by Joanne Dahme
I grasped the detective’s arm. “How is the chief?” I asked, as Buchanan began to lead me down the long corridor.
“He is not good,” Buchanan answered simply. “Despondent, silent, not eating much. It is hard to believe that the man might be innocent, as you assert, when he seems to be drowning in so much guilt.”
“I know,” I agreed, dispirited. Silently, I prayed that my hunch about Brophy and the sewer contract was right. It was all I had to go on.
Buchanan pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked a door, which opened to a large room containing a number of small, iron-barred cells.The room was gray and rust, colored by worn concrete and iron. A figure dressed in a black coat sat huddled in the corner of the farthest cell, his back turned to us. Only one other cell was occupied by what appeared to be a vagrant sleeping on a cot.The police officer that had made the hanging remark sat in a straight-backed chair by the door. I caught a whiff of tobacco as I entered the room.
“Give Mr. Parker ten minutes with Chief Trout,” Buchanan instructed the officer, who stood up without looking at the detective. Trout turned slowly on the cot he was sitting.
“Sean?” he whispered weakly.
It was a keen blow, seeing Chief Trout languishing in the cell like a common criminal. I still could not believe that this man was guilty of murder.
“Chief,” I called out, more urgently than I meant to, as I quickly passed the few other cells to reach Trout. I became aware of a variety of odors—the pungent mixture of sweat, urine, and stale liquor permeated the air of the jail room, and I felt my stomach turn. I pulled up a bench alongside Trout’s cell and peered back into his gaunt, tired face.
“How are you Chief? Are you being treated well?”
Trout’s smile could have been tinged with acid. I could see the familiar cynicism tug at his lip. He nodded instead.
“As well as can be expected, Sean.”
I reached for his hand through the bars. I had never been friendly with Trout. Trout had been a rather reserved boss. But I was moved by the drastic change in my superior, who was the husk of the man he was just some weeks ago.
“Chief,” I began gravely, probing his face for a flicker of emotion. “You must make me understand why you confessed to Mrs. Murphy’s murder. I can’t believe that you are capable of such a deed.”
Trout turned away from me for a moment, running his hand across his face. “I am not proud of this, Sean.” He paused for a few minutes before continuing. “I didn’t push Mrs. Murphy over the arch, but I was the instrument of this heinous act.”
“How so? What do you mean?” I insisted.
Trout’s bearded chin dropped against his chest. He sighed heavily.
“It started with the letters I wrote, three in all,” he began. I only nodded. I didn’t want to tell him that I knew about the letters. “I wrote anonymously, of course, practically begging Mrs. Dugan to convince her husband to divert his interests from the filtration contracts.” He coughed, as if the telling sickened him. I held my tongue. I was afraid to interrupt.
“The third letter was a bit more—intimidating. It implied that Dugan’s obsession might place his wife in some sort of danger. . . .” Here he broke off. I felt my body stiffen in surprise before I thought to guard my reactions. An image of Rose by her carriage today flashed before me.
“I know,”Trout croaked bitterly. “It was stupid of me to think that Dugan would care even a whit for his wife.”
At this point, I couldn’t help but to interrupt. “Did you deliver those letters yourself?” I could not imagine this.
Trout shook his head.“Of course not. And this is where I became reckless. In my own obsession, I stupidly accepted an offer from Frank Mahoney to assist me.”Trout’s eyes burned. “You know him. A warder leader from Gray’s Ferry and a contractor who often competes against Dugan for work.”
I tried to hide my growing contempt as the chief detailed Mahoney’s advice to enlist the assistance of one of the many street gangs in his neighborhood.Trout would dictate the text of the letter, often no more than two or three sentences, to Mahoney, who would then read it out to the leader of the gang, who would write the letter in his own primitive hand, often grievously misspelled. One of the boys would deliver the letter to Dugan’s office.Trout didn’t seem to be aware that Rose had received a personal delivery.
I now had my own fingers placed against my temples. This story was so similar to the many stories of graft and corruption that personified the operations of city government. “But how did the murder come about?” I asked, closing my eyes readying myself for a blow.
“I’m not quite sure,” Trout replied, his face now twisted in agony. They both ignored the moaning of the vagrant as he turned in his sleep. “Mahoney later told me, not long after Mrs. Murphy’s death, that he asked the gang to go a little further than I had requested, as he didn’t think my letters were having the desired effect.” Here Trout let out a groan. “He told them to scare Mrs. Dugan. When I argued about the intent of our plan, that it was never to invite real harm to anyone, he simply reminded me that when I solicited the criminal element into our scheme, we no longer were in complete charge of it.”
Trout laughed now, although the noise sounded like a death rattle. “Mahoney tried to cheer me by pointing out that talk in the city’s saloons had pegged Dugan for the murder. Our scheme to rid ourselves of Dugan almost worked.”
For a moment, I could only stare at Trout. “Didn’t you think about the harm that might come to an innocent woman?” I was angry now and felt a sudden urge to see Rose again, to ensure that she was safe.
Trout did not reply. He hid his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved silently.
“Chief,” I said softly, again slipping my hand through the bars to grasp Trout’s shoulder. I fought off my own repulsion, directing my anger at Mahoney’s duplicity. Trout had been possessed.
“You didn’t intend a murder.You must tell Buchanan about Mahoney’s involvement.”
Trout dropped his hands from his face. “No,” he ordered. His eyes were red and small. “This was all my own doing. I am responsible.”
I slowly withdrew my hand from the cell. Surely I must tell Buchanan. I hoped this decision did not show in my face.
“There is one more thing that I must ask you,” I added with more urgency. I heard the key scratch in the lock. The officer was returning. “It concerns a sewer repair job that Dugan’s men were performing at the river, just north of the Water Works.”
Trout’s eyes flamed again, revived by the mention of Dugan.
“What contract?” he barked, wrapping both hands around the bars and pulling himself closer to me.
“Over a month ago, I discovered Dugan’s men unloading a new sewer pipe, directly below the pleasure boat launch. Brophy, the foreman, had city plans in his hands, which detailed the replacement of sections of the existing sewer that connects into the interceptor sewer.”
I watched with a mixture of relief and dread as Trout slowly shook his head back and forth. “There was no sewer repair contract for that area, Sean.That man is the Devil,” he added, looking up as if speaking to the heavens.
I immediately stood up, snatching my hat from the bench. Trout was alert. His eyes were shining. “Yes, Sean. You had better get out there and find out what Dugan has done.”
We both knew to wait until dark, although it was Buchanan who insisted that we meet at midnight. By that time, the light shed by the waxing moon cast a soft glow on the cold, barren grounds.
Buchanan arrived in the North Garden of the Water Works with only two lanterns. He claimed that we could not chance additional artificial light. He was standing by the dead fountain, the lanterns placed at its base, facing the Schuylkill River, when I arrived with my mechanics George and Martin. The men were dressed in their usual attire, only tonight they wore a layer of flannel shirts beneath their overalls to stave off the damp cold.
I had asked my men to assist us tonight. I knew
that Buchanan and I alone could not possibly dig up the section of earth that was necessary to expose what Dugan’s men had done. I knew I could trust my men, although before soliciting their help, I had insisted to Buchanan that their involvement remain secret.They had families to care for. Both men looked somber and subdued by the task before them. I knew that they realized that their future was at stake here.
Buchanan had agreed to this requirement, as he had admitted that, with the exception of Officer Russo, he could not easily name a police officer that he could trust with such a task. He did not have the police superintendent’s permission to conduct this particular investigation. He did not want to lose the time with the paperwork. It had taken him days to obtain the approval to exhume the remains of Dugan’s family from the church cemetery and that was at a time when Dugan was under suspicion. The superintendent was furious when he had found out that Dugan himself had already moved his family to his mausoleum. After today, he doubted if the mayor would allow a suggestion of an investigation involving Patrick Dugan under any circumstances.
We nodded our greetings, careful not to disturb the silence of the park. We looked around assuring ourselves that nothing lurked behind the darkness of the arch or among the skeletal branches of the trees that shielded us from possible notice by late night carriages on the drive. I could hear the whispering of the river as it slid over the dam. With the exception of this and the far off wail of a train, all was silent.
“This way,” I directed, clamping hold of the shovel I had set beside the fountain. George and Martin gripped their own and held an extra one for Buchanan. Earlier, my men had brought two ladders to the location I had given them, as I knew they would be digging deep into the earth. I led the way through the North Garden, toward the steam boat launch, until we stood looking down at a five-foot-wide swath of bare earth, which had settled a few inches below the ground surrounding it. The evidence of an excavation, hastily filled, cut through the park to the river bank like a twenty-five foot scar. The stone encrusted dirt glittered under the harsher glare of the lanterns, as Buchanan raised his light to more closely examine the ground.
“Let’s start digging just above the riverbank,” I suggested. “George and Martin, you two start closest to the bank, where the sewer connects to the manhole of the interceptor. The detective and I will begin a few yards behind you. We should find a new pipe, according to those plans Brophy held in his hands.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Parker,” Buchanan interrupted quietly. “What exactly are we looking for?”
I squinted at Buchanan through the pale darkness. George and Martin had paused to listen. “The sewer that Dugan’s men tampered with is a pipe that collects the sewage from the homes and factories in this neighborhood. The pipe then connects into the interceptor, a larger sewer that runs parallel to the river at this manhole.The interceptor empties the city’s wastes below the dam, that is, below the point where we draw our water for drinking, in order to prevent sewage from entering our water supply.”
I picked up a stick and crouched to the ground. I carved an upside down T into the dirt. “You see,” I said, beckoning to Buchanan to squat beside me, “the interceptor is the horizontal bar of the T and the vertical line is the sewer. The circle here on the interceptor is the manhole.The sewer pipe that Dugan’s men meddled with connects to the manhole about eight feet below the ground.”
Buchanan looked dubious but nodded. “And so, we are looking for a new pipe?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I replied. “Or looking to discover just what they did with this pipe. In our favor, it appears that Brophy did not instruct his crew to compact the soil after they buried their work. But it will still take us some time to dig.We will need to excavate at least five feet to reach the top of the sewer.” I paused to look gravely at the men.
“And we will need to be extremely careful,” I added. “Normally, we would shore up the sides of our trenches, to keep the earth from falling back into our ditch. But we don’t have time for that precaution tonight.”
Buchanan’s eyebrows shot up, but he extended his hand toward the shovel. “Then we best get started.”
For many hours, the only sounds in the night were our laboring grunts and the sliding of shovels into soil followed by the soft whoosh of earth being tossed to the side of the trench. Buchanan and I had removed our coats, and the sleeves of our cotton shirts were rolled to our elbows. George and Martin had removed a layer or two of flannel. The lanterns cast a ghostly aura on the scene.
“I feel like a gravedigger,” Buchanan had muttered at one point.
It was an hour before dawn when I felt my shovel clatter against hard metal. Buchanan began digging closer to me, careful not to disturb the sloping walls of dirt that hemmed us in. I dropped to my knees, using my hands to wipe away the remaining layer of soil that covered the pipe.
“Well?” Buchanan asked.
I answered with a grunt. “It’s a new pipe all right.You can see that it shows no signs of corrosion yet. It doesn’t take long for the water and the soil to have some effect on the metal.”
“So Dugan’s men simply put in a new pipe?” he asked lightly.
“It appears so, at least on this section of the sewer.” I felt disappointment twist my gut, but I knew that it didn’t make sense. For a moment, we stood on top of the exposed pipe, catching our breath.Then Martin called out to me.
“Sean! Hurry.You must see this!” I saw the light spark in Buchanan’s eyes. We turned simultaneously to clamber up the ladder, leaping across the few feet to reach the other excavation. George and Martin looked up at us, their eyes, like the eyes of nocturnal creatures, shining in the moonlight.
“My God,” I could only whisper, appalled at the simple evil of the deed.
“The sewer passed through the manhole,” Buchanan stated simply.
“Yes,” I agreed, my voice at the moment devoid of emotion. “Do you know what they have done here?” I asked, turning to Buchanan, my face tight with the outrage I was trying to contain. “Dugan’s men did install a new sewer pipe to the manhole.” I could feel the blood in my temples pounding in response to this discovery. “But they also punched through the manhole to push the new sewer pipe right to the river bank.” If Dugan or Brophy were here with us now, I was sure I would have strangled the life out of them. My hands were balled into fists. “The sewer,” I continued, my voice now choking against the audacity of the act, “the sewer is simply emptying its contents directly into the river above the forebay. He has used this sewer as a means to poison our water.”
Buchanan’s eyes widened and then closed quickly. “Are you saying that raw sewage is emptying into the river at this moment?” His voice was quiet.
I didn’t answer him. I had to scramble down onto the river bank to see if the sewage was visible. Why didn’t I notice this before? I slid to the river’s edge, and peered into the dark water. Yes, the water was more agitated here, as if a source of flow was introduced somewhere below the ground. Buchanan stumbled after me.
“Why would the water swirl at that point?” Buchanan asked, holding his lantern over the water. I squinted at the place Buchanan indicated, a spot where the water was bubbling up, like a weak fountain, where it should simply flow with the current. I reached with my shovel to touch the water. I let it drop below the surface and suddenly felt it clang against something hard. I waded into the water, oblivious of the sudden cold numbing my feet and legs. I kept the shovel extended and continued to probe the water as if I were parrying against it with a sword. Each time I thrust, I hit another hard section of metal.
I turned to look at Buchanan, whose own eyes were narrowed.
“They installed a plate here,” I informed him, incredulous, “that acts as a wall. The flow from the sewer hits this plate, which directs the flow downstream. Dugan has ensured that the sewage drains entirely into the forebay. For weeks now, we have been pumping contaminated water into our reservoirs.”
Buchanan did not reply. By the
thin rays of dawn, I could see his fists tightly clenched by his sides. Without a word, he quickly turned and dug his shoes into the frost-coated bank of the river to climb to solid ground.
ROSE
I felt cold. I opened my eyes to darkness. I raised my head, pressing my fingers against a frigid slab. I was not in my bed.
“Patrick?” I whispered.
I sat up slowly, cautious not to disturb the air around me. My muscles cramped against the movement. My pounding heart struggled against a heavy lethargy that threatened to drown me with sleep again. But I was shivering violently, and the tremors helped me fight the impulse to close my eyes.
“Patrick?” I cried once more, my voice sharp. Its echo pummeled me. I crouched, tucking my knees beneath my chin. I wanted to make myself as small as possible. I searched carefully with my hands, like a blind woman, touching the space around me. It was empty. Finally, I allowed my palms to rest on the cold, hard floor. Where was I? I wondered if I was ill, if I was experiencing a delirium. The air held the intemperate cruelty of the outdoors, although there was no wind pressing against me.
I stood slowly, my eyes desperately searching the darkness for a hint of light. Except for the sounds of my own labored breathing, no noise or mood of the weather seemed able to penetrate it, although the smell was somewhat familiar—stale—the air was saturated with old dust. When had I last breathed this air?
I wracked my memory. It hadn’t been that long ago. It wasn’t the smell of the attic or basement.The attic was cool and smelled of trunks and mothballs. The basement was damp and smelled of spring earth. But this smell.
I gasped. My heart held a beat. “Dear God,” I said. I was in the mausoleum, in the tomb that Patrick had erected.
“No!” I screamed. I stumbled into the wall, my hands feeling frantically for the door. I felt the cold smoothness of the glass and dropped my hands to grasp an icy doorknob. I tried to turn it. I shook it. It was locked.