CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The day was cold and windy, and Sam stood by himself on a knoll at the Calvary Cemetery in Portsmouth, near the border of the small town of Greenland. The previous night he had once again slept in Hanson’s office. He drew his coat closer, watching the ceremony finish up. There was a plain wooden casket, and a priest was saying prayers over the mangled body of his brother. Except for two cemetery workers standing by themselves, shovels in hand, this part of the cemetery was empty. The ceremony was supposed to be secret, but somehow the news had gotten out.
On the other side of the iron gates there were newspaper reporters and a couple of newsreel crews, all eager to record the burial of the attempted assassin of Adolf Hitler, but the priest—his parish priest, Father Mullen from St. James Church—had denied them entrance. Sam supposed he should have attempted to tell Sarah about the funeral, but he was going to let that rest for now. Sarah would have to mourn Tony at her own time and pace. And he wasn’t surprised that he was the only mourner present. Being known as an associate of an assassin, someone who almost destroyed the summit that promised so much, was just too dangerous.
The priest finished, made a sign of the cross, and then came over, his vestments flapping in the breeze. Sam shook his hand and said, “Thanks, Father. I appreciate that.”
The priest nodded. “I knew your brother back when he was active in the shipyard, trying to make things better for the workers.”
Sam felt the words stick in his throat, knowing his brother and what he had done. “Excuse me for saying this, Father, but he could be a pain in the ass. But sometimes he was a good man, wasn’t he?”
“We’re all good men, Sam. But these are trying times, and all of us sometimes make compromises, sometimes make decisions … It’s not an easy time.”
Sam watched as the cemetery workers came out and, with a set of straps, lowered his brother’s body into the unmarked grave. He didn’t answer the priest.
* * *
He stood there for a while, then started walking to another gate of the cemetery, where he could avoid the crowd of reporters. He saw a man standing near a solitary pine tree. The man was watching him, and Sam changed direction to join him.
“Hello, Doc,” Sam said. “Sorry I’ve been avoiding you. It’s been a shitty few days.”
Dr. William Saunders, the county medical examiner, nodded in reply. “Yeah, it sure has. Sorry about your brother.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, well, don’t be so smug. I think you did a shitty thing, saving that asshole Long’s life.”
Sam replied evenly, “You and a bunch of others, I’m sure.” The medical examiner kept quiet. Sam said, “Doc, don’t play any goddamn games with me. I’m not in the mood. Why are you here? What’s so important?”
Saunders looked over Sam’s shoulder toward the downtown. “You know, we medical examiners, we sometimes pass along information to one another, little bits of professional knowledge that doesn’t get out to the public. Especially for those of us working in cities that have a large refugee population. You tend to look for odd things you don’t otherwise see in the course of your day-to-day work.”
Sam said, “What did you find? And how did you miss it the first time out?”
Saunders sighed. “I’m old, and I’m tired, and things get missed. I didn’t miss a damn thing on that autopsy. The poor guy’s neck was snapped, he was malnourished, he had that damn tattoo, and oh, by the way, his blood work came back normal. No poisons or toxins in his system. But I did miss something in his clothing …”
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.”