“For what?”
“Hell if I know. Just for being friends with Roy, seems like. You know, I told him to shut up. Million times I told him. But Roy just got more an’ more worked up about it. Kept shootin’ off his mouth, rilin’ men up. So, one day, in his lunch pail at work, he finds a coin. Just like that one there. Well, he takes it as some kind of threat, which most likely it was. I thought it was really more like a suggestion to shut the fuck up. But Roy got so goddamned mad about it, he couldn’t see straight. Naturally, instead of shutting up, Roy tells the guys down there in the mine about it. Including Jonas Bauer. Scares the shit outta all of ’em, and rightly so. But what Roy really wants to know is who’s behind it. He wants to know where the coin came from, who’s responsible, you know. Now, there’s this squirrelly little fucker down there in their outfit. Roy hated this guy, because he knew the guy was an elfetrich, ya know? A rat. Roy called him the rat squirrel.”
“What was that guy’s name, the rat squirrel?”
Duny scratched the top of his head. “Dunno. You got anything to eat?”
Kamp fished the bag of pierogies out of his pocket and tossed it to him.
Duny wolfed down the first pierogi, then continued, “Roy told me all this the same day it happened, when he come home from work. Anyway, Roy figures it hadda be the rat squirrel who put the coin there. Couldn’t be no one else, he said. So the same afternoon he lights into the rat squirrel, slaps his face a few times, tells him he wants names. Rat squirrel says he don’t know nussing. Roy blacks his eye and whatnot. Eventually, the guy gives up the names. Also something about birds, crows, something like that.”
“Ravens.”
“Ravens. That’s it. A group of ’em. Roy said he made sure to write down the names.”
“Then what?”
“Well, he come home all strubbly an’ ferhoodled, showed me that coin, told me what I just told you.”
“And what did you say?”
Duny scowled. “What did I say? Christ, I told him to run. Run and never go back.”
“And?”
“And next morning Roy fills up his lunch pail and goes to work. Says he’s gonna put things right. That very day, kaboom. Roy’s head on a platter. You can bet they didn’t think none of ’em down there would survive, and none did, not even that rat squirrel. None ’cept Bauer. And they told me that’s because he was standing next to Roy. Roy shielded him when it went off. Roy was six-five.”
“Where’s the list?”
“What?”
“The list of names. Where is it?”
“Never saw it. Roy never showed me. After it happened, after the funeral and everything, they sent a guy looking for it. I took care of that, like I said. Since then, I been down here mostly. And, yah, I do worry they’re goin’ after our mother. So far, they haven’t. They will. I mean, just you coming here, they’ll prob’ly know I’m down here. You fucked me good.”
“Since we’re both in the same predicament, you’re welcome to come with me.”
Duny Kunkle shook his head. “For a smart guy, I can’t believe you’re so goddamned dumb. Going with you just means I’ll be dead that much sooner.”
“I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Sorry for me? Don’t worry. I’ll settle up with them fuckers soon enough.” He cleared his throat and spit on the ground. “Besides, same shit really is happening to you. I used to do hard work. Honest work. They saw to it I can’t get no job no more. Do you know what I do now? What I have to do for money just to eat? I go out at night. I go over to the South Side, and I suck cocks in the graveyard. When you get down that far, brother, if you make it that long, let’s see who you’re sorry for.”
TWENTY-FIVE
KAMP WALKED without looking over his shoulder and pulled the brim of his hat low. He took the shortest route he knew in the direction of the police station. As he made his way, he wondered what Duny Kunkle’s information added to his understanding. Duny had confirmed that his brother and the rest of the miners who died in the explosion were murdered. He’d also made the connection between Roy Kunkle and Jonas Bauer clearer. Roy Kunkle had been certain his life was in danger, and he may have confided in Bauer. If so, he might also have given the coin to Bauer. But even more important, Bauer may also have known about the list of names Roy Kunkle had written down. On the day Roy Kunkle discovered the coin in his lunch pail and then beat the names of the members of the Fraternal Order of the Raven out of his co-worker, the rat squirrel, someone in the Order would have heard about it. The rat squirrel would have had to tell them something. They would have known Kunkle had a list of names in his possession and that he may have given it to Jonas Bauer.
Kamp approached the toll booth in front of the New Street Bridge. The collector stood at the window in his wooden shed. A sign affixed high on the framework of the truss bridge read, “Pedestrians 1 cent.” Kamp hunted in all his pockets and came up empty. He stepped up to the window.
“I don’t have a penny.”
“Then swim.” The toll collector’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“I’ll pay you on my way back.”
“It don’t work that way.”
Kamp felt the kindling at the base of his skull. He looked back and saw a black carriage pulled by two white horses approaching. He didn’t recognize the toll collector, and he wondered why the man was holding him up. He stifled an urge to punch the man in the face, and he walked past the toll booth and onto the bridge.
The toll collector’s voice trailed after him, “You ain’t special, Kamp.”
Kamp glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the carriage had gone through the toll and was gaining on him. When the carriage reached him, he stiffened his shoulders, bracing for whatever would happen next. But the carriage, a hearse bearing a casket, simply cruised alongside him.
The undertaker Manfred Otis was driving and called out to him, “Evening, Kamp.”
“Evening, Manfred.”
“Wie gehts?”
“It goes.”
The carriage glided past him, and he watched as it reached the end of the bridge and turned left. Headed for the cemetery, Kamp thought. He looked at the rafters and posts of the truss, up through the triangles and into the twilight sky. Kamp remembered a fragment of the poem he’d been thinking about at the moment he first caught sight of Daniel Knecht running up the path to his home.
"I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round”
He remembered the verse from childhood, and the rest began flowing back to him. He walked with his head tilted back, seeing all the way into the moon and then the Lodestar. Soon, novel insights and previously misunderstood associations came roaring through, and by the time Kamp stepped off the New Street Bridge, his train constructed of questions had returned with nearly all the answers he needed.
He strolled up the steps and into the police station as night fell. Kamp took a deep breath of the early spring air and walked through the door. Druckenmiller sat at his desk, feet up and reading a book. He looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Well, Jiminy Christmas, if it ain’t Detective Kamp.”
“Evening, Sam.”
“We heard you was coming this afternoon.”
“Long day.”
Druckenmiller set the book on his desk and put his feet on the floor. Kamp noticed that the swelling was gone from his face. A thin, black crescent under each eye was the only remaining evidence of his injuries.
Druckenmiller said, “Ach, but you look a little rough around the edges.”
“I haven’t looked in a mirror lately.”
“Well, sit down, sit down.” Druckenmiller stood up and offered his chair. “Relax, lemme get you a cup of coffee.”
As Druckenmiller turned to go to the back of the office, the door opened.
A voice behind Kamp said, “Put your arms out at your sides. Do not turn around.”
Kamp said, “I don’
t have a weapon.”
Druckenmiller crossed the room to where Kamp stood. He gave Kamp a cursory pat down and shook his head. “Nothing.”
The man behind him said, “Walk to the cell. Slowly.”
Kamp complied, and Druckenmiller went ahead of him and opened the cell door. Once Kamp was inside, he closed the door and locked it. Kamp turned around and saw that the voice belonged to the former acting High Constable, Markus Lenz. Lenz wore the same formidable moustache and dour expression he had on when Kamp met him.
Druckenmiller said, “Kamp, what do you want in it?”
“Come again?”
“Your coffee. Remind me what you take in your coffee.”
“Nix.”
“Comin’ right up.” Druckenmiller disappeared into the back room, and Kamp heard the coffee grinder. He sat down on the wooden bench in the cell, eased off his boots and rested his back against the wall.
Lenz said, “Detective, you’re under arrest.”
“I see that.”
Druckenmiller returned with a steaming mug. “Here you go.”
He handed the mug between the bars of the cell. Kamp stood up, took it from him and sat back down. He set the coffee mug on the floor next to him without taking a sip.
Lenz said, “People have been looking for you. You understand that. Looking for you and that girl.”
Druckenmiller cut in, “Oh, yah, but they found her today. Or she showed up over at the Fogels. She’s fine now. You probably knew that, though. Helluva story all the way around, ain’t it?”
“Kidnapping,” Lenz said. “That’s what it’s called. And that’s only one of the charges.”
Kamp shifted his gaze back and forth between Lenz, who looked stern and resolute, and Druckenmiller, who didn’t.
Druckenmiller stammered, “We got an arrest warrant for you. That’s why we had to put you in there. Just business. Procedure. We don’t actually know what they want you for. Say, is there something wrong with your coffee?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
“Ach, Kamp, I know this is a tough spot for you. I wish it weren’t so.”
Kamp said, “I’ve never seen this cell empty before. Where’re the rest of the criminals?”
Lenz cleared his throat. “Your arraignment is tomorrow morning at eight.”
Druckenmiller said, “I’m sure once you explain everything to the Judge, he’ll understand. Send you someplace besides jail, maybe.”
“Like where?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere you might be more comfortable, you know, down around Philadelphia. They got what they call ‘moral treatments’ down there. I read about it. It’s new.”
“I don’t follow, Sam.”
Lenz stepped forward and said, “The Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane.”
Kamp cocked an eyebrow.
Druckenmiller said, “Yah, might be the trouble you’re having is, you know—”
Lenz cut in, “There are some who believe, Detective, that your crime spree is the result of the madness, not malice, per se.”
Kamp said, “What do you think, per se?”
“Don’t matter what I think. At your arraignment tomorrow, the Judge will determine the course of action.” When he finished talking, Lenz hooked the key ring onto his belt and folded his arms across his chest.
Kamp sat up on the bench in the cell. “I’m looking forward to it. I’m looking forward to setting everything straight. I’ll tell the Judge how I kidnapped Nyx Bauer and took her to the mountains with me and how I broke into the county office and stole as many records as I could. Hell, I even broke into Sam’s house and nicked a ringwurst.”
Druckenmiller said, “Ach, save it for the—”
“And I’ll tell the Judge how I read all the records, and from that, I figured out who’s in the Fraternal Order of the Raven and why they’re killing people. The story’s in the records. It’s all there. And then I’ll tell the Judge the names of the men in the Order. I have a list. I’ll read it for everyone. You said it’s a helluva story, right Sam? Just wait.”
Druckenmiller said, “Ach, shut up!”
Kamp said, “I’m sure there’ll be newspaper reporters there. They get to hear my story, too. So, after that, the Judge can decide a course of action. For everyone. Sound good?”
Lenz said, “Eight o’clock.”
“Say, can I have a blanket?”
“No.”
MARKUS LENZ LEFT THE STATION an hour later without saying anything. Half an hour or so after that, he returned. He took off his coat, sat down at his desk and began filling out paperwork. A minute later Druckenmiller put the book he was reading in a desk drawer and closed it softly. He stood up, shoulders hunched and head down. He said, “Gut nacht, Kamp. See you tomorrow.”
“Gut nacht, Sam.”
As he reached the door, he said, “G’night, Markus.”
Lenz said, “Good night, High Constable” and locked the door. He returned to his desk, turned up the flame on the kerosene lantern on his desk and went back to filling out the paperwork. The only sound in the station was the pencil scratching the paper.
Kamp said, “How’re you guys gonna do it, Markus? March me outta here and toss me off the New Street Bridge? Or hang me by my belt from the rafter?”
Lenz didn’t look up.
Kamp went on, “Either way you’ll say I did it to myself, right? We tried to help him, but the raving lunatic escaped and went running out of the station and hucked himself straight off the bridge. Didn’t even stop to pay the toll. He just couldn’t take it, the way he fell apart and humiliated himself. The shame of it all. Heartbreaking but understandable, you know, considering.”
Lenz looked at the pocket watch on his desk and kept writing.
Kamp continued, “I realize you’re not much of a talker, Lenz, but seeing as how this is my last earthly conversation, think you can make an exception?”
Lenz didn’t move. Kamp stood up and walked to the front of the cell and said, “When did they get to you, Lenz? It had to be before you got here. Or maybe not. You thought it was all on the up and up at first, maybe. They told you that you were doing a good deed by filling in for Druckenmiller. Maybe you even believed the story that Philander Crow committed suicide and that covering it up was for the sake of the greater good. It’s possible, though you don’t strike me as being that naïve. Hell, I bet you’re the guy that shot him. Where’s that sack you wore on your head? Plan to wear it again tonight?”
Lenz looked up for a moment and paused as if he were going to say something, then glanced at his watch again and looked back down.
Kamp said, “Well, I know I got one thing right. You’re not going to do it alone. You got other guys coming, too. Soon, I bet. It’s too complicated to do what you need to do by yourself. I mean, even if you just wanted to shoot me right here, you’d still need help dragging out the body and getting rid of it. So, who else is coming? Anyone I know? Not Druckenmiller. Did he tell them he didn’t want to participate, or did they just give him the night off out of the goodness of their hearts? Either way, he doesn’t have the stomach for it. But you do. You even convinced yourself you’re doing the right thing. Upholding the law. Probably get a nice promotion too, say not.”
Lenz cleared his throat softly and said, “Detective, I admire your diligence with respect to what you believe is your investigation. But I suggest you rest now.”
“You mean go quietly.”
“And I suggest that tomorrow you speak only when the Judge orders you to speak and only to answer the questions you’re asked.”
“Markus, you do realize your name is on the list, don’t you? And, no, I don’t have the list on me. No telling who has it. Killing me doesn’t solve your problem. Sooner or later, someone will come and find you.”
Lenz said, “Process must run its course.”
“I respect that, Markus. Say, will ya let me use the men’s room once?”
“No.”
“Markus, I
need to do my business. And besides, if I go now, there’ll be less for you to clean up later.”
Lenz stopped writing and closed the record book. He stood up and went to the back corner of the room. He picked up a pail and walked toward the cell.
Lenz said, “Piss between the bars.”
They heard men’s voices at the station door and then banging. “Markus! Open up! Markus!”
As Lenz set the pail on the floor, Kamp pulled Duny Kunkle’s Pepperbox revolver from his boot.
Kamp said, “Let me out.”
Lenz, who was still looking down said, “Time’s up, detective.”
“Markus! Let us in!” The pounding on the door grew louder.
Kamp said, “Markus, unlock the door. Move slowly. And don’t speak.”
Lenz looked up to face Kamp and saw the pistol staring back. Lenz spun on his heel and tried to lunge away. At the same moment Lenz yelled, “Ach, he has a gun!”
Kamp put the first bullet through Lenz’s right temple and the second one into the base of his skull. Lenz fell straight to the floor, but he lay a few feet from the cell, his key ring out of reach. Kamp reached for Lenz’s foot and barely caught hold of one of the legs of his pants.
The men outside bellowed, “Markus! What the hell!”
A moment later a shotgun blast splintered the door. The men outside tried the door, but the lock held. Kamp managed to get a handful of fabric on Lenz’s pants. He pulled one leg close enough so that he could get both hands around one ankle.
Boom. The second shot put a hole through the door, and Kamp could see the brass lock was damaged. The men tried the door again, and again it held. One of the men threw his weight against the door. It shook in its frame but did not open. Kamp tried to drag Lenz’s body close enough to reach the key ring on Lenz’s waist, but he didn’t have the strength in his arms. He sat on the floor of the cell with his knees bent. He braced his feet against the bars of the cell and held Lenz’s foot as tightly as he could. By straightening his legs and pushing himself backward, he was able to pull the body closer. He dove for the key ring and pulled it off Lenz’s belt.
Ax & Spade: A Thriller (Raven Trilogy Book 1) Page 25