“Surely, you’re not surprised?”
“Your ego surpasses your reputation. Not every New Yorker believes you’re the next Charles Dickens.”
“Your nose appears to have healed.”
Rynders looks as if he might jump out of his skin but, after taking a deep breath, says, “Time heals most wounds.” And then he disappears out the front door.
Miss Blackwell approaches Azariah. “We’re all very grateful to you,” she says, clearly not understanding the depth of his deception. She senses that Walt wants to speak to Azariah in private, so she corrals the students upstairs. “We’ve got work to do,” she says.
Whitman nods Elizabeth’s way, lets her know with his eyes that he appreciates her gesture.
Azariah’s ever-present smile is long gone, replaced by a blank stare.
“Mr. Smith, I know you risked your standing with Rynders in order to save the college.”
His eyes light up at this.
“And I know what kind of man Rynders is,” Walt says. “I’m not angry.”
“Really?”
Walt needs to find out what Azariah knows. What are Rynders’s plans for the college? What does Rynders want Azariah to learn? And what does Azariah know, if anything, about the Stowes?
“Let’s sit down,” Whitman is light-headed again, and the chills return. Yet he will not be deterred.
The boy does not sit.
Walt says, “You can trust me.”
Azariah paces restlessly, muttering to himself.
“Azariah?”
Nothing.
Walt tries again. “Azariah?”
All at once the boy stops. “Aw, hell, Mr. Whitman. I’m sorry but I gotta go.” And before Walt can protest, Azariah is gone.
Chapter 14
On his way to the Aurora to meet with Henry, Walt runs into the boy shouting the Herald headline “Suspect in Harris Murder Captured!” He flips four half-cent coins to the scruffy boy and leans up against the lamppost. It takes only one sentence for him to realize that Snuffy’s prediction has come true.
The article goes on to suggest that the City of New York wants to make an example of the suspect, that sheriff killers will not be tolerated. Mr. Warren will be tried and, if guilty, put to death within the week. As if that is not provocative enough, the last paragraph of the article exonerates Samuel Clement of any guilt, saying that Mr. Clement regrets the loss of life caused by the man who used to work for him. The writer of the article, James Gordon Bennett, cites Whitman’s own article in the Aurora as erroneous and scurrilous.
It appears as if Mr. Whitman has been caught up in the emotion of the moment, and given his attachment to the Stowe family, who can blame him? We must, nevertheless, move forward, brandishing the truth, as readers of the Herald have come to expect.
Walt slams the newspaper against the lamppost. How could Bennett be yet another mouthpiece for corruption? He checks his watch. If he keeps his appointment with Henry, he’ll miss out on his chance to visit James Warren before the jail closes to visitors for the day. He needs to act quickly, to see if Warren can help him find Clement again, and he owes it to Warren to make this right.
Inside the prison, Whitman finds a guard at the front desk, drinking coffee and eating a piece of bread with strawberry jam. “Good evening, sir.”
The guard continues eating. He’s a skinny older man with ruddy cheeks and knotty fingers.
“I’m Walt Whitman, reporter for the Aurora, doing a story on the recent grave robberies, and I understand you have Mr. James Warren in your custody.”
The guard takes another bite.
“I wonder if I might have a short conversation with the man.”
The guard says nothing.
Whitman sets a half-eagle coin on the desk.
The guard turns around to where a ring of keys hangs on a hook and motions for Whitman to follow. Inside, the corridor smells wet and moldy and is not much warmer than the air outside. He hears people he can’t see. Groans, coughs, and laughs.
They stop halfway down the hall, where through the bars he can see Snuffy sitting on his bed with his back against the wall of his cell. His face shows no expression when he sees Walt, who is not sure Snuffy recognizes him at all until the prisoner says: “How’s your head?”
“You two know each other?” the guard says.
“No,” Whitman says. “Not at all.”
The guard unlocks the door.
Snuffy watches Walt but says nothing. In the light, he looks considerably younger than Whitman’s own twenty-three, his face smooth except for a mustache that drips down his face like spilled ink.
“You have twenty minutes,” the guard says.
Walt waits for him to leave.
“You?” Snuffy says.
“I am as surprised as you are, James.” Walt hands him the Herald and points to the last paragraph, about Clement’s exoneration. “But I need your help.”
Snuffy glances at the paper, looks up. “Why should I help you? You’re the reason I’m here in the first place.”
Whitman says, “Read the article.”
Snuffy regards the newspaper in such a way that Walt knows he can’t read.
“Here.” Whitman takes back the newspaper and reads the last paragraph, emphasizing the words exonerate and Clement. “What do you think of that? Getting off scot-free while you await trial for murder.”
Snuffy stands up, paces nervously. “I told you this would happen, didn’t I?”
What can Walt say to that?
“Jesus!” Snuffy bangs his fist against the wall. “And what can I do anyway? I am guilty.”
“I was there, and you didn’t pull the trigger,” Whitman says. “You shouldn’t hang for the one who did.”
“And you ain’t no good as an eyewitness if they already let Clement off the hook.” Snuffy’s eyes meet his own. “So why did you come?”
“I want to help you,” Walt says. “But to do that, I need information.”
“Information?”
“About Clement. Tell me anything that will help me get him, and this will, in turn, help you.”
Snuffy shakes his head. “For starters, you can’t get Clement without provoking some very important folks.”
“I already know about Rynders.”
“Then you’ll know that to get Rynders, you’ll have to go all the way up the line.” Snuffy stands up and raps the bars with the tin cup he holds in his right hand. “He’s done, guard,” he yells. “Come and get him.”
“Wait.” Whitman stands up. “Isn’t there anything I can do for you in exchange for some information?”
Snuffy stops banging the cup. “What the hell can you do for me?”
“I can get you out of here.”
Snuffy bangs the cup again.
“I don’t know.” Walt looks at his notebook. “You have family, don’t you? I can take a letter to them.”
The expression on Warren’s face changes. “They’ll let you do that?”
“Sure. Tell me what you know and I’ll write a letter and deliver it myself.”
The door at the end of the hall opens. “What’s the racket?” The guard sounds annoyed.
Walt looks at Snuffy.
“Nothing, sir.”
“You okay, reporter?”
“Fine.”
The guard approaches the cell, looks around to make sure, and when he is satisfied, turns to leave. “Ten minutes,” he says. This time he leaves the hall door open.
Mr. Warren waits for the footsteps to stop. “Samuel Clement and Isaiah Rynders have worked together for years, and they protect each other. That’s how I knew this would happen. Rynders doesn’t need me like he needs Samuel.”
“Why shoot Harris?”
Warren says, “How the fuck should I know?”
“Harris and Clement were discussing the Mary Rogers murder?”
“Samuel is obsessed with death. It’s all he talks about. That’s why he likes digging up bodies, I guess. He says death is beautiful, and he means it.”
“Did he kill Mary Rogers?”
“I don’t know what he does in his free time. Would I be surprised? No.”
“Were you surprised when Clement shot Harris?”
Snuffy shrugs. “He’d run into the sheriff before while he was working the cemetery. They had an understanding.”
Whitman says, “Is that a yes?”
“I guess it is.”
“That’s it?”
“What else is there? Samuel is valuable to Mr. Rynders and until that changes, there’s nothing to be done. They’re hungry to make an example of me, and soon. I’ll be dead within the week.”
“That’s not good enough,” Walt says. “Start again, and tell me everything you know about Clement.”
Snuffy mulls over the question before speaking. “We had a room over on Ann Street, where they found me, but I doubt he’ll ever go back there.” He pauses. “You can sometimes find him at the Empire Club, Rynders’s place.”
“That’s common knowledge.”
“I told you I don’t know anything else.”
“Do you want to die?” Whitman grabs him by the shoulders. “They will let you hang unless you give me something useful.”
Snuffy thinks for a moment.
“I’m not as ignorant as you think I am,” Snuffy says. “Despite the fact I can’t read.”
Walt says, “I don’t think you’re ignorant.”
“You know I wanted to be a priest growing up? I liked going to school, but I had to stop long ago and forgot more than I learned. I helped my mother sew at home, and I was good at it. I only come to body snatching recently when the work dried up. I had to do something. We didn’t have any food. We didn’t have anything.”
Whitman waits for him to continue.
“Who will care for my mother when I’m gone?”
“You will,” Walt says. “If you give me something useful.”
Snuffy is thinking about what Whitman has said. “His sister is a prostitute named Frankie,” he says. “You can find her at John McCleester’s tavern.”
Walt wrote this down. “Anything else?”
“I don’t know, mister. If I knew how to get Clement, I wouldn’t be in here waiting for the hangman to get me out.”
“They haven’t even tried you yet.”
“You know better than that,” Warren says. “In court tomorrow, dead by Saturday. Got the jury together already. Rumor is, they’re going to make it real public, this one. Build a gallows right there in Washington Square. No damn sheriff killers.” Snuffy stops. “Anyway, that’s where you’ll find my mother, at the hanging. She’ll be the one in the front row, I guess, dressed in black and carrying her Bible. She’s short like me.” He pauses. “You ready to write the letter now, mister?”
Walt flips the page to a clean sheet. “Ready.”
Snuffy closes his eyes and chews his bottom lip. “Dear Mother—” He stops. “Will you write that the letter is from the jail here and the date too, seeing as how this is the last letter she’ll ever get from me?”
Whitman nods.
“I didn’t kill no one. That’s important to you, I know, the Ten Commandments and all. Did my share of grave robbing, but far as I know, that ain’t much of a crime. Tell the girls I love them. Pray for me. James.”
As he speaks, Walt adds words here and there so that the letter reads:
Dear Mother,
I wanted to tell you before my unfortunate death that I killed no one. I know that this will be important to you, a devout believer in the Ten Commandments. I did do a fair amount of stealing bodies, that’s true, but I was contributing to medical progress. Please tell my sisters I love them and I only wanted to do my fair share. You’ll be getting this letter from a Mr. Whitman. I’m praying for you, Mother, and I’m doing my best to believe that there’s a heaven out there where I’ll go. Pray for me?
Your son, James.
Walt looks up from his notebook. “Anything else?”
Mr. Warren is emotional. “Did I forget something?”
Whitman shakes his head. “It’s a beautiful letter. Your job now is to pray we don’t have to deliver it.” He stands, makes ready to leave, when the thought occurs to him. “You wouldn’t happen to know Azariah Smith, would you?”
“Azariah?” Warren’s face drops. “Where did you hear that name?”
“I’ve spent the past few days with him.” Walt sits down, crosses his leg, and says, “What do you know about him?”
Snuffy scoots forward on the mattress. “Azariah is Rynders’s son.”
“His son?”
“More like an indentured servant,” Warren says. “Rynders purchased the boy from his destitute mother to work for him.”
Walt thinks about the bruises. “How does Rynders treat Azariah?”
“You don’t want to know, mister,” Snuffy says. “But you want to stay away from the boy. Wherever Rynders sends that boy, death follows. I’ve seen it happen over and over.”
At this, Snuffy stops cold.
“What is it?” Walt says.
Snuffy puts his head down.
“What? Tell me.”
“It’s a miracle you’re still alive, mister, given the fact that you’ve been hanging around him.”
Whitman sits back on the bunk, his head shaking, and he knows that for once in the past several days, he was just told the truth.
Chapter 15
Walt is close now, and as he rounds the corner, he fervently hopes to have Henry all to himself. Through the office window, he can see a middle-aged woman pleading her case to Henry, arms flailing.
Henry is handsome, the way he sits up straight, his shoulders back, his smooth skin and attentive eyes. Walt catches himself grinning.
The bell rings when he opens the door, and the woman turns around. Her long dress is ripped in several places and her face is rough and wrinkled, which makes her appear older than she probably is. She stands up straight and shakes his hand, exuding a strength that reminds Whitman of his mother.
Behind her, Henry smiles. “Glad you made it, Mr. Whitman.” He emphasizes Whitman just as he did the night before, and relief washes over Walt. Then he sees the slightly younger man, scrawny and pale, sitting next to the woman—he’s hunched over in the chair, and one of his hands is curled up in a ball.
“We’re Ned and Harriet Runkel,” the woman says. “Maggie’s parents.”
Whitman takes off his coat. “Maggie?”
Mrs. Runkel pokes her husband’s shoulder. “See, he doesn’t even know who she is.” She turns to Walt. “It was Maggie’s body they stole the night of the sheriff’s murder.”
Images of the young corpse’s blue lips and cold, white face flash through his mind—he feels himself thrust back into the wagon, the smell of urine and feces and death, the way her face, punctured by the hook, rolled into his when the wagon turned. “Oh,” Walt says. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He looks over at Henry. “Shall I set the tea on?”
Saunders nods, then sneezes.
“Bless you,” Mrs. Runkel says.
Whitman approaches the wood-burning stove, kneels down, and opens the door. The fire turns his thoughts to Azariah. Where is he now? The hot air brushes Walt’s face. “A cold one today.” He lifts the kettle. It is full. “Tea will be ready in a minute.”
“I could use a cup of tea,” Mrs. Runkel says. “Sounds grand.”
“Me too,” Saunders says. “Do you need any help, Mr. Whitman?”
Walt turns, ready to say no, that he has the tea in hand, but Henry is already coming toward him. Their eyes meet, and Walt wai
ts.
Henry lowers his voice. “Is everything okay? I was worried when you didn’t arrive.”
Walt, still crouching, reaches for Henry’s hand, squeezes, then lets go, careful that the Runkels don’t see. “I had a few setbacks today. I’ll tell you about them once they’ve gone.”
Henry nods. “I’m glad to see you.”
Walt stands and looks at Henry. He didn’t notice until now, but Henry’s face is damp with sweat. And pale. “You don’t look well,” Walt says.
“How nice of you to say.” Henry smiles. “That’s what spending all night in the graveyard will do.”
Walt shakes his head. “I think I have a cold too. The price of justice. Shall we?” He motions to the Runkels.
Saunders nods, goes first, and takes his place across from the couple. “Tea will be ready shortly.”
Whitman sits on the bench next to Mr. Runkel, and the man’s demeanor changes—he straightens up and appears stronger. “Nobody has even looked for her,” he says.
“Pardon?” Walt says.
“For Maggie’s body,” Mr. Runkel says.
Saunders shakes his head. “That must be difficult.”
“We are grateful that they found the man who took her body,” Mrs. Runkel says, meaning James Warren, “but we want her back.”
The kettle rattles and clanks now. Walt stands. “Excuse me.” Over at the stove, Whitman dumps the tea leaves into the strainer. He empties the steaming water into the teapot, retrieves four cups and saucers from the shelf above the stove. The tea steeps for a few minutes before Walt pours, then distributes the cups, careful not to slosh it over the sides. His own tea burns his tongue. “Still very hot,” he says.
Harriet sets her mug down beside her on the bench. “An article on Maggie could help us find her body.” She breaks down, recovers, and blows her nose with a handkerchief she keeps bunched up in her left fist. “She deserves to rest.”
“It was your article today,” Ned says, “that led them to the medical students who bought Sheriff Harris’s body.”
He is right. Harris’s body was discovered in the NYU Medical College morgue. Walt learned of this in the same Bennett article that inspired his visit to Snuffy in the prison. Did the Runkels read it too? They must have if they know all this. Still, if they believed the Herald article, they probably would not have come here seeking their help.
Speakers of the Dead Page 9