by Lee Strauss
Returning to the pit, Samantha saw that Johnny and Max had returned. Johnny jawed as usual with sour-faced Freddy Hall, who reported on sports, specifically baseball this time of year. Samantha strolled to her chair and threaded a piece of crisp white paper into the roller of her black typewriter.
Johnny, who Samantha knew cast glances her way when he thought she couldn’t see him, finally gave her his full attention.
“Hey doll, you missed all the action.”
She fluttered her thick eyelashes innocently. “What do you mean?”
“The body at the church.” Johnny pulled on a cigarette, releasing the smoke through his nose. “I’m afraid you left the fundraiser before the real story happened.”
Samantha flashed a cocky smile. “I’m not sure who your source is, Johnny, but I’d get a new one.”
Johnny leaned forward with raised brows. “Are you saying you were there?”
“I don’t have to say anything to you, except this is my story. You can ask the boss yourself.”
Johnny laughed and slapped the top of his desk. “Hot damn! Look at you, intrepid lady reporter.”
“Don’t make fun of me, Johnny! I won’t have it.”
Johnny snuffed out his cigarette and sauntered over to Samantha’s desk, his grin crooked, and his hair mussed. She frowned in disapproval as he leaned casually against her desk.
“How about I make you a deal, doll?” he said. “You tell me what you got, and I’ll tell you what I got.”
He leaned so close that Samantha could smell his aftershave. She placed a palm on his arm and pushed him away. “No deal.”
“Huh.” Johnny wrinkled his nose and worked his lips. “You must really have somethin’ then. Normally, you jump at getting what you can from me.”
The way he said that suggested an innuendo Samantha didn’t appreciate. “Stop bothering me. I’ve got work to do.”
Johnny stepped back toward his desk. “Right. The fundraiser piece.” He glanced at the door and back to Samantha, then raised a brow. “Where were you, anyways, Miss Hawke?”
“Not that it’s your business, but I was at the ladies—” The moment the words escaped her mouth, she knew she’d made a mistake. She had been too quick to give an explanation. Johnny pivoted for the door. “You were in the darkroom, weren’t ya?”
“Johnny!”
Johnny broke into a trot, and Samantha raced after him. Darned heels! Johnny kept at least two paces ahead and skipped down the stairs. Samantha could take the elevator, but it was notoriously slow. She held the railing and ran down the steps.
“Johnny!”
The men in the composing area stopped at the commotion Samantha and Johnny had created, and try as Samantha might, she couldn’t get in front of Johnny to prevent him from entering the darkroom first. He snapped on the red light.
Her prints hung in a neat row on full display.
Johnny whistled as he took them in. “You little minx. How’d you get these?”
Samantha snapped them from the pins before Johnny could get a good look. “I was at the scene when the body was found. I took them before the police arrived.”
Johnny stared at Samantha with a look of admiration. “We really ought to get on the same team.”
“Not on your life.”
Johnny had a reputation for playing “fair” only when it suited him. His scruples were in question, and Samantha had more than her own welfare to think of. Talia came first. Her daughter was the reason for everything Samantha did, including this job.
She was struck with a shard of guilt. Here she was condemning Johnny for his scruples when, only a couple of hours ago, she had removed evidence from a corpse.
The question now was, what should she do about it?
The John Doe lay on the ceramic table, ready to be washed down.
Dr. Peter Guthrie, a recent English immigrant and new Chief Medical Examiner, approached with interest in his watery eyes. He took great strides with legs so long and thin that the image of a cricket ready to spring came to mind.
“Dead as a doornail?” he asked his lips twitching.
“He didn’t die at the church,” Haley said. “The body was moved.”
“I see.” The white bushes above his eyes furrowed into one long hedge. “No identification on his person?”
“None. Not even a wallet.”
“A mugging gone wrong?”
“It’s possible. Whatever the case, the victim was used to scrapping.” Haley displayed the bruising on the body. “Yellow, green, and black mixed. New bruising on old.”
She turned over the right wrist. “A double spider tattoo. They appear to be fighting.”
“Looks a bit gaunt,” Dr. Guthrie added. “A soup-line bloke?”
“Could be. His suit was threadbare, and he doesn’t appear to have washed lately, though he did bother to shave this morning. He has a recent cut on his chin.”
“Shaking hand? A drinker?”
Prohibition failed to keep alcohol out of the hands of those who wanted it, and backyard distilleries not only made the quality dreadfully low, it was sometimes deadly.
Haley sighed her condolences, then with a sharp scalpel, started the Y incision on the man’s chest. A bone cutter opened the ribcage, and after propping the ribs open, she carefully removed each organ one by one, examining and weighing it. Soon a queue of organs, each in a porcelain tray, lined a side table.
The stomach contents confirmed Dr. Guthrie’s prediction. Along with a recent meal of bread and canned meat, Haley smelled the bitter scent of cheap whiskey.
She collected blood samples to send to the lab.
Mr. Martin, the primary intern at the morgue, blew through the doors. In his mid-twenties, the medical student was earnest if not timely.
“So sorry I’m late,” he said as he whipped off his hat and cotton suit jacket. “Traffic jam on Cambridge Bridge blocked the passage of my bus. I haven’t missed it, have I?”
“You’re just in time to sew him up.”
“Rats! Anything interesting?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Mr. Martin studied the body. “The guy took a beating.”
Haley agreed. “He did.”
“Cause of death?” Mr. Martin asked.
“He bled out. Carotid artery severed.”
Haley washed up at the large ceramic sink then returned to her desk. The morgue, though in the hospital basement, was a brightly lit room painted white. Two operating tables took up the center of the room with various tables and cupboards lining the walls. From her spot at her desk near the front of the room, she could see both Mr. Martin at work in the surgery to her right and Dr. Guthrie through his office window straight ahead.
She stared at the telephone. Should she call Detective Cluney? She didn’t have anything new to report and wouldn’t until the laboratory results came in, but she’d like to know if he’d discovered anything new.
Haley picked up the telephone, but instead of putting in a call to the detective, she asked to speak to Officer Thompson.
“Thompson,” Jack said when he picked up.
“Hi, Jack, it’s Haley.”
Jack’s voice immediately softened. “Oh, hello.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you’ve developed the photographs from the scene
“Not yet. Why? Did you find anything?”
“No, I just thought maybe you did. I wouldn’t mind having a look. Would that be possible?”
“Ah, Haley, you know how Cluney is. Need to know basis. I’d have to give him a reason.”
“Of course, forgive me.”
“It’s okay, just give me a reason.”
“I can’t yet, but I’ll let you know when I have one.”
Haley regretted calling Jack Thompson. Trying to call in a favor was impulsive. However, now that she thought about it, she remembered that Samantha had had a camera on her at the scene. Ten to one she’d snapped photographs before the polic
e got there. Haley wanted another look at the positioning of the body. She’d seen a photo of the exact same thing once before: a man twisted on his side, neck slashed.
Her brother, Joe Higgins.
The policeman’s ball was an event organized by the department to honor policemen of valor, remember those who had lost their lives while on duty, and to raise money for their widows and children who, during these depressive times, needed all the help they could get.
Haley usually supported the effort from behind the scenes, since she wasn’t a member of the force or close to anyone on it, so it came as a big surprise when Jack Thompson had asked her to accompany him. She had been reluctant to do so at first, but Jack was rather persistent, and it was a good cause. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt her to build up goodwill with members of the Boston police force, since she did step on their toes, so to speak, during her personal inquiries.
At the moment, there was literal stepping on toes going on as she and Jack danced to the live band playing in the hall.
“I’m sorry,” Haley said, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks. “I played baseball with my brothers growing up. I’m not much of a dancer.”
Jack chuckled. “Thankfully, it’s not a competition.”
Most women in the room were wives, mothers, or sisters of someone on the force. There were a few female officers, but police work continued to be a man’s domain. Happily for Haley, Samantha was also at the ball, on the arm of Officer Tom Bell, whose eyes expressed pure delight as he led his date around the dance floor.
Jack looked dapper in loose-fitting, high-waist black dress pants, a crisp white high-collared shirt, topped with a fitted suit jacket with glossy black lapels, which had a single button fastened. He dipped his chin with a look of admiration at Haley’s lime-green satin gown, which flowed gently from shoulder to floor and was suitable for the festivities. Though she preferred simple dress suits for work, or the more practical slacks—pants for women—that were becoming increasingly popular for ladies, her wardrobe contained a surprising number of fancy dresses because she and her good friend Dr. Gerald Mitchell often attended the theater or the opera or such events together. It was a mutually agreeable and platonic agreement. Gerald was devoted to his wife, who’d been bedridden and mentally incoherent for many years.
Jack, on the other hand, stirred feelings in Haley that she’d rather not have admitted to. He’d broken her heart by leaving town suddenly after Joe had died. Jack was a restless man, and she would not let him have her heart again, just to abandon it on a whim.
They shared a table with Detective Cluney and his wife.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Cluney?” Haley asked. The detective’s wife, a down-to-earth type Haley respected, kept a low profile, and their paths rarely crossed.
“Very much so,” Mrs. Cluney answered softly.
So interesting how opposites attract, Haley thought.
An Officer Harris, who’d come alone, also sat with them. It was the first time Haley had had the pleasure of meeting the genial man.
“I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed before,” Haley said. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting many of Boston’s finest.”
“Well, at least now that’s been rectified, Dr. Higgins. And the pleasure’s all mine.” He offered a hand. “Would you be so kind as to give me the next dance?”
Haley couldn’t very well say no, but as she was seated across from Officer Harris, the man hadn’t had a fair chance to judge her height. She, being tall for a woman, and he, on the short side for a man, had their coupling looking socially odd. They danced to “Dream a Little Dream of Me”. Haley ignored the snickers that erupted around them, but poor Officer Harris looked distinctly perturbed. His lips pursed, causing his mustache to pucker like a hairy caterpillar, his eyes narrowed and hardened, and his palms began to sweat. They broke apart immediately upon the last note of the song.
“Thank you, Officer Harris,” Haley said kindly. “You’re a much better dancer than I.”
Officer Harris could barely produce a smile. He nodded and hurried back to his spot at the table. If Haley had been a betting gal, she would have bet ten bucks Officer Harris wished whiskey was legal.
Samantha had never been to a policeman’s ball. Marriage to Seth had them on opposite sides—cops were the enemy. They got in the way of all the illegal fun that Seth loved, like drinking, gambling, and yes, if Samantha were truthful, ladies of the night.
Tom was nothing like Seth, and despite herself, Samantha enjoyed his company. Where Seth was a brute, Tom was a gentleman. Where Seth talked about betting and where to get the best bootleg, Tom could carry on intelligent conversation. Where Seth was gruff, Tom was gentle.
Caution! Samantha thought. She might just fall for a cop!
“You look lovely,” Tom said, as he spun her around, one hand clasping hers, the other on her waist.
“Thank you.” Samantha had worn her dress before—a refurbished flapper dress she’d lengthened with new fringe on the hem and cinched with a belt when she’d chased a story at a speakeasy. Tom had seen her in it, being there on a case as well. Neither of them mentioned the fact.
They shared a table with two unmarried members of the force: Officer McAteer and Patrolman Fanning.
“Where’d you find this beauty, you ugly mutt?” Officer McAteer said with an appreciative head-to-toe appraisal of Samantha before she took her seat.
Patrolman Fanning joined in on the jesting. “Beauty and the Beast, hey?”
“Hey!” Samantha said. “Officer Bell is dashing!”
“Now I’m blushing,” Tom said.
“But really,” Officer McAteer pressed, “why haven’t I seen you around, Miss Hawke.”
“You probably will, now,” Tom said. “Miss Hawke works for the Boston Daily Record. Just promoted from the ladies’ pages.”
Samantha held in the consternation she felt and couldn’t help feeling defensive. “The ladies’ pages are widely read, and advertisers pay a lot of dough for a spot. I still write them.” She’d already taken plenty of photographs of the night’s event. “Only now, I’m free to pursue other stories.”
“Yeah?” the youthful patrolman said. “Are you working on a story now?”
“I’m following the death of the man at St. Stephen’s Church. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”
Tom chuckled. “See? She’s always on the job.”
Samantha was serious. Tom didn’t think she’d agreed to be his date at the policeman’s ball just to dance, did he? As much fun as it was, she wouldn’t give up a night with Talia if it didn’t mean there wasn’t another possible payoff. Samantha pressed on. “It’s so mysterious. He’s still unidentified, or at least that’s what your lot are leading the press to believe. Is it true? Why not surrender the name?”
Officer McAteer guffawed. “blond, beautiful, and a spitfire!”
“I’m only trying to do my job, Officer,” Samantha returned stiffly. “The same as you, when you’re on duty.”
Realizing she had yet to use the best of her feminine wiles, Samantha shifted in her chair and crossed her legs, allowing her calf to show. She smiled and batted lashes that were thick with mascara. “Does one of you fine gentlemen have a cigarette you could spare?”
Both Officer McAteer and Patrolman Fanning whipped out cigarette cases from their pockets. Officer McAteer, being closer, handed Samantha a cigarette, then leaned over with a lighter. Samantha took a long, and what she hoped was seductive, pull on the ciggie.
“Thanks, Officer.”
Tom Bell cleared his throat, the joy from his normally friendly expression gone. “Can I get you a drink, Samantha?”
“That would be the cat’s meow,” she said. “Cola would be nice.”
Tom strutted away from the table, and Samantha made her move on the two men. She leaned forward on her elbows and let a tiny bit of cleavage show.
“If you had a little tip you could give me, I’d be ever so grateful.”
The two men shared a look. Officer McAteer gave a subtle shake of the head.
“So sorry, Miss Hawke,” Officer Fanning said. “We wish we could help, but unfortunately, we’re just as much in the dark as you. As you know, most murder cases are never solved.”
Samantha squashed the remainder of her cigarette in the ashtray in a fit of dismay. Foiled again.
3
The next day at work, Samantha couldn’t help but feel anxious about not making any strides on the church body case. What kind of investigative reporter was she, anyway? It didn’t help that she had to submit this story on the policemen’s ball before Mr. August would release her to focus on other things.
The ball itself was a standard social event’s reporting affair. Who attended, who wore what dress, what the food and music were like. Samantha studied the photographs she’d developed that morning. She’d gone around to each table, introduced herself, and taken a photo. Her own table appeared to be the most camera shy. Both Officer McAteer and Patrolman Fanning had looked away when she’d snapped, which caused her to capture their blurry profiles. Only Tom looked boldly at her lens and smiled.
Among the roomful of policemen were a handful of female police officers. Samantha had spoken in length with one and thought she’d make an interesting feature for the ladies’ pages.
“What are you working on?”
Samantha’s gaze darted up from her typewriter at the sound of Johnny’s voice.
“The policeman’s ball, if you must know.” She threw the question back. “What are you working on?”
He shrugged, and Samantha started typing again and fumed at the way information seemed to travel one way.
“Rough business on the docks,” Johnny finally offered. “Did you go with a date?”
Samantha stilled. “Huh?”
“To the ball,” Johnny said. “Did you go on a date or on assignment?”