Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “Please try not to refer to this…room as home.”

  “It’s a necessary sacrifice. The longer we can stay here, the better chance we have.”

  “You still honestly believe people will invest large sums in a fountain drink?”

  “I feel it with every fiber of my being,” said Pemberton. His conviction was so strong it bordered on being maniacal.

  “I assume that’s a yes?”

  Pemberton laughed, and Charles joined in. It was good they could still amuse each other. Pemberton had his last dime riding on this venture. Pemberton’s laugh soon turned into a cough. It was no ordinary cough. Charles went to him, concerned.

  “Are you all right, Father?”

  As Pemberton caught his breath, he nodded, then changed the subject. “I wangled us invitations for the governor’s Salute to Thomas Edison,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Edison’s an inventor. He’ll understand what I’ve done. I know it.”

  “I hope so. I really do.” Yawning, Charles stretched out on one of the beds.

  “I’ve been fooling with the new name. It should look good on signs.”

  Pemberton tossed a sheet of paper to Charles. On it, there was a bright red background and across it in big, white letters were written the words COCA-COLA.

  “Not bad,” Charles said. “Not bad at all.”

  Goodrich walked down the row of brownstones on Degraw Street to the one in which he lived. He’d had too much to drink and was humming his favorite song, “Over the Waves.” It had been an eventful day. Not only had he finally quit working for Edison, he had purged himself of the guilt that had been nagging at his soul, and to top it off, he was in love. As he carefully mounted the stairs and entered his brownstone, Goodrich could say that he was finally happy.

  A moment after he went inside, a gunshot flash crackled through one of the windows as its sound pierced the silent night. Charles Goodrich was dead.

  7

  It was a few days before spring, and the remnants of the blizzard were still quite evident. However, the sun was shining, and the temperature had edged up to fifty degrees, feeling twenty degrees warmer—the kind of deception the mind plays on the body after suffering through miserable weather. Spring was definitely in the air, and it reeked of hope for new beginnings. As Mary and Kate exited their tenement and strolled along Elizabeth Street, Kate’s body surged with country exuberance.

  “I’m so happy for you, Mary! Isn’t it wonderful to be in love?”

  “Please, I just met this man last night, I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.”

  “You will,” the ever-positive Kate said. “I have a second sense about these things. The two of you will fall hopelessly in love. I just know it.”

  Kate’s prediction only made Mary regret her decision to leave the night before. True, it had been a perfect exit, but maybe she should have stayed and tried to get to know him better. Charles Pemberton intrigued her. She sensed he was different, unconventional, and therefore the type of man with whom she could envision herself.

  “Who knows?” Mary smiled. “You just may be right.”

  “Of course I am. You listen to this Haddonfield girl, Mary Handley. Brooklyn has nothing on me when it comes to intuition.”

  The two of them were laughing, enjoying each other’s company and the day as they passed a newsstand. Mary was still laughing when she noticed Kate had stopped. Her brow crinkled as if processing information, then her face suddenly turned ashen.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Unable to speak, Kate slowly raised her arm and pointed toward the newsstand.

  Confused, Mary turned. At first, a steady stream of customers blocked her view. Finally, the newsstand was empty, and she realized Kate was pointing to the headline of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. Big bold letters covered the front page—CHARLES GOODRICH MURDERED! GRISLY KILLING ON DEGRAW STREET!

  Kate barely managed to say, “They…killed him…my Charlie.” Then she collapsed.

  Nothing attracts people like a good murder, and with the added spice of celebrity, the Charles Goodrich case had the makings of a sensational one. After all, Goodrich was the brother of Brooklyn alderman W. W. Goodrich and an employee of Thomas Edison. One of New York’s luminaries could have been involved, and no one wanted to miss that.

  Not long after the murder had been reported in the newspapers, curiosity seekers had rushed to Goodrich’s brownstone on Degraw Street and spilled out into the street, covering half the block. Pushcart peddlers were out in force, selling their wares. One man’s cart was full of pistols. He was proclaiming that if Charles Goodrich had owned a pistol he’d still be alive.

  Mary shook her head. She already knew about the public’s fascination with the macabre. She had once seen dozens gather around a fruit peddler’s horse. Its leg had broken, and it was lying on the cobblestones, writhing in pain. They watched eagerly as the distraught owner put the poor animal out of its misery…and then, in an instant, they were gone. She was the only one who had stayed to console the man, who had lost his best friend and business partner of the past twenty-two years.

  Mary had just left Kate in her room on Elizabeth Street after a doctor had seen her. He had prescribed nothing but rest. Mary knew that would be impossible until Kate found out what happened to her fiancé. As she worked her way through the throngs of people, many were reluctant to cede their hard-earned positions to a newcomer. Mary suffered several elbows, some pushes, and countless angry stares until she finally made it to the front. In this “prime” position, she was surrounded mostly by newspaper reporters as she faced Charles Goodrich’s brownstone and three policemen on crowd control.

  The excitement of being at a crime scene surged through her. It was nothing like the morbid curiosity that most in the crowd were feeling. Hers was akin to that of an aspiring actor in the audience of a play, desperately yearning to be a part of it. For now though, she had to put these feelings aside.

  Mary didn’t know the three policemen in front of her. As she was trying to devise a plan of attack, another policeman came out of the brownstone, and for the first time she could see the man standing guard in the hallway.

  “Billy!” she screamed, lurching forward, “Billy!”

  The three policemen swiftly moved to contain her. Just as the crowd was beginning to enjoy the first real action they had seen, it ended as fast as it began.

  “Unhand the girl, fellas,” Billy’s voice boomed, “and let her through.”

  Mary wasted no time in ridding herself of the policemen. Then, straightening her dress, she ascended the stairs in as ladylike a manner as possible, a vindicated woman.

  Rumors tore through the crowd. “She’s a Goodrich. No, she works for Edison,” etc. Newspaper reporters peppered the three policemen with questions about Mary, but they had no idea who she was.

  “Mary, darlin’, what in God’s name are you doin’ here?” Billy whispered.

  “Mr. Goodrich was my friend’s fiancé, and she’s absolutely devastated, Billy.”

  “Her fiancé, huh?” Billy shook his head. “The poor girl.”

  “When she got word of it, she passed out,” Mary said, emphasizing the drama. “Please, Billy, I have to tell her something. She’s very distraught, as you can imagine.”

  Billy took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He stared at her for a moment, then announced loudly, so everyone could hear, “What’s that, information about the murder? Why, go right in, Miss Handley.”

  Pleased, Mary smiled, continuing the charade. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, trying to match his volume. “I certainly hope it will help.” And she marched right in.

  Charles Goodrich’s brownstone was decorated very much in line with his personality. Every choice was safe, with little chance of offending anyone. The floors were pine and the furniture mahogany, all stained in a warm brown. Muted colors reigned, with only a hint of something brighter on an occasional throw pillow or in a painting. The most outrageous choice, a
nd it was hardly that, was a large steamer trunk in his study next to his couch, as if it were a coffee table. The study was to the right of the entrance directly across from the living room, which was on the left. Chief Campbell was in the living room with W. W. Goodrich and Officer Russell. Older than Charles and very much his opposite, W. W. Goodrich was known for his stylish dress and for being outspoken. He was very upset. As a result, no one noticed Mary.

  “My brother would never commit suicide,” he protested, seeming more concerned with his family’s name than his brother’s death. “He’s a Goodrich, for God’s sake!”

  So it wasn’t murder. Evidently, the Eagle had rushed to press too quickly with a “hot” story. Mary saw Charles Goodrich’s body lying in the study and couldn’t resist going over to examine it. She had read many books on forensics and felt confident she could tell whether a man had committed suicide or not. There was a bullet hole through his temple, and he had a gun in his right hand.

  “No reason to get excited, Alderman,” Chief Campbell cautioned, his voice drifting over from the living room. “Nothing’s official until the coroner examines him.”

  “He’ll find the same, Chief,” Officer Russell interjected. “Powder stains on his hand and black ones on his temple, showing he was shot at close range. It’s a suicide.”

  Officer Russell sneered confidently, positive he had made a big impression on the chief. He had, but not in the way he had thought. Chief Campbell was trying to put out a fire, and one of his officers was pouring kerosene on it.

  “It’s not a suicide,” Mary announced from the study, taking the three men by surprise. Almost in unison, they turned to see her rising from Goodrich’s body. “You will probably find a second bullet in a wall or cushion where the killer fired the gun from Mr. Goodrich’s hand after he was dead. Hence, the powder stains on his hand.”

  Officer Russell quickly responded. “I see we have a lady expert. How fortunate.”

  “They’re teaching us to read now, too,” Mary responded immediately. “It’s highly experimental.”

  Chief Campbell walked toward the study, and the others followed. At the moment, he didn’t care how Mary had gotten into a murder scene. He was hoping she might create a diversion for W. W. Goodrich until the coroner arrived. If that meant a sparring match of words between Officer Russell and Sean Handley’s sister, so be it.

  “Meet the woman who saved your life the other day, Russell. Mary Handley.”

  Mary held out her hand. Officer Russell didn’t take it. “I see you make a habit of interfering.”

  Mary looked at her empty hand, then at him. “And they say chivalry is dying.”

  Officer Russell realized he was not going to win this war of words, so he just stood there, quietly steaming. But W. W. Goodrich didn’t care that Mary was a woman. He just cared that someone was confirming a scenario that would avert a family scandal.

  “How do you know this, young lady?” he asked.

  “I have seen many gunshot victims, granted mostly in pictures or in drawings, and one thing is uniform. It’s messy. As you can see on the floor, there are massive amounts of blood.” She kneeled down next to Charles Goodrich’s body. “Yet there is no blood at all on his clothes. That’s highly improbable, and his body is positioned like an actor in a bad melodrama.” She sniffed Goodrich’s shirt. “His clothes are fresh. It’s reasonable to assume the killer changed them, possibly because he got blood in the wrong places when positioning the body to pass as a suicide.”

  “See, it’s not a suicide!” W. W. Goodrich shouted joyously. “I knew it wasn’t!”

  Just then the coroner entered with his assistant. It had been a busy morning. This was his fourth case. “Where’s the unfortunate Mr. Goodrich, Chief?”

  Chief Campbell stepped aside, revealing the body, and the coroner went to work.

  With the situation under control, Chief Campbell turned to Mary. “In my office at the station in one hour, young lady,” he said sternly.

  Mary’s heart sank. Officer Russell, who had a sneer for every occasion, had one of pure joy.

  8

  Mary sat on the bench outside Chief Campbell’s office. He was already forty-five minutes late and each passing minute gave her more time to obsess over what she had done. She had always been bold about her knowledge, but this time she had gone too far. Her actions could reflect poorly on Billy and possibly Sean, too. Sean was trying hard to make a career for himself, and the last thing Mary wanted to be was a stumbling block.

  When Chief Campbell finally arrived, he entered his office without even looking at Mary. After thirty seconds, he emerged.

  “Well, Miss Handley, are you coming in or not?”

  Chief Campbell had developed a technique for dealing with people during his twenty-two years on the police force. He found that if he was able to keep them off balance, he usually got an honest reaction. Unnerved, Mary entered his office.

  “Do have a seat, Miss Handley,” he said. “We have some important matters to discuss, not the least of which is your unusual behavior on Degraw Street.”

  As Mary sat, Chief Campbell walked around his desk to his chair.

  “I am sorry if my impetuous actions offended you in any way, Chief Campbell,” Mary blurted out, then continued at breakneck speed about Kate being Goodrich’s fiancée and how her brazen behavior was only intended to help her grieving friend.

  Chief Campbell sat back in his chair, unconsciously scratching his neck just under his chin. After many versions of “I’m sorry,” Mary concluded with, “You have my solemn promise I will never interfere ever again.”

  Chief Campbell stared at her briefly, then said, “That’s reassuring, yet also unfortunate.” Mary was confused. “I had hoped, Miss Handley, you would help us find Charles Goodrich’s murderer.”

  Chief Campbell’s technique worked. Mary was beyond off balance. She was absolutely stunned…and totally delighted.

  Chief Campbell was late for his meeting with Mary because he had been forced to take a detour that would change everything. He had been summoned to police headquarters by his bosses, Police Commissioners James Jourdan and Daniel Briggs.

  Jourdan sat behind his large desk. A natty dresser in his fifties, he was tall and thin with a thick crop of brown hair. He smelled of too much cologne and sported the mustache of a dandy. Jourdan was hardly that; it was more wishful thinking on his part than anything else. Briggs was in his late forties and Jourdan’s polar opposite. He was average height, balding, and heavyset with a pronounced double chin. Though he wore an expensive suit, there was always something amiss: a stain on his tie, a cigar burn, etc. Briggs was forever puffing on a cigar and would bark his displeasure if the minutest detail didn’t go his way.

  Briggs stood behind Jourdan, occasionally glancing out the window at the female protesters in front of their building. He grunted his disapproval of their chants, their signs, and their mere presence. Being more political, Jourdan kept his views to himself. However, he had been under pressure from both above and below him and thought this latest directive from the very top might get everyone off his back.

  “We would like you to hire a woman to spearhead the Goodrich murder investigation,” Jourdan said, clasping his hands on his desk. “As soon as possible.”

  “A woman?” Chief Campbell said, as if making sure he had heard Jourdan correctly.

  “As a separate private investigator, of course,” Jourdan hastily added, “not as part of the force. We definitely don’t want to set that precedent.”

  “Absolutely not,” Briggs chimed in.

  “Did Goodrich’s brother make this request?” Chief Campbell responded. “We already had to halt everything at the murder scene until he arrived. I realize he’s—”

  “Alderman Goodrich had absolutely nothing to do with it,” Jourdan assured him. “This comes straight from Chapin.” He was referring to the mayor of Brooklyn, Alfred C. Chapin. Jourdan then nodded ever so slightly toward the window behind him. “The
women’s groups have been stirring up trouble. Apparently, some of them have friends in high places, and the mayor feels we need to placate them.”

  “They belong in the kitchen and the bedroom and no place else, damn it!” said the ever-combustible Briggs, capping it off by spitting out a piece of his cigar.

  “I can’t put an inexperienced female on a murder case. She’s bound to falter.”

  Briggs put his two hands on Jourdan’s desk and leaned forward. “That would be awful, a real crying shame.”

  “Naturally, you will give us progress reports on her activities, and we’ll be conducting our own investigation while the press follows her,” Jourdan continued, any attempt at subtlety already foregone by Briggs.

  After pausing to consider his alternatives and finding none, Chief Campbell said, “I understand, gentlemen. I’ll find someone.”

  Further discussion would be useless. Chief Campbell knew an order when he heard one. He stood, they all shook hands, and he left.

  Briggs could no longer contain himself. “I hope this works. Any day I expect to see Campbell’s goddamn name on my door.”

  His fear wasn’t misplaced. Chief Campbell’s reputation as a very competent detective was growing every day.

  “Not after this,” Jourdan calmly replied. “Trust me. Chapin has done us a favor.” He smiled mischievously. “Definitely not after this.”

  It didn’t take much thought for Chief Campbell to realize the commissioners were using Mayor Chapin’s request to set him up. Subtlety was definitely not their strong suit. What they didn’t know was that Chief Campbell had no desire to have either of their jobs. He liked being out in the field and didn’t want to be trapped behind a desk. But he doubted they would believe him even if he told them so. They wouldn’t be able to fathom not wanting a promotion.

  Chief Campbell had to obey orders, and he’d been pondering how he could do so in the least damaging way. Mary Handley appeared to be bright and observant, and had apparently studied criminology. The coroner had confirmed her assessment of the crime and even found three books in the garbage with a bullet hole through two of them and a bullet in the third. That exhibited a reasonable level of competence, certainly more than had been displayed by that fool Russell. He was annoyed that she had hustled her way into the crime scene and had planned to reprimand her accordingly, but that kind of resourcefulness could also be a plus. The way he reasoned, in the short time he had, he could do worse.