Phil looked down at the murdered man, then at him. “Sorry about what I said back there. You got a tough job ahead of you, sure enough.”
Thinking of his family, such as it was, he answered, “We all do.”
Surprisingly—maybe because of the rain—the lobby of the Portsmouth Police Department was empty except for a desk sergeant, hands folded across his belly, eyes closed, head tilted back. The police station was in a brick Victorian at the corner of Daniel and Chapel streets, sharing its quarters with City Hall. The county jail was just around the corner on Penhallow Street.
Sam went up to the second floor, where his boss had his office. Most cities had a police chief, but Portsmouth was always a bit different, even in the colonial days, and had a city marshal instead.
Sam’s desk was in a corner just outside of Hanson’s office, facing a brick wall. There was a cluster of filing cabinets, another desk for the shift sergeant, and a third desk that belonged to the department’s secretary, Linda Walton. The door to Hanson’s office was open, and Sam went up to it, looked in. His boss waved him inside.
“Have a seat, Sam,” the marshal said.
Harold Hanson was sixty-three years old, had been on the police force for nearly four decades. He’d seen the force grow and shed its horses and get Ford patrol cars and the very first radios and an increasing professionalism, trying to break the grip of the payoff pros who ran the bars and whorehouses at the harbor.
Oh, there were still juke joints and bawdy houses on the waterfront, but if they were discreet, and if nobody made too much of a fuss, they were ignored. As far as who was on the take nowadays, Sam didn’t ask questions. He didn’t care what was going on with the other members of the force, what shameful secrets they kept, for Sam had his own. But keeping quiet and staying away from whatever money was being passed around also meant that when he was a shift sergeant, he always had the night and weekend shifts. The price, he knew, of doing what he thought was right.
Hanson’s pale face was pockmarked, he wore brown horn-rimmed glasses, and his usual uniform was a three-piece pin-striped suit. Tonight the coat was on a rack, and his vest was tight across his chest and belly. His pant legs were darkened with rain splashes, but his shoes were dry and freshly shined. On the wall were framed certificates and a few photos: Hanson with a series of mayors over the years—including the most recent, Sam’s father-in-law—a couple of New Hampshire governors, a U.S. senator, and in a place of pride, the President himself, taken three years ago on a campaign swing through the state. And there was a photo of Hanson wearing the uniform of a colonel in the state’s National Guard, where he was one of the top officers in the state, working for the adjutant general. In addition to being the city’s lead cop, he had connections among the politicians in D.C. and in Concord, New Hampshire’s capital.
Hanson sat in his leather chair, and Sam sat across from him in one of the two wooden captain’s chairs. Hanson said, “I heard about the dead man over at the tracks by the Shanty. What do you know?”
“Not much,” Sam said. “A hobo from the encampment spotted him and flagged down Frank Reardon, and then I was brought in.”
“Cause of death?”
“Don’t know,” Sam replied. “The body’s been picked up for transport to Dr. Saunders’s office. I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Not run down by a train?”
“No.”
“Nothing else apparent, then. Gunshot wound, knife wound.”
“No, nothing like that,” Sam said.
Hanson leaned back in his chair, the wheels squeaking. His face was impassive, and the lack of expression made Sam shiver a little.
Sam knew his promotion to inspector was due to political play among the police commission, his father-in-law, the mayor, and Hanson—other candidates were unacceptable, and Sam was a compromise—and he still wasn’t sure if Hanson was on his side. Hanson was loyal to his fellow officers to a point, but it was known that Hanson was loyal to Hanson, first, second, and always.
“All right.” Hanson leaned forward, picking up a fountain pen. “Any ID?”
“No papers, no wallet. Just a tattoo on his wrist, some numbers.” In his mind’s eye, Sam saw those numbers again: 9 1 1 2 8 3.
“Luggage? Valise? Anything in the area that might have belonged to him?”
Sam knew he was disappointing his boss but couldn’t help it. “No.”
A tight nod. “All right. What next?”
“Right now Frank Reardon and Leo Gray are conducting a canvass, and I expect their report later tonight. When we’re through here, I’ll type up my notes, give you a copy, send a telex to the state police. Tomorrow I’ll check in with the medical examiner.”
Another nod. “Good. We’ll talk again tomorrow. And Sam? If it’s just an untimely death, if there’s nothing to indicate foul play, drop it.”
Sam shifted in his seat. “But… it might take some time. Blood work from the ME, looking for witnesses, getting him identified—”
