Power in the Blood

by Greg Matthews

  “I’ll do it, and no one else gets near you either.”

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  “You won’t go and kill yourself in there, will you?”

  “I couldn’t deny the populace their pleasure. I’m mindful of your position here now, Dugan. You want this to go smoothly, don’t you?”

  “I’d appreciate it, frankly.”

  “Then I won’t spoil things for you. Go away now.”

  Clay closed the door. Inexplicably, he felt like weeping. There was something wrong inside his head, but he didn’t know what.

  Another visitor arrived at the jail. This was Mr. Quick, mentioned in passing by the preacher, and Mr. Quick explained to Clay that while most folk considered it a heinous task, dispatching the wicked to their just reward, Mr. Quick saw things differently. “It’s an opportunity,” he said, “to send these fellers that’s done wrong to the other side, where they’ll get judgment a damn sight more powerful than they got here. God Almighty, that’s the gentleman I’ll be sending this one to, just like the rest it’s been my privilege to send to the great beyond. God’ll give them what’s rightfully or wrongfully theirs, mark my word on it, and that’s why I’m content to do the work I do, see, because it’s all a part of the divine plan for apportionment of punishment among the wicked in this world and the next. I play my part, and play it with pride, because if it weren’t me as did it, then some fool that don’t know how to would come along and not be aware of just exactly what it is he’s doing and mess up the job, and that’d be a shame, is my way of looking at it.”

  Clay could think of no suitable comment.

  Maxwell was brought forth at the appointed hour. Dry Wash being located in arid country, it did not have any trees of sufficient height or strength to serve as a gallows. The permanent gallows built under Mr. Quick’s supervision had been destroyed by fire almost six months before, deliberately doused with kerosene and set alight by the widow of the last man to be hanged there, and the county treasury had not yet advanced any cash to replace it. Mr. Quick was not about to be cheated of his holy work, and so contrived a device utilizing the hay bale hoisting beam that projected from the loft of Monoghan’s livery stable. “Nice and high off the ground, so his boots won’t touch the dust,” Mr. Quick explained to Clay, “and the livery owner only wants a dollar for the use of it.”

  The dentist was taken up to the loft and told he must launch himself into the air, to plummet twenty-five feet or so before the noose around his neck should bring him up short and snap or dislocate his vertebrae, causing instantaneous death. He was assured of this by Mr. Quick. “It’s a darn sight better than getting hoisted slow and being strangulated gradual,” said the hangman, and Maxwell nodded to indicate his understanding of what was required.

  He stood in the large square opening through which hay was lifted into the loft, and addressed the crowd below, many of whom had left their outlying farms well before dawn to witness the hanging. “People,” he said, his voice carrying well from that elevation, “I do not deserve this fate, but I am resigned to it. You must have blood in requital for blood. I do see this, and yet I hate you. Yes, I hate you, and I place my curse upon you, every man and woman and child gathered here. You will all suffer terribly from dental decay from this day on, and your newborn children will have the fangs of wolves and will eat the hearts of their elders. Aah, I see you squirm in discomfort at my words, even though I do not myself believe in them. Only a fool gives credence to curses, and that, citizens of Sillytown, is the measure of your intellect. My last words will be to Marshal Dugan. Marshal?”

  Clay stepped forward, made nervous by his proximity to the edge of the opening high up in the livery stable’s wall. He could sense the anger of the crowd milling below. “Closer,” Maxwell told him, and Clay placed his head beside the mouth of the dentist. “Marry her,” whispered Maxwell. “She’s too fine to be what she is. You’ll see it in her eyes, if you have the courage to look.”

  Having said these words, he flung himself out from the opening, and just three seconds later met the limits of Mr. Quick’s hemp. Mr. Quick had apparently miscalculated either the distance of drop or the differing strength of individual bodies, for Maxwell’s head separated from his neck with an audible crack. His body continued to plummet earthward with barely a pause, to raise a cloud of dust there, while his head, with wildly staring eyes, was catapulted, by a twanging of the suddenly unburdened noose, high into the air, then came down in a leisurely arc to bounce among the spectators, whose screaming rose to twine about Clay’s ears.

  Mr. Quick was on hands and knees at the opening’s edge, aghast at the mayhem wrought below by his bungling. “It shouldn’t have.…” he said, time after time, as if repetition would wind back the moment and allow for a second chance at success. Clay watched the head that suddenly was at the center of a widening circle of fleeing people. He could swear Maxwell was looking up at him, staring directly into his eyes, the opened mouth repeating its final message.

  “All right then,” whispered Clay, “I will. See if I don’t.”

  29

  The highest echelon of Big Circle preferred that suicide be listed as the official cause of death in the case of Walter Morrow. Big Circle requested of the police commissioner that the one thing supporting a theory of murder—the missing key to one of the French windows—be ignored. The commissioner was not reluctant to accommodate the anonymous request, since it came with an envelope containing one thousand dollars. Big Circle wanted to investigate the death of one of its own.

  Initial suspicion fell on the well-coiffed head of Jared, since he was the immediate heir to Morrow’s millions, but he did seem an unlikely murderer. Jared’s sexual proclivities were known to several members of Big Circle, but they had never embarrassed Walter by mentioning the subject in his presence. Inquiries made by Melvin Hodge, a private detective employed on occasion by Big Circle, proved Jared had been at a notorious haunt of homosexuals on the far side of Denver on the night of the murder. Suggestions that Jared might have hired someone to perform the killing on his behalf were considered farfetched, yet there seemed to be no other motive for Walter’s death. Not a single article was missing from the study except for the window key. Hodge was instructed by a gentleman he knew simply as “Mr. Jones” to pursue the case and discover the identity of the killer, however long it might take.

  Hodge began shadowing Jared Morrow. Jared had been exhibiting signs of great distress since the death of his father, but Hodge did not necessarily believe the young man’s emotion was genuine. One night, while standing near the entrance to Jared’s hotel suite (Hodge had bribed the hotel’s own detective to allow him onto the premises for extended periods), Hodge witnessed the arrival of a smooth-faced fellow with a waistline Hodge could have spanned with his two meaty hands. The hotel detective informed Hodge the visitor was called Tatum, and seemed to be a favorite of young Mr. Morrow’s. Hodge waited all night for Tatum to emerge, then followed him to a restaurant where both ate ham and eggs and bacon, then continued on to what presumably was Tatum’s home, a room in a cheap hotel near the railroad station. Hodge slipped the desk clerk five dollars for the number of Tatum’s room and information concerning his comings and goings. He then made arrangements with the clerk to revisit the hotel at night, when Tatum was in the habit of rising from his bed to gamble and otherwise entertain himself until the hours just before dawn.

  Hodge waited that evening until he saw Tatum leave the hotel, then picked up a key from the desk clerk and climbed the stairs to Tatum’s room. He found it bare of any but the most meager possessions, although Tatum did appear to be something of a dandy in matters of dress. Hodge searched thoroughly, and was appalled to come across some illustrated volumes of an erotic nature that shocked him greatly, since the couples depicted in contorted embraces of one kind or another were exclusively male. Hodge knew Jared Morrow was a man-fancier, and Tatum was just too smooth of skin to be a genuine male, so Hodge was not surpr
ised to find such stuff; what did distress him was the arousal he felt within himself as he studied the pictures. Hodge was a married man with two children, and his reaction to the volume was inexplicable.

  He hurriedly replaced the book as he had found it, and tried to rally his professional instincts to continue with the job at hand. He went carefully through every drawer, examined the underside of the mattress, and found nothing to indicate Tatum might have killed Walter Morrow for Jared. There was no gun, not so much as a pocket knife to indicate that Tatum bore the least propensity for violence.

  Becoming a little despondent by then, Hodge sat on a chair and allowed his gaze to drift without particular purpose around Tatum’s lowly room. He had found nothing. It was likely Tatum was no more than Jared’s boyfriend. Mr. Jones would not be pleased that Hodge could unearth no clue at all to the mystery. Mr. Jones was himself a mystery to Hodge. He had used Hodge’s services several times, but never discussed his own identity or revealed his precise connection with the individuals Hodge was hired to investigate. Hodge suspected that Mr. Jones was working for someone higher up the ladder of wealth that grew out of Denver like a stairway to heaven. There were too many rich people controlling too much money, in Hodge’s opinion, but he had never breached professional etiquette by asking Mr. Jones to explain himself or the office in which they met. It might have been a lawyer’s office, or a businessman’s; there was no name on the door, just a silent bookkeeper in an outer room scratching at his accounts, or pretending to.

  It would not pay to be overly curious; Mr. Jones paid well, and always in crisp new notes. It would have helped, though, to know for whom he was working. Hodge would have liked to be aware of some link between himself and the powerful of the city, even if he had a lingering disapproval for such wealthy types, being himself the son of a shoemaker. He reminded himself that the persons Mr. Jones represented were unlikely to hire him again if he did not produce results, but he could not think for the moment where those results might be found. Could the mistress somehow be involved? There had been no binding contract between herself and her benefactor to cover the possibility of his death and her sudden removal from a position of comfort, according to Mr. Jones, but Hodge felt that maybe he should dig further in that direction anyway. He had certainly drawn a blank with regard to the son’s fay friend.

  He heard voices outside in the corridor, and went to the partially opened transom to eavesdrop, but quickly ascertained it was a foolish argument between a drunken man and woman, of no interest or use to Hodge. He had raised his face toward the transom while listening, and as the voices receded around a corner, Hodge noticed a streak of comparative cleanliness along the transom’s lower edge, as if fingers had reached up there a time or two and inadvertently brushed aside a portion of the accumulated grime. He reached up there himself, and felt his fingertips encounter a small metallic object. He lifted it down, and felt his heart begin to accelerate. It was a key, with an ornately scrolled hasp. Hodge knew it would fit perfectly the central French window of Walter Morrow’s study.

  He still had not collected payment from Jared, but the excuse seemed reasonable; it was too soon following his father’s death for Jared to have been granted control of the Morrow estate. “A few weeks more,” Tatum was told. He kept a close eye on Jared meantime, to make sure he kept his mouth shut when liquored. Tatum made the point several times that Jared was equally culpable under the law as an accessory to the act. “It was a conspiracy, my dear, and don’t you forget it.” He kept other young men away from Jared, would-be pickpockets who saw him as an easy mark for loans and handouts. Tatum wanted Jared to keep a tight rein on the mountain of cash heading his way, so Tatum alone could advise him on its investment and disbursement. That much money spelled considerable power for whoever controlled it, and Jared was a weakling, uninterested in the actual practice of business. Tatum would guide him, although he himself had no clear idea how fiscal worth was propagated. They would learn together, and Jared would do as Tatum told him.

  One evening about a week following the Morrow suicide (Tatum was especially pleased the police had no inkling it had been murder), as Tatum strolled along a quiet street, a coach rolled to a stop alongside him, and an elderly gentleman addressed him through the window. “Sir, do you know anything of medicine? My grandson here seems to have fainted.”

  “I’m no doctor, but I’ll look at him.”

  The coach door was opened, and Tatum stepped inside past the gentleman’s knees. The blinds were drawn, and he could see no grandson, but there were two burly men, and these grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled Tatum inside as if he weighed nothing at all. Before he could protest, a cloth drenched in ether was pressed over his mouth. Tatum heard the door close behind him, and felt the coach lurch into motion. He wondered, before lapsing into unconsciousness, if it was the police or Jared who had arranged his kidnapping.

  “Mr. Tatum? Can you hear me, Mr. Tatum?”

  He responded blearily. The room was unfamiliar, a farmhouse by all appearances. The three who had taken him into their coach were facing him. Tatum became aware of the ropes around his wrists and ankles, and the hardness of the chair beneath him. The only lamp burning was behind the elderly gentleman’s head. Tatum could see no one with any clarity. He knew then it was not the police.

  “Mr. Tatum, I wish to know who paid you to kill Walter Morrow.”

  “I didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”

  “A key was found in your room. I don’t need to tell you what key.”

  Tatum felt something slip inside himself. He never should have kept the little memento. That had been the act of a fool. The key should have been buried. They had him, and they knew they had him. He could deny it, but the two who had grabbed him in the coach would be happy to beat him insensible. An immediate confession, however, would not ingratiate him to them either. He would have to conduct himself with care.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “That does not concern you. Why did you do it? At whose behest?”

  “No one’s. I’m an anarchist. All robber barons should die.”

  The gentleman chuckled. “Come now, Mr. Tatum, you are no more an anarchist than my cat. For whom did you do it?”

  “Why should I tell you anything.”

  “John, show Mr. Tatum the wire cutters with which you will remove his fingers one by one until he becomes cooperative.”

  A long-handled device was dangled before Tatum’s face. He could smell the earth clinging to its cutting edges, and the smell suddenly made him feel sick.

  “Jared,” he said. “Jared told me to.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tatum. What was to be your reward for services rendered?”

  “Some money.”

  “The sum?”

  “No specific sum.”

  “Really? You murdered a man without first making a watertight deal? How very unprofessional.”

  “I guess that’s because I’m an amateur.”

  “Yes, that would explain the key. What do you think will happen to you now?”

  “That depends on who you are. You aren’t the police.”

  “Oh, no, not the police.”

  He chuckled again, and the two larger men joined in. Tatum felt his face burning with humiliation. He had not resisted at all; the wire cutters were too real, too ugly to defy with courage. He was a worm, a coward, a betrayer. Jared himself would have caved in no less quickly. Tatum felt he might vomit at any moment.

  “Tell me, Mr. Tatum, just to satisfy my curiosity: did you feel the slightest twinge of conscience as you sent your bullet into the head of a man you never met before?”

  “No,” said Tatum, in an attempt to recover his pride.

  “Not in the least?”

  “Not a jot.”

  “Dear me, but you seem somehow to be missing an essential part of the thing which makes us human, Mr. Tatum.”

  “Your opinion doesn’t interest me, old man.”

  “I do regret t
hat. Now then, what should be the manner of your death, do you think?”

  “I should choke on your cock, you old humbug shit fuck.”

  “I regret I am not attracted to such acts. John, do you think Mr. Tatum should lose his own cock for such impoliteness?”

  John stepped forward again with the wire cutters, and jabbed roughly at Tatum’s groin. Tatum could not accept that they would actually perform such torture on him, and John did seem to be conducting himself in a halfhearted manner that suggested a reluctance to continue.

  “Enough,” said the elderly gentleman. “We are all civilized men here; even you, Mr. Tatum. Would a bullet in the head be more to your liking? I see poetic justice in such an end.”

  “A bullet is fine.”

  “John, shoot Mr. Tatum in the right temple.”

  The cutters were dropped, their place in John’s hand taken by a revolver. Tatum felt the muzzle’s hardness against his scalp. The hammer was cocked. Tatum’s mouth became tinglingly dry, and he accepted that he was about to die. Curiously, he had no regret; this way was preferable to bleeding from a stumped cock. He supposed he should be grateful. The hammer fell. Tatum jumped as high as his bonds and the chair would allow. When he realized a trick had been played on him, he felt like weeping. Now he could anticipate nothing, control nothing, even the expression on his features. He realized also that the warmth he now felt in his pants was piss, and his shame was complete. They were laughing softly at his degradation.

  “Mr. Tatum, did your life flash before your eyes as they say it does at such a moment?”

  “No …”

  “A merciful thing. I’m sure a life such as yours is not worthy of review. Are you ready now for the true event?”

  “Get it done.…”

  “John, proceed.”

  The gun was placed again to Tatum’s head, the hammer cocked, the trigger pulled. Again the chamber was empty. Tatum felt rage building in himself.

  “Don’t you know how to load a pistol, you moron!”