddings led Frings to one of the cars, grabbed the handrail, climbed up. Inside, a narrow corridor was lined with doors on either side spaced at short intervals—a sleeper car.

  “I hear you’ve talked to Womé, so maybe you know a little about where he’s coming from; how Negroes need to have our own, separate institutions if we’re going to have any measure of justice or equality. It’s an interesting thought and I’m not sure I disagree. That’s what the Community is all about, as I guess you know.”

  Eddings pushed open a door to a sleeping compartment. It was almost comically luxurious: upholstered seats, wall sconces with maroon shades, maroon curtains on the windows, a narrow Oriental rug on the floor.

  “Amazing,” Frings said. “But I’m not sure I get it.”

  “Like I was saying about Womé, he thinks we need our own institutions to be equal, and one of the things he thinks is important is that Negroes be able to travel like the wealthy white folks. So he decided to create the Black Comet Line so that Negroes can travel in luxury.”

  “Wait. Are there that many Negroes who can afford to travel like this?”

  “More than you’d think. But that’s not the point. The tickets will be cheap. He’ll see to it.”

  They stepped back out into the corridor.

  Frings said, “So, Womé thinks he’s going to further Negro equality by subsidizing luxury train rides on his special rail line? Really?”

  “Crazy, right? You think that me and Mel and Betty, we’re worried about people sitting in luxury sleeper cars? It’s beyond crazy. But that’s Womé. He’s got his ideas and he’s got the money to make it work. You ask him, ‘How’re you going to move these cars around? You going to buy an engine? You going to hitch it up to someone else’s engine, get connected to all those ofay cars?’ You ask Womé that and he just smiles and says that it’ll all work out; you know, trust in Father Womé. Crazy. But, you see, this is what the Community is about. It’s about Negroes finding their own, separate place; and it’s also about the Square. What we’re trying to do—creating a just and principled community—it’s way down the list.”

  They walked back across the broad field toward Frings’s car. Frings felt dehydrated, dizzy. The ambient noise of crickets in the weeds seemed oppressive. Had the noise been there when they arrived, or had some cricket instinct kicked in, causing them to create this din? Frings noticed rats, too, scattering as he and Eddings made their way through the weeds.

  Frings asked, “You been thinking about the girl?”

  Eddings nodded.

  “Come up with anything new?”

  “Nothing new. It’s not Community people.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Frings hadn’t meant it as a challenge, but Eddings stopped and faced him. “It’s not Community people.” Eddings shook his head. “Something as big as this … Look, most of the violence in the shanties is because someone messed with someone else’s wife or kids being kids. That kind of secret don’t last long at all. You think someone murders a white girl and nobody knows anything?”

  “Closing ranks?”

  Eddings shook his head in disgust. “You’ve been down in the shanties, you know what they’re like. There’s no locking doors. You think folks down there want some killer walking around, could just walk in any door at night? You think they aren’t the most anxious people out there to catch this guy if he’s Community?”

  Frings conceded the point. Of course, this wasn’t actually proof of anything, merely a good argument and based on a premise—there are no secrets in the Community—that sounded dubious. But, all the same, Frings thought—or maybe it was hoped—that Eddings was right.

  Eddings said, “You know if Westermann’s making any progress?”

  Frings shook his head. “You know, you’d have to ask him. He’s keeping me caught up, but who knows if he gives me everything.”

  The car was a hundred yards or so ahead, the waves of heat making it look as if it were beneath the surface of water slightly disturbed by the impact of a stone. It was kind of an interesting effect, Frings thought.

  “How do you feel about all this?” Eddings asked Frings.

  “What? The girl? Pushing the body back in the river?”

  “Yeah. That, and now with the second girl—”

  Frings stopped. “Second girl?”

  39.

  Westermann stalked through Headquarters, Grip and Morphy in his wake. Uniforms cleared out of the way and whispered among themselves after the three had passed. Sweat dripped from the tips of Westermann’s hair onto his collar.

  Grip said, “Go easy, Lieut. You need to calm down before you go in there.”

  Westermann ignored him. Grip looked in frustration at Morphy, who smiled back in amusement. Morphy loved this kind of thing: conflict in the upper echelons.

  They approached the Chief’s office, guarded by his secretary, an elderly former cop named Merchant. Merchant seemed prepared for Westermann’s arrival, standing before they arrived. Smiling.

  “The Chief says to go right in.”

  “Lieut,” Grip said, somewhat desperately, giving it one last shot.

  Westermann again ignored him and opened the Chief’s door.

  The Chief was standing at his desk, smiling warmly. “Piet, I’m glad you came straight here.” Though he was still fairly young—early forties, Westermann guessed—the Chief had been on the job for almost eight years now. He was fit and handsome and wore an unfashionable walrus mustache that gave him the aura of some kind of viceroy. Westermann considered him to be smart and a freethinker, not beholden to traditional procedures the way some past chiefs had been. But, like any chief, he wasn’t impervious to the realities of political pressure.

  “Chief, I—”

  The Chief held up a hand. “Before you say anything more, have a seat. Let me explain some things. Then you can say your piece.”

  Westermann nodded and took a seat, as did the Chief. The office was small and bare, save for a massive desk, and on it, files placed in well-ordered stacks of varying heights. His windows were open, street noise filtering into the office along with air that was, if hot, at least fresh. Kraatjes stood by one of the windows, blending into the background as he often did, a cigarette hanging from his lip.

  The Chief said, “So a little less than an hour ago I get a call from the mayor, saying that a group of my detectives is poking around Godtown, harassing the people there.”

  “Chief—”

  The Chief held up his hand again, turning his cheek, not wanting to hear anything yet. “You know who runs Godtown? Prosper Maddox and his church. You probably do know that; that’s probably the reason you were down there, would be my guess. But I wonder if you know much about Prosper Maddox. For instance, do you know that he’s tight with Vic Truffant? Truffant goes to Prosper Maddox for spiritual guidance.” The Chief gave the last two words a sarcastic edge, as if he knew it was bullshit. “And because he has Truffant’s ear, the mayor keeps a special eye on him, doesn’t want to give Truffant some kind of edge, you know? For the election. So the mayor gets a call that some detectives are poking around in Godtown and Prosper Maddox isn’t happy about it, and he calls me to say that I need to get you the hell out of there. So I do. Follow?”

  “Yes, but—”

  The Chief talked over him. “But while I’m waiting for you to come back here with your nose all out of joint, I call in Detective Plouffe, who you had over at the court house trying to get a warrant signed. I
bring him in here, ask what the hell you’re doing down in Godtown. You, of all people, know that there isn’t any fucking crime in Godtown. But Plouffe fills me in about the bodies by the river and the connection to Maddox’s church and Maddox stonewalling you. So, I think I have a fair understanding of what is going on here. Would you agree?”

  Westermann nodded.

  “So, I have the mayor pressuring me to keep my people out of Godtown, and I have you conducting an investigation into one, maybe two, murdered prostitutes—you don’t even have a name for the second—with a tenuous Godtown connection. So what am I going to do?”

  Westermann sighed in frustration.

  “Piet,” the Chief said, the irritation plain in his voice. “Are you going to let me finish?” Satisfied that Westermann would wait, he continued, “Is the mayor my boss? No. Is the City Council my boss? No. That was part of the reforms, so that the police wouldn’t be subject to political pressure like this. So when the mayor calls me and asks me, as a favor, to pull a squad of detectives out of a neighborhood that never sees any crime, I say sure. Look, the mayor is in a tough election and he can’t be seen going soft on the Reds because Councilor Truffant will kill him—kill him—with that issue. So, I get where he’s coming from. But if my people are conducting a proper investigation, I don’t care if they upset the mayor’s goddamn grandmother, I will not hamper the conduct of a legitimate investigation. Not for the goddamn Virgin Mary herself. Right?”

  The Chief paused, looking at Westermann. Westermann met his eye and nodded.

  Pushing Lenore into the moonlit current.

  “But, Piet, you need to handle this carefully. Just because the mayor and Truffant don’t have any authority over the department doesn’t mean that their interests can just be ignored. They can cause plenty of mischief, and that needs to be part of any calculations that you make going forward on this case. They have, in fact, already made mischief. Piet, they can vote down our bud get for chrissake. I don’t mind holding my ground, but not everyone is going to take risks for a couple of dead whores. I’m not saying it’s right, but that’s the way it is.

  “By the way, Plouffe struck out with the judge. Asplundh’s not going to sign a warrant, cross the mayor—or the next mayor—for this kind of case. So you can kiss that avenue good-bye.”

  Westermann rubbed the sides of his face with his hands.

  “Are you following me, Piet?”

  “I think so.”

  “We won’t be chased off this investigation, but we need to tread carefully. I know you can do that and I need you to get your men on the same page. That means Grip and Morphy, too. There’s talk around the building that they paid a visit to Mel Washington. You know about that?”

  “I talked to them.”

  “That’s the old force, Piet. We don’t do things that way anymore. Doesn’t matter who they’re visiting. Even if they’re Reds. Even if they’re pains in the ass like Prosper Maddox. Especially Prosper Maddox. Don’t put me in a bad position.”

  Deyna’s cameraman shooting him with Mel Washington.

  “I get the picture.”

  “Good. So, tell me, why are you digging so hard on these girls? The location? Kraatjes showed me the stats for the ware houses and the Uhuru Community. Quiet. Nobody home.”

  “That’s how it started,” Westermann said, the question leaving him feeling vulnerable. The location. “Murder in that part of town; no precedent for it. And then the connection to Godtown, also crime-free.”

  “Free of reported crime,” the Chief corrected.

  “Exactly. And then you add Maddox being obstructive.”

  The Chief nodded. “Your report mentioned that this first girl”—he looked down at a paper on his desk—“Lenore, was ill, and my understanding is that the second woman seems to have the same disease.”

  “I hadn’t heard that for sure.”

  “Now you have.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I hear there was another woman at City Hospital who they think might also have had it, the same disease.”

  “Right.”

  The Chief thought about this. Westermann looked at Kraatjes, was met with raised eyebrows, and said, “I think we might have a public health problem here.”

  “Three women, working girls; that’s a public health problem?” the Chief snapped.

  Kraatjes stepped forward, looking warily at the Chief. “We probably need to at least acknowledge that it could be an issue. Even if it doesn’t leave this room.”

  “You think the mayor, in an election year, needs a public health crisis? We need to be pretty damn sure. We’re going to err on the side of caution, and caution is not making a mistake and screwing the mayor. I’ll stand up to him for the investigation, but I won’t instigate something like this. Understood?”

  Westermann nodded. “Understood.”

  The Chief exhaled loudly through his nose. “Right.”

  From the street below came a sudden cacophony of sirens as squad cars deployed. Westermann and the Chief exchanged looks.

  “Piet,” the Chief softened his voice. “Tread carefully, but if you run into any problems, you come straight to me.”

  Grip and Morphy were leaning on the wall outside the Chief’s office, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, shooting the shit with some uniforms they knew. They looked up expectantly as Westermann emerged. Westermann smiled at them and winked.

  “Lieut?” Grip asked as Westermann strode away down the hall.

  40.

  Frings had his shirt and tie off, washing his face in the men’s bathroom sink at the Gazette. Even in this new building, the water tasted of rust. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, wondering what to make of the Black Comet Line out there in a grown-over lot in the Hollows. As Eddings had said: crazy.

  The bathroom door opened and a kid whose name Frings had either forgotten or never known stopped in the doorway.

  “Mr. Frings?”

  Frings glanced over at him.

  “We’ve been looking all over for you. The editor wants to see you in his office.”

  “Okay.” Frank turned back to the mirror, combing his wet hair back with his fingers.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Frings. He wants to see you right now.”

  Frings looked back at the kid, but the kid didn’t have a clue.

  Panos looked up wearily from his desk as Frings came in. “Where have you been, Frank?”

  Frings was about to answer, but saw Deyna sitting in one of the leather chairs, a folder in his lap and an ugly grin on his face.

  He kept his eyes on Deyna. “Later,” Frings said to Panos slowly.

  Panos thought about this for a moment. “Fine. Listen, Frank, Deyna here has been working hard, keeping an eye on your friend Westermann; watching his actions, which, truth to be told, are quite odd in some ways.”

  “I guess I don’t understand.”

  Deyna started to speak but Panos held up a hand. “Before we talk, see these photos that Deyna has brought with him.”

  Deyna held out the folder. Frings had to take a couple of steps to reach them.

  “Sit down, Frank. Please,” Panos said. Frings heard the tension in his voice. This was not a meeting Panos wanted to have.

  Frings sat and opened the folder, aware of the two sets of eyes on him. A small stack of photos. The first showed Westermann, Warren Eddings, and Mel Washington, puzzled looks, turning toward the camera. Shanty walls in the background to the left indicated where the photo had been taken. Frings looked at the next one; same subjects, same place, puzzled looks replaced by angry ones. Next photo: Westermann and another cop bracing a little guy in a cowboy getup. There’s a crowd around, but no one paying attention. Next: same subjects, same place, this time the cop’s knee is up in the cowboy’s groin, the cowboy wincing. Perfect front-page fodder. Shit. Next photo: same place, Westermann advancing, looking murderous. What the hell was he doing? Next: Westermann and several other men in suits talking with Prosper Maddox
and a big blond gink. Maddox looking placid, Westermann stern. Next: same subjects, same location, Westermann pointing at Maddox. Next: same location, Westermann leaning on the roof of a prowl car, talking to the cop inside. Last photo: Westermann climbing into the shotgun seat of a prowl car, Maddox and the big gink in the blurry foreground.

  Frings kept his eyes on the last photo, gathering his thoughts. The sum of the photos was not pretty, the portrait of an enraged cop. There was nothing wrong with the photos themselves. It was the innuendo that would be the problem: Westermann buddying up with commies and castigating a preacher; Westermann condoning or encouraging police violence.

  Frings replaced the photos and tossed the folder on Panos’s desk. He shrugged. “So?”

  Panos held his eyes. “Deyna?”

  Deyna said, “Your friend Westermann—”

  “Don’t start with that.”

  Deyna smiled, looked at Panos. Panos opened his palms, urging Deyna to be more politic.

  “As I told you, before, Lieutenant Westermann seems to have placed quite an emphasis on the investigation of an unidentified whore picked up from the riverbank. That seemed interesting to me, the Golden Boy giving a shit about a case like that; maybe there’s a story there. The day before yesterday, two things happen that seem like there’s definitely a story here: One, they find a second body on the river, this one up by the Uhuru Community. The last one was a little downstream, if you remember. Second, I come across your … Lieutenant Westermann palling around with two known communists with Uhuru Community ties. Seems interesting, doesn’t it?”