The Last Legal Hanging

by Mae Berry

  “No. You should not have.” The vixen’s eyes snapped, her mouth a grim line. “Was this childish display supposed to put me in my place?” She straightened, her eyes shooting fire. “Would you treat a male colleague in this manner?” She stalked toward him, every diminutive inch bristled. Finn stepped back as the jungle cat image popped into his mind. Again. “Are you trying to show me a man is more capable in this endeavor?” She growled, “Are you questioning my abilities? Tell me, Marshal, is that your intention?” She stopped inches from him, hands on hips, elbows jutting out.

  Finn swallowed. What brought this on? “What? No. I—”

  “I ask a simple question and you get defensive.” Sam waved her hand in the air. “What do you have to hide, Marshal?” She jabbed an index finger at his chest and stepped into him. Her skirts brushed his trouser legs, and he felt his muscles clench. “You are all the same, thinking a woman’s place is in the home.” She jabbed her finger into his chest. He leaned away, taking a step back with each accusing stab. “You. Need. To. Give! Over!” Finn’s back hit the brick wall of the J.S. Sullivan’s Saddle-tree factory. He stared at her, eyes wide. She stood leaning into him, chest heaving, hands clenched. She vibrated then exploded, “men!”

  Finn’s Irish temper rallied. Enough. He side stepped her and glared. “Are you quite done?” His modulated tone was at odds with his furious eyes and tight jaw muscles. It’s no wonder this woman worked alone. He, however, would take the moral high ground. Put her in her place. He tugged on his waistcoat buying a few moments to calm himself. “I must say, Miss Lawton, if I ever had doubts about a woman detective, which I have never said, your little tantrum is enough to convince me—”

  “Oh?” She scowled at him and folded her arms across her chest. “You didn’t say, ‘A woman’s mind jist is na up to handling the complexities of an investigation?’” She executed a perfect, albeit higher pitched, imitation of his brogue.

  Finn closed his eyes, cursing his inability to keep a reign on his tongue and her ability for perfect recall. “All I can say, Miss Lawton, is you need to conduct yourself with the professionalism you claim and show the courtesy you say you are denied. This little display,” He waved his hand back and forth between them, “is anything but, and is getting tiresome.” Finn brushed off his jacket and stalked across Water Street toward the wagon gate of the penitentiary half a block away.

  ✽✽✽

  Sam’s hands flew to her mouth as Finn walked away. Imbecile! Why unleash a tirade on him? What must he be thinking? Well, that was obvious, he was clear on that point. As he crossed the dirt track posing as a road, Marshal Finnley turned back and impatiently motioned for her to follow. If his scowl was any indication, she was finished. She had to convince him he still needed her help. Sam squared her shoulders, arranged her own features and hurried toward him.

  The prison complex was massive. White limestone block fences stretched in either direction. Their height well over four times the marshal’s six feet. The recessed entrance included an archway big enough for a wagon to pass through. The archway tunnel ended in a portcullis with the prison beyond. The Warden’s offices sat on the left side of the tunnel. Marshal Finnley glanced once in her direction.

  “Marshal, I—”

  “Miss Lawton, let’s get through this.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I understand all of this is a mite overwhelmin’ it bein’ new and all.”

  Please say nothing stupid. Sam wasn’t sure if she was talking to herself or him.

  He cleared his throat. “Workin’…, Ah working with someone on a real case with certain standards and methods is difficult when you aren’t used to it.”

  Sam’s jaw ached. She ground her back teeth, sure they were now nubs. He is the most agg-. Wait, he had a gleam in his eye. He’d tilted his head, just slightly. The marshal was baiting her! He wanted her to blow again! Sam’s spine snapped straight. She couldn’t remember another time when she had been thankful for the verbal sparring “lessons” inflicted by Hattie.

  Sam swallowed her retort and nodded her head. “You are correct, I am used to working on my own.” He studied her. “I am used to developing the investigative plan and executing it.” She kept her tone light.

  “Yes, well—”

  “Working with another requires a certain give and take. A willingness to negotiate, to explore new methods. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  He shifted. “Aye, I supp—”

  “Tell me, assistant deputy marshal, do you usually work with a partner or alone?”

  “Most often alone.” His jaw shifted.

  “I see. I suppose on those rare occasions you take on a partner, it requires a period of adjustment. Discovery if you will of the other person’s reasoning?”

  The marshal crossed his arms and nodded.

  “To dismiss someone’s manner or method out of hand would weaken the case since each individual brings valuable insight vital to the investigation. Don’t you agree?”

  “Now see here—” his face darkened.

  “That is why I most humbly beg your pardon, for not remembering your techniques and mannerisms, while different from my own, are no less valid.”

  Marshal Finnley glowered at her for a moment, then ground his teeth. With a nod toward the building he said, “Please, let me do the talking in there.” He turned and stalked toward the warden’s office.

  Sam let out a deep breath. Crisis averted. For now. She stepped to the portcullis. The prison yard held nothing green. It was awash in black, white and shades of brown; the guards in black uniforms, the prisoners in black and white stripes with everything covered in a thin layer of brown river dust. The entire scene resembled a sepia photograph. The multi-level cell blocks and dining hall were constructed from more huge limestone slabs quarried along the river bluffs.

  To the left of the gate, was a building marked A-hall. The former home of Gittin? It stood four stories tall, the various shades of beige limestone slabs stacked one a top the other and left rough hewn on the outside. It was at odds with the graceful arches over the doorways and windows. A mix of refinement amid a utilitarian functionality.

  The yard was filled with straight lines of shuffling convicts with eyes fixed on the ground, left hand on the shoulder of the man in front. Clubs swinging in lazy arcs, the guards led them from building to work site to dining hall.

  She watched as a guard stopped his group next to padlocked shed. The man motioned one convict over with an impatient wave. As the guard fiddled with the lock, the convict raised his head. The keeper must have caught the motion. He back-handed the inmate who fell to his knees. Sam swallowed and almost missed the marshal call her name.

  ✽✽✽

  Finn had to call the “she-cat” twice before she joined him. He was half tempted to leave her. He shook his head over how she had verbally out maneuvered him. She was no pinhead. A bored clerk named Harrell escorted them to the records room. Apparently, assistant deputy marshals were part of the normal grind. No preferential treatment here. He led them to a cramped stuffy room filled with boxes and cabinets.

  “Ya’ll got a name? Fer the con?” he asked as he shot a wad of tobacco from the side of his mouth into a dirty spittoon beside a listing table in the room’s center. Sam sidestepped to avoid the offensive stream and slammed into a stack of boxes.

  “Yes.” Finn glared at the wiry man, his voice promising violence, “Gittin.”

  “When?” The bored clerk ignored the threat and spit another wad in the spittoon’s general direction.

  “When, what?” Finn asked through clenched teeth.

  “When was the con here?”

  “Not sure,” growled Finn fisting his hands.

  “Can’t help unless I know when.” The man moved his plug from one side of his mouth to the other showing fuzzy brown teeth.

  Finn’s entire body clenched. “What good are your—”

  “Best guess would place him here sometime between 1875 and 1880,” said Sam laying a hand on F
inn’s forearm. His brain froze. Curse the woman. His irritation mounted, she was not helping.

  “Humph. Long as he ain’t a ‘federate, the G’s that old are over there.” He nodded at a box with a crooked “G,” and a layer of dust.

  “Federate?” Finn raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sam.

  “I suppose he means Confederate soldier,” she replied. “The government incarcerated several of them here after the war.” Finn walked to the box and blew years of dust off the lid. The table gave a lurch as he plopped it down and rummaged through the contents.

  “Put everything back the way ya sees it.” Harrell shot one more tobacco stream and sauntered out the door.

  “How will he ever tell?” muttered Finn under his breath. He handed a stack to Sam and the two examined the files in silence. Once a record was “old”, someone placed it in the box with no attempts at alphabetizing. They worked for several minutes flipping through files until Finn stepped back from the table with a frustrated sigh.

  “I feel I owe you an apology,” he said as he tugged on his collar. “I wasn’t at my best on the walk over here.” Sam cocked an eyebrow at him. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed again. How to make her understand? “Look, you aren’t a part of the Irish community in Kansas City. Things are… different.”

  “Different?” She looked curious, not condemning.

  “Well, it’s a community… a brotherhood if you will. We watch each other’s back. We are a bit… clannish?”

  “A bit?” The corner of Sam’s mouth quirked up then settled back into place. “You have nothing to apologize for. Well, a small something, or more like a somewhat medium size… anyway, the point is I acted like a complete goosecap. I… I wasn’t angry… well, not with you specifically.” She looked away from him. “I should not have spoken to you as I did. I… I am sorry too.”

  “Was that tough for you?” Finn tried to keep the grin from his face.

  “I beg pardon?” She looked confused. It was endearing.

  Finn leaned forward bracing his arms on the table, placing his nose inches from her own well aware of her breath hitching at his nearness.

  “Was it difficult for you to apologize?”

  ✽✽✽

  Sam found it difficult to catch her breath as her gaze riveted on his too green eyes and grinning mouth. She couldn’t seem to pull away. He had such fascinating lips. Sometimes they looked as hard as granite. Other times, like now, they looked soft and full. She jerked her eyes to his, her face reddened. “I… I…”

  “Yes?” the marshal’s voice turned smooth as he halved the distance between them. This time his eyes fixed on her lips. As she wet them, she could have sworn he uttered a low groan. He shifted and sent a stack of files tumbling to the floor.

  Sam burst out laughing even as a pang of disappointment hit her chest. He sent her an incredulous look as he stooped to retrieve the papers. “It will displease Mr. Harrell,” she gasped, powerless to quell her laughter. Marshal Finnley grunted then froze.

  “Look, Sam, here it is.” She blushed again. This time at his use of her Christian name, a first. He thrust the folder at her as he dumped the others back in the “G” box.

  He hurried to her side as she set the file on the table. It was over a half-inch thick. There was a description but no photograph. Finn grabbed a stack of papers from the file and read.

  “Looks like our man had problems.” He turned over each sheet. “Most of these are incident reports. Several of them brought by a guard named—”

  “Let me guess, Rucker,” she said.

  Finn nodded his head and stood, holding the paper closer to the poor light. “That isn’t a surprise. What is, is why Gittin was here.”

  Sam tugged on the arm holding the paper above her head. “Why?”

  “Larceny. He’s a horse thief.” Finn scrutinized the report.

  “Just one?” Sam cocked an eyebrow as she stood on tiptoe.

  “It only takes one.”

  “Yes, but was this a pattern or an unlucky occurrence?” She looked at him and frowned. He grinned.

  “You honestly talk that way?”

  She shrugged and settled back to her feet trying to hide her blush. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Finn hid his laugh in a cough. “Never mind. As far as the paper lists, it was just one offense. He stole the horse from a Mr… Phelps. Hold on, now. This is interesting.” He held the paper closer to his eyes.

  “What?” Sam tugged on his arm again.

  “Sorry.” Finn lowered the paper to the table and moved the lantern closer. “Right here. The arrest record shows Phelps didn’t report the theft until three days after it happened. The report notes at first he didn’t want to press charges.”

  “Intriguing. I wonder what happened? Where did he perpetrate his malfeasance?” Sam cringed as Finn raised both eyebrows, the edges of his mouth twitching.

  “Both Gittin and Phelps lived in Kearney. Phelps might have known him, a neighbor maybe?” He looked at her as she tilted her head to the side and scrunched her lips.

  “Yes, well, that may be our next course of… our next locale… the next place we should visit.”

  He grinned, eyes twinkling.

  “How long was his sentence?” she asked.

  He eyes lingered on her a moment then returned to the page. “Huh,” Finn scratched his head. “This is a puzzle. It says here that Gittin’s sentence was two years, but he was released after eighteen months under the three-fourths law.”

  “That makes little sense.” Sam grabbed the paper and held it up to her face. “He has all these incident reports. He should have served his full term, not freed early for exemplary behavior.”

  “Here, check through these.” Finn handed her a stack of incident reports and pulled the other half to himself. “Put them in chronological order. I want to find the last one.” The only sound for several minutes was the shuffle of papers as the two rearranged the stack.

  “Looks like the first incident started six months into his incarceration,” said Finn scanning the sheet as he fanned the stack on the table.

  Sam pointed at the date on the last report. “The last incident was three months later.”

  “So he kept his nose clean for the first six months and last nine months.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose that would have been enough for the warden to consider him a ‘model prisoner.’ Still, why did they start up then stop three months later?”

  Sam looked around the room. Her eyes stopping on a drawer marked “Personnel.”

  “Watch the door, marshal. They may not appreciate us digging through employee files.” He moved to the doorway as she yanked open the drawer. “These seem in better order. Check the reports. List off the guards who filed them.” Finn shut the door and slid a box to block it. He returned to the table and shuffled through the reports.

  “Let’s see: Ventz, Rucker, Brown, Rucker, Rucker…” He sifted through several more in silence. “The most frequent name is Rucker.”

  “Rucker.” Sam flipped through the files in the cabinet, “That name keeps recurring. Did I ever mention coincidences leave me skeptical?” Finn snorted and shook his head. “What date is the last one?” She looked at him noting the admiration in his eyes and ducked her head. He glanced down at the report.

  ✽✽✽

  Finn shifted the papers closer. Get a grip, man. Not the time to admire soft brown eyes, or a woman who reasoned well. Not a thought he wanted to pursue.

  “The last date is January 22, 1878 and, no surprise, Rucker filed it.” He looked at her again. The little hairs on the back of his neck agreed she was on to something.

  “Here it is.” She placed Rucker’s personnel file on the table and scanned the contents. “Interesting. It seems Mr. Rucker met with an accident and was off duty for six months.”

  “Six months!” Finn’s eyes went wide. “What happened?”

  “Do you want to speculate when it occurred?” Sam’s eyes locked with his. “Two
weeks and a day after Gittin’s last incident report. An incident that was severe enough to land him in solitary confinement for two weeks.”

  “So the day after Gittin gets out of solitary Rucker has an accident? What happened?” Finn nodded at the paper in her hand.

  “It seems Rucker was trapped in a tool shed.” She tilted her head to the side, eyes unfocused on the dirty brown wall behind him.

  Finn snorted. “How did that injure him? Did he fall down?”

  “No. The shed contained flammable materials and caught fire. Rucker was locked inside. He only escaped by punching a hole through the roof. But he was badly burned,” she answered, chewing on her bottom lip.

  “Truly?” Finn took a step back and stared at her.

  “Yes,” Sam murmured. She tilted her head and scrunched her lips. Finn focused on the warped floor planking. There had to be a connection.

  “Finn,” Sam whispered. His head snapped up. She had used his name. Not marshal or the dreaded assistant deputy marshal. She had called him Finn. His moment of elation died at her tense posture, arms braced on either side of the file. She raised her eyes to his. He could read a mixture of disbelief and horror on her face. “Finn, while we waited for admittance, I noticed a line of work sheds in the yard. I saw a guard open one and hand out shovels.”

  “Yes?” Finn arched his eyebrows.

  “Finn, the sheds are all closed with padlocks and latches. On the outside. It would be impossible to trap yourself inside on accident.”

  He swallowed. That meant… “Someone must have locked Rucker in the shed,” he said hoarsely.

  “And set it on fire,” she whispered.

  Chapter 14

  Bates

  March 29, 1877

  Kearney, Missouri

  I hide in the shadows and try to quiet my breathing but it comes out in gulps. I brush a sleeve over my forehead. There’s enough light to see it. Blood. Lots. Dripping into my eye. Lord, it stings. Probably needs stitches. My ribs ache with every breath. Bruised maybe broken. I glance at my split knuckles. At least, I got in a few good licks. The old man’ll feel it for a while. I shake out my hands, scattering blood drops across the siding of the old barn. Needs a coat of paint. Startin’ to splinter. I shake my head. Focus. Shadows deepen as dusk falls. Mr. Phelps will finish up chores and head in to supper soon.