Secret of the White Rose by Stefanie Pintoff Page B

overhearing, turned to give him a scathing look. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re Americans, now.”
    Except that we weren’t. Men like Savino might choose to deny it, but the reality was that our immigrant past stayed with us—and the General’s words only reflected broader department policies. There had yet to be a police commissioner or top deputy who wasn’t of English or Irish background—and I doubted there would be in my lifetime. Men like Green, Savino, and me were here only because of President Teddy Roosevelt’s efforts when he was New York City’s police commissioner ten years ago: he had implemented the entry exam now required of all new patrolmen, replacing the old patronage system that had relied upon bribery, connections, or both.
    General Bingham fancied himself a reformer, too—but he was no Teddy Roosevelt. The General’s manner was brusque, his speech was blunt, and he lacked the unique blend of enthusiasm and discretion that had enabled then Commissioner Roosevelt to accomplish sweeping changes. The others might be angry that Roosevelt’s successors hadn’t done more, but I’d decided long ago that resentment accomplished little—and I didn’t care to waste my own efforts on what couldn’t be changed. Life never would favor all of us equally. And the crime victims I encountered through my job were a frequent reminder that the common goal I shared with my fellow officers—that of solving violent crimes—was far more important than the differences that separated us.
    A slight man with hunched shoulders scurried into the room and took the seat beside me, glancing nervously at his pocket watch. The General addressed him loudly. “Couldn’t make it on time, Petrovic?” He fixed an icy gaze on the latecomer.
    “Sorry, sir,” the man mumbled in embarrassment.
    “We’ve got important business this morning.” The General’s speech was clipped, and he almost swallowed his every word. Pounding his fist on the table with such energy that his wheelchair spun back at least two feet, he said, “Last night, an esteemed judge—an honorable man—was brutally murdered in his own home. We needn’t look far to find a compelling motive. Judge Hugo Jackson was presiding over the Drayson trial. In fact, many of you here in this room were involved in the aftermath of the bombing Drayson is accused of orchestrating.”
    Comments like “damn anarchists” reverberated throughout the room as several heads nodded.
    “Judge Jackson was on the verge of sending Drayson to the electric chair—a powerful motive for Drayson to orchestrate the judge’s murder from his very jail cell. Of that, I have no doubt.” The commissioner paused dramatically. “The challenge for us will be to round up those anarchist scum who are helping him.”
    “Round up?” Big Bill Hodges arched an eyebrow. “No offense, General, but when these men know we’re looking for them, they disappear. Think how long we’ve been trying to arrest Max Baginski. The worst of ’em all, and we can’t catch him.”
    “That’s why we need a different approach,” the General responded with a broad grin. “It’s why you men are here.” He turned his icy blue stare toward the four of us. Was it my imagination, or did it linger just a moment too long on me?
    He turned to the deputy on his left. “Bring in the boy.”
    The deputy disappeared, returning moments later with a young man of about seventeen, his hair a tangled mass of straw curls. He came to stand awkwardly beside the General, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets.
    “This is Oliver,” the General announced. “We recruited him last summer after the bombing—and I’m pleased to say that he has successfully infiltrated a group of anarchists who meet regularly at Philipp Roo’s beer hall. He’s got names for us.” He clapped the boy on the back. “Specific names. And if we can’t find the men who are named, then we’re going to target their families. We’ll make