The Violet Crow

by Michael Sheldon

  “Mind if we look around?” The Chief’s deep voice intruded into Bruno’s thoughts.

  “I can’t permit it. This is an historic building. This is where New Jersey threw off its shackles and signed the documents that renounced our status as a colony and declared our independence from England. The team at Rutgers insists …”

  —“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist,” the Chief broke in, his good humor starting to wear off. “This is a murder investigation. Icky may have been a pain in the ass, but he died last night. We have to look around.”

  “Can you come back later, after visiting hours? I’m just one person here, I can’t do everything at once.”

  The Chief ignored the objection. Instead, he strode nimbly to the front door and locked it. “I can guarantee there won’t be too many tourists trying to visit today. With the exploding meth lab, I don’t think many people are going to want to risk their health just to brush up on their colonial history.”

  Chapter 50

  Heading down the steep, narrow staircase Bruno felt the weight of all the recent events pressing in on him. He could hear his heart thudding inside his chest. The nameless girl. Gussie. Maggie. Mimi. Icky. He was still a kid, really. Alison too. Maybe Biff was right. Maybe it was time to start taking things personally. Like it or not, he was in harm’s way. He’d been selected. He was a target, a combatant.

  It wasn’t about emotion interfering with his psychic ability or mental state. Or power corrupting. He had no selfish purpose here. It was self-defense. If he waited for the killer to make his move, he’d likely be dead. It was as simple as that.

  Bruno heard the Chief’s voice ahead of him, “Remember this is a crime scene. Keep your eyes open and your hands in your pockets.”

  The basement of the Lenape King was, in fact, a series of brick-lined chambers. Each room was on a different level. Some required several steps to get in or out of. Others were separated by a sill of two or three inches. The mortar between the bricks was drying out, leaving piles of gritty gray powder everywhere.

  They wandered around from one dank chamber to the next. The basement was poorly lit and it seemed like they might be walking in circles. Finally they stumbled into a room that was full of furniture. It was Icky’s boudoir, containing all the items he’d brought in to make himself comfortable during the long hours when he was supposed to be the inn’s night watchman. There was his filthy mattress covered with deplorable sheets. The cheap wooden bureau topped with a reading light and an overflowing ashtray. A Shop-Vac—they heard Mr. Spurrier murmuring, “I wondered where that had gone …”—and assorted piles of clothing, both male and female.

  The Chief pulled on latex gloves. He was picking items up with tweezers and dropping them into Ziploc baggies, measuring, drawing diagrams, and taking notes feverishly.

  Bruno was overwhelmed. Memories from his school days were starting to come back to him. “This used to be part of the Underground Railroad, didn’t it?” he asked Mr. Spurrier.

  “That’s nothing but myth or legend,” the curator explained with a long-suffering sigh. “Of course there was a lot going on throughout this area. The Quakers were quite active in the abolition movement. However, there are no documented efforts to help runaway slaves escape through Gardenfield. The center of activity was Philadelphia; they moved slaves north along the Delaware, crossing the river at Burlington. Or else through Lawnside. All of this has been thoroughly documented by experts in the field. The curious thing is that the legends about this place persist, despite all the evidence. I can’t understand it.”

  “Look at this,” the Chief called out gleefully. He had secured a cigarette butt with the tweezers and was holding it up like a trophy-sized fish for the world to see. “Gauloises. Pretty sophisticated taste for teenagers.” He bagged it and moved to the next item, which provoked an excited, “Bless my soul, look at this. Bruno, quick, put your gloves on.”

  As Bruno struggled into the latex gloves, the Chief asked Mr. Spurrier, “Was this place used as a dungeon?”

  The curator stepped back and rolled his eyes. “Another myth. The basement was a storage area for beer kegs. There were locked iron gates on some of these rooms to prevent the help from stealing.”

  “I see. And what did they use those iron rings for?”

  “It’s possible that prisoners were kept here, at times, during the Revolutionary War. However, we believe those rings were used as a sort of pulley system for lifting heavy items: beer kegs, food stuffs, and such.”

  “Hmm? You mean to tie down the ends of the rope, or to give the men doing the hoisting some leverage? That makes sense. But then where are the actual pulleys? Wouldn’t there be some evidence of them in the ceiling near the center of the room?”

  He handed around Polaroids that depicted Icky or Alison chained to metal rings that were bolted into the wall. Neither was wearing a stitch of clothing.

  “That little bastard,” hissed Mr. Spurrier. “If he weren’t dead, I’d fire him!”

  “Quite the love nest,” mused the Chief. “I can see it now: a new legend in the making for the Lenape King. If you handle this right, Mr. Spurrier, you’ll have more visitors than you ever dreamed of …”

  Bruno left the Chief and Mr. Spurrier mulling over the possibilities. He had to see the room with the iron rings. A few minutes later, he reemerged, panting and flushed with excitement. “Come quick! I found something!” The Chief and Mr. Spurrier dropped everything and followed him. “You’re not going to believe this,” the psychic promised.

  And he was right.

  Bruno seemed to have developed a keen sense of direction down in the Lenape’s basement. He led them unerringly to the very last chamber, which was the one with the iron rings. Actually, now there was only a single ring attached to the wall. The other had pulled free and was lying on top of a pile of crumpled bricks. Next to the pile was a ragged hole, about two and a half feet in diameter. “Feel the breeze?” Bruno shouted, waving his hand in front of the opening.

  The Chief moved forward with his flashlight at the ready. “It’s a tunnel. I can only see about 30 yards back, but it’s a tunnel, alright.”

  Mr. Spurrier bounded forward and tried to restrain him. “You can’t go in there. This is an historic artifact, an important archeological site. We have to wait …”

  The Chief gently extricated himself from his grasp. “This doesn’t exist,” he reminded Mr. Spurrier. “Remember, all of the experts have determined the Underground Railroad passed Gardenfield by. Besides, it’s already been compromised; Alison and Icky have already been through it, who knows how many times? That means it’s my responsibility to check out what they’ve been up to.”

  With that he disappeared into the hole, and Bruno followed. Chief Black felt twinges of guilt as he moved through the tunnel. It was only about four feet tall, with roots protruding from every direction, so he had to walk with care, bent over with his head out in front of his knees. The flooring was packed earth, and he could see traces of footprints moving through in both directions. He tried to stay to the right in order to leave as many intact as possible. But there was no question that recent use had probably destroyed historical evidence. That was too bad. He knew exactly how he would have felt if archeologists had interfered with his crime scene. It was just a case of competing and mutually exclusive interests. Lives were at stake.

  Spurrier would just have to deal with it. And, the Chief consoled himself, the tunnel’s support beams appeared to bear carved inscriptions. If this proved to be 150-year-old graffiti from escaping slaves, Mr. Spurrier and his experts would have an incredible find on their hands. In fact, it would attract so much attention, it’d probably be best not to say anything about it until the investigation concluded.

  Finally Chief Black reached the end of the tunnel. He guessed it must have extended a couple of hundred yards. Right above him was a trap door. He opened it cautiously and found himself staring out at the back of a row of benches. He was in the Frien
ds meeting house. The trap door was hidden in the floorboards of the first landing of the stairs that led up to the loft.

  “Now we know how Ginnie Doe found her way into the meeting house without breaking in or leaving any trace,” Chief Black reported when he had returned to the basement of the tavern. He was talking on his radio but staring directly at Bruno as he announced, “And, we know who brought her there. We’re still looking for Alison Wales, except now she’s not a witness. Now she’s our number-one suspect.”

  Chapter 51

  Bruno found it difficult to concentrate. He couldn’t believe Alison was a suspect. The Chief said he was simply doing it by the book.

  “No way,” Bruno protested. “We’ve known for a long time that the meeting house was not the murder scene. Now we know how the body got there. It’s an important fact, but it shouldn’t change our assessment of Alison’s role.”

  “Not true,” Chief Black retorted. “It adds a critical element of premeditation. We know that Alison had the means to transport a body into the meeting house in secret.”

  “What about Icky? It could’ve been Icky. He also knew about the tunnel.”

  The Chief frowned. “Coupla things. First, Icky’s life centered around drugs. There’s nothing about Ginnie Doe’s death to indicate it was drug-related.”

  “But Icky’s death is related to the others. Do you think Alison started the fire? If she was mad at Icky, there are easier ways to break up.”

  The Chief held his ground. “Alison had quite a temper. Gary used to watch her kicking Icky’s butt up and down Old Kings Road sometimes when she caught him cheating.”

  “That’s different than blowing up a building …”

  “I know. I agree, it doesn’t seem plausible that Alison is directly responsible for Gussie and Icky. But—I’ve said this before—everything starts with Ginnie Doe. It kicked off some kind of chain reaction, and Alison was involved right from the beginning. She knew about the tunnel. Ginnie was also wearing Alison’s old clothes when Mimi found her. Alison had to take the trouble to get them from her parents’ house. Everything we have points to her.”

  Bruno was silent. His instincts told him the Chief was wrong. But there was no point arguing. He’d have to find evidence.

  “Do you think you can read that Polaroid?”

  “Sure.” Bruno shrugged, trying to sound equivocal. “It’s recent. Her eyes are open and she’s looking right at the camera. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He didn’t tell the Chief that certain aspects of the photo were incredibly distracting. How could he ignore a tasty knish like Alison? No question, this was going to be a difficult assignment. “With any luck,” he drawled, “we may even be able to find where she’s hiding out, assuming she’s still alive of course.”

  Back home, Bruno felt conflicted. He was using his normal technique, focusing on the subject’s eyes in order to merge with her perceptions. But this time, a mysterious, still, small voice was whispering in ear, “You shouldn’t do this. This is pornography.”

  Whose voice was it?

  “It’s beneath you,” the voice continued to nag him. “Why are you lying in bed?”

  Well, he was tired, for one thing …

  “You don’t need this nafka, this whore. The Kabbalah contains the mystic union of male and female. Kabbalah provides everything you need.”

  Bruno sat up. He focused intently on her eyes. Soon he could see her. Alison was working on a laptop. Like him, she was sitting up in bed. He tried to pick up details of the apartment, but it was difficult because she was focused on the computer screen. She was in a room. It definitely wasn’t her dorm room at Penn. The bedspread was too floral and there appeared to be a doily on the bureau. Somebody’s guest room? But it could be anywhere.

  Now he looked more closely at the computer. She was writing something. It was difficult to make sense of it. There was so much jargon, liberally sprinkled with what appeared to be ancient Greek, based on the two words he recognized, phallus and gynos. Ah, she must doing her homework. Good girl.

  Suddenly, the lights went out. Had he lost the connection? No. He sensed that she was still there, but just lying low. Had she sensed his presence? He’d never heard of anyone being able to do that, but there was a first time for everything. No. She didn’t seem to be hiding. He didn’t sense any resistance. Then he realized, she had shut her eyes. The paper must have been boring her too. She was trying to take a nap. Relax. Get inspired. Would he be able to see her dreams? That might be interesting. But wait. Someone was coming. A male form emerging from the shadows. It was Icky. Was he still alive? Had the fire been a set up? It couldn’t be: The dental records showed it was Icky …

  Then it struck him. Shmuck-o! This was all a fantasy. She was imagining herself having sex with Icky. Yuck. He was stuck inside her head, feeling everything she felt while that nasty night-of-the-living-chazerai crawled all over her. Was he an evil spirit? A dybbuk? On the one hand, the physical sensations were quite enjoyable; Alison was an experienced hand at giving herself pleasure. But the mental image of this thin, hairy, alabaster-bottomed, pustulent teenager with raging hormones, pawing and salivating, almost made him burst into tears.

  Then the phone rang and hauled him back to safety. It was the Chief, impatient to know the results of his distant imaging work. Bruno somehow managed to pull himself together and affect a breezy tone. “I was just about to call you,” he reported. “Alison’s alive and well. And I think she’s still somewhere in the area.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Bruno explained he had caught her in the act of doing her homework. The room itself provided no clues as to her location. But they could assume she must have some way of submitting her work.

  “So all we have to do is interview her teachers to find out how they’re receiving her assignments … Nice job. Thanks.”

  Before they rang off, the Chief asked if he was really planning to meet Peaches for lunch tomorrow. “Nothing good can come of it,” he warned.

  “I know that’s what you think. But she’s an intelligent person. I think if I can just get her to consider our perspective …”

  “Forget it. That won’t work.”

  “You’ve told me that. So I have a backup plan.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Appeal to her self-interest.”

  “Uh-oh. What do you have that Peaches wants?”

  “Many things, foremost of which is a scoop.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” the Chief hollered. “I forbid you to tell her about the tunnel. This is a critical piece of information that the bad guys don’t know we have in our possession. But we have to figure out how to use it to our advantage. Tell it to Peaches and the game’s over.”

  “Maybe I could just sort of dangle it … without actually telling her what it is.”

  The Chief groaned audibly. “Don’t even think about it. You’re out of your league in this kind of thing. I’m begging you. Cancel the appointment. Call in sick. Shoot yourself in the foot. Do whatever you have to do. Just don’t meet Peaches for lunch tomorrow.”

  “No can do. I’m feeling lucky.”

  The Chief groaned again. He sounded like he was passing a kidney stone. “What’s that word you always say? It sounds like ‘King of Prussia?’”

  “Kineahora?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one. Kineahora. And keep checking in on Alison, every few hours or so. I want to know right away if you find out anything.”

  Chapter 52

  Peaches wanted to meet Bruno at one of the trendy new places on Garden Avenue in Killingswood. Peaches liked the ambience, but wouldn’t be caught dead in any of the numerous Italian joints. The concept restaurant, formerly known as La Vache Folle, was much more to her liking.

  It was a “slow food” kind of place that emphasized the use of local ingredients. The chef, Jacob Creutzfeldt, had brought his culinary skills to South Jersey all the way from Vienna. Many considered him a certified genius. Chef Creutzfeldt focused on
beef (or veal). He would buy a single animal that he selected himself, and then create a menu featuring every cut of meat and internal organ. Nothing was wasted and it was all delicious. There were melt-in-your-mouth tenderloins and juicy rib eyes—to be sure. But he also prepared spicy tripes, delicately seasoned sweetbreads, brains, and the house specialty—kidneys in red wine sauce.

  Despite rave reviews from Peaches and her colleagues at the Pest, the restaurant was losing money at an alarming rate. In response, Chef Creutzfeldt nimbly migrated to a surf-and-turf concept, changing the name to La Vache Folle et Le Poisson Nu. More mainstream cuts of meat and the addition of seafood certainly broadened its appeal. “If you liked La Vache Folle, you’ll love La Vache Folle et Le Poisson Nu,” crowed the Pest. Privately, though, Peaches said she missed the tripe.

  Bruno was in reasonably good humor as he sat down to claim the table for their 12:15 reservation. Peaches had told him to “bring an appetite,” so he’d eaten only a minimal breakfast. In fact, he was quite hungry and could have happily munched on a piece of bread. Unfortunately, the wait staff studiously ignored him, even though there was only one other couple in the restaurant.

  Perhaps if he picked up the menu someone would notice? Inside the handsome blue leather cover was a handwritten document that explained the Walt Whitman theme inspiring many of the chef’s preparations. Reading further, Bruno learned that the poet and his family were entombed in a cemetery on Garden Avenue, just a few blocks away in Camden. This had inspired Chef Creutzfeldt to create a series of dishes with ingredients mentioned in the poem. In addition, he’d been inspired to invent a new way to grill meat—the signature Singe-the-Body-Electric preparation, which had earned widespread acclaim.

  “I prefer charcoal briquettes moistened with unleaded gasoline,” Bruno reflected, “but who knows? Maybe this guy knows what he’s doing.”