by Joseph Kanon
“So you understand the science?” Groves asked, curious.
“Does anybody understand the science?”
Groves looked at him.
“A little,” Connolly said apologetically. “Enough to know what can’t be said. Which is just about everything. Right down to the word atom. Anyway, I’m familiar with the operation.”
“Good. Then I don’t have to tell you. Over a thousand incidents, and so far, not one leak and not one day of work lost. This isn’t going to be any different. You do your job right and the scientists aren’t even going to know you’re here. What’s the matter?” he said, catching the look on Connolly’s face.
“General, I’m just trying to figure out if I’m here because I don’t know anything or because you don’t want to. Are you trying to catch this guy or not?”
Groves raised his eyebrows. “That’s an interesting question,” he said finally. “I’m not sure. If somebody robbed Bruner and bopped him over the head, I hope the police catch him. But not if it means taking five minutes away from the project. It’s just not worth the time. Hate to put it like that, but it’s the truth. Do you have any idea how important this is, what we’re doing here? I know you keep it out of the papers, but do you know what it means? We could end the war.” He said this calmly, matter-of-factly, without the usual bond-drive fervor, so that Connolly took it as literal. “Right now you’ve got thousands of boys dying every week. You’ve got Curt LeMay running those B-29s over Japan like the wrath of God. We have no idea how many casualties. None. And the invasion will mean more and more. We can stop that if we finish the work here. So no, I don’t care if they catch one killer—we can catch millions. Unless it isn’t just a robbery. Unless it’s about the project. That’s what we’ve got to know.”
“Okay,” Connolly said, “so we want to find out if his being murdered had anything to do with the Hill, but we don’t want to bother anyone on the Hill finding out.”
Groves looked at him steadily. “Now you think you’re being funny. I allow one wisecrack, and now you’ve had yours.”
“Sorry. I just wonder if you’re giving the police a fair shake. Or me, for that matter.”
“Fair doesn’t apply to you,” he said evenly, “you’re working for me. The police? They took their own sweet time getting in touch, by which time the physical evidence—if there was physical evidence—didn’t amount to much and the papers already had the story. That’s the last thing we want. Luckily, it’s still a John Doe to them, no connection to the Hill at all. You make sure it stays that way.”
“So you put a lid on it.”
“Sealed. For good. The police will cooperate. Well, I guess they have to. They’re not even allowed up here.”
“And they still think it might have something to do with his being homosexual?”
“Now that’s just what I mean,” Groves said, louder suddenly. “Where do they get that? Says who? I do not want allegations like that going around. We’ve never had anything like that up here, and once that kind of rumor starts—” He trailed off, blushing, and Connolly realized that the subject was an embarrassment for him.
“General,” Connolly said calmly, “if he was homosexual, that would constitute a security risk all by itself. You know that.”
Groves looked at him and sat down, a kind of body sigh.
“Yes, I know that. But do you know what it means when you start a scare like that? I’ve seen it happen, down in Miami. The army goes on a queer hunt and there’s no end to it. You’ve got everybody looking over his shoulder and wondering, and that’s just the kind of mess I’m trying to avoid here.” He paused. “We don’t know anything except Bruner got caught with his pants down. Whatever that means. I want you to find out, but I don’t want you turning the place upside down to do it. There’s no need to smear this man’s reputation. For all we know, he didn’t do anything more than run into some drunk Mexican.”
“General, can I be frank? It’s unlikely the police are going to get anywhere—they aren’t even being told the man’s name. I take it you don’t want to call in the FBI—”
“Are you out of your mind? You do that and you’ve got Washington all over it and I’ll never get anything done. The FBI hasn’t been allowed near this project since 1943, and I intend to keep it that way. War Department intelligence takes care of the Manhattan District of the Army Corps of Engineers. That’s enough for me.”
“Except Bruner was intelligence.”
Groves peered at him. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? That’s what we can’t get past. He wasn’t just anybody. He was G-2. I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m paranoid, remember? I don’t know what’s involved here or who else is involved. I don’t know whether he was a fairy or not, but if he was we had no idea. Now that makes me worried.”
“So, an outsider,” Connolly said.
“McManus said you were like a dog with a bone with a story.”
“That’s reporting. I haven’t done that in a while. And that’s still not being a policeman.”
“The war makes us all into something different. I never met a reporter yet who didn’t think he’d make a better cop than a cop. Besides, you’re what I’ve got. You’re educated, so you can talk to the geniuses here without getting everyone riled up. You’re used to the police—Tommy said you covered the police blotter in New York before the war. If you can handle that, the police in Santa Fe should be a piece of cake. You’ll be official liaison to the chief there, by the way. We don’t want them to feel we’re not cooperating with them. And you’re already briefed on the project. Darn few have been, I might add, and nobody really knows it all except Robert.”
“And yourself.”
“And myself. And sometimes I wonder about that.”
Connolly smiled. This was about as far as Groves was likely to go toward making a joke, and he appreciated the effort.
“Well, now at least I know what my qualifications are.” In spite of himself, he was pleased. He hadn’t expected to like Groves, and now he found himself wanting his respect.
“And you were available,” Groves said bluntly. “There wasn’t time to get anyone else up to speed. I don’t know what we’ve got on our hands here, but we’d better find out PDQ. Any questions?”
“Not now,” Connolly said, getting up. “I assume everyone in G-2 knows I report to you?”
“Mills does. Colonel Lansdale’s away, so you work with Mills. As far as anyone else is concerned, you’re Bruner’s replacement. As far as Mills goes, you’re Bruner’s replacement and you’re investigating his death. If you need to reach me in Washington, Betty will always be able to find me. And of course Dr. Oppenheimer knows everything. If for any reason I’m unavailable, consider him me.”
Connolly smiled inwardly at the pairing, some odd Jack Sprat variation.
“So he’s one of the trustworthy scientists. Not one of the kids.”
Groves’s face grew stern. “Dr. Oppenheimer is a hero.” It was said utterly without irony, the highest accolade this spit-and-polish military man knew, and Connolly wondered at the intensity of his feeling. It seemed to have the brusque affection of old campaigners whose trench scars could never be shared. “He may just win this war for us. And he’s got enough here on his shoulders,” Groves said, standing, displaying his own capable frame, “without having to worry about some German G-2 going and getting himself killed.”
“Bruner was German?” Connolly said, surprised. “I hadn’t realized that.”
“Well, German born,” Groves said. “He’s American now, of course. Or was.”
“Is that usual? In G-2, I mean?”
“There’s nothing in that. He was fluent in both German and Russian, which comes in handy around here. Half the people on the Hill are from somewhere over there. There’s never been a question of his loyalty, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Let’s just say I knew who he was. I try to keep tabs on everybody, but it’s imposs
ible these days. The place is just too big now. Lansdale always thought highly of him. As I say, there was never a question of his loyalty.”
“There was never a question of his being murdered, either.”
Groves stopped, not sure how to respond, then brushed it aside. “You’d better get started. Anything else?”
“No, sir. I appreciate your confidence. One thing. Every reporter knows most murders don’t get solved unless the wife or the husband did it. I don’t want you to expect too much.”
Groves looked at him. “I like to get started on the right foot. I think we have, so let me tell you exactly what I expect. I expect you to get this job done, no excuses, which is the same thing I expect from everybody. I expect the contractors to put up buildings in half the time they usually do. And I expect the professors here to deliver our gadget on time. So far we’re on schedule. No leaks, no trouble. The only thing we can’t seem to solve is getting enough water. Now, you come back and tell me I’ve got nothing else to worry about and I’ll be the happiest man on earth. I hate to worry, it slows things down. So you go and do that. And you should know, I always get what I expect.”
Connolly stared at him, not sure what to make of this vaudeville turn, but since Groves seemed perfectly genuine in the part, he saluted. “Yes, sir.”
Groves saluted back, a surprisingly careless wave of the hand. “I’ll be back in a few weeks. By the way,” he said, a slight smile beginning on his face, “don’t think my bark is worse than my bite. It isn’t.”
The housing office was in one of the old school cabins, dwarfed now by another huge water tank. Mills had arranged for him to have Bruner’s room, and Connolly guessed this had violated the usual waiting-list order of things, because the clerk was surly as he signed the forms.
“Nothing’s been done to that room,” he said. “Nobody told us. You better change the sheets. Lieutenant,” he said to Mills, “can you kit him out over at housekeeping? We’re about to close here.”
“Sure. How’s my Sundt duplex coming?”
“In your dreams.”
“Bathtub Row?”
The clerk didn’t even bother to answer.
“Want to translate?” Connolly said as they went outside.
“Bathtub Row’s for the top brass—they’re the old buildings from the ranch school, which means they were actually built for people. They’re the only housing on the Hill with tubs, not showers, so they’re considered the top of the line. Of course, they don’t get much water either, so big deal.”
“Sundt?”
“Construction company that built a lot of the Hill. The housing units are named for whoever built them, so you’ve got Sundt units and Morgan duplexes and McKee prefabs—those are the flat-tops—and Pascos. Then you’re down to trailers and huts and whatever keeps the cold out.”
“I assume Bruner wasn’t in a Sundt.”
Mills grinned. “No, we’ve got a nice dormitory room for you.”
Later, walking down the dusty road with piles of sheets and towels, Connolly felt more than ever that he’d gone back in time to school. The dormitory was the familiar dull green army clapboard, but the dayroom inside, with its Ping-Pong table and Remington cowboy prints, had an undergraduate look, and the rooms were the same glorified cubicles you’d find on any state campus. The polished wood floor was bare, reflecting light from the uncurtained windows, but a curtain of sorts had been hung along the frame of the indented closet area. Aside from the single bed, there was a small desk, a reading chair, a short bookcase, and a hotel-standard imitation Sheraton chest of drawers with a Bakelite radio on top. The room was almost aggressively neat, as if the slightest rearrangement of the furniture would put it hopelessly out of kilter.
“Well,” Mills said, dumping the linens on the bed, “welcome to Boys’ Town. It ain’t much and it sure ain’t home. I’m just down the hall, so I should know.”
“I thought he said nobody’d touched the room.”
“Nobody has.”
Connolly opened the top drawer to see neatly folded handkerchiefs and pairs of shorts. “Signs of life.”
“Well, I’ll let you get on with it,” Mills said. “Dinner’s in the commissary—that’s just beyond P Building, the big one with the bridge. You won’t have any trouble finding it—just follow the smell of grease. Motor pool’s on the other side, so don’t get confused. Workday begins at oh eight hundred, but that’s up to you, I guess.”
Connolly continued to go through the drawer, carefully moving pieces of clothing as if reluctant to disturb the dead. “What do we do with this stuff?” he asked.
“Beats me. No next of kin, if that’s what you mean. I thought you’d want to go through it before we pack it up. I’ll get you a box tomorrow. I suppose we have to hold it. You know, as evidence.”
It was a question, but Connolly was preoccupied.
“I suppose. What happened to the next of kin?”
“Bruner was a German Jew. His parents are still there—or not—as far as we know. We have to assume not. No other relatives in his file.”
“Speaking of which, I’m going to need—”
But Mills was already pulling a manila folder from under his arm. “Bedtime reading,” he said, handing it over.
Connolly looked at him and smiled. “Why do I get the feeling you’re one step ahead of me?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll catch up. That’s all there is.”
Connolly glanced at the file. “Did you know him?”
“He worked in the section and he lived down the hall, so yes. But no.”
“Did you like him?”
Mills hesitated. “That’s some professional question. He was all right.”
“That’s some answer.”
“He was a hard guy to like.”
“How so?”
“He had an edge. He’d been through a lot and it showed. He couldn’t relax. I suppose he was always waiting for the knock on the door. A lot of the Germans are like that. They can’t feel safe, not after everything. You can’t blame them, but it doesn’t make them the life of the party, either.”
“What happened to him there? Specifically.”
“The Nazis thought he was a Communist and locked him up. He had a rough time.”
“Was he?”
“Not according to him. He was a student who attended a few meetings. It’s all in there,” he said, pointing to the folder. “In the security report. Even the Nazis couldn’t make it stick, so they finally let him out. This was years ago, when they were trying to deport the Jews instead of keeping them in, so they sent him to Russia.”
“They took him in?”
“Uh-huh. And then arrested him as a German spy. They were even worse than the Nazis. They pulled his teeth out, one day at a time. That’s why he had the plate.”
“Jesus.” Connolly imagined the wait every morning, the clang of the bolt in the door, the pliers and the screams and the blood. The spare, clean room suddenly seemed different, as if Bruner had tried to live as unobtrusively as possible, wanting to be passed over, out of pain.
“Yeah, I know. When they ran out of teeth they started messing up his hands, until I guess they finally decided he didn’t know anything. Just one of their little mistakes. So they got rid of him too. The rest is in there. It’s your standard refugee itinerary, with the usual red tape and crooks and helping hands until one day he’s drinking milkshakes in God’s country. And now this. Some life. You have to feel sorry for the bastard.”
“But you didn’t like him.”
“You trying to make me feel guilty? No, I didn’t like him. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but deep down he had no use for anybody. He was the kind of guy who was always looking for some angle.”
“But good at his job? Loyal American and all that?”
Mills grinned. “Yeah, all that. He liked it here all right, but more because I think he hated everywhere else. Maybe it was too late for him to make friends. He wasn’t the kind of guy who just came by
your room to have a smoke and shoot the breeze. Come to think of it, I think this is the first time I’ve ever been in this room. He hung out in the dayroom—he wasn’t a hermit or anything—but you never felt he was really enjoying it.”
“No close friends?”
“He may have. None that I knew about.”
“How about his social life?”
“By which you mean?”
“What you think I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Mills said slowly. “I always thought there might be somebody, but he never said anything. It was none of my business. It never occurred to me that it might be a man.” He looked up at Connolly. “I know what the police think, but there was none of that here. Ever.”
“Are you trying to tell me it’s safe to use the showers?” Mills let it pass.
“All right. What made you think he was seeing a woman? Or anyone?”
“His car. He loved his car. He was always trying to cadge extra coupons, and he used to love to show it off. You know, offer to take people into Santa Fe, things like that. And then more and more he was off by himself, so I figured he had a girlfriend somewhere.”
“How did he rate a car? I thought they were—”
“Oh, it was his car. He got it in ’forty-two, when you could still get them. A Buick. And the way he took care of it, it was probably as good as the day he drove it off the lot.”
Connolly looked around the room, imagining the furniture as immaculate pieces of engine. “I should probably take a look. Where is it now?”
“No idea. He took it down the Hill Saturday and neither of them came back.”
Connolly thought for a minute. “And now we only know where one of them is. Hard to lose a car, though. It’s bound to turn up someplace. I don’t suppose you know the local black-market heavyweights?”
“Black market? Never heard of it. That’s one thing we leave to the police.”
“The only thing, from the sound of it. All right, I’ll check it out tomorrow. I suppose it’s registered to a code number like all the cars here?”
Mills nodded.
“You guys like to make things easy.”
