Sam looked out the window.
Hanson said, “Do you have any idea how many cops can afford a home on their own? With just a few years on the job? And with a pregnant wife to boot?”
Sam looked back. “I saved a lot. Worked overtime when I could.”
“Certainly,” Hanson said. “But a few weeks before you bought your house, there was an amazing coincidence. William Cocannon. Never made a formal complaint, but he let people know that somebody whacked the shit out of him early one March morning, stole several hundred dollars, just about the time you managed to scrape together enough money to get your house. I know the president of the First National. He told me you were short for the down payment, and then the day after Wild Willy got whacked, you showed up with enough money to make up the difference.”
Sam felt the room getting colder. Hanson said, “So have I made my point? Or do I need to talk again about your wife and her friends?”
“You’ve made your point.”
Hanson said, “Good. So there’s no misunderstanding. I’m getting your sorry ass out of here, though a lot of strings are being pulled, favors are being called in, and I’m getting you back to Portsmouth. Where you’ll resume your duties as probationary inspector, including working as a liaison with the FBI. Who, by the way, claim that they miss you very much. Which is one of the reasons I came out to fetch you. To keep the FBI happy.”
“And the department’s Log… who gets to write about what just happened to me? Or you?”
Hanson said carefully, “The Log will be correct. It’ll say you and I were in a small town in Vermont as part of an investigation. An investigation, I’ll remind you, Probationary Inspector Sam Miller, that is closed. Forever. Do you understand?”
“But I know who he was. And where he came from. And—”
“Sam.” His voice was sharper. “Drop it. That’s an order. You promise me it’s dropped, and you’re back in Portsmouth tonight. You say anything else, and so help me God, you’ll be back on the other side of the fence in sixty seconds. Do you understand?”
“Sir… it’s a homicide. In your city.
Hanson said, “A refugee from New Mexico, previously from Europe, who had his neck snapped by someone and got dumped from a railroad car passing through our city. That’s all it was. All right? Leave it to the FBI. Or you can stay here.”
Sam wiped at his face, looked at his boss. Maybe it was the hunger or the exhaustion or the bitter realization that he was giving up, but for a moment or two—or maybe longer—it seemed there were ghost images on his boss’s chest, as if Sam could, through the fabric, see the photos again. The German soldiers lined up with rifles, smiling. The Jewish men and women, forced into a line. The shooting. The German soldier at the end, kicking at a baby’s corpse as if it were a delightful sport.
Sam struggled to gain his voice and said, in almost a whisper, “The case is dropped. You have my word.”
“Good,” Hanson said, coming over, slapping him on the shoulder. “Like I said earlier, when this summit is all wrapped up, you’ve got a bright future in the Party, even with these stunts you’ve pulled.”
Hanson said, “Now. One more thing. You realize that whatever I tell you here stays here? Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Hanson shook his head. “No, I don’t think you do. What I mean is, everything stays here. Nobody else gets told. Not any other cop, not your wife, no one. If it’s ever found out that you’ve blabbed about this place, then you and anyone else you’ve talked to—even if it’s your boy, Toby, by mistake—you come back here. Forever. Now. Tell me you understand that.”
In answer, Sam rolled up his left sleeve, showing the numeral three. “And this? How do I explain this to Sarah?”
“You’ll think of something,” Hanson said. “A drunken late visit to a tattoo parlor off the harbor, I don’t care. But the secret of Burdick remains a secret. Understand?”
“Yeah. I understand it all.”
“Good.” Hanson took a breath. “Let’s get out of this dump.”
There was a moment when the guilt struck him so hard that he almost turned around to go back into the camp. Now, dressed in his civilian clothes—which felt odd and constricting after the few days in the striped clothing, except for his hat, which was loose on his shorn head—and walking with Hanson, he saw a line of prisoners heading off to another part of the camp. The starved men stared him. He stared back and recognized his bunkmates, one face in particular. Otto, the Jew from Holland, the man who had risked so much to toss in a chunk of bread to Sam.
Otto stared at Sam in disbelief, and Sam could just imagine what was going through the prisoner’s mind. Sam must have been a spy. Sam must have been a turncoat. Now everyone in Barracks Six was at terrible risk, for the friendliness shown an American who was going to betray them all.
He thought of shouting something to them, but realized it was a waste of time. Instead, he watched the line of men shuffling away to their work, and then he returned to whatever freedom awaited him.
PART FIVE
The Office of the Commandant
Department of the Interior
Burdick, Vermont
Sir,
As a follow-up to our phone call earlier, I am compelled to yet again protest in the most serious terms of the release of the prisoner Sam Miller of Portsmouth, N.H., on 10 May. Due to the intercession of others and the presence of Harold Hanson, Colonel, New Hampshire National Guard, Miller was released into the custody of Hanson at this duty station on the above-referenced date.
However, I still strongly believe that the release of Miller seriously jeopardizes the security of this facility. Notwithstanding this concern, I do understand that Miller’s release was also due in part to his importance to the upcoming Portsmouth summit. I therefore recommend, upon the completion of Miller’s duties of the summit, that
A. Miller be arrested and returned to this facility forthwith and;
B. That within the next twenty-four hours, the occupants of Barracks Six, which worked with Miller, be turned over to German authorities for immediate deportation to their respective internment facilities in Europe, so that security is maintained here as well.
__x__ Approve
_____ Disapprove
Royal, wait until the summit is over before deporting those yids. Things are complicated enough without taking this step. But agreed, let’s get Miller back where he belongs; sticks in my craw that a mere flatfoot got away with this. Tom
