Secret of the White Rose by Stefanie Pintoff

people who kill in the name of a cause. To put it another way, Al Drayson’s anger is fierce—but it’s a controlled anger directed toward capitalist targets. Not a judge like Hugo Jackson.”
    “But half the letters Judge Jackson received described him as ‘capitalist scum.’ That sounds a lot like Drayson to me.”
    A thoughtful expression crossed Alistair’s face. “True—and I don’t think Drayson would have had any issue killing Hugo if it fit his larger goals. He would do anything to further his cause. But, you see, his cause is what motivates him; he doesn’t care about the outcome of his trial or even whether he lives or dies. He wants to strike targets where major casualties will result—and where the newspapers will cover the damage, creating a news frenzy.” Alistair shrugged. “Killing one lone judge with a knife? It’s just not something Drayson would do.”
    “He tried to take out Andrew Carnegie,” I reminded him.
    “Carnegie together with an entire wedding party,” Alistair said. “And he would have succeeded, if the driver’s bomb hadn’t exploded prematurely.”
    My gaze wandered to the street across from us, filled with myriads of people rushing about. The sky above us had grown dark with threatening clouds, and everyone was in a hurry to reach their destination before the sky opened.
    “If Drayson didn’t kill Judge Jackson, then who do you think did?” I finally said.
    “We must return to the crime scene,” Alistair said, not unkindly. “Remember, criminals reveal themselves through their crimes. So I ask myself: What kind of killer has chosen not just to kill but to kill in this particular way? Why use a knife? Why leave the judge with his hand on the Bible and a white rose nearby? These choices signify something important. Something personal.”
    “You haven’t mentioned the music,” I said.
    A perplexed look crossed his brow. “The musical score among the judge’s papers?”
    I nodded, watching his reaction.
    He laughed, then slapped me on the back, beaming. “By golly, you noticed it. You’ve got quite an eye for evidence, ol’ boy. I figured I was going to have to explain it to you and convince you of its significance.”
    “If it’s important evidence,” I said, “we might have discussed it last night.”
    “Yes, but what’s to discuss? It’s part of the puzzle, to be sure. But I can’t make sense of it at the moment.”
    I stood, straightening my coat and hat. “I’ve got to get to the commissioner. We’ll talk later.”
    “Let me know what the commissioner thinks. I don’t envy you: having to describe this complicated body of evidence and explain why Drayson is not the killer we seek.”
    I gave him an incredulous look. “You expect me to tell Commissioner Bingham all this today? I’ll be kicked off the case, no sooner than I’m on it.”
    But Alistair merely smiled, saying dryly, “If anyone can handle the commissioner, Ziele, it will be you. I’ve always admired your remarkable ability to sidestep the pitfalls of police politics.”
    “Much the same way I marvel at how you’ve inserted yourself into the heart of the city’s most controversial criminal investigation in years.”
    “True,” he said, adding, “though in this case I was brought in by the judge’s widow.” He caught his breath. “Good luck with the commissioner.”
    Good luck, indeed. I’d need more than luck to keep my job after the grilling I was sure to get from Commissioner Theodore Bingham and the top police brass if I so much as hinted that the man they were certain was our killer—incidentally, the most reviled man in this city—was in fact as innocent of the crime as I was.

 
     
    CHAPTER 5
Police Headquarters, 300 Mulberry Street. 1 P.M.
     
    The chauffeured black touring car parked in front of 300 Mulberry Street signaled that Commissioner Theodore Bingham was in the building. I raced up the brownstone steps, entered the dilapidated lobby, and made my way to