Amerikan Eagle

TO: Inspector Sam Miller

FROM: Patrolman Frank Reardon, Badge Number 43

A canvas of a 2 block area surounding the dead man discovered on May 1 determined that no witnesses could be produced that had any nowledge of the dead man, his identity, or any other clues to facilitat your investigation.

There was a scrawled signature, also in pencil, on the bottom of the sheet. Sam shook his head at the memo’s misspellings. He was sure Frank and his young partner had spent ten minutes walking around in the rain before coming back to the warm station and spending an hour on this report. Sam put the useless report down, looked again at the note.

Sam. See me soonest. H.

H being Harold Hanson. Something about last night had gotten Hanson’s attention—what was one dead guy, even if it was a possible homicide? He looked over to Hanson’s secretary, a woman whose gray hair was always tied at the back of her head in a severe bun, and who wore vibrantly floral dresses no matter the season. He called out, “Mrs. Walton? Is he in?”

Linda Walton looked up from her typing, eyeing him over her black-rimmed reading glasses. She had been working for the city for decades; nobody knew her husband’s name, and the jokes were that she actually ran the department, a joke nobody had the balls to mention in her presence. She was also responsible for religiously maintaining a leather-bound book known as The Log, a record of where every senior police officer was day or night, week or weekend. With the city in a continuous budget struggle, The Log also made sure the city wasn’t cheated on its meager salaries.

“Yes,” she said, looking down at her telephone and its display of lights. “But he’s on the phone and— Oh, he’s off now.”

He lifted the note as though it were a hall pass and she were a high school geometry teacher. “He says he needs to see me.”

“Then go see him already.” She went back to her typing.

He got to his feet, not liking the way she talked and knowing he would do nothing about it. Cops who irritated Mrs. Walton often found their overtime hours mysteriously went away at a time when scraping for overtime meant the difference between soup or ground round for dinner. He went past her, detecting a scent of lilac, and after a brief knock on the door, went in.

Hanson looked up from his desk, and if it weren’t for his clean shirt, he would look like he’d spent the night there. He told Sam, “This won’t take long. Have a seat.”

Sam sat, and Hanson said, “I take it you made the prisoner transfer successfully last night?”

He thought about that poor man pleading to be let free and how he had delivered him as ordered. “Yes, it was successful. And I don’t want to ever do it again.”

“Sorry, Sam. Can’t promise you that.”

He kept his mouth shut, and his boss said, “Did Frank and Leo find anything concerning your dead John Doe?”

“Not a thing.”

“You’re on your way to see the medical examiner?”

“In just a bit,” Sam said.

“Good. Let me know what you find out. And remember what I said last night. If this guy died from hunger or cheap booze, leave it be. Now. I need to ask you something else. You were at the Fish Shanty last night, am I right?”

“Yes, I was.”

Hanson picked up a sheet of paper, and Sam felt uneasy, as if a tax assessor were about to double his property tax bill. “An interesting coincidence, then, since about the same time you were at the Fish Shanty, two fine members of Long’s Legionnaires said they exited the restaurant and found two tires on their car slit. I suppose you have nothing to tell me about this.”

“That’s right, sir. I don’t have anything to tell you.”

“Fine.” Hanson crumpled up the paper, tossing it in his wastebasket. “Goddamn Southerners forgot who kicked their ass back in ’65. Look, knock it off, all right? So far, we’re doing all right here. We don’t want another South Boston incident. Understood?”

Sam had heard a few rumors about South Boston and saw his opening. “What South Boston incident?”

Hanson hesitated, as if judging whether he could trust Sam with the information. Then he said, “Some of Long’s Legionnaires were in South Boston two months ago, trying to instill a little freelance Party discipline. Fighting broke out, got escalated, and before you know it, you had barricades in South Boston with a couple of squads of Legionnaires on one side, and some Southie Irish cops on the other, shooting at each other. Ended up with three dead, scores injured, and one police precinct burned down. Only by the best of luck did the mayor avoid having martial law declared and National Guard platoons sent in. And what I just told you is confidential.”

“I understand.”