The Last Legal Hanging

by Mae Berry

  He hesitated a moment then placed one boot on the bottom step, “Mrs. Richards?”

  “Ja?” She turned expressive blue eyes to him, her lips a thin line.

  “May I speak with you?” Finn tapped his badge and put on his best professional face. “I am Assistant Deputy Marshal Finnley. I’m assigned to the case concerning your missing husband and son?”

  “I vas going out.” She shifted from foot to foot. Her accent was thick. Decidedly German.

  “Please, it will only take a few minutes.” Finn smiled his most charming and this time it seemed to work. She eyed his bruised face and reluctantly opened the door wider motioning for him to come inside.

  The tiny hall gave way to a small parlor with a floor that looked clean enough to eat from and a fireplace grate that appeared to have never held a blaze. The room smelled of beeswax and lemon oil. She motioned for him to sit on an overstuffed chair. He noted an oval table next to it with a small brown tweed cap and a picture of a young, unsmiling boy. The cap appeared grubby, stained and worn - well loved. Finn bent to examined the photograph. The boy had sad eyes. He settled in the chair and placed a foot on top of his opposite knee. Striking a casual pose put a witness at ease. If they were at ease, you could gather more information. Mrs. Richards perched on the edge of the settee closest to the table.

  “Is this a picture of your son?” He nodded at the portrait.

  “Ja, und his cap. He loved that cap; always wore it.” Tears gathered in her eyes as her hands trembled in her lap.

  “I’m so sorry you are going through this. We will do everything we can to find him.”

  She clenched her jaw and shook her head.

  “Please, the worst thing you can do is give up hope.”

  She shot him a glance, and he drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes snapped with anger… no stronger than that… hatred? Mrs. Richards lowered her gaze.

  Finn cleared his throat. “Tell me about what happened the day they disappeared.”

  “Mr. Richards left with Heinrich to gehen… to walk. It was Wednesday. They go for walk und not come back.” Her accent was thick but understandable. She pressed the hankie to her mouth.

  “Heinrich is your son, Henry?”

  She nodded. “He was free.”

  Finn raised an eyebrow unclear on her meaning until she held up three fingers. He nodded. “Is he your and Mr. Richard’s son?” Finn pulled out a leather bound notepad and a pencil stub. He flipped to a clean page. At her gasp he looked up. Apparently, she took offense at his comment. “What I mean to say,” he added, “Henry isn’t from a previous marriage is he?” Her eyes slid away at the mention of a previous marriage. Finn filed that away for later.

  “Nein, Heinrich is mine son. Mine und Mr. Richards.”

  “Is there anywhere Mr. Richards may have gone? Friends? Relatives?”

  “Mr. Richards is a family man. He not go to the saloons. He not go with friends. Ach! He come home, in garten arbeiten… ah work in garten. Go to church on Sonntag. He has a family but I never meet them. Not talk about them. He lose his vather. He lose his bruder. It painful to him. He not speak.”

  “I understand. Do you know where he might go?”

  “I want to understand.” She pressed the hankie to her mouth, and this time stifled a sob. It baffled Finn. Clearly, they were not communicating. He was getting nowhere.

  “Do you have any other pictures of Henry?” Finn asked gently. She shook her head, rose and grabbed the formal photo off the small table handing it to him. The frame was an elaborate scroll and engraved affair. More elaborate than the spartan furnishings of the house. “A fine young lad. Is it current?”

  “Vas?” He noted her broad forehead wrinkled.

  “Is this a picture of Henry as he looks now?”

  “Ah, ja. They took it at the portrait geschaft last month. Mr. Richards insisted. He said I would always have Heinrich with me.” She dabbed at her watering eyes and patted her substantial bosom as a sob broke through.

  “Do you have any portraits of Mr. Richards?” Finn made a note in his notebook.

  “Nein, he not like to take picture.”

  “Can you give me a description of Mr. Richards?” Finn looked at her, pen poised. Mrs. Richards drew in a sharp breath, her jaw working. Something strained her voice.

  “He is bigger than me. Das haar is brown. It come off his… what is word?” She patted her brow.

  “Forehead?”

  She nodded. “His eyes are gray. Oh, und, he has eine narbe… mark,” she used her finger to draw a crescent shaped line through her left eyebrow.

  “A scar?” She nodded again. “Can you think of anything else that would help me find him?” She shook her head. “I see,” he looked deep into her eyes, willing compassion to show on his face. “Did you have a disagreement or was he unhappy?”

  “Nein,” she began to tear as Finn patted her arm.”It vas a day like any other. I not understand what happened to him.”

  “Them. You mean them.” Finn’s eyes probed hers.

  “Ja, them.” She dropped her eyes, pressing the handkerchief to her mouth again. Finn narrowed his eyes, and decided not to press, but he felt that itch on the back of his neck. His extra sense he called it. The one that said things were not as they seemed.

  “Mrs. Richards, where does your husband work?”

  “He work on the train station. He clean the people cars.” Her eyes snapped back to Finn’s. “He work very hard. Bring home all his pay.”

  “I see. So, he works cleaning the Pullman cars? The passenger cars?” Great. A suspect with an intimate knowledge of how to get on trains unseen.

  “Ja. We married four years. He work there all that time.”

  “Good, good.” Finn wrote a couple more notes then pocketed his book. “May I take Henry’s portrait with me? So I can show it around? See if anyone has seen him? I will return it to you later.”

  “Bitte, it is all I have of him.” She made a small desperate movement as if to grab the photograph.

  Finn frowned then hurriedly removed the picture from the frame and tucked it into his coat pocket. “I’m sure your son is fine, Mrs. Richards. Please let me borrow the portrait. I will return it.” He stood and moved to the doorway. “Are you certain, there is nothing else you can share with me Mrs. Richards? No information that could help me locate your husband or son?”

  She rose to let him out the front door. A shudder went through her, then she straightened her spine. She looked at Finn, her expressive eyes hard and unyielding. “Nein, please, just find him.”

  The vehemence in her voice made Finn wonder which “him” she meant.

  Chapter 7

  Later that afternoon, Finn picked his way through the cross hatching of tracks in the work yards of Union Station,—better known as the “Jackson County Insane Asylum”. Named by those who thought it too large when it was built in 1878. At the time, it was only the second Union Station in the country. Railroad expansion and increased travel had shown the early backers to be visionaries not lunatics. The nickname was still appropriate; however, now because of the insane number of people that traveled through the station daily.

  Finn glanced at the massive edifice, taking in the multi-storied arched windows and red brick. Quite the first impression for visitors, despite the thick coal smoke making breathing difficult. He noted several trains pulling in as others were leaving. The squeal of metal on metal, the huffing of escaping steam, the jangle of voices and thudding of baggage made an overwhelming din.

  Finn’s long legs made quick work of the walk to the work sheds. He sighed. It was just as noisy but not as chaotic. He approached a man shouting orders at a crew winching a car from a spur. Finn asked for directions to the Pullman car sanitation shed then walked toward the building scanning the surrounding activity. Men in coveralls scrubbed the outside of a passenger car, another swept inside, two others struggled to carry away burlap bags of what smelled like spoiled foodstuffs. At the shed, Finn found a stocky m
an with hands on hips directing workers. His face was red from his exertions or the unseasonably warm April day. Finn snagged the man’s attention when he tapped his badge.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for someone who can tell me about a man who worked here.” The red-faced man assessed Finn and shifted a large plug of tobacco to the other side of his mouth.

  “That be me.” He shot an impressive stream precariously close to Finn’s boots, then returned his attention to Finn, a challenge in his eye. Ah, a lawman skeptic. Wonderful.

  Finn pasted on a large grin. “Well now, I be Deputy Marshal Finnley and I be wantin’ to talk about a man of a name of Richards?”

  The man eyed Finn and shrugged. “Ya? What about??”

  “What’s your name, sir?” Finn stretched his grin even further.

  “Smith.”

  Of course it was. Finn kept his grin from turning into a grimace. “Well, Mr… Smith, Did Richards work here?” Smith slowly studied him as Finn fought to keep a low growl from erupting.

  “Suppose so,” Smith shifted his plug in his mouth and eyed the other side of Finn’s boots.

  “How long?” Shifting his feet, Finn ground his molars.

  “Four years.” Smith folded his arms across his chest with a pointed look at his work crew. He yelled an undecipherable curse in their direction and turned his attention back to Finn, a scowl on his face.

  “Were he dependable?” Finn removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Smith was ready to walk. Finn needed to get to answers fast.

  “Yes.”

  Finn groaned. This was going nowhere. “Could ye be givin’ me a li’l more? Then I can get outta your way?” He tried a pleading grin.

  Smith sighed. “Richards worked here. Walked off o’ the job more ‘n a week ago. Ain’t bin seen since.”

  Finn decided to switch tactics. “Aye, his poor wife contacted me. Seems he left a few days later with their bairn. Haven’t seen ‘em since. She’s upset, worryin’ about her poor wee laddie and his da.”

  Smith’s face softened marginally. “Don’t know him well. Kept to hisself mostly. Worked hard but made others… deconterted. Didn’t join in with yawin’ and such.”

  Deconterted? Did he mean disconcerted? How? Not the impression Mrs. Richards had given of her husband. “How did he make others uncomfortable?” he asked.

  Smith glared at Finn’s sudden change in diction and hesitated a moment. “Were like he thought hisself better’n everyone else. He didn’t swap yarns or eat lunch with the other fellas.”

  “So he was a loner?”

  “Were more’n that.” Smith shifted from foot to foot. Finn watched him stew.

  “He seemed… well he were a mite… touched, if you get my meaning.”

  “Sorry, touched? How so?” Finn felt his quick-to-solve case slipping from his fingers as the itch on the back of his neck intensified. If Richards was a madman, anything could have happened. He pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair.

  Smith studied the ground for a time then shrugged his shoulders, clearly sorry he’d brought the subject up. “He did his talking like a… a ed-e-cated man. Liked to use big words all the time. Like indubble-a-able.” Finn frowned doing a mental search of possible words. “Ya know, like when he meant fer certain.” Smith waved his hand.

  “Ah, indubitable.”

  “Ya, what I said, indubble-a-able. Used it all the time, got sick of hearing it.” Finn stifled a grin. “That wern’t all. Richards didn’t like being told what to do. He’d stare at anyone poking fun or tellin’ him he done wrong. Just stare. Nary a word. An’ that stare. It’d give you goose flesh… like someone walkin’ over your grave.” Smith shuddered and looked away. Finn stared at the man, pondering his comments. Smith spit another tobacco stream. “That be it?”

  “One more thing, Mr. Smith. Did anything happen before Richards left? Anything that might have upset him?”

  Smith eyed his work crew and puffed out his cheeks. “His last day o’ work some bloke came up to him in the yard. Started yawin’ on and on. I didn’t know the toss-pot, but Richards kept tryin’ to shush him. Never saw him again. Richards, I mean.”

  Finn shot the man a weak smile while he tried to keep his temper in check. Why didn’t this idiot tell him this in the first place? Why make him drag it out of him? “Did you hear what they were talking about?”

  Smith had the decency to look down. “Na, wern’t close enough.”

  Finn released the man from his stare and handed him a business card. “Thanks. If you think of anything else, send a message to the marshals office.” As he turned, Smith cleared his throat. Finn sighed and faced him.

  Smith rubbed his chin. “Funny thing though, ‘bout that bloke that stopped by? I heard him call Richards by a different name. Richards kept sayin’ the man was touched. Had him mixed with someone else. But… the man seemed confused that Richards didn’t answer and Richards, well he seemed almost… scart.” Apparently, Smith’s hearing wasn’t all that bad.

  Finn stalked back and stood in front of him. Towering over the man, he tried to keep exasperation from his face. “What name,” Finn said his voice steady— well relatively steady, “did ‘the bloke’ call Richards?” Finn felt a moment of satisfaction when Smith squirmed and refused to meet his gaze.

  “Gittin. He called him Gittin.”

  ✽✽✽

  Finn left the train yard and moved deeper into the West Bottoms. Even though it was near dusk, the sound of saws and hammers created a constant background jangle. Kansas City was booming and construction was everywhere. There was even talk by some town leaders of a city beautification project. Wonder how that’ll work in the stockyards? Finn grinned as the smell from that particular enterprise hit him. He started down James Street skirting around goods for sale and piles of refuse, his mind still on Mrs. Richards and the unease he felt after his talk with Smith. The case was probably what it seemed. Richards had tired of his German wife and took off with his son. Happened all too often. The facts were, this case found its way to the marshals office, sigh all he wanted, he’d angered Fenton and this was his punishment. Still, something about Mrs. Richards didn’t sit right. That coupled with Smith’s jitters about Richards or Gittin or whoever he was. It left Finn… deconterted. He smirked and tried to ignore the itch on the back of his neck.

  A blow smacked the back of his legs and for the second time that day he struggled to remain standing. He turned. A boy in ragged pants and fraying suspenders scrambled off the ground, terrified eyes fixed on Finn.

  “Sorry, Mister!” His clothes hung on his thin body and his face had a pinched look that stabbed at Finn’s heart.

  “Mickey, me lad, where you off to in such a hurry?” He grinned as he squatted to the boy’s level.

  The boy gazed back through greasy bangs. His smudged features sagged in relief. “Och, it be you Finn,” Mickey’s reproof was evident, “you like to knock the stuffin’ outta me.”

  “Stuffin’ outta you?” Finn laughed, “few more pounds on you lad and I’d been a goner.”

  “Not likely, Finn.” The serious face gazing at him didn’t falter. “You comin’ round?”

  Finn sighed. Childhood fled all too quickly in the West Bottoms and there were too many boys like Mickey, too serious, too soon. “Aye lad, on me way now.” The small boy nodded. Finn rose when a booming voice broke through the street sounds.

  “Bobby, me lad, there ye be.” Mickey jumped and tensed to flee.

  Finn reached out a hand and rubbed the boy’s back pretending not to notice how the contact made Mickey flinch. “It be all right lad,” Finn soothed, “He be calling me, not you.”

  “Bobby?” Mickey whispered, his eyes widening.

  Finn tried to keep a straight face. “Aye, but keep it under your cap. Wouldn’t want word to get around. Ruin me reputation it would.” Finn’s eyes twinkled at Mickey’s sober nod and he turned to face Father Seamus.

  At not quite five feet, the priest’s st
ature was in stark contrast to his voice. But he was solid and could pack a wallop. Finn remembered a few from his grammar school days. He most resembled a bantam rooster, chest out, strutting down the streets on the prowl for boys and trouble. His piercing blue eyes were evidence of his ability to stay on top of mischief by understanding school boys. Many a lad regretted the mistake of assuming the head of white hair meant the priest wasn’t able to keep up.

  “Just coming to see you, father,” said Finn clasping the priest’s hand and pulling him into a hug.

  “Sure, you were, the lads ‘re expectin’ ye.” Father Seamus pounded Finn on the back then pulled away.

  “Aye,” Finn’s face softened and his smile gentled, “and I’ll not be disappointing them.”

  “Mickey me boy, run off and tell Father Tim we be along shortly?” Father Seamus gently patted and pushed Mickey on the back. The boy ran off legs and arms flying in every direction. “Good lad.”

  “Aye, Father, thanks to you.”

  Father Seamus snorted and gazed pointedly at Finn’s black eye and cut lip. “Appears some be needin’ a refresher.”

  Finn winced. “If you’d rather I not come round till I’m healed—”

  “No, no. Yer busy. Come now while you can. Just come up with a better tale than you failin’ to dodge Mahoney’s fist.”

  Finn stared at the priest. “How did you…? You know what… never mind. Seems the fastest way to send news is by priest, not telegraph.” At Father Seamus’ roar of laughter the two walked off towards the mission.

  This area of the West Bottoms was full of saloons, brothels and gaming halls. As the sun sank, the real work “day” began. Satin decked ladies of the evening, dandified card sharks, sweaty day labors and occasional parties of gentleman filled the streets. Father Seamus had a word or nod for most everyone. A few shot wary glances at Finn, but most responded gratefully to the father.

  Finn sighed and shook his head. “You know any tale about a missing boy, father?”