Table of Contents
Tenth Precinct, Metro Police Department, Washington, D.C.
Monday, August 6th, 1945, 6.55 PM
Mercer climbed the station steps, evening daylight reflecting on the brick. Heat lingered, trapped in the ruddy walls, and followed him through the arched entrance. Inside, a high ceiling and swirling tobacco smoke. It echoed with telephones and typewriters. He crossed the tiled floor to the raised desk at the front of the room, occupied by Sergeant Ray Cole. His sleeves rolled above his elbows, a cigarette burning between Cole’s fingers. Mercer set his case down. Cole glanced up and placed the property book next to it. Mercer entered the items and signed off the list.
A radio muttered. Above him, a pair of electric fans whirred at opposite ends of the room, stirring warm air and fumes, as open windows did their little best.
Mercer coughed into his fist. Once, then again. A tightness in his chest, faint but familiar. He reached into his pocket, found a packet of gum, and freed a stick from its paper.
No cure, just a distraction. The mint changed the taste of the lived-in air. He crossed to his desk.
The detective at the next spot over glanced across. Jimmy Myers waved. “Find anything?”
“No smoking gun. Some personal items hidden under a loose board.”
Myers returned to his typewriter. “People don’t hide things for no reason.”
Mercer’s place: one chair, an overflowing in-tray, and a drawer that stuck in damp weather. A wire trash basket held crumpled paper, wrappers, and spent gum. He opened his notebook.
Mrs Benson’s initial call came in on August 1st—reporting Miss Schmidt absent. Rent paid until the end of July. On the 4th, Saturday, she telephoned the precinct a second time—clothes, luggage, and personal possessions left behind, and the rub, nearly five hundred dollars in cash.
Then the names.
Liesel Schmidt.
Greta Hoffman.
Evelyn Shaw.
He read the inventory from Benson’s boxes. A New York driver’s licence and Social Security card in Shaw’s name. Electricity bill. Rent receipt. One Manhattan address. He tapped the pencil against the page.
A Bonwit Teller bag. Department-store labels stitched into several dresses, coats, and blouses. Mercer did not pretend to know much about ladies’ clothes. He would have to ask, noting: expensive?
He wrote: Proof of identity. ~$500. Getaway money? He paused and added: Left behind. Then underlined it.
He used his gum wrapper as a bookmark and returned to Cole. “Sarge, I have a request for NYPD. Manhattan.” He proffered the details, finger on the spot.
Cole read the page. “Background checks?”
“Sure—need to know about these names. Are any on record?”
“If she moved here—from there, it’s for a reason—you think it might be a con?”
Mercer nodded. “Or she’s putting one behind her. Something went down in New York, and she came here to escape the heat. Changing her name and locations works either way.”
Cole pulled a message form from beneath the desk. “Which is the alias?”
Mercer took the gum from his mouth, folded it into its wrapper, and added it to the ashtray. “There’s more Shaw than Schmidt, but I can’t be sure.” He borrowed Cole’s pen and printed the details.
Cole signed and placed the bundle with the messages bound for Headquarters.
“Let’s see if they have anything on this broad.”
Some nice writing ya got there :)
I had a picture in my mind on chapter 2: real interesting that your writing reminded me of that vision!
Also, you are keeping me interested AND entertained! I want more!!!
Thank you! So very intriguing! 👍