by Joanne Dahme
“No,” I had responded, feeling a new fear. Neither of us had had our purses. We had gotten into the habit of leaving them in our carriages when on the grounds of the Water Works. Even our notebooks had been forgotten today, our usual business at the Water Works lost in the immediacy of my predicament. “Why would someone try to kill Nellie?” I asked myself. But I could not fathom an answer.
Sean and Julius were in the room with me too, each offering whatever comfort they could by way of a sideways glance, an encouraging nod to continue, a shake of their head when they thought the line of the questioning was going too far or too long. Sean had insisted that he had a right to remain, as he was the city’s engineer in charge of this site.What happened here was ultimately his responsibility, he insisted.
Neither Sergeant McCormack nor Officer Russo seemed inclined to argue. At one point, they suggested that perhaps one of Sean’s employees might not be above some highwayman activities to make some extra money.
“That’s preposterous,” Sean had retorted. “But certainly, I’ll make sure my men are available for questioning to ease your suspicions.” His arms were crossed as he sat at the table. Julius had managed to remain by standing quietly in a corner, nearly invisible to the police. I had asked Julius to fetch my purse from the carriage, and he had simply remained when he returned with it.
Sean had made me a cup of tea. It had begun to rain once we had gathered in the Watering Committee Building. I thought distractedly about how the sky had been too blue for rain, while Nellie and I had stood on the arch. The sight and sound of the rain hitting the panes of the windows drained the vitality from me. The rain was lonely and lulling, and I was all too willing to surrender to the emptiness it promised.
Nellie’s husband Charles had just left, leaning heavily on Julius’s arm. I had held him tightly for minutes, wanting to wipe away the blankness that had stole over his usually vibrant face. The police instructed me to tell him the story in front of them all, making it harder for me to soften the details that still bloodied my mind. As I recounted it, Charles closed his eyes and flinched as if my words were fists. His lips trembled beneath his beard. “How can I tell Sarah that she will never see her mother again?” was all he could whisper. I felt a vicious stab of pain at the thought of Nellie’s one-year-old daughter, waiting for her mother to tuck her into bed tonight.
“Did my husband say when he would arrive?” I asked Sergeant McCormack quietly, with the last remnant of energy I had. The Sergeant stared at me. He was a big man, in his fifties, his blue police uniform faded, his jacket buttons straining at the waist. His silver badge was tarnished. He had obviously seen it all, and whatever sympathy he once held for victims had long ago worn out with the threads of his uniform.
Sergeant McCormick paused before he replied, “He should be here at any moment. When we finally reached him, he was at a construction site on the Delaware water-front.” He gave me a patronizing smile and began thumbing through his papers.
Sean had been fairly quiet and attentive through most of the questioning, although I could tell that at times it had been difficult for him to remain seated, especially when they implicated his men or questioned my accuracy in remembering details. I looked at him in a way that I hoped showed my appreciation, but the numbness I felt isolated me.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Dugan. Is there anything I can get you—another cup of tea, perhaps?” Sean asked anxiously.
I shook my head. “I’m fine, Mr. Parker. Thank you for your kindness.”
“If Mrs. Dugan’s husband is tied up much longer, I’d be glad to escort her and the carriage home, Sergeant. I think she’s been through enough for one day,” Officer Russo interjected. When the sergeant looked at Russo skeptically, he quickly added, “And I’m sure that Mrs. Dugan will understand if we need to call on her tomorrow. I’ve been asked by the lieutenant to recommend, after consulting with you, Sergeant, whether we need to bring a homicide detective into the case.”
I looked at him thoughtfully for the first time. Maybe Officer Russo was my only opportunity to convince the police that Nellie’s death was a murder. For the most part, he had stood by quietly as the sergeant conducted the interview. Officer Russo was young, close to Patrick’s age. His uniform buttons were polished. He stood tall and wore his high-crowned police hat proudly. His dark hair looked meticulously cut and his brown eyes were lively. He had introduced himself as a special investigating officer of the Philadelphia police. I noticed that Sergeant McCormack had rolled his eyes at the title.
“Thank you, Officer. You know I will do anything to help you find my friend’s murderer,” I replied.
Sergeant McCormack visibly stiffened. “Your husband should be here at any moment, Mrs. Dugan. I trust you’ll want to wait for him.” He leveled Officer Russo a stern stare.
The room was silent for but a moment, when I heard the doorknob rattle impatiently. The door flung open, and Patrick stood on the threshold, the slanting rain at his back.
“Rose,” Patrick called dramatically, as he closed the door and handed his coat and dripping umbrella to Julius. Patrick’s eyes quickly registered the occupants of the room before they settled back on me.
“Rose!” He hurried to me, brushing past the still seated sergeant, to grab me by the hands and lift me from my seat. He pulled me close to his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “I am so sorry about Nellie, but thank God you are all right,” he said into my hair, loud enough for all to hear. I could see Sean now standing on the other side of the table, watching Patrick with a thinly veiled animosity. As he held me, I detected the faint aroma of gardenias in the threads of his jacket, mixed with the smell of rain.
I stood shivering in his damp embrace as I thought of my final conversation with Nellie. We had been talking about Patrick. Were Patrick and I somehow to blame for Nellie’s death? It was then that I felt the color drain from my face—the letters. Could this have been done by the writer of the letters? I looked into his face and opened my mouth to speak. He seemed to read my thoughts.
“My dear, you are cold. Where is your cape?” Patrick asked gently, looking around the room, expecting to see it folded over a chair or dripping from a hook. He touched my shoulder with his hand, prodding me toward the door. “The cold, the damp, you must be in shock,” he said soothingly. “Let’s get your cape and go home.”
For what seemed like a long time, I stood immobile. A sudden realization sunk like a rock in my gut. Nellie had been wearing my cape. It was me who should have been wearing it when the stranger slapped both his hands hard against Nellie’s back, pushing her over the precipice.
“Nellie was wearing it,” I whispered, my voice stifled by a dawning horror. I looked into his face. Patrick simply raised an eyebrow, surprised.Then he simply said, “The cape that belonged to your mother?”
I nodded my head. “Patrick, those letters. We must tell them about the letters ...” Did I say it aloud? Why was Patrick looking at me like that?
He quickly grabbed me by the waist and murmured something in my ear. “Later,” did he say? I wasn’t sure. Officer Russo leaned imperceptibly closer to hear the exchange. “Please excuse my wife, gentlemen. She is obviously exhausted and still in shock. Surely you won’t object if I take her home?”
I wanted to protest that I would not leave until they believed me, but I was exhausted and numb. I fostered all of my strength to convey a final authority. “I certainly am clear about everything that has happened.” I tried to direct my statement to Officer Russo.The mystery of Nellie’s murder was clear only to me now.
“Perhaps we are not done with our interview,” Officer Russo interrupted, his eyes alert. “But under the circumstances, we should continue this in the morning, with the assistance of a homicide detective.”
“Don’t you think it best that Mrs. Dugan remain under some police protection during the night?” Sean asked Russo, never taking his gaze from Patrick’s face.
I felt a new flicker of fear at the light that s
parked in Patrick’s eyes, as Patrick paused to look at Sean. He smiled slightly. It was the same smile that I had witnessed time and time again, appearing when Patrick had discovered a new weakness in an enemy. I did not want to draw Sean into this any further.
“Is there anything else you need to share with the police officers at the moment, my dear?” Patrick asked, not disagreeably, maintaining his gaze on Sean.
“I am sorry, but I don’t think I can do any more of this today,” I apologized. I tried to think clearly. Once at home, I must convince Patrick to hand over the letters. Surely, once I made clear to him the circumstances of Nellie’s death, he would see the connection. And I did not want Patrick misdirecting his ire at Sean.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dugan, I’ll recommend to the lieutenant that we post a police officer and wagon in front of your home tonight until we can determine the direction our investigation will take. Would it suit you if I call on you sometime tomorrow morning, after you have had a good evening’s rest?” Officer Russo asked. Patrick again raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure that will be fine, Officer,” I replied. “I hope to be able to speak more clearly for you.”
“Officer Russo,” Patrick interrupted, extending his hand. “I didn’t realize that the police were admitting Italians into the ranks.” He said it without a trace of sarcasm. “It’s about time.”
Officer Russo simply drew back his hand.
“Sergeant McCormack, do you mind if my wife and I take our leave?” Patrick asked politely.
Sergeant McCormack dismissed us by closing the cover of his police logbook. “Go ahead home. But I must remind you all, particularly Officer Russo,” he almost growled, “that at the moment, in my eyes, this unfortunate event was nothing but a robbery gone bad. Tonight, we should be able to request a police watch in light of your loyal support of our department, Mr. Dugan,” he added firmly.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Patrick took his coat from Julius and draped it over my shoulders. He escorted me to the door. “Are you ready, Julius?”
“Yes, sir. I was just waiting on Mrs. Dugan.” He handed Patrick the umbrella.
I felt almost defeated but turned to address everyone in the room before Patrick hurried me through the door. “Thank you all for your assistance. Officer Russo, I will see you tomorrow,” I affirmed.
Officer Russo nodded. “I will see you in the morning, Mrs. Dugan.”
As Patrick closed the door behind us, I thought I heard Sean say, “I’m going to accompany you tomorrow, Officer.” I could only close my eyes against the rain, and the dark silhouette of the distribution arch, and pray that Patrick didn’t hear him.
SEAN
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the 9th Police District station house at 23rd and Brown streets, waiting for Officer Russo.Yesterday Russo had told me that he would be leaving the station house at ten the following morning to conduct the second interview with Rose. I informed Russo that I would be joining him. Ever since Mrs. Murphy’s death, the episode in the South Garden kept replaying itself in my mind. But the threatening letter was directed against Patrick Dugan, not Mrs. Murphy. The two events—one disturbing and one horrific—were probably not connected—except that they both literally touched Mrs. Murphy’s life. I also couldn’t help but wonder why both incidents took place on the grounds of the Water Works. Perhaps the letter might provide some clue. Surely Rose will share the letter with the officer, I hoped.
Russo had instructed me, politely yet firmly, to wait for him on the corner of the station house if I wished to accompany him to the Dugans’ home. He made a point of advising me not to come into the station house.
I still felt uneasy and sick at heart, despite the sunshine and the agreeable temperature that bestowed itself on the city like a late autumn gift. The day’s brightness could not penetrate the gloom that wrapped my spirit like a woolen blanket.
I thought about yesterday, when I first caught a glimpse of Mrs. Murphy’s body and the green cape lying still on the ground. My heart had seized. My men, kneeling beside the body, had partially obstructed my view. When I saw the green cape, I had been sure that it was Rose lying there. I was still shocked by the intensity of my feelings, the strength of which had hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. And then, when I saw Rose, running up the path behind me to reach Mrs. Murphy, I felt so ashamed by my immediate joy. At that moment, Mrs. Murphy’s death had become a relief. I prayed that the sentiment had not been on my face.
I brushed nervously at my sack coat as I continued to pace in front of the red brick station house. I was sure the fine street dust kicked up by the horses covered my clothes. The bowler I wore felt hot on my head. I had walked from the Water Works, needing to expend my energy in a mindless task.
“Mr. Parker,” Officer Russo called to me. I turned to see Russo walking down the steps of the station house, waving to another officer who was leading a horse to the police stable on the corner. As he did yesterday, Officer Russo looked spit-polished. The badge on his police hat flashed as it caught the sunlight when Russo turned back in my direction. I joined him quickly as Russo turned down the street and shook his hand.
“Mr. Parker, how are you?” Russo asked, his brown eyes penetrating and sincere. “Were you able to sleep last night?”
I was surprised at the question—a question that my father might ask and be the only one to actually care about the answer.
“Not really,” I answered honestly. “I didn’t see Mrs. Murphy fall. Just heard her cry out. But I can’t get her scream out of my mind,” I admitted.
Russo nodded.“I understand. And the accident occurred where you work—a place that is obviously important to you. That renders an accident like this inescapable.”
I turned to appraise Russo anew, surprised by his empathy. “You aren’t like many of the other police officers that I’ve worked with in the past, of course, on nothing quite as horrible,” I added quickly. “Pickpockets and vagrants are commonplace in the park. The officers on those cases seemed bored, or—pressed for time. Of course, I’m speaking in very general terms,” I amended.
Russo smiled at my attempt to soften my statement. “Well, as Mr. Dugan so graciously pointed out yesterday, I’m Italian. With so many Ir ishmen in the ranks, I guess I feel I have to outshine them. I’m representing all of the Italians in Philadelphia. And,” he was quick to add, “I truly like the job. I like having to track down the bad to protect the good.”
“Dugan,” I said in disgust. I found it too easy to use Dugan as a means to channel my anger. “That was a disgrace the way he talked to you. But I guess you can’t drag him to the magistrate for simply being insulting. He’d be spending his life there.” I could hear the bitterness in my voice but suddenly didn’t care.
“My uncle is a lieutenant in the telegraph unit. He warned me about the prejudice—and politics I would encounter. I try not to let it get under my skin,” Russo explained, in a tone that sounded well practiced to me.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you also seem better trained. And I apologize for the use of that term.” I felt myself flush. I didn’t want to insult the man. “What I mean is,” I hurried to add, “the questions that you asked yesterday, the methods you applied to the search for Mrs. Murphy’s attacker ...”
“That I know what I’m doing?” Russo asked, with a mischievous glint in his eye. “No need to apologize, Mr. Parker.You’re absolutely correct. I have been specially trained in criminal investigations.”
“How do you mean?” I asked. “I thought all our police officers were trained to know the criminal mind.”
“To some extent,” Russo nodded. “But a number of years ago, the director of public safety organized a detective department—police officers who don’t wear uniforms,” he added. “These detectives are specially trained to investigate violent crimes and burglary rings—crimes that threaten the moral core of our city. Some of them go so far as to pretend that they are thieves and laggards themselves, to join them in thei
r own world.”
“But what is your role then?” I asked. “You wear a uniform.”
“Well, special officers like me report to the chief of detectives and to the lieutenant of the station house where I am assigned. We assist the investigating detective and keep the uniformed police informed so the units can work better together.There is a lot of jealousy between the two.”
“Hmm, that quality seems epidemic,” I muttered. “I saw the Rogues Gallery at the Central Station on 5th and Chestnut not long ago.” I shook my head at the memory of the hundreds of photographs lined up in rows in a large walnut cabinet on display like an oversized photo album. On the back of each photograph were the names, physical descriptions, and personality traits of the men. I was told at the time that the detectives were expected to recognize each man on sight if they happened upon them in the street.
“I’m surprised Dugan’s picture wasn’t prominently displayed,” I said, thinking out loud.
This time Russo laughed, as we paused at an intersection. I looked up at the row houses of brick and brownstone.The shadows casts by the oak and maple trees planted squarely in front of each property dappled their fronts. Normally, I appreciated the homey sentiments of their chrysanthemum-filled window boxes and their freshly swept sidewalks. But today I winced. They only looked vulnerable to me. Russo turned to me, looking directly into my eyes, while waiting for a break in the traffic of carriages on 20th Street. “You don’t like Mr. Dugan, do you Mr. Parker?”
I took a minute to search for the words that would best express my feelings about Patrick Dugan, as Russo grabbed me by the elbow to hurry me across the street. Perhaps I should be honest.
“No, I do not, Officer. Personally, I find him ruthless. And the ruthless it seems do not have a guiding conscience.”
Russo stopped to log in at a patrol box on the corner before replying. Then he asked gravely, “Do you think that Mr. Dugan might know something about the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Murphy’s accident?”