“Yes, though I find it odd that you asked that question, Dottie…since you’re the one who killed him.”
“I killed him?” Dottie paused, then emitted a laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.” Mary’s serious face told her she wasn’t. Dottie raised her hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I confess. I also shot Lincoln and Garfield.”
“How did you know he was shot?”
Thrown for a couple of seconds, Dottie rebounded with, “I didn’t, but Lincoln and Garfield were.”
“Dottie a killer?” Gilbert chimed in. “That’s preposterous. She has no instinct for it. People step all over her.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Dottie said.
“Come on, you’re a virtual stepping stool.”
“Mr. Gilbert, I—”
“The point is,” Mary interrupted as she pulled out her evidence, “I found this piece of cotton in the room where you killed him.”
“Your proof I murdered someone is that you found a piece of cotton? That’s beyond preposterous. It’s absurd.”
“Really, Mary,” said Gilbert, “it is a bit far-fetched.”
“Not at all. Take a look at Dottie’s gloves, the ones we admire so much. Today, they’re a lovely green.”
“What you say is true. They are lovely.”
“They are indeed, William. If you examine them closer, you’ll see that nine of the glove fingers are slightly worn or soiled, the result of everyday use.”
“Excellent observation,” responded Dottie. “Possibly your natural calling is a laundress instead of a detective.”
“Good show, Dottie,” said Gilbert. “I had no idea you could be so witty.”
Dottie’s patience was already being tried. “You have no idea about many things, Mr. Gilbert.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mary approached Dottie. “The one finger that is not worn or even the slightest bit soiled, her right ring finger, is missing, and therefore Dottie cannot grasp anything with it: probably the result of a childhood accident, a cooking mishap, whatever. She stuffs it with cotton for appearance’s sake. A missing finger is unsightly.”
“I’ll say,” commented Gilbert. “Downright freakish.”
By now, Dottie was livid. “Freakish, eh?”
“No one wants to see a deformed hand. I certainly don’t.”
“Well then, maybe you shouldn’t look at this.” Dottie defiantly ripped off the glove on her right hand, revealing that her right ring finger was missing. “My father cut it off. He was quite the disciplinarian.”
Gilbert turned away in disgust. “Revolting! Put the glove back on. Please.”
“No! You’re going to have a good look at this first.” Dottie kept pushing her hand in his face as Gilbert tried to avoid it.
Meanwhile, Mary casually picked up Dottie’s glove. Examining it, she pulled a piece of cotton out of it. “Just like I thought: a piece of cotton identical to the piece I found in Harvey Iglehart’s room.” She sniffed it. “The same perfumed scent, too. Does this smell familiar, William?” Gilbert and Dottie had stopped their minor tussle to listen to Mary. She put the cotton to his nose.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed. “All these years I’ve been smelling her missing finger! How positively nauseating!”
Dottie turned to Mary. “So you have two pieces of perfumed cotton. There are probably thousands of people who buy that brand.”
“Maybe you’re not aware of the advancements in science. There is a thing called DNA discovered by a German biochemist named Albrecht Kossel. It can be found in every cell in our bodies. We all have our own DNA, exclusive to each of us. Whether you realize it or not, if both pieces of cotton were in your gloves, microscopic pieces of skin would have rubbed off on them. Should their DNA match, and I believe they will, it is concrete proof that you’re the killer.”
Mary had always been fascinated with science. She regularly read all the scientific journals. DNA had been discovered, but she also knew that using it for purposes of identification was merely a far-off dream. She was bluffing in the hope that Dottie wasn’t as informed as she was. Few people were.
Dottie was silent, but Gilbert spoke up. “Is it true, Dottie? You stole from me, after all I’ve done for you?”
Dottie turned toward Gilbert. “Exactly what have you done besides belittle me, take my ideas—”
“Oh, another Harvey Iglehart. I stole your play.”
“I never wrote a play.”
“Of course not. You have no talent and you’re practically illiterate.”
She turned to Mary, indicating Gilbert. “See what I mean! The man’s an ingrate. I tell him how to promote his plays and save money on the productions, then guide him through casting. When he ignores me, he fails, and when he heeds my advice, he succeeds. And what do I get in return: insults and promises of a raise that never comes!”
“Are you calling me cheap?”
“Ah, one of your extremely rare accurate perceptions.”
“You believe I’m stupid?” He laughed derisively.
“Since you seem to need clarification, let me assist you. You’re an egocentric, self-absorbed blowhard whose inflated sense of self-importance clouds what little common sense and judgment you might have.”
“And that’s why you stole from me?”
“Yes, and I’d do it again!”
Mary quickly jumped in. “And what about murder?”
But Dottie was too focused on Gilbert to answer. “And The Fortune Hunter is complete garbage. It’s going to be the biggest flop the theater has ever seen!”
“That does it! You’re fired!”
“Fired!” she cried, emitting an almost insane laugh. “I’ll show you fired!” She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a pistol. Before she could shoot Gilbert, Mary grabbed her arm and twisted it. The gun fell to the floor and Mary kicked it across the room. Then she kicked the legs out from under Dottie and she crashed to the floor. Mary hastily gathered the pistol, picked it up, and turned back to Dottie, who was still on the floor, stunned.
Mary was through playing. “You didn’t answer my question.”
A bit woozy, Dottie began to sit up, propping her back against the wall. “Harvey had principles. He wanted to give the money to charity. The fool! That money was mine. I earned it.”
“So you killed him for it?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? I hate redundancies.”
Mary called toward the door. “Mr. Roosevelt, was that enough?”
“Yes, Mary, more than enough,” said Theodore Roosevelt as he entered with two police officers. “We’ll take it from here.” The two officers lifted Dottie to her feet and handcuffed her. Roosevelt stared right at her. “Dorothy Davies, you are under arrest for extortion and murder.”
As the officers started escorting her out, the rage Mary had been hiding shot through her body. She charged Dottie and pointed the gun at her. “You killed Harper! Why, I want to know why!”
Roosevelt quickly intervened, saying in a calm voice, “Mary, we’ll take care of it.” He signaled the officers to keep going, then turned back to her. “It’s late. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Roosevelt was about to follow the officers when Mary stopped him. She was still breathing heavily, her body charged with adrenaline, but had cooled down enough for her wit to prevail. “Here, Mr. Roosevelt,” she said, holding up the pistol. “I think you might need this.”
He grinned, a large, toothy Teddy Roosevelt grin. “Yes, I suppose I will.” He took the pistol.
“Thank you for believing me and coming along. I am indebted to you.”
“Nonsense, Mary. I said I would do what I could to help, and if nothing else, I’m a man of my word. I’ll keep you apprised of the situation.”
“Thank you.”
&nbs
p; He nodded and followed after the police officers, leaving Gilbert and Mary alone. “And thank you for your cooperation, William. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“When you telephoned, I may have sounded strange. Dottie was in the room.”
“I assumed that was the case. You did such a wonderful job tonight. I couldn’t tell you were acting.”
“To be honest, not all of it was. Odd how little you know about people. I have been working with Dottie for a decade and I hadn’t the foggiest.”
“Which part of your behavior was real and which was fake?”
“You’re sadly mistaken if you think I’m going to divulge that.”
She smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t either.”
Mary left, her emotions playing tricks on her, not sure if she wanted to jump for joy or cry.
16
The next morning, Monday, the twenty-first, Mary awoke to a knock on her door. She had already fed Josie and put her back to bed, hoping that she, too, could get some more sleep. But it was not to be.
Sean had heard about Dottie’s arrest and had come over to see how his sister was doing.
“I’m fine, Sean. I mean, I think I am.”
“From personal experience, I can tell you it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time to heal, but at least you can start, sis. You caught the bastards.”
“Then why do I have this uneasy feeling?”
“It’ll go away eventually. You know, ‘time heals’ and all that.”
“You’re spouting quotes? I think I need to sit down.” She did just that.
“I’ll do you a favor and give you something else to focus on. I finally acquiesced to Linda’s parents and agreed to invite Mom to dinner, probably a Sunday afternoon, where there’s less chance of arguments.”
“How is that better?”
“Sunday, you know: church, a day of prayer and forgiveness.”
“We are discussing Mom?”
“You’re right. I’m going to try to delay it as much as possible, but I can’t avoid it. Whenever it happens, you’re invited, too.”
“That’s a favor? It’s more like an invitation to a bombing.”
“Please come, Mary. You can bring Josie. I desperately need your support.”
Mary laughed. “And if I say no?”
“That would be the perfect thing to say if you want to see your brother’s life ruined.”
“Hmm, my brother’s life ruined or spending a Sunday with Mom—”
“Mary.”
“I’ll come, Sean, whenever it is. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“It should be quite a show, on the level of Shakespeare.”
“I assume you’re referring to his tragedies.”
The telephone rang and Mary answered it. “Hello….I’m fine, Mr. Roosevelt, and thank you again for yesterday….Yes, I can be there at noon….Sure, look forward to it.” She hung up.
“My sister gets telephone calls from Theodore Roosevelt. He doesn’t even know I exist.”
“He wants me to come down to his office. Some more details about the case.”
“Go ahead. I’ll watch Josie. I don’t go into work until later today.”
“Thanks, Sean.”
“On the condition that when you see Roosevelt, you put in a word for your brother who’s a brilliant detective?”
“I have another brother? I thought I only had you.” At his annoyed look, she continued. “He’s New York and you’re Brooklyn. How can he help?”
“I’m more than willing to commute to New York for a promotion. Besides, New York and Brooklyn will probably be one city soon.”
“Makes sense. I’ll try, Sean…when the time is right.”
Sean watched as Mary’s expression grew serious. “Don’t worry, sis. He probably just wants to keep you in the loop.”
Mary had clearly heard his tone and doubted it was something as simple as that. It had to be important, but was it good or bad?
* * *
It all became clear when Mary entered Roosevelt’s office. The look on his face told her she was about to hear something that, at the very least, would not be pleasant. She was right.
“Mary,” said Roosevelt in his most congenial manner. “So glad you could make it.”
“The only thing that could stop me would be a bullet, and I think I’ve had my quota of those for a while.”
“You’re always so serious. You should try to—”
“What’s wrong, Mr. Roosevelt?”
Her question stopped him momentarily, then he said, “First, let’s talk about what’s right. Please have a seat.” Mary obliged. “Due to your brilliant efforts, Dorothy Davies confessed to extortion and the murder of Harvey Iglehart.”
“But?”
“She emphatically maintains she had nothing to do with Harper’s death.”
“Of course she does. It’s rare to find a murderer who will confess without clever prodding or irrefutable evidence.”
“She’s already facing life in prison and perhaps the electric chair. Why lie now?”
“She has a chance of living with one murder. With two, her chances are significantly worse.”
“That’s true, but we still had to investigate further. With the help of the Brooklyn police, we examined the bullets. The ones that grazed your head and killed Harvey Iglehart came from the same pistol, the same type that we took from Davies last night. The one that killed Harper came from a completely different pistol. So—”
“Unless Dottie was carrying two completely different guns with her that day, which is highly unlikely, someone else killed Harper.” The uneasy feeling Mary had experienced earlier had turned into one of dread. She was back to square one.
“I know this isn’t easy for you to hear, but I assure you, I’m bullheaded. I won’t stop until we find Harper’s killer.”
Mary sat there in silence, reeling from the information she had just heard. The overwhelming feeling of sadness she had felt when Harper was killed returned. Instead of her sobbing, her body shut down. She was numb. Roosevelt noticed, and he tried to reassure her.
“I’m putting my men on the case. Brooklyn isn’t my territory yet,” he said, “but I don’t care whose toes I step on. By golly, if the Brooklyn police can’t find this Prospect Park killer, I will!”
“Near Prospect Park,” Mary corrected him before she felt tears prick her eyes. She shook her head to clear them. “Near Prospect Park, in Prospect Park, damn it! What difference does it make? He’s dead! Gone!”
Roosevelt wasn’t sure what to do. He rose to comfort her. “Mary, I—”
She put her hands up. “Thank you, Mr. Roosevelt, but no. I have to learn to live with this.” She took a moment to regain control.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Because I need to ask you something, a favor.”
She nodded. “I’m fine. What is it, sir?”
“Have you heard of the Susie Johnson case?”
“The girl who was raped by Stanford White.”
“She says she was, but we haven’t been able to prove it yet. White has a lot of influential friends who have tainted the girl with unflattering names.”
“You mean like ‘whore,’ ‘slut,’ and ‘Jezebel’?”
Roosevelt flinched. “My God, you constantly surprise me.”
“No need to hide those words from me, Mr. Roosevelt. I’ve heard them all and spoken them quite a bit, too.”
“Well then, you’re the perfect person for this assignment. I doubt whether name-calling will deter you.”
“It might inspire me.”
“Bully for you, Mary. You’re a genuine pistol,” said Roosevelt as he chuckled. Then he continued, “My boys are not doing a thorough job. Whether it’s loyalty to White and his cronies or just male prejud
ice, it’s been a year and a half now, and whenever I ask them to investigate, they all come back with the same hogwash. Why would a rich, talented, and handsome man have any need to drug a woman in order to have sex? And they accuse her of just wanting some publicity to promote her modeling career.”
“It’s a man’s world. I’ve been fighting that my whole life.”
“I want this girl to get justice, and I think you would be perfect for this case. How much for your services?”
“I’m happy to take the case. Please, no remuneration. I owe you for yesterday.”
“But we didn’t apprehend Harper’s killer, and I am the one who owes you for saving my bacon the other night.”
“It doesn’t matter. You were there when I needed you. What’s Susie Johnson’s address?”
“My secretary will give it to you. Thank you, Mary.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mary rose but on her way out she stopped at the door. “Don’t think I’m unaware of what you’re doing.”
He looked up. “And what is that?”
“You’re trying to keep me busy in order to distract me from thinking about Harper.”
“Why would I do that?” he said, playing innocent.
“Because behind your public image—the bluster, the hard line, the take-no-prisoners persona—you’re a pussycat.”
Roosevelt acknowledged her perception with one of his toothy laughs as Mary left.
17
Susie Johnson lived with her parents just off Bleecker Street in lower Manhattan, not far from the Florence Night Mission. The mission was a haven for “fallen women,” and Susie’s parents had warned her many times that if she continued on her current path she would eventually wind up there.
The “Pie Girl Dinner” had backfired on her, and in spite of some initial notoriety and modeling assignments, the opposite of what she had hoped for had transpired. Public opinion held that she was a loose woman who had seduced Stanford White for gain and that there was no rape. Susie was beginning to believe that marriage was the only event that would keep her from the Florence Night Mission.
Near Prospect Park Page 12