The Last Government Girl. Ellen Herbert

didn’t kid himself, though. Mrs. Frazier ran a house of ill repute, and the young ladies who entertained gentlemen downstairs in the evening weren’t really her nieces. But whenever Bess’s voice sounded in his head, he cut her off like a spigot. He’d been living the sweet life here on 14th Street for two days and did not want it to end.

      After his bath, Mrs. Frazier wrapped him in a big cotton towel and led him to his bedroom, where he sprawled across the bed and watched her. She opened her silky dressing gown, dropped her drawers, and presented her big soft breasts to him. He held them and suckled their brown tips until she climbed on top of him and rode him into the dawn.

      “Thy rod it comforts me,” she whispered in his ear, giggling. “Can you tell my daddy was a preacher?” After they were done filling up with each other, they shared the rolled cigarette on his bedside table before she curled next to him and slept.

      He lay back against the pillow. Through the blinds, fingers of sunlight reached across the flowered bedspread. He didn’t know when he’d been this happy. Yes, he did. It was before he and Bess married, when he imagined they would have a lifetime of such bliss.

      The rain stopped at last, and he was sorry for it. That rain had blessed him.

      Jeremiah had left his wet boots on newspaper beside the door. From here he read the headline: Government Girl Murdered in Arlington Cemetery. Carefully he got to his feet without disturbing Mrs. Frazier, and crept to the newspaper. He picked it up and returned to her warm nakedness.

      The paper was dated Tuesday, May 30. On the bottom front page of The Washington Herald was a photograph of the murdered girl taken from her high school yearbook. She could have been Doris. Her dark eyes sent a quiver through him as if Doris was speaking to him.

      The story continued on page six with another photograph of two men taken through a car windshield. A colored man named Alonso Crooms was driving. The other man was identified as Jessup Lindsay, a special agent with the FBI. According to the story, Jessup Lindsay was a famous detective, who’d caught the Dothan child killer and went on to solve murders all over the South. The reporter couldn’t confirm what Lindsay was doing in Washington City, but the reader could make an accurate guess. This girl’s murder wasn’t the first, and Jessup Lindsay was trying to find the killer before he killed again.

      This idea sent Vernon’s heart thumping: before he killed again. He knew what he had to do.

      10

      Vernon walked around the circle, where the statue of General Thomas on horseback watched over the junction of Massachusetts and Vermont Avenues. Steam drifted up from asphalt the color of licorice. The general and his horse were pointed in the direction Vernon was headed.

      A young boy selling newspapers called, “Troops in France, our troops in France.” Vernon bought a Washington Post, whose headline read: ALLIES LAND IN FRANCE, WIPE OUT BIG AIR BASES. Before he could read more, the streetcar approached, its bell clanging.

      Onboard everyone was excited about D-Day. Strangers talked to each other like friends. In his “Fireside Chats,” the President kept saying they were all in this war together, and today his words felt true.

      “This is what everyone’s been waiting for,” Vernon said to the elderly man beside him in a suit that smelled of mothballs.

      The man gave a sad smile. “Our men landed on those beaches, but at an awful cost, I’m afraid.”

      Vernon patted his shoulder. “I take your meaning.” Many American boys must have died already. He sent out a prayer for the troops. “What does the D in D-Day stand for?”

      “Wondered that myself,” the man said. “I know they landed in a place called Normandy.” Tears in his voice. “The Germans were dug in and waiting…”

      Vernon closed his eyes. He’d never seen the ocean, but he went to picture shows and could imagine the dark swells, boats opening up in the water and from the shore that awful mechanical rattle of machine guns, death in the salty air.

      The Justice Department took up an entire block. He marveled at its roofs that went on forever, as he walked around the five-story marble mountain. It fronted Tenth Street and Constitution Avenue. Its deep windows reminded him of watching eyes.

      His hand dug in his pocket, and he touched the silver bars. She would stop haunting him once he did this. Of that he was certain.

      But it wasn’t going to be easy giving the pin to Agent Jessup Lindsay.

      Could he march into the huge lobby, hand the pin to the man behind the desk, and tell him to give it to Jessup Lindsay?

      The troops rode those boats onto the beach and jumped out, knowing the Krauts were dug in, guns pointed. If they could do such a brave thing, why was he scared to go into the FBI building? It’s not like anyone was going to shoot him, but he might get arrested. He had stolen evidence from a murder and left Doris on the towpath. He might even be accused of killing her.

      But for his peace of mind, he had to give the pin to Agent Lindsay. Maybe he could mail it to him, but what if the pin got lost in the mail? No, he had to do this right. He had to put the pin into the man’s hand.

      He crossed Constitution and bought a peach from a street vendor set up in front of the National Gallery of Art.

      “Which side of that building is the entrance to the Bureau of Investigation?” he asked.

      “This side.” The swarthy man grinned showing a gold tooth. “Want to see a real G-Man?” He winked and pretended to shoot a Tommy gun.

      Vernon remained solemn. This was no laughing matter. He was here to dispel a ghost.

      He kept his vigil in front of the Justice Department, walking back and forth. A little after six o’clock, people poured out. Government girls emerged in twos and threes. In their pale summer dresses the color of flowers, they almost floated down the street toward the streetcar stops on Pennsylvania Avenue.

      He was about to give up when Alonso Crooms emerged from the building. Vernon recognized him because he was over six feet with skin about as light as a colored man’s could be. And he wore the gray fedora he had on in the newspaper photograph. He crossed to the vendor Vernon had bought from and filled a bag with peaches.

      Vernon followed him across the street and around the building to the streetcar stop. A block away, the streetcar clanged its arrival.

      “Al,” a man called from the crowd. The man was Jessup Lindsay. He was a little shorter than Alonso with wavy brown hair. Both men had the same notched chin and large wide-set eyes. Lindsay’s left arm was a shriveled pale thing that ended a little above his elbow. Vernon hadn’t expected a famous detective to have only one arm.

      Both were dressed in dark cotton trousers, white short-sleeve shirts, and dark ties, the same as most of the men coming out of the Justice Department.

      The streetcar approached clickety-clack, clickety-clack the steady ring of its bell a warning to government girls and messenger boys on swerving motorbikes to stop crossing its path.

      Alonso ran for it, so did Vernon, who got on behind him and stayed close.

      In Washington City, coloreds could ride anywhere they wanted on buses or streetcars, but once they crossed into Virginia, they had to move to the back. Vernon had learned about Jim Crow laws once he got here.

      Folks crammed on. Vernon held to the strap overhead, swaying with the crowd.

      When they passed the Bond Bread plant near Florida Avenue and the yeasty aroma of bread filled the air, Vernon closed his eyes and was transported home. He imagined biting into one of Bess’s fluffy biscuits.

      He loved his wife, yet today he’d sinned with another woman and didn’t feel bad about it. He had become a true sinner, who enjoyed his sin and hoped to repeat it soon.

      At the stop after Florida, Jessup and Alonso got off. The pair met beside the curb. Vernon got off, too, hanging back so they wouldn’t know he was following.

      He