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?”
Deyna paused for a moment to let that sink in. “Okay, so next thing, the lieutenant heads down to the bar district with another cop, named”—Deyna looked at his notes—“Grip. Torsten Grip. Anyway, I think you saw the picture. Lieutenant Westermann and Detective Grip find this pimp”—again to the notes—“Stanic, and they rough him up a little. Fine. Dead whores, find a pimp. Knee him in the jewels? He’s a pimp, right? No problem. Not the image that Westermann puts out there, though. Not exactly the System.
“So then, for some reason, Lieutenant Westermann heads to Godtown not once, but twice. Godtown. You saw the photos, he’s harassing Dr. Maddox, a preacher. I talked to Dr. Maddox and he said that he’d promised to cooperate with the lieutenant, but Westermann starts banging on doors despite Dr. Maddox’s specific request that he not. Then, and this is the interesting part, a police cruiser arrives and Westermann and his people up and leave. Just like that.”
Frings looked at Panos. “So?”
Deyna said, “You’re the genius, Frings. What does it mean?”
Frings didn’t look at Deyna. “Is there a story here? Cop investigates murder?”
Panos winced. “Frank, why are you like this? We are simply asking what you think.”
“There’s nothing to think, Panos.”
Deyna said, “Golden Boy cop, lawyer’s kid, cuddling up to commies and bullying preachers? That’s nothing?”
Frings looked to Panos. “What? We’re going to start attacking people for their associations based on a photograph? He’s investigating a crime, talking to community leaders where the body was found. What’s he supposed to do? Panos, I don’t care one way or the other about Westermann, but we have some standards here, right?”
Deyna’s voice rose with his irritation. “We may have a communist in a position of authority in the police department. Maybe that doesn’t bother you, but it sure as hell bothers me.”