He reached into his pocket and took out a metal cylinder, less than an inch wide and perhaps two inches long. Saunders said, “In these troubled times, refugees use these capsules to transport important things. Diamonds, rubies, or a key to a safe deposit box. Women—God bless them, they have two receptacles available to hold such tubes, while we men have to do with just one. Ingenious, isn’t it? And when I was finally sorting through your dead man’s clothing, I found this tucked away in his underwear. When a man—or woman—dies, the sphincter muscles relax, and what’s up there, Inspector, will always come out.”
Sam took the cylinder from the medical examiner, looked at it, and then unscrewed the top. He looked inside. “Was it empty when you opened it?”
“No.”
“What was in it?”
Saunders looked at him; the scar on his throat was prominent. He said, “Sam… can I really trust you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Shit, I know that’s a tough question to ask, especially these days. What I’m getting at… can I trust you to keep my ass out of a labor camp, and to do something important?”
“You can trust me to keep you out of prison, as long as I have anything to say about it. What’s so important beyond that?”
The medical examiner coughed, a harsh sound coming from deep in his chest. “The last war, I spent months in those godforsaken trenches, trying to save the lives of men being gassed, shattered by shrapnel, and shot… and for what? To make the world safe for democracy. Corny, I know, but we believed it back then, and some of us, even in these worst of times, still believe it.”
“Just tell me, what was in that cylinder?”
Another pause, and the wind seemed to cut at him even deeper. He pushed aside the thought of how cold Tony’s grave must be.
Saunders said, “A special kind of film called microfilm. A process that reduces pages of documents to a single filmstrip.”
“A courier,” Sam said. “I’ll be damned. What kind of documents was he carrying?”
Saunders reached again into his coat pocket, pulled out a business-size envelope. “That’s for you to find out, Inspector. I processed the film, was able to make readable copies for you. I’ve looked at them, and I can’t figure it out. But I’m sure you will.”
“Was it another language?”
Saunders smiled. “Yeah, it was. But you’re an inspector. Just do the right thing, okay?”
Sam held the envelope. Made of paper, it seemed to weigh a ton. “That I’ll do. But Doc, after we talked last, just after that FBI guy and Gestapo guy met you, did you discuss the case with anyone else?”
“Nope. Not a soul.”
Sam lifted the envelope again. “Thanks, Doc. And I’m sorry I didn’t get to you earlier.”
The medical examiner said. “It’s okay, Sam. I’m sure it will work out.”
Sam said, “I’m glad you are. I’m not.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The day after Tony’s burial, Sam stood in the football field of the Portsmouth High School, watching the FBI and the local contingent of Long’s Legionnaires processing arrested people and conducting interrogations over the assassination attempt on President Long. The matter of the attack on Hitler was over and complete, Tony Miller being the designated patsy. But the investigation into the attempted killing of the President was still going on, and it was a chance for the Legionnaires and the FBI to conduct a nice purge of the surrounding towns, using the assassination as a cover to arrest anyone and everyone who had pissed off the government.
Temporary barbed-wire fencing had been strung around the perimeter of the field, and canvas tents had been set up. The turf had been churned into a muddy mess by all the feet trampling through. Sam used his newly minted ID to gain access to one special prisoner. And as he had walked across the chewed-up field, the finger he had broken back during that championship game started aching again, like a reminder of what had been, what had been lost.
He remembered how, days ago, the night the body was discovered, he’d recalled the sweet memory of winning that game… and immediately that taste of victory being overcome with a taste of ashes, of seeing his dad triumphant over Tony’s acceptance at the Navy Yard, the bad son, the one who was always in trouble, the one always in Dad’s favor. And now Mom at a rest home, Dad and Tony buried, and this field where Sam had first become someone, had done something to be proud of, had now been turned into something else, just another prison. Like this country, he thought, going from a nation of laws to a nation of labor camps. When he had been a senior at this school, it had been a more innocent time. It had all been so black and white. To defeat one’s opponent, that’s all. Just to win.
Black and white. No shades of gray. God, how he missed those days.
A dozen men were being herded along in front of him, their shoes and boots muddy, their eyes downcast, each with one hand on the shoulder of the man in front, as they were prodded along by Long’s Legionnaires carrying pump-action shotguns. At the end of the line, a Legionnaire caught Sam’s eye, and he didn’t look away. He remembered that face. It was the Legionnaire who had strutted into the Fish Shanty so very long ago, the night he had first come across the dead man.
The Legionnaire grabbed the last man in line, brought him over to Sam. The Legionnaire grinned, breathing hard, his face bruised. “You’re that police inspector. The one that saved the President.”
“Yeah, I am,” Sam said, looking at the prisoner. His suit was well cut, and he had a trimmed black mustache and haircut. Sam recognized him as a businessman from the next city up the coast, Dover. Woods, was that his name?
The Legionnaire twisted the man’s arm, and Woods winced. The Legionnaire said, “Yeah, and you’re the inspector that was in that greasy-spoon restaurant the night me and Vern had to get new tires on our car ’cause some asshole knifed ’em. Vern and me, we got ambushed and tuned up a couple of days later.”
Sam said, “Look, I don’t—”
The Legionnaire said, “You may be so high and mighty, boy, but remember this, me and Vern and everyone else like us, we’re runnin’ the show. No matter if you like it or not.”
The young man pushed Woods hard in the small of the back. “Run, you son of a bitch, run,” and Woods, stumbling a bit in the mud, started running after the moving line of prisoners. Sam saw what was going to happen next, started to yell out, “No!” In one smooth and practiced motion, the Legionnaire lifted his shotgun and fired at the back of the running man. The hollow boom tore at Sam’s ears, and Woods crumpled to the muddy earth.
“So maybe you’re a hero today, bud,” the Legionnaire said, “but you and everyone else who don’t fall in line, you’re still shitheads, and you can still get shot while tryin’ to escape, and there’s nothin’ anybody can do about it. Understand?”
Sam felt his face burning. He had just seen a first-degree murder right in front of him, and been powerless to do anything. Not a goddamn thing. He walked away.
He sat in one corner of a small green canvas tent smelling of dampness and mildew. Inside were a table and a couple of wooden chairs sinking into the soil. The flap of the tent opened, and another Long’s Legionnaire peered in. “You Miller?”
“Yeah,” he said, not wanting to see again in his mind’s eye a man murdered to prove a point. That was all. A man dragged from his home today, accused of God only knew what, and because he was last in line and easy to grasp, he was shot dead.