by Mae Berry
“Just changed his mind about killing the man,” Sloan said as he scribbled “solved” at the top of the official report. She still saw his finger wagging in her face as he sneered about her worthless conclusions. The case was a murder/suicide and closed. Period.
Sam sighed and returned the doll-head to the table. She lowered herself to her knees and gathered the scattered papers. She returned the splattered note left at the scene by Gittin and ruffled the stack of papers. Neatly written, annotated and filed. All organized. None of the meticulous work masked the reality of this case. It was not only ghastly, it was… She frowned. She didn’t have the words to describe her thoughts— uneasy, unsettled, disquieted - none were strong enough. Most of her cases involved naked human emotions: greed, revenge, lust. This one, however, was different. She couldn’t wrap her mind around any motive, any justification that took a life by bashing a head with an ax. And the fact it was his own family? People he should love? Protect? Sam shuddered. She pursued all leads she could with her meager resources on anything that was remotely similar. She wouldn’t let this happen again.
Her heavy sigh filled the quiet left by the thunder. Why hadn’t she fought harder? Why had she let Sloan run over her? Guilt pricked. She’d kept the evidence but gotten nowhere with the case. Enough. She crammed everything into the box and slammed the lid. She’d tried for years to ignore the fact she, and she alone, had let a murderer get away.
✽✽✽
Daylight played with the edges of her curtains and woke Sam. She groaned. She was late. Another long night with full color nightmares. The late night rummaging in the old case file a few nights back had triggered the horror of that time. She needed sleep. She needed to turn off her brain. She needed coffee. Sam stretched her legs and yawned as she rose. Sweat stuck her nightgown to her body and her hair to her head. Wonderful.
She splashed water into the washstand’s porcelain basin but trembling hands caused more water to spill out than in. She set down the pitcher then clenched and released her fists. She tried to bury her terrors in soothing routine. Thirty minutes later Sam slipped into the kitchen to make herself coffee and toast. She refused to give up her only luxury, coffee. Hattie despised the brew but seemed to recognize Sam’s dependence on it and kept the kitchen stocked. The meager breakfast was all she could stomach this morning. She brushed crumbs from her black jacket and set her cup in the dish tub.
As Sam grabbed the handle of her office bag, it tipped, spewing paper scraps, files, and minutia to the floor. Not a good start to the day. She crammed everything back and hurried out the door. She’d put off Mr. Spotwood as long as she could. He had sent a note: Tomorrow 7:45 a.m. BE PROMPT. Be prompt, as if she had nothing better to do than cater to his whims? Maybe she should just respond to Mr. Spotwood in kind? The man was a pugnacious twit. Her shoulders slumped. Where had that thought come from? She couldn’t ignore him. No matter how justified. She needed his help as a police contact. Besides, he was her… What should she call him? Friend? Business Associate? Or something more? She had no idea. No, she needed to shake off the ghosts of past cases and focus on her current responsibilities.
Sam hurried toward the nearest streetcar stop to the West Bottoms precinct. The breezy spring day smelled of new grass and stale refuse. A brilliant sapphire blue lit the sky that would wash out to a dull pastel by summer. Walkways filled with men in top hats and bowlers headed to offices or slouch hats and caps headed to work sites. The women dressed in serviceable suits or practical dresses and carried market baskets or small children. It was too late for the mill girls and too early for society ladies. The sounds of haggling voices, clopping horses, and clanging streetcar bells added to the confusion. Streetcar bells? She broke into an unladylike trot.
Sam dreaded the upcoming conversation. Spotwood had asked her to meet with an informant for their investigation. Kansas, unlike Missouri, was a “dry territory”. Enterprising men were making a fortune toting whiskey across state lines and every time the police arrived to intervene the men disappeared. Sam was unsure the informant was an officer, but Spotwood was convinced. She sighed. After she had followed the man into the alley, she had forgotten all about meeting Spotwood’s contact. Her only saving grace was Mr. Spotwood’s obsession with proving Councilman Pendergast’s involvement. The man she saw going in the back of Pendergast’s saloon should interest him. That had to be something, right?
Sam’s shoulders sagged. She was fooling herself. Mr. Spotwood would look at her and sigh - a long suffering deep sigh. His narrow face and shoulders would droop as he painstakingly explained with exaggerated patience and protracted pauses why, what she assumed was important was in fact misguided. And once she told him she had forgotten the name of the man she was to meet? She shuddered. Wait! She was sure she’d written it down.
Sam rummaged in her bag shoving aside old receipts and crumpled papers, rooting to the bottom where all the items she needed seemed to congregate. She grabbed a small piece of paper and, with a bone jarring impact, ran straight into a significantly larger force going in the opposite direction. Something knocked her to the ground. On her backside. The contents of her open bag flew for the second time that morning.
“Och! I’m sorry miss! Wasn’t watchin’ where I be goin’. Are you ‘urt?” A rich baritone rolled over her.
Stunned, she eyed the large palm held out to her. She followed the palm to the attached wrist then up a suit clad arm. How tall was this man? Her gaze finally gained his face. She startled at eyes the color of spring grass. Eyes that flashed in merriment. At her! His generous mouth pulled up into a smirking smile as if sharing a joke. The nerve! Either his hat fell off in their collision or he hadn’t worn one. His light brown hair, unfashionably unrestrained by pomade, glinted with red highlights as curls danced in the breeze. He quirked an eyebrow at her continued perusal and a flush crept up her cheeks.
“I am sure I am uninjured,” she said through gritted teeth. “No thanks to your barreling down the street without a bother for other pedestrians. You should take more care, sir!” He backed away as she flapped her hands. The wind tossed her notes and he grabbed her bag and began stuffing in papers.
“Stop that at once!” Her shriek was perhaps a tad excessive, but she was put out by this… barbarian. “You are creasing my papers. Oh, what a jumbled mess!” She yanked her office bag from his hands and crawled over the boardwalk capturing papers.
“Tis sorry I am, lassie. Please, let me ‘elp ye.” His tone pleaded, his brogue thicker as he hovered over her.
“I think, sir, you have done enough.” Her glare should have burned a hole through his too broad chest. Not that she looked at his chest or anywhere else. No she definitely did not. She crammed the last of the scraps into her bag and staggered to her feet. He moved to grasp her elbow but she brushed him off even more unbalanced by his appreciative stare and hesitant smile. Her flush deepen as she gained her feet without his assistance. Sam sniffed as she shot one more glower at him, then stalked down the street. His gaze burned through the back of her jacket. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. Men!
Chapter 4
Later, Sam entered the front doors of the West Bottoms precinct out of breath. She tugged her jacket and pushed a stray curl behind her ear. After her run in with that odious brute, she must be in shambles. She tried to catch Ernest Spotwood’s attention. He was standing at the raised clerk’s station presiding over the polished marble lobby speaking with a woman who was attempting to post bail for her incarcerated “husband”. The woman, dressed in a soiled red satin gown with too much decolletage displayed, was swaying. She kept leaning over the balustrade that separated the admitting desk from the public giving poor Spotwood a more than adequate view of her ample charms. Sam snorted. If the man the woman was trying to liberate was her husband then she, Samantha Lawton, was Chief of Police.
Spotwood briefly made eye contact. His sallow face turned bright crimson. He frowned as his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed. Sam shrugged
and strolled to the precinct’s rogues’ gallery. The four foot by three foot racks of pictures hinged to the wall on one side fanned out like the pages of a book. The massive frames were full of Kansas City’s most wanted. She flipped a frame. The dock worker/laborer she had followed yesterday might be a wanted man. She should at least check.
Spotwood broke away from the overbearing woman and stepped from behind the desk. He straightened his uniform coat and rolled his long neck as he crossed to a side door. He scanned the lobby and motioned for her to follow. She crossed over and slipped through the heavy oak door.
Behind it was the aptly named bullpen. Noise echoed from wood-paneled walls and marble floors. She cringed as it pounded her too sensitive ears. Then the smell hit. This many male bodies, who seemed to share the same vague concept of hygiene, had her reaching for her hankie. A jumble of solid wood desks faced each other in small groups. Officers scribbled on reports or argued with partners. Spotwood negotiated the maze and nodded his head toward an unoccupied corner.
“I have little time,” he said without preamble, “Perkins did not make it in today, lazy sod, and Simms, well, he doesn’t like to work the desk by himself.” Spotwood’s small dark eyes fastened on Sam’s face as he tipped his head to the side and flicked it back and forth. The gesture, combined with his thin neck and slouched shoulders, reminded her of a turkey buzzard. She could picture him perched at his desk, waiting to pounce on the first unsuspecting soul who entered his… His whine scattered her thoughts.
“Miss Lawton. Miss Lawton. What did you find out?” His lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Sam forged ahead before he found out how she had failed him.
“Something interesting happened, Mr. Spotwood. Remember the case you were telling me about? The missing boy? The one with the missing father?”
“Yes, about that case—”
“I went to the mother’s house to see if I could—”
“You what?” Spotwood’s thin eyebrows arched, his voice came out as a hiss.
“To Mrs. Richards’ house, the mother of the—”
“Miss Lawton!” He snapped to his full height, anger in his eyes. “You will get me in trouble!” He grabbed her elbow and yanked her further into the corner then flicked a glance around the room. Finding no one paying them the slightest notice his glower returned to Sam.
“I didn’t tell her what I knew. Besides, the papers have reported about the case.” Sam held up a placating hand.
“I shouldn’t have told you.” He moved into her, forcing her head back and up to keep eye contact. “The newspapers only have a line or two. After today—”
“Your concerns are unfounded.” Sam glared, and took a step back. She hated it when he tried to intimidate her. He knew that. Men who tried to dominate with their size annoyed her. With her stature that included most men. A majority of women too. “I did not speak with her. As I was standing on the street, I noticed a man in the back digging and I followed—”
“You did what?” His screech drew a few startled looks. He lowered his voice and clenched his fists. “You could ruin everything! Everything!” Fury rolled in his dark eyes.
“Mr. Spotwood, I followed him back to Pendergast’s saloon.”
“What? Who?”
“The dockworker! The one digging in the yard!”
“Wait… a dock worker was digging in the yard? What yard?”
“Well, I don’t know he was a dockworker, I assumed because, never mind. Dockworker. Day laborer. It’s not important. What is important is he ducked into Pendergast’s saloon. At least, I think he did.”
Spotwood bowed his head and rubbed his forehead. “He was digging in the yard… at Pendergast’s? You are not making sense.” He made an impatient gesture as if to bat her words away. “I have no time for this… lunacy. Did you meet O’Brennan?”
“No,” Sam drew out, “but I—”
Spotwood exploded. “But nothing! This is important! Cracking the Pendergast smuggling case will be my ticket out from behind that desk.”
“Alleged Pendergast smuggling case. We have no real evidence to—”
“Nor will we ever!” His volume rose, pressing painfully against her ears. Righteous indignation rolled off as he stressed his points by jabbing his finger at her nose. “This can make me a detective. I thought it was important to you!”
Sam’s face burned. “Mr. Spotwood, I…” She glanced around the room and cringed as she noted more eyes turned their direction.
“You know,” he said, lowering his voice as a wheedling note crept in, “this is the only way we can have any kind of relationship going forward. Isn’t that important to you?”
Her spine stiffened as she stepped into him. Her eyes narrowed to slits and her voice dropped a full octave. “How dare you! All I have heard from your mouth is you, you, you.” Her glower should have warned an intelligent man to be cautious. Spotwood, apparently, was not an intelligent man.
“Please,” he sneered, “I am not unaware of your… expectations of our relationship.” The condescension in his voice was like a bucket of snow dumped on her head.
“Relationship!” she growled. “You dare threaten our ‘relationship’ as motivation? What kind of relationship, precisely, are you speaking of?” Sam cocked her head to the side, eyes drilling into him, “I have never intimated or expected any—”
“Spotwood!” bellowed a voice, “Culligan says if you don’t get your a—” the man noticed Sam and sputtered, “ah… self back to the desk.”
Spotwood turned chalk white and slouched further. “I must go,” he said as he made his way back to the lobby door.
Sam heaved a sigh and closed her eyes. She was not having a good day. Good day. Ha! She couldn’t remember her last “good day.” She opened her eyes and stared at the scuffed marble under her feet, trying to order her thoughts.
A voice sneered, “Well, well, Miss Lawton. Lover’s quarrel?”
Sam whipped her head up then gritted her teeth as she watched the man sauntering in her direction. His suit jacket was missing and the bottom of his shirt puffed out under his too snug waistcoat. His expression twisted into a leer. Just what she needed today of all days.
“Or are you here to file a report? Catch any desperate shop girls helping themselves to the till? Or even worse,” he executed a mock shudder, “gossiping about their boss?”
“Detective Peterman,” Sam said, her tone icy, “I was just leaving.”
“No, no, don’t leave because of me.” Peterman stopped three feet away and shifted his hip to rest on a nearby desk. He tried to cross his ankles but the solid walnut moved and he stumbled. Sam clamped down on a smile as the detective righted himself. He ran a hand across his few strands of carefully slicked over hair. “Your name came up this morning, Miss Lawton.” He cocked his head and studied her as if she was a new species of insect.
“Indeed.”
“Seems Officer Gallagher reported an incident with an alley, and a loaded gun?” Peterman’s close-set eyes squinted as he tried to look thoughtful. It reminded Sam of a large sow she’d seen at an expo. Except the sow’s eyes held more intelligence.
“Yes,” Sam straightened to her full height, readying to defend herself, “however, Mr. Peterman, I beg to point out, an unloaded gun defeats the purpose. Not to mention the fact, that if loaded guns are an issue, most of the city will need incarceration.” She glared at him for a beat then moved to push past. “I am sorry. I must go.”
“Yeah, well a woman all alone? In a place she shouldn’t be? Something… unfortunate could happen.”
Sam froze then turned and marched back to the lounging officer. “Are you threatening me, sir?”
Peterman smirked and shifted. “No, Miss Lawton, just reminding you of the unpleasant facts on the streets. Be a shame if something happened. The paper work would keep someone busy for days, and we don’t have the manpower.” He waved his hand in the air as he rose.
Sam watched him walk away, her face a frozen mask of indiffer
ence. She had learned early in her career men resented what she did. She tried not to give them ammunition to use against her. Still, maybe she and Spotwood should check into Peterman as a possible mole in the alleged Pendergast informant case. She would enjoy wiping that smug look off his face, in a purely professional manner of course.
✽✽✽
In hindsight, the best time to visit Mr. Arnold was not after her run in with Peterman. But Hattie’s relentless badgering wore her down. Hattie had seen the wisdom in allowing time for Mr. Arnold to calm, however Sam had reached the end of her patience. Any more procrastination would result in serious repercussions. Repercussions Sam was sure she would rather not experience. Besides, it couldn’t get worse, right?
Sam entered the reception room of A & D Enterprises. A scrawny, twitchy clerk presided over the spacious area. After determining she had no appointment but intended to wait, he shook his head and nervously pointed her to an overstuffed leather couch. He stepped into the inner office a moment then resumed his seat, shuffling papers from one stack to another. His eyes darted from the wall clock to Sam to his desk, repeating the motion every few minutes.
The room boasted an intricate Persian rug, several ivory inlaid tables and lead glass lamps. Works of art mounted in elaborate scroll-work frames set off by Anglo-Japanese wallpaper covered the walls. The strange asymmetrical pattern with its clashing colors made her feel sympathetic toward the young man who had to spend his days here. It explained his twitch.
Sam waited. And waited. And waited. After three hours and forty-seven minutes, not that she kept track, Mr. Arnold emerged from his office hurling commands at the army of clerks trailing him. His eyes strayed in her direction and he stopped.