The police station smelled of perspired alcohol. A dozen cops tried to steer eight protesting Negroes through the lobby and into booking. Westermann, just arriving back from lunch, paused to watch and noticed Sergeant Ed Wayne, sweating, red-faced, furious. Wayne noticed Westermann and, sneering, gave a fierce jerk to the cuffs of one of the prisoners, drawing a bark of pain. Westermann flashed Wayne a wink and continued on to his squad room with the familiar feeling in his gut—he didn’t know how to deal with guys like Wayne. His efforts were hollow and they both knew it. He and Wayne didn’t share a common background, and as police, they were playing on Wayne’s turf: tough, working-class, vet.
Westermann’s detectives were waiting for him—three teams of two—sitting in folding chairs in their squad room. Kraatjes frequently reminded Westermann that this was the hardest squad he’d ever had to assemble, given Westermann’s unpopularity in so many police circles. Westermann wasn’t sure if Kraatjes was joking. Regardless, he had a group that was at least neutral toward him—some even loyal—if not consistent in their abilities. And he’d betrayed them.
Everyone smoked cigarettes except for Grip, who was chewing on an unlit cigar, and Westermann, who didn’t smoke. They dispensed quickly with reports: the search warrant carried out on an East Side apartment to find evidence supporting a homicide confession; the questioning of suspects in the murder of a vagrant in a Theater District alley; and so on.
Souza and Plouffe briefed the squad on their morning in the shanties, changing the details to preserve some dignity but admitting that they had come up empty. Grip and Morphy chuckled at this, and Souza pinched up his face and bulged his eyes but didn’t say anything.
Grip and Morphy reported last, with Grip, as always, doing the talking. He related the two trips to the morgue and then, anticipating Westermann’s questions, continued.
“So, no progress as far as actual identities, but the disease angle has possibilities. Maybe this woman, this possibly Russian woman, was in Africa or South America and picked up the disease there, but maybe she wasn’t. It’s possible she caught the disease here from someone else.”
“Like someone just off the boat in the Community,” Plouffe suggested.
“Maybe,” Grip said.
Westermann was about to say something, try to move this in a different direction, but decided against it. He couldn’t control things to the degree he wanted and he had to accept that.
“Not necessarily,” Morphy said, which seemed to end that particular line of inquiry.
“No missing persons that match. We’re going to look into if she might have been a working girl, see if that turns up anything.”
Westermann nodded.
“Also,” Grip said, “we’re going back to the river to check the crime scene again.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve got a thought. Let me get back to you when I’ve had a chance to look into it.”
“Okay,” Westermann said, sensing danger. Grip got ideas in his head and more often than not they bore fruit. He mentally ran scenarios of uncomfortable conversations with Grip—trying on diversions, counterarguments, deliberate misinterpretations—while Grip and, sometimes, Morphy responded to questions from the other detectives.
A fuse blew—probably all of the fans running—and they were plunged into darkness and a din of impressively varied profanity.