Mulvaney chortled. “That’s nothing new.” He leaned back in his chair, flexing his fingers. “Why don’t you just ask Alistair about the symbol drawn on the music? I’ve no doubt he’ll have some fancy explanation for it. Do you really think the rose is important?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
He ran his fingers over the stubble covering his bald head. “Look, this case is going to be politically complicated—no argument there. But as a murder inquiry, it should be cut-and-dried. This judge presided over the most controversial anarchist trial New York has seen since President McKinley was assassinated. So you’ve no need to look beyond the anarchists.” He made a noise of disgust. “They come to this country with their talk of violence and bloodshed. I say, if they don’t like it here, why don’t they go back where they came from?”
He paused a moment, struggling with his emotions. Mulvaney had made something of himself from the worst of beginnings—eleven siblings and only their widowed mother to support them—and he had little sympathy for those with a lesser work ethic.
“My point is,” he said, leaning in, “don’t get distracted by some fancy symbol or strange Bible you think you’ve noticed. These items were planted there by a man … by an anarchist. You’ve just got to find him.”
“I know it was a human hand that killed the judge; I don’t forget that for an instant. Yet we both know that often the simple solution is also the wrong one.”
There was an uncomfortable moment between us. Just this past spring, Mulvaney had made such a mistake—and it had caused the only rift between us in our ten-year history.
“Look, Ziele,” he finally said, his eyes meeting my own, “I brought you back to the city to work with me because you’ve got better skills and instincts than any detective I know. Focus on the real threats that surrounded the judge—and that continue to surround all of us in this city.” He spread his hands wide. “They call themselves anarchists. What kind of people are they, that they value their ideas more than human life? That they’d plant a bomb to take the life of an innocent child?”
“I don’t understand men like Drayson,” I said. “But you also know they’re not all like that. Remember Samuel Lyzke from the old neighborhood? He joined the anarchist circles to fight corrupt government. He was just an ordinary man who wanted better conditions for working people.”
Mulvaney’s expression softened. “Sam is one of the good ones.”
I remembered Sam as a peace-loving idealist. And I knew his weapon of choice would be words, not dynamite—for he was a dreamer, not an actor.
“It’s not their ideas I have a problem with; it’s their violence and killing. When they take a human life,” Mulvaney was saying, “damn their ideas. They become no different from an ordinary killer. They deserve what’s coming.”
The official response would be to hunt down every anarchist in the city—of that I was well aware. Yet this killer had eschewed the anarchist weapon of choice—dynamite—in favor of the knife. He had quite possibly sent personal threats to the judge, and then left the ambiguous symbols of a Bible and a white rose by his handiwork. Perhaps these acts had some meaning within the anarchist community. Mulvaney was right. The threat of further violence was real.
I looked up and saw Mulvaney was regarding me with sympathy in his deep blue eyes. “You’re in the thick of it now. Let me know how I can help you.”
I gave him a smile of reassurance. “It’s an opportunity like no other, right?” Then I checked my watch. “Can you arrange for me to get into the Tombs to see Drayson before I meet with the commissioner?”
Mulvaney’s eyes widened. “You want to talk with that bastard now?”
I nodded. People already suspected him of orchestrating the murder from his jail cell—and before I could begin to come to grips with this case, I needed to see him for myself. And I wanted Alistair to come with me.
In a matter of minutes, all the arrangements were made. I left Mulvaney and headed downtown to the Tombs—into the bowels of hell itself.
CHAPTER 4
The Tombs, Centre Street. 10:30 A.M.
There was no place in New York more repulsive than the Tombs, the city prison where Al Drayson was being held in a solitary basement cell. It was a new building, constructed just four years ago on the same site as the original Tombs prison. In fact, from the street, it was almost a thing of beauty—a majestic French chateau dominated by a handsome stone turret. But for those of us who had seen firsthand what lived within, even the fanciest exterior made no difference. The misery of those incarcerated within seemed to permeate its very walls and become palpable—even before a visitor like myself entered from Centre Street through the eight-inch-thick iron-and-wood door. In reality, it wasn’t misery I sensed—it was the smell of unwashed bodies as well as vomit, feces, and urine. The putrid odor was unmistakable, even at the entrance door.
I presented my credentials to a dour-faced guard dressed entirely in black. He admitted me with a terse nod, saying only, “Jenkins will take you down.”
Upon hearing his words, a hunched older man rose up from a wooden stool, jangling his large ring of keys. His voice was a hoarse rasp when he said, “Come.”
I followed him first through the main hall, where prisoners convicted of relatively minor crimes were housed. The Tombs was divided by level, with criminals placed according to the severity of their crimes. Those here on the first floor enjoyed the relative comfort of the single wood-burning stove in the center of the room. Most of them regarded me silently as I passed by—though no end of catcalls came from the levels overhead. Buggerer. Twat. Nancy-boy. I’d learned to ignore the curses and name-calling during my visits here, so the words that followed me down the hall were nothing to me. What I had to steel myself for was the basement—an area marked by the most miserable of conditions and reserved for the most depraved of criminals.
The moment I descended the stairs, I was overwhelmed by the rancid smell of rot. The Tombs had been built on swampland, a legacy that gave its porous stone foundation a perpetual wetness. And so the stench of feces and urine mingled with that of the damp, which created a vile stink that threatened to overpower me with each succeeding step. The bowels of the Tombs were fit only for the rats … one of which scampered in front of us, so close that Jenkins nearly kicked it. Jenkins cackled—a hoarse noise that sent more of a chill down my spine than either the fetid smell or the vermin had already done.
By the time we were halfway down, I heard voices from the cells below. Alistair was here. I had asked him to give me fifteen minutes alone with Drayson before he joined me; I should have known he would be too impatient to honor that request. But when Jenkins and I reached the bottom floor, it was not Drayson with whom Alistair was engaged in animated conversation.
Alistair stood before the cell of a gaunt man with deep-sunken eyes. The man was mesmerized by Alistair’s words—or perhaps, instead, by Alistair himself. A bath and a few hours’ sleep had restored Alistair’s composure entirely; he was now dressed in his usual impeccable fashion: a fine gray wool suit complemented his black cashmere-blend coat and paisley scarf, and he carried a satchel made of the finest leather and brass. He took notes in a matching leather-bound notebook using his new Waterman fountain pen—the kind that contained its own ink.
The imprisoned man gawked openly at Alistair. “So all I gotta do is answer some questions and you’ll help me get a new trial?” He was hopeful and incredulous at the same time.
“I’ll do what I can,” Alistair answered in his calmest voice. “It will be up to the judge, of course, but I can make sure your argument is at least heard.”
The prisoner made a hoarse guffaw. “That’s just a fancy way of sayin’ you’ll try. Guess it’s better than my good-for-nothing lawyer did first time round, though.”
Alistair smiled and jotted something down in his notebook. “I just need to double-check your story, Mr.—?”
“Hayes. Rawlin’ Hayes.” The man clenched a fist with
grimy fingers around the bars that separated him from Alistair and leaned his face in. “Just ask around in Five Points and anybody’ll tell you: I didn’t commit no attempted murder. ’Cause I never attempt to kill nobody.” His lips spread into a wide grin that revealed a mouth almost wholly devoid of teeth. “If I want somebody dead, there’s no attempting about it.”
No wonder he appeared not to have eaten in months: if prison fare wasn’t bad enough, he had no teeth with which to eat it. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if poor health ended up cheating Alistair from whatever he wished to learn from this particular prisoner. The foul air and bone-chilling damp made for deplorable living conditions—ones that even healthy men would find a challenge to survive. And I suspected that Rawlin’ Hayes had not been a picture of health to begin with.
Alistair, now aware of my presence, glanced toward me and nodded slightly before returning his attention to the prisoner.
“Thank you, Mr. Hayes; I promise you I’ll take a look at your case.”
Alistair turned toward me, and even in the dim light, I noted that his cheeks were flushed despite the cold. He was in his element, almost entirely unaware of our grim surroundings—including Jenkins, the guard who hovered over us, anxious to move us along.
“You boys ready?” Jenkins asked. “No need to stick around in a place like this.”
At my sign, he led us down a hallway that grew even darker as we approached the end. This is where prisoners sentenced to solitary confinement were held; with windowless cells and thick wood-and-iron doors, there was no light whatsoever but for the feeble glow of Jenkins’s lantern.
When we came to the last door, Jenkins took out his large key ring and—with his bully stick in his left hand, poised to strike—undid the double padlocks on the door with his right hand. It swung open to reveal a frail, thin man with a dark beard and wire-rimmed spectacles, wearing a standard prison-issue gray uniform. He sat in a chair that more closely resembled a medieval torture device—for his hands and feet were shackled, and there was a leather strap across his chest. I’d not seen one in years, but I knew what it was: a “restraint chair,” usually reserved as severe punishment for the worst offenses. It was so uncomfortable that previously sane men could be driven crazy after too much time in it.
Al Drayson showed signs of repeated physical beatings. The entire left side of his face and nose was crusted with dried blood, the eye swollen shut. And even in the low light, a variety of bruises—colored blue, purple, and yellow—were visible on the lower portion of his arms.
Drayson didn’t react to our entry. His head lolled to the right and his good eye remained closed.
“This is unacceptable.” Alistair’s voice was sharp as he turned to Jenkins. Alistair deplored the use of such devices in any prison, for any criminal—even for a child-killer like Drayson. “We don’t better ourselves by mistreating the most depraved among us,” he said.
Looking at Drayson, I had to admit I agreed. I’d never been of an “eye for an eye” mentality. Drayson was already locked up in this fetid place and certainly on his way to the electric chair. It seemed a severe enough punishment.
Jenkins only grinned. “Don’t blame us; we’re not the ones who beat him up every day. That’s the work of the crowds. They assemble outside, just lyin’ in wait for him, soon as he’s brought back here from the courtroom.”
“And your men can’t manage to keep them at a safe distance?” Alistair asked.
“There’s too many of ’em. And they hate him.”
“What about the restraint chair?” I asked.
Jenkins shrugged. “Complained about his cell last night, ’e did. Said he was tired of living in his own excrement and threatened to throw shit at us jailers.”
Alistair drew himself up, giving Jenkins a severe look. “Well, we cannot talk with him like this. You’ll have to unbind him.”
Jenkins looked to me.
“This man may have important information,” I said. “We would like to speak with him freely—without his fetters.” And I bit my lip, hoping I’d made the right judgment.
Jenkins frowned, then reached to the wall for a key—which he handed to me. “You gotta do it yourself, then. I don’t touch scum like him.”
With keys in hand, I took a step closer to Drayson. I breathed through my mouth, trying to avoid the worst foul odor of his body. They had not moved him in hours, and he had urinated on himself—probably more than once. He did not attempt to open his eyes.
Before I touched him, I spoke as though he would understand me. “My name is Detective Ziele and I’m here to ask you some questions today. But first I’m going to undo these restraints, starting with the one across your chest.”
I unbuckled the leather belt that cut too tightly across his upper torso. He wheezed the moment its pressure was released—then drew the first of a series of jagged breaths, trying to make up for the amount of air he’d not been able to breathe before.
“Now your feet,” I said, and leaned down to undo the iron chains at the base of the chair.
For a split second, I was afraid he would kick me—but he merely stretched his legs to their fullest extension.
“And hands.” I circled behind his chair, leaned down, and undid the chain and lock binding his arms.
Just as I was about to stand up and circle round him again, I felt his wiry hand clench my right arm—gripping so hard that I winced in pain. I was surprised he had such power in him after having been chained for so long—but then again, my right arm was an easy target. It hung limp, almost useless, and in chronic pain—especially in the damp or the cold. That had been the case ever since the day of the General Slocum steamship disaster when I had worked to rescue as many victims as possible and been rewarded with an injury that was a permanent reminder of the day. As if I needed any reminder at all.
I wrenched my head toward the door. Jenkins appeared to have deserted us entirely, leaving us to the results of our folly.
“Let go of me.” My voice boomed loud and menacing as I delivered a sharp punch with my left fist to his head.
Drayson winced in pain, but his grip on my right arm grew even tighter. I jabbed him again, this time with my left elbow.
“Who’re you to tell me what to do?” Drayson hissed.
“I’m someone who has the authority to release you from this awful contraption. But you’ll find yourself right back in it if you don’t let go of my arm now.”
At that, the viselike grip relaxed … and I freed my now-aching arm, rubbing it as I walked over to Alistair.
Drayson’s eyes followed me with a gaze in which I saw both steely resolve and pure calculation at play. “You said you were a detective. Why are you here?”
“I have some questions for you about Judge Jackson’s murder.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is he a detective, too?” His eyes flicked toward Alistair.
“He is a professor of criminal science who is assisting me,” I replied.
Drayson’s mouth formed an odd smile as he mocked us. “Well, this is a first. I’ve never been interviewed by a professor before.” He drummed his fingers against his knee. “And is criminal science interested in me—or in my cause?” he asked Alistair.
“I’m interested in what draws you to your cause,” Alistair said, determined to take no offense. He obviously wanted to win Drayson’s cooperation—for our purposes today as well as in the future. I knew that the question “why?” was ingrained in Alistair—and it became a virtual obsession when the answer eluded him.
“If you’ll use your influence to educate the masses,” Drayson said with an oily smile, “I’ll answer any question you want.”
“Ah,” Alistair said, beaming, “education is truly the answer to almost everything, isn’t it? I have always—”
I cut him off. The foul air was making me light-headed, and I had no patience for Alistair’s theoretical discussions right now. “First,” I said to Drayson, “we understand you’re Russian.”
“Yes,” he said, “I come from Gdansk. My family came here to escape the pogroms—and we found a hell in America to rival the one we thought we had left behind.”
I swallowed hard and held my tongue. I’d read about the horrors of the pogroms, and whatever injustice Drayson had encountered here, it was nothing compared to the violence wrought by the Cossacks. Of that I was certain.
“When you came of age, you joined the anarchist movement. I believe that now—together with Miss Goldman—you’re the leader of the New York organization.”
He spat on the ground. “Not together with Emma Goldman. I am the leader—and have been, ever since her pansy Berkman landed himself in jail. No one’s authority supersedes mine. Not Baginski, not Abbott, and not Goldman herself.”
“As their leader, what is your goal?” Alistair asked.
I knew what Alistair was doing: before we asked Drayson about the judge specifically, he was building a rapport and encouraging the man to be comfortable talking with us.
Drayson looked at us as though we were daft. “Justice, of course. We work to protect the working people from exploitation by the capitalist government. You see,” he said, leaning in close enough that I recoiled from his foul scent, “we all came here for opportunity. America is the land of opportunity, we heard. But we got here and found no work. Nothing to pay us a living wage and allow us to support our families. So our every act is intended to focus the public’s attention on the plight of working people.”
He slammed his fist against the restraint chair, looking up at us with fury. “That is all I want: to teach the public to see the injustices they are blind to. So we tell them about the crowded tenements where we live in despicable conditions. We open our doors and permit Jacob Riis to take our photographs. We show other muckraking journalists the factories where we toil long hours for not enough pay—while the capitalist scum make a fortune off the sweat of our brows. But none of this has any effect. The government and the banks and the factories continue to exploit us all. We pretend we have a democracy in these United States, but only the rich have a voice.”
Secret of the White Rose Page 4