Free Dead Lock by B. David Warner

tan police uniform to their limits, and his pants had long ago lost their crease. His shoes looked as if he had shined them with a chocolate bar.
    “I’m from the Soo Morning News,” I said. “I’m here to talk to the soldier you have in custody.”
    “I’ve got a lot of soldiers in custody.”
    “This one is here because of the stabbing.”
    “You’re from the News?” He looked skeptical. “What happened to Jack Crawford and Ben Donaldson? They’re the ones usually show up here.”
    “I’m new.” I reached into my purse for my press card. “My name is Kate Brennan.”
    The press ID seemed to do the trick. “I’m Deputy Ericksen, Miss Brennan.” He stood up and reached for a set of keys resting on a hook against the wall. “So, you want to see the colored boy involved in last night’s stabbing?”
    “The Negro soldier, yes. I’m here to interview him. It’s official newspaper business.”
    “All right. This way, please.”
     
     
     
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    I followed Deputy Ericksen toward a door in the rear of the lobby. He looked back over his shoulder. “I can’t let you in the cell, but you can talk to him through the bars.”
    “He’s not armed. What’s the danger?”
    “Policy, ma’am. He’s under arrest for murder.”
    He took a few more steps, stopped and turned to me, saying softly, “Don’t tell the sheriff I said so, but he don’t seem the type to be here. We see some of the same faces every week or so. But far as I can tell, this fella’s never been in trouble before.”
    “Why is he here, then?”
    “You heard what’s going on in Detroit? The rioting and all? Well, couple of the deputies thought the stabbing of a white woman might be some sort of retaliation for the arrests and beatings of the colored down there.
    “They found him walking alone, after the Army curfew. They said he didn’t seem to know where he was or where he was going. Or care.”
    “And that makes him a murder suspect?”
    The deputy shrugged. “Well, he’s all we’ve got.” He turned and resumed walking.
    We passed through the door at the back of the lobby and into a narrow hallway, my heels tapping against the wooden floor. Doors were closed on either side of the hall, but I could see a large room at the end. As we entered, my nose caught the smell of urine covered up with Spic and Span. There were three separate cells, one held four white prisoners, another five Negro soldiers. The third cell housed a single Negro soldier who sat on the bottom of a double bunk. He looked up as we neared the cell.
    “Cummins, this lady’s from the Morning News. Wants to talk to you.” He turned to me. “I’ll give you ten minutes.” I watched as he retraced his steps down the hallway, shoes beating time, echoing against the narrow walls.
    I turned to find the prisoner had stood. Roy Cummins was a light-skinned Negro just short of six feet in height. He wore a corporal’s uniform, wrinkled as if he had slept in it, which he undoubtedly had. But his shoes bore a mirror finish that reflected light. He approached me, putting his hands on the bars, but remained silent.
“My name is Kate Brennan,” I said. “I’m a reporter.”
His brow wrinkled. “Yes, ma’am. Do I have to talk to you?”
“No. You don’t.”
“Then why should I?”
    “For openers, there’s a race riot tearing a city to shreds downstate. And there’s a whole town of people up here who think you murdered a young woman. If there’s a side to your story, this is your chance to tell it.”
    “With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t care what your town thinks.”
    This wasn’t going to be easy.
     
     
     
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    I reached into my purse and retrieved a pack of Chesterfields I had bought a half hour ago at the Red Owl. I offered one to Cummins, who took it, and I put one in my mouth. I lit mine and handed him the lighter.
I inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke. “Sault Ste. Marie isn’t my town,” I said. “I came up here