by Tricia Goyer
He said the words but he didn’t mean them. Only discovering the truth would make him feel better, Frank knew.
They turned back onto his street. Frank paused, and then he softly took Betty’s shoulders and turned her toward him. “I—I’ve also been thinking about us, Betty. I want you to know me. Trust me. Trust my heart. And I want to get to know you better too.”
“I appreciate that.” Betty nodded as she said the words, but Frank could see something else in her eyes—confusion.
“I’d still like to spend more time with you. Maybe it’s my way to make sure you’re safe.” That wasn’t a lie.
“You better get going.” She patted his lapel, and he appreciated how she tried to smile despite her sadness. “I see Howard up there. I’ll go ask for a ride.”
Sure enough, Frank turned and spotted Howard. He was sitting in his jeep, clearly watching them. He didn’t avert his gaze when Frank met his eyes. He just continued to stare, to watch.
An icy cold wave of panic washed over Frank, and he wondered if Howard had returned after they’d left. If Art had let him in. If so, they could have found the second set of prints—
“Uh, sure, Betty. Go ahead and ask Howard for a ride.” Frank smiled, hoping she couldn’t see the worry in his gaze. “And you’re right. I need to get back to work. I can guess that right now the press is being notified about Kat’s death—Edward’s death too. And maybe my photos will help them know what to officially report.” He shrugged. “Or at least they’ll have one more clue leading to the truth.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Frank tried not to act surprised when he walked into Denzel Bailey’s office and saw Officer Gordon Frey sitting there with a scowl on his face. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
When Frank had first returned to his house, he’d been relieved to find Art gone and their house locked. The darkroom had remained locked too. Looking around the darkroom, Frank’s guess had been that no one had touched his things. He packed up one set of prints and hid the second in his room, satisfied his secret was safe.
But now, from the look on Officer Frey’s face, Frank wondered if Howard had gotten in, seen the second set of prints after all, and told Officer Frey about them. If so, he had a lot of dancing around the subject to do.
“Frank, would you have a seat?” Denzel motioned to a high-backed wooden chair.
Frank sat.
“Oh, can you close the door, please,” Denzel said, and Frank’s shoulders tightened at his friend’s forced smile.
“Yeah, sure.” Frank rose, closed the door, and his brow furrowed. He sat in the chair again, his posture erect and his stomach tight with tension. He looked from Denzel, to Officer Frey, then back to Denzel again. Frank held the large folder of photos he’d developed, along with the film.
Frey had mentioned earlier that he might ask Frank more questions about what he saw—or rather, didn’t see—last night on the trail, but from the tension in the room, something more was going on.
Why is Denzel acting so strange? Why is Officer Frey looking at me like that?
“So”—Denzel leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk—“Mr. Witt, I hear you have a problem with Officer Frey’s investigative skills.”
Frank’s eyes widened. Mr. Witt? “Oh, no, sir.” Back in England, he and Denzel had hung out at least once every week, maybe more. They’d trained together and taken leave together, but he’d never seen this side of his friend.
“Really? Is that true, Mr. Witt? You are not having a problem with my investigation?” Officer Frey crossed his arms over his chest. “One of the MPs, Howard Lenard, said you had a few questions for him today. He said that you questioned whether we’d investigated as we ought. According to him, you accused us—me—of falling short because I’m so focused on the war trials coming up in Nuremberg.”
“No, sir, that’s not what I meant. That sounds worse than I intended. I just know what I saw last night when I walked by that pond. I didn’t see any sign of Kat in the water.”
“That is a problem, you not seeing her in the pond. Especially when you claim to have been there after the time we assume she waded into the water. In fact, your statement is the one thing that keeps me from making a firm declaration. Everything else stacks up to suicide.” Officer Frey rose and moved to the window, peering out. He stood there for a moment, watching whatever was happening in the street below him. Frank wondered if he should say something. Then he decided it was probably better that he kept quiet.
Frank looked to Denzel, but his friend quickly looked away, staring instead at the ticking clock on the wall as if timing the silence.
Finally, Officer Frey turned and leaned back, sitting on the wide windowsill. “We examined Katherine Wiseman’s body and there indeed is no sign of injury. Her body was unmarked except for one small bruise on her arm that could have come from just about anything.” Officer Frey turned and studied Frank’s face.
“What about an autopsy, sir? Surely that would be the one thing that would tell us if she died by drowning—or by some other way.”
“Where do you think we are? Do you think the Los Angeles County General Hospital is right next door? This was a war zone just a few months ago. We have thousands of bodies in the morgue—shouldn’t all of them get the same treatment? Katherine Wiseman had a motive. She had the time to walk down there without anyone bothering her. There was no suicide note, but she spoke her intentions to an entire audience.”
Frank nodded, wondering why Officer Frey would take the time to explain all this to him.
“There’s only one thing that has me bothered, you see—it’s your statement.” Officer Frey’s gaze bore into Frank. “Because of what you said, I’ve taken more time to think about who could possibly want Kat dead and what his, or her, motive would be. It was not a robbery. She was still wearing her wedding band. She was not physically assaulted. She was loved and adored by many. Then…”
“Then?” Frank asked.
“Then, I started thinking about who would benefit from her death, and there were only two people that came to mind—you, and your friend Betty.”
Frank jumped to his feet. “Are you crazy?”
“Go ahead and sit, Frank. No one’s saying you did it.” Denzel rose, walked around the desk, and placed a hand on Frank’s shoulder.
Frank felt his chest tighten, and he placed a hand over his heart. It had never beat so wildly—not even when he was in a bomber that was being shot at by ground artillery. Reluctantly, he sat.
Denzel released Frank’s shoulder and returned to his chair behind his desk. “You’re not saying that you think either of them did it, right, Officer Frey?”
Officer Frey folded his hands on his lap. “No. I don’t think you killed her, but if someone did, the two of you would have the best motives.”
“How’s that?” Frank forced his voice to hold steady. “I don’t know how you could say that.”
“First of all, Songbird had the most direct access to Kat. She was no doubt trusted too. And now—” Officer Frey sighed. “Now, she’ll always be known as the girl who stepped up to save the day, by singing Kat’s last number. More than that, now she’s gonna be the star.”
“Betty was either singing or with me. Besides, there’s no way she could have killed Kat. She’s as gentle as a kitten. If you knew her, you’d know it’s impossible.”
“That’s also the conclusion I came to. That’s why I turned my attention to you.” Officer Frey said this in such an even tone Frank wasn’t sure he heard him correctly.
Frank placed the envelope on his lap and pressed his hands into his forehead, feeling an ache come on. Then he turned his gaze to his friend. “Oh, come on, Denzel, we’ve known each other for years. How can you possibly sit there and listen to this?”
Instead of answering, Denzel looked away.
Officer Frey stretched out his hand to the package Frank held. “Are those the photos?”
“Yes, sir.” Frank handed him the envelope.
>
Officer Frey opened the envelope and slid the photos out onto the desk. On the top of the pile were photos of Kat on stage the night before. There were a dozen decent shots. There were also a few of her running off the stage.
“I’m sure the newsmen will ask for these.” Officer Frey turned to Denzel. “You know how those newsmen are, don’t you? They’re always on the lookout for that one shot that will epitomize what they can’t say in a thousand words. We’ve seen it before. There are photos of D-Day and Iwo Jima that have made their way into the hearts and minds of every American. There wasn’t a paper in America that didn’t print those shots. I have a feeling, these last ones of Katherine Wiseman will get the same attention.”
Officer Frey sat at the desk, took one of the photos from the stack, and placed it in front of Frank. It was one of Kat on stage. Frank had captured her just as she first stumbled over the words to the song. Her blond hair was perfectly coiled. Her white dress flowed around her like an angel’s gown. The tops of soldiers’ heads were barely seen at the bottom of the photo, but Kat was not looking toward them. Instead, her face was lifted. She looked up into the sky with sad, mournful eyes. Her mouth circled in a sweet O, and tears rimmed her eyes. Her hands were partially lifted as if she wanted to lift off the stage and escape. It was a beautiful shot if Frank said so himself.
“This is a great photo, Frank. If Kat were to head home and start her movie, it might have made it to the back page of the Society Section. But now…”
Frank felt his hands begin to shake, and he was unsure if he was hearing correctly. He knew where Officer Frey was leading the conversation, but he didn’t know what to say—how to stop his words.
“Now that Katherine Wiseman is dead, this photo is going to make the front page of a thousand papers. No, make that ten thousand papers. Everyone is going to know this photo, Frank. And how lucky for you. You got the worst assignment known for a combat photographer, taking photos of showgirls—and now it’s the best luck you’ve had. I saw you signed up for high school classes too—need to finish, do you, so you can get a better job? That’s not going to be needed now. Not with this photo of Katherine Wiseman.”
Frank felt sick, and he wondered if he’d lose his lunch. Pain tightened around his gut and moved to his chest. He looked to Denzel, waiting for his friend to comment, disagree, anything. Denzel met his gaze, but his face remained expressionless.
Denzel’s not falling for this, is he?
“Do you—you really think—” Frank swallowed hard, forcing down the mix of anger and pain that tried to force its way up his throat. “Do you think that I would do this? I can’t believe you’re saying that.” Frank scooted to the edge of his seat, reaching a hand to Denzel as if reaching for a lifeline. “You know me. We’ve worked together for years. I’m a good man—a Christian man—I would never do such a thing.”
Denzel cleared his throat. “You put yourself there, on the crime scene, Frank. You told us you walked up that trail alone…”
“If there were any chance I was guilty, do you think I would have admitted to you that I was on that trail?” Frank ran his fingers through his hair and then lowered his gaze. He wished Marv were here. Marv would stick up for him—wouldn’t he?
Dear God, please. I know I haven’t been talkin’ to You much lately, but I need Your wisdom. You’ve got to help me out here.
“ Frank,” Officer Frey said softer, gentler than the harsh tone he’d used earlier.
Frank lifted his face, wiping the sweat beading across his brow. He met the man’s gaze, and then Officer Frey laid out the other photos on the desk. The photos of Kat in the water. The ones of her floating, eyes closed, pale, dead.
“Did you do this, Frank?”
“No, sir. I didn’t.”
“If you didn’t, do you know anyone else who would have a motive to kill such a beautiful woman?”
Frank shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know that either. I mean if she wasn’t robbed or—hurt.” Frank thought of the letters. He couldn’t discuss them, even if they’d save him from these accusations. Not that they held any answers, only more questions.
“I can’t think of any other motive either—not a good one. Not one that’s worth pouring time and resources into. Besides, there’s the fragility of our situation to consider. If I even mention the word murder, it’s going to stir up a lot of old fears that have been boiling under the surface. Right now, everyone’s getting along as well as can be expected. Jews are living among the Germans again. American GIs are welcomed around German tables for dinner. Displaced persons are finding jobs, homes. Fear leads to many unpleasant things. Old pains could be resurrected. A lot more people could lose their lives if they turn on each other. All the good we’ve done could vanish overnight.”
Frank nodded, understanding what the man was saying. There would be fear. There could even be further problems between the numerous nationalities living within the borders of the town.
Maybe they should be afraid. More things, worse things could happen if the killer isn’t caught—if there is, in fact, a killer.
Frank thought about it for a moment. To say Kat was murdered opened the door to looking for a murderer. Someone who set out to hurt her. Someone who would have a reason to do such a thing.
Maybe the letters had no connection. Maybe the letters were just a way for someone to try to get the Americans to leave.
Maybe Officer Frey’s right—maybe it was suicide.
“And then there are the other USO women we have to think about,” Officer Frey continued. “I can’t imagine them wanting to stay if they think they could be next.”
“Yes, I could imagine that happening,” Denzel commented, finally saying something.
Betty could leave. I’d never get to know her.
But maybe she should leave—maybe it’s dangerous. Maybe she should go where it’s safe.
The two thoughts battled each other.
Frank wanted her safe, but he also wanted her here. Near him.
“I understand all this, sir.”
“I don’t think you do, Frank.” Officer Frey leaned forward in his seat. “I honestly don’t. But if I were to investigate, you know now the direction I’d head first.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“I don’t want to investigate. I’d like to stick to my initial conclusion that Katherine Wiseman lost her life at her own hand.”
“Thank you, sir.” Frank let his arms drop to his sides, letting tension slide off his shoulders.
Officer Frey nodded, and then he turned his attention to Denzel. “Denzel, from what I hear, there will be newspapermen arriving soon. I’ve prepared a statement discussing Katherine Wiseman’s unfortunate suicide.”
Officer Frey lifted a satchel from the floor, took out a slip of paper, and placed it in front of Denzel. “I’d like this release to go out to each reporter, and”—He took the angelic photo of Kat and also placed it in front of the man—“and this photo. The statement talks about the death of Katherine’s husband, and her gracious attempt to perform one more time for the servicemen she loved, before being overcome by grief. It’s a touching story, if I say so myself. It’s a nice final tribute to a beautiful woman.”
Officer Frey rose, returned the rest of the photos to the envelope, tucked them into his satchel, and then walked to the door. “I’ll walk you out, Frank. You can attend the press conference with me.”
“If it’s okay with you, sir, I’ll sit this one out.” Frank stood, willing his legs to support him.
“The newspapermen might be interested in speaking with you—in hearing the thoughts of the man who took this last, beautiful shot of Katherine Wiseman.”
“No offense, sir. I’d rather stay out of this. I’m sorry she’s gone, and I don’t need any honors.”
Officer Frey nodded. “I understand, Frank. I think you’re making a wise decision. Let’s let Katherine’s memory remain, with all the wonderful things she accomplished in her lifetime
. She’s responsible for her life—and her death. Let’s not muddle that up with opinions.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Frank walked aimlessly down the cobblestoned street, unsure of what had just transpired in Denzel’s office.
“What was that about? How could Frey think I had anything to do with this?”
He stopped short when he realized he was mumbling to himself. He turned and stared at a small church, replaying the events of the last twenty minutes over and over in his head. Trying to make some sense of the situation. Finally, he realized what he was staring at.
Unbelievable. Frank hadn’t noticed the small church before, even though he’d walked from his house to headquarters and back numerous times. It was a small, brick building, tucked between two taller, partially destroyed structures, as if forgotten. Its size and location had probably protected it from the bombs. While the commercial buildings around it had crumbled, the small church stood.
He stepped to the side as other soldiers and citizens walked by.
As Frank gazed at the church, awed that even the stained glass windows were still in place, he thought about a scripture passage his mother had taught him as a child, “And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.”
A rain of bombs fell, and this church still stands. If God protected it—He can protect me.
The thought filled Frank’s mind even before he had time to process it. What amazed him, really, was that during his whole time in the war he’d never felt as attacked as he did now. When he flew bomber missions, an unseen enemy shot at their plane, but it wasn’t him—personally—they were shooting at. It was the larger threat the plane represented.
There’d even been times during his undercover missions when he’d thought his cover had been blown, yet the tension he felt then was nothing compared to the ache inside of him now.
When Officer Frey—someone on his side— hurled those words, those accusations, it hurt. What rained upon him, pelted him hard, wasn’t a physical attack, but fear. Fear that his effort to learn the truth about Kat would lead to unthinkable accusations. That by trying to find her and help her, he would be considered a potential suspect should her death be ruled a murder.