“What did Williams say?”
“Nothing, really. Just that my evidence was unimportant because they already found the killer and had more than enough to convict him. I was surprised later when I found out their killer wasn’t Curt Nick.”
Mary was surprised, too. At the very least, he had to be an accomplice or a material witness. Most probably, though, he was the killer.
“Would you mind if I kept these things?”
“I’ve been holding them for over three years hoping someone would come back and ask about Curt. You’re the only one and probably the last, so they’re yours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. Do you have any idea where Curt went?”
“Couldn’t say. He lit out of here so fast.”
“I see. Well, thank you so much. You’ve been a tremendous help.”
Mitchell escorted her outside, stopping only to throw the apple core into the garbage can under the kitchen sink and to give Mary a larger paper bag to hold the bloody shirt. They shook hands and Mary climbed back into the buggy she had rented to ride back to the train station.
“I just thought of something else,” he said. “I don’t know whether it will help or not. He may have been joking or lying or just making excuses for being a lousy farmhand.”
“What?”
“When he said he wasn’t cut out for farmwork, he said he had never done manual labor before, that he was a doctor and doing some crazy study about what groups were suited for different types of work. Whatever that means.”
“I think I know what it means,” said Mary, who immediately had a certain doctor in mind.
Ever since Edgar had found out about Meg’s murder, he had spent every waking hour scouring the midway and the Gut for information about her killer. He had told Arthur he would have to get someone else to replace him, at least for a while.
“I can’t get someone on such short notice,” Arthur complained.
“I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m a professional, and I hate to do this to you, but I have no choice.”
“You’re a good kid, Edgar—”
“I’m far from being a kid. I’m twenty-seven.”
“Anyone under forty is a kid to me.”
Edgar chuckled. It was his first smile in days.
“Anyhow, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to shut down Kill the Coon for the next three days while I look for your replacement. If you’re finished with whatever you’re doing at that point, you’re welcome back. If not, I have to move on. Understand?”
“That’s more than fair. You truly are a prince, Arthur—a bit of a rotund one, but a prince nevertheless.” They exchanged warm smiles that only true friendship could elicit. Arthur became very earnest. “I wish our venture together was Hamlet instead of what it is.”
“So what you’re saying is, you wish you could replace me in Hamlet?”
Arthur waved his hand in the air. “Get out of here before I change my mind.”
The Coney Island insiders had taken to Edgar. It’s not that bigotry was absent among the people who worked there, but there was a camaraderie that often trumped it. They adhered to a silent code where they helped their own but were deaf and dumb when it came to anyone from the outside, especially the police. Edgar knew there were a lot of lowlifes who hung around the Gut who were capable of killing Meg without a second thought. That would have made finding her killer nearly impossible, but other factors were in play that narrowed the field.
A midway worker had been with a prostitute in the room next to Meg’s at the Elephant Hotel. When he left he saw the door was ajar and peeked in. He had reported the crime to the police and was also one of the few people who knew the details. Hence, it had spread to a handful of others, midway stalwarts who felt comfortable giving Edgar information.
Once Edgar knew how Meg was killed, he was able to put a plan into action. He began to question everyone he knew on the midway and in the Gut. He tried every type of description but in the end he was essentially asking if they had noticed some sick freak hanging around. He was smart enough to know that deviants like this man often hid their feelings. It made them better predators. Edgar had a vast knowledge of Shakespeare, and many of his tragic heroes—King Lear, Hamlet, and Macbeth, to name a few—were driven mad. He had extensively studied madness because his major goal in life was to play all of those roles. There was always some piece of behavior, no matter how small, that stood out and made them odd.
He was going to find the odd ones, narrow them down, and then do to Meg’s killer what he had done to her.
16
On her way back from Cranford, Mary couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Chester Lawrence. She realized it might be a little early for her to assume he was C. Nick without more corroboration, but it was hard to ignore that certain facts were falling into place. C. Nick told Horace Mitchell that he was doing a study that sounded very much like the one Dr. Lawrence was doing. Dr. Lawrence was also an endocrinologist, which made him an expert in the organs that had been extracted from Carrie Brown’s body.
Mary felt that pointing the finger at Dr. Lawrence should have no bearing on her doing her job for her client. She had a bloody key, a bloody shirt, Horace Mitchell, Klaus Kastner, and Eddie Harrington. That should be enough to set Ameer’s conviction aside, or at least get him a new trial. Since Inspector Thomas Byrnes was the one pulling the strings, there was no point in seeing anyone but him. After arriving in Manhattan, she went straight to his office. It had been over three years since Ameer had been convicted, and it was time for his nightmare to end. She was hoping Byrnes’s ego wouldn’t be as wrapped up in the case as it had been back then.
“Miss Handley,” he greeted her as he was sitting at his desk. “I was expectin’ ya sooner or later. Yer kinda on the sooner side. Have a seat, why don’t ya.”
Mary sat, facing him. “You were expecting me?”
“Did ya really think ya could investigate one of my cases and I wouldn’t find out?”
“Of course. How could you not know? You have great influence, Inspector Byrnes, and that’s why I’ve come to you.”
“You can blow as much smoke as ya want. If this visit has anythin’ to do with Ameer Ben Ali, yer barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
“Maybe you won’t feel that way after I’ve said my piece. I’ve uncovered some very compelling evidence, sir.” Mary then told him everything that she had. Byrnes listened, or at least seemed to be attentive, as she went through all of it without one interruption.
“Excellent, Miss Handley. Ye’ve done some very fine detective work. Unfortunately, it won’t do Ameer Ben Ali a lick of good.”
“Why not, Inspector? This evidence clearly casts doubt on his guilt.”
“The problem yer facin’ is a jury of his peers already found him guilty, and accordin’ to law, the evidence had ta be more than compellin’. It had ta be beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Some of my evidence directly refutes what was presented at trial.”
“So ya say, but it’s all circumstantial.”
“Ameer Ben Ali was convicted on circumstantial evidence.”
“There was also a confession.”
“Which he later retracted. Your third degree is very grueling.”
“That’s a polite way of sayin’ I beat it outta him. Is that what yer sayin’, Miss Handley?”
“I’m not saying you did anything, just what might have been possible.”
“Ya do a nice little jig around the issue. The point is, if ya hadn’t committed a murder, would ya admit ta it even if someone was beatin’ ya?”
“I may not, but every person has a different level of tolerance.”
“Especially when they’ve done the crime. Believe me, I know these scum.”
“Maybe this is a waste of my time. Maybe I should take my findings to the district attorney’s office.”
“Do what ya gotta do, Miss Handley.” He wasn’t the least bit concerned, which meant he knew it was futile.
Mary was getting frustrated. “Inspector Byrnes, there have been sixteen other murders since Carrie Brown, all done the same exact way. Does that not mean anything?”
Byrnes leaned forward on his desk. “Really? And how do you know this?”
Byrnes had called her bluff and Mary quickly backtracked. “I only definitely know of one, but I’m sure the others are—”
“Yer bein’ reckless and emotional, girl. Now, ya dug a hole fer yerself. You have a brother on the force with a bright future, I hear. Ya wanna dig a hole for him, too?”
Mary didn’t want to get Sean in trouble. Even though Byrnes was in Manhattan, his influence was far-reaching.
“I’m sorry if I offended you, Inspector Byrnes. Apparently, I’m a little too wrapped up in proving my client’s innocence. Please excuse me.”
“It’s okay. I’ll write it off to a particular time of the month.”
Mary bit deeply into her lip. “I hope you don’t mind answering one more question.”
“Go right ahead.”
“What would I need for you to consider reopening the case?”
“Don’t waste yer time. We already have the right man.”
“Please humor me. What would I need?”
He shrugged. “Bring me the man ya think killed Carrie Brown, and if yer right, yer client goes free.”
She wanted to tell him that she would do his job for him and better than he could ever do it, but she didn’t. Mary rose and started to leave.
“Tell me, Miss Handley. Why’d ya take this case? I mean besides the fact yer bein’ paid.”
“To be honest, at first it was just to do a fair examination of the facts. I never thought I’d wind up believing he was innocent.”
“Why does it make a difference?”
“Excuse me?”
“If it wasn’t this crime, he’d have committed another. These immigrant mongrels are ruining our city.”
“Lest you forget, we’re a nation of immigrant mongrels, Inspector Byrnes. Look how we Irish are treated. Surely that must give you some sympathy for the others.”
“Ya can’t seriously compare the Irish to the Eastern European scum that’s invaded us. They’re trash. They live like animals.”
“Funny. That’s exactly what they say about us.” There was nothing more for Mary to do or say, and she left.
Burdened with having to actually find the killer, Mary’s thoughts wandered back to Dr. Lawrence and whether he might be the infamous C. Nick. There were quite a few similarities, but proving his involvement would not be easy. A lot of her theory depended on whether C. Nick had told Horace Mitchell the truth about who he was. It kept coming back to her though that C. Nick had no qualms about telling Klaus Kastner who he was and the truth about where he was working. He also had no problem leaving a bloody hotel key and shirt at Horace Mitchell’s farm. This seemed like a man who was sure of himself and did not fear capture. Why would he all of a sudden want to lie about who he was or his profession to Horace Mitchell? He most probably wouldn’t and was almost daring someone to catch him. She hoped to oblige him.
On her way home from the subway station in Brooklyn, Mary passed Leo’s Meats. It was closing time, and she owed her client an update, no matter how depressing that might be. It was Basem’s money, and he would have to decide if he wanted Mary to continue.
“Of course he wants you to continue,” Leo interrupted Mary and Basem after Mary had given Basem the news. “Tell her, Basem.”
Upset, Basem was still absorbing Mary’s words. “It seems useless,” he finally said.
Leo quickly jumped in. “You’re wrong, Basem. There’s always a chance.”
“Our justice system has flaws,” said Mary, “but it’s the best in the world. You will see, Basem, when Ameer is set free. And I’m going to make sure that happens whether you’re still my client or not.”
Basem’s words stopped Mary on her way out. “Miss Handley, I want you to continue.”
“Basem,” said Leo, “did you not hear her? She will do it for free.”
“I won’t allow it. I believe in paying my debts.”
“You’re a very honorable man, Basem, and I assure you I will do everything I possibly can to help Ameer.”
“I know you will. Let’s hope it will be enough.”
Leo told Basem to lock up and followed Mary outside. “Thank you, Miss Handley.”
“I meant every word.”
“Basem isn’t as strong as he looks. I’m afraid any more bad news could break him.”
“My intention is to bring him good news.”
“I have faith in you,” said Leo as he shook her hand, confirming his belief. “I should tell you, I just bought Flanagan’s Butcher Shop. Closed the deal today.”
“Really?”
“Don’t worry. Your father’s job is secure. In fact, for the short time I’ve known the two of you, it seems as if you have a lot in common. You’re both hard workers and fiercely loyal.”
“Good Irish working-class values.”
Leo corrected her. “American, Mary. American.”
“You’re right, Leo. My mistake.”
He smiled. “Well, I’m off to the theater. I’m going to see As You Like It at the Brooklyn Academy. I love Shakespeare. Don’t you?”
“He was a brilliant playwright.”
“My sentiments exactly. In this production, I understand they dress up in marvelous costumes, and you can’t tell the actors without a playbill. What fun!”
They said their good-byes and took off in opposite directions. After a few steps, Mary remembered that she had a date with Harper and she was already late.
17
When Mary arrived at her apartment, she found Harper waiting outside. He had been there for over forty minutes.
“I’m so sorry, Harper. I’ve been in New Jersey all day on a case and just got back.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me. You were the one in New Jersey.”
Mary smiled, appreciating that he joked about her tardiness rather than being upset.
“Maybe you should go on without me, and we’ll do this another time. It’ll be a while until I clean up and change.”
“No need for that. Come as you are.”
“I can’t go like this. It’s embarrassing.”
“If you can refrain from throwing up on anyone, it’ll be a major improvement.”
Harper won. Mary liked men with a good sense of humor. She didn’t mind being the subject of a barb as long as it was a good one. Harper had arranged to meet Jacob Riis at Carl Luger’s Café in Williamsburg and had borrowed a horse and buggy for the evening.
With Harper at the reins and Mary sitting next to him, it didn’t take long for him to ask what Mary had in her paper bag. She had only known Harper for a short time, but she somehow felt she could trust him. By the time they had gotten to the restaurant, Mary had told him everything about her day.
“Did you really think Byrnes was going to let his prize catch go without having a sacrificial lamb to take his place?”
“I was hoping he’d have some sense of justice. I realize that’s naïve when dealing with the New York City Police Department, but somebody must have some somewhere.”
“You need to tell Jacob about this.”
“I can’t meet Jacob Riis for the first time, say hello, and then dump my problems on him.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s rude, and besides, he’s Jacob Riis.”
“Do it, Mary. It’s okay. Believe me, I know Jacob.” He seemed earnest enough, but Mary decided she’d see how the evening went before bothering Riis. Then Harper asked the question she had been expecting. “Do you really think Dr. Lawrence is the killer?”
“He fits some of the parameters, but I would need more evidence to be sure.”
“Can I see that key again?” Mary handed it to him. “That’s what I thought.”
“What?”
“It looks like a thumbprint.”
“I know
what you’re thinking, and the problem is that identification by fingerprints has never been used in the United States for a criminal case.”
“Juan Vucetich used a bloody fingerprint to nab a killer two years ago.”
“I know all about Vucetich. Unfortunately, he’s in Argentina, and I have neither the time nor the resources to go down there.”
“What would you say if I told you I know a man named Ivan Nowak who worked closely with Vucetich and is now living here in Brooklyn?”
“I’d say thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Why? I said I know him. I didn’t say I’d introduce you.”
“So you mentioned Nowak just to torture me?”
“ ‘Torture’ is such a nasty word. I prefer ‘frustrate.’ ” He smiled, then told her he’d arrange a meeting with Nowak when she had gotten Dr. Lawrence’s thumbprint.
Mary didn’t know how Byrnes would react to the thumbprint, even if it matched Dr. Lawrence. Yet, if it did, it would be another piece of evidence in Ameer’s favor and possibly something she could use to scare Dr. Lawrence into a confession. The next thing she had to figure out was how to get Dr. Lawrence’s thumbprint without his knowing what she was doing.
As they rode on, the conversation turned personal as they shared life stories. Mary found out that Harper was an only child whose mother died in childbirth. His father was a factory worker who logged twelve-hour days. That might have been a problem if his father didn’t come from a large Catholic family who believed in looking out for one another. They made sure they were always around and Harper felt loved.
“So that’s why you do what you do,” said Mary. “You’re looking after others because others looked after you.”
“No, it’s because I get to be alone and finally have some peace and quiet.”
They were laughing as they pulled into a stable near Carl Luger’s Café. The café specialized in steaks. It had opened in 1887 and was owned by Carl’s uncle, Peter Luger. Since they were so late, Mary expressed doubt that Jacob Riis would still be there. Harper assured her that he would, that they had the kind of relationship where if one of them didn’t show up, after a while the other would start combing the hospitals for him. Harper was right. They found Jacob Riis at a booth, dutifully nursing a scotch as he waited for his dinner companions.
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