Someone.
Leaving Leo behind, I ran. The crowd parted, letting me see the body.
It was Carrie Biel.
9
It was like freezing to death, I thought. A sight this terrible. So extreme that you simply went numb. Everything slowed to an unnatural degree. It was hard to think, which was probably best. To think you would have to understand. I did not want to understand the horror that had been made of Carrie Biel. How could we do these things—twist one another, slash, destroy? Behind me, I sensed Leo, anxious, unsure what to do. The world felt cold. There was no kindness here, and to believe otherwise was willful delusion.
“You see? What he does to these young women? You must arrest him, arrest him now!”
Mrs. Pickett’s voice cut through the fog; the sight of Carrie snapped into sharp focus. She lay sprawled as if dropped, arms out, legs askew. Death had come quickly, in a last spasm of life. Her face was a patchwork of blood and skin. The cuts were the same as Sadie’s, random slashes to the forehead and arms. Although the arms, I thought, might have happened in a fight. Carrie would have fought. She would have known what was happening and she would have fought hard.
But I knew there was something I wasn’t seeing. Take away the blood, take away the cuts—they’re blinding. See Carrie, imagine her fighting. Look to her arms, her hands. These lay palm up, fingers slightly curled. The sleeves of her coat had ridden up, and I could see her wrists, pale and vulnerable. I could see … not the wrists, it wasn’t just the wrists, it was …
Her bracelet. The rope bracelet was gone.
Dazed, I looked at the faces around me, found Officer Nolan. “Cover her, please,” I said. “Don’t let them see what he’s made of her.”
He directed the other policemen to surround the body, protecting it from public view. There was a moan of disappointment from the twenty or so onlookers—they had roused themselves for a show, and now it was denied. Mrs. Pickett said, “You cannot hide his crimes from our eye.” Roused from her bed, she had thrown her coat over her nightgown. Her graying hair was in a plait, and there were mottled pouches under her eyes. The hand that held the neck of her coat closed was spotted and heavily veined. She looked old, I thought. Old and terrifyingly sincere.
“I’m well aware of that,” said Officer Nolan wearily. “Do you know this woman, Miss Prescott?”
“Yes, her name is Carrie Biel.” I raised my voice so Mrs. Pickett and her associates could hear Carrie’s scandalous profession. “She works at Rutherford’s department store.” To Officer Nolan, I added, “It’s my fault she was here.”
“How’s that?”
“She was a friend of Sadie Ellis. I told her she could come get her things if she wanted them.”
“What time did you leave the refuge this evening, Miss Prescott?”
“Around seven.”
“Then you wouldn’t know if your uncle was at home this evening.”
The shift in attack left me jolted. “That was certainly his plan. He was looking forward to seeing Carrie—”
“I’m sure he was.” Mrs. Pickett stepped forward. “Why don’t you ask your uncle what he and Carrie Biel were speaking of earlier tonight?”
“I imagine it was her new job.”
“Oh, yes? On the street? Why did she tell him to get away from her? Why did she tell him to take his hands off her?”
There was a gasp from the crowd. To me, the scene was simply unimaginable; as I struggled to choose between the words “preposterous” and “outrageous,” Mrs. Pickett shouted, “It was only a few blocks from here. I heard them. Open your eyes, Miss Prescott. See your uncle for what he truly is.”
I disliked hating a woman this much. Her righteousness, her malice, her lack of human feeling parading under the banner of purpose. With more anger than I wanted, I said, “The police might also ask where Bill Danvers was tonight.”
I turned back to the patrolman. “Danvers is an associate of Mrs. Pickett’s. He is also an associate of Chick Tricker’s. He was at the Acme Café tonight. I saw him there. But I didn’t see him all evening; I’m afraid I did lose sight of him. Perhaps he left the club. Perhaps he came here. Did you know that, Mrs. Pickett? That the man you’ve stood beside for weeks works for a gangster, and when women don’t do as they’re told, he beats them up? Or worse.”
I realized I was shouting, and I struggled for composure. Leo put his arm around me. Doing so brought him to the attention of the officer, who asked his name. Leo gave it, and I felt the bristle of animosity in the crowd, not unlike hearing the low growl of a dog before it snaps its teeth.
“What brings you to this neighborhood this evening, Mr. Hirschfeld?”
“I’m escorting the lady home, Officer.”
“Night out?”
“At the Acme Café,” Leo offered. “Only a hundred people saw me. It could be difficult to find witnesses.”
Leo’s sarcasm earned him a tight smile. “That’s fine, I’ll take Miss Prescott’s word for it.”
I had never been quite so aware of the Christian quality of my last name; Leo didn’t miss it either. “Naturally.”
“Excuse me?” said the officer.
“I only meant your faith in Miss Prescott’s integrity is well founded.” Leo was speaking just a little too fast—and it was not out of deference. He was making the officer work.
“You live in this area, Mr. Hirschfeld?”
“I do not.”
“Work in this area?”
“I work all over the city, Officer.” Now his hands were in his pockets and he rocked slightly on his feet.
“Including this area?”
Leo rattled off his days and places of employment, ending with the Acme on Wednesdays and Fridays. Then he added, “Today’s Wednesday, by the way.”
Ignoring him, Nolan asked, “You were with Mr. Hirschfeld all evening, Miss Prescott?”
“I was.”
“The entire evening?”
The casual precision of the question told me I must be both truthful … and careful. Taking hold of Leo’s arm, I said, “I don’t recall losing sight of him.”
It was not, I knew, strictly true. There had been times I was watching other people, unconcerned as to Leo’s whereabouts. The café was half a mile away. Technically, a man could leave, commit murder, and return in little more than half an hour. But Leo had no reason in the world to kill Carrie. He could not change his clothes so quickly. And while my understanding of what people were capable of had changed in the last half hour, I just couldn’t believe him capable of this kind of brutality.
Bill Danvers, on the other hand—I had no knowledge of his whereabouts after nine thirty. Or, for that matter, before then. He had come to the club to speak with Chick Tricker; what news was so important that it allowed him private conversation with such a powerful man? The murder of another wayward working girl connected to the refuge? I took in our surroundings. We were close to where Sadie had been found—once again not far from the refuge. I could see the vast windows of the warehouse, but we were not directly by the slaughterhouse. There was not the same quantity of blood on the pavement; Carrie had been moved. But not hidden. So near the empty warehouse, perhaps the killer did not think it necessary to hide a body in such a deserted area late at night.
There was an ugly rumble, and I was aware of bodies turning, energies rising. My uncle had arrived. He walked slowly, his eyes shifting to take in the gathering. Then they settled on the covered form of Carrie Biel and closed briefly.
“What?” called Mrs. Pickett. “Ashamed to look at your own work?”
Officer Nolan led my uncle a little way down the street. I followed. In a low voice, he said, “Another woman has been murdered. Your niece says she is Carrie Biel.”
“Then I would think it is Carrie Biel.”
“You knew her?”
My uncle broke away from the policeman, approached Carrie’s body. His voice heavy, he said, “Yes, I knew her.”
“Knew her?”
shrieked Mrs. Pickett. “You assaulted her! Murdered her!”
The crowd surged forward, and the junior policeman put his arms out, holding Mrs. Pickett and her followers at bay. But only just.
“Mrs. Pickett says she saw you on the street this evening,” said the officer.
“Well, then that is what she says.”
“She says you spoke with Carrie Biel. That there was an argument.”
“There was no argument.” I thought I heard genuine confusion in my uncle’s tone.
“But you spoke with Miss Biel. What about?”
There was a pause. The silence became a weight on my heart. Tell him, I thought. For God’s sake, just … speak.
My uncle did speak. “Officer, I should like to take my niece inside.”
I was startled to see my uncle reach for me, but Officer Nolan took his arm, saying, “I think it would be better if you came to the station.”
“Why? Because I am less difficult than Mrs. Pickett?”
“Because you admit talking with the dead woman earlier. And we need a full accounting of your whereabouts.”
Both men had raised their voices, speaking loudly enough to be heard by the crowd, which was demanding my uncle be questioned, arrested, and charged. “This poor woman deserves justice,” shouted Mrs. Pickett. “You left him free to roam among us once before, and here you see the outcome. We will not stand it for a second time.”
Officer Nolan took this challenge to his authority no better than he had taken my uncle’s. Barking at his partner to keep order, he started to lead my uncle down the block. The crowd, feeling vindicated, roared its approval.
Leaving Leo, I hurried around to face Officer Nolan. “Where are you taking him?”
“Cells.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that I’m tired of talking in the street at one in the morning and your uncle might be more willing to talk if we went inside.”
“You can’t put him in the cells. You’ve got no reason.”
The patrolman nodded sharply at Carrie’s covered form. “There’s my reason. Come along, Reverend.”
And so to jail we went.
* * *
At the precinct, my uncle was questioned for some time. Then I was allowed to see him. A tired officer held the door open to the room where he was being held. As he did, I realized my first memory of this country was a policeman’s face.
Who is this? Do you know this man?
I could remember it clearly, even though I was only three. I was shown an envelope, the one that was pinned to my dress. A man wearing a blue coat pointed to writing in the corner. It was the swooping curly letters I did not yet know how to read. But the question felt important.
He said it again. “Who is this?”
I shook my head, my way of saying I couldn’t read the words. Another man in a blue coat said, “Come on, Charlie, she can’t read that.”
The first man looked at the envelope. “The Reverend Tewin Prescott. Who is that, sweetheart?”
I knew my name was Prescott. Hope must have shown in my face, because the man asked, “A relative? Your father maybe?”
I shook my head immediately; my father was gone, but I had the strong feeling that if I gave some other man that title, his place would be taken and he would not be able to come back. Names seemed to matter, though, so I said, “I’m Jane.”
“Jane Prescott.” I nodded, and the policeman looked to his partner. “So, he’s family. Have you met this man, Jane? Do you know him?”
Now as I sit opposite my uncle, I remember that night. The questions.
Who is this man? Do I know him?
I said, “Tell me that Berthe will say you were at the refuge all evening. That after you spoke with Carrie, you went back inside and you stayed there.”
“I cannot tell you that.”
“Then you must tell the police where you went.”
“I disagree.”
I realized I was headed into an argument over the nature of coercion. So I switched to “If you do not tell the police where you were, and have someone else who can say that your account is true, it will be dangerous.”
“And how will it be … dangerous?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”
A raised eyebrow told me I was close to the line of propriety. “I am not pretending. I am asking for your definition of the term.”
“It will be dangerous,” I said through gritted teeth, “because if you cannot prove you were not in the alley where poor Sadie was killed or that you were at the refuge when Carrie Biel was killed, people will think it possible that you killed them.”
“That is an absurd thing to think,” he said.
“Of course it is. But people think absurd things all the time. People think electricity is Satan’s fire.”
“And do you need me to point out that we cannot be ruled by absurdities?”
“It is not being ruled to give an account of your whereabouts.”
“It is if I do not wish to do so.”
“And the consequences of refusing? Can you put those off so easily, too?”
I waited, giving him a chance to think of the refuge without him. Of what it would mean to be charged, maybe convicted, in Sadie’s and Carrie’s murders. He was not a man to fuss over physical comforts. But he was not young, and it was cold and damp in the jail. The food was no doubt poor. And the company … rough.
“Will you be safe here?” I asked.
Exhausted, he said, “It’s a jail, Jane.”
I gazed at him; he was not the only one to be exhausted. I felt as if my blood had turned to lead.
On a sigh, I said, “Why won’t you let me help you?”
“There’s no need. They can’t hold me here. They’ve no proof of anything. This is a show to get Mrs. Pickett and her followers off the street.”
“And if they want to keep them off the street, does that mean they keep you here?”
“The patrolman acted hastily. He was tired. He’ll realize it in the morning and let me go.”
“And if he doesn’t realize it? Did you see Carrie this evening, uncle?”
“Yes. She came by and collected Miss Ellis’s things. I congratulated her on her job, and she left.”
“What time did she come?”
“A little after nine, I think.”
I had seen Bill Danvers before nine. Certainly enough time for him to kill Carrie and get back to the club.
“And … the argument?” I said carefully.
“I remember now, Berthe said she should walk quickly and avoid trouble. Miss Biel said something to the effect that she’d already encountered someone troublesome, but she got rid of him easily enough.”
My uncle was not usually so adept at remembering other people’s conversations. But if he was right, Mrs. Pickett had not overheard Carrie fighting with her killer. At least … not when he killed her. Of course, Bill Danvers could have waited until she left the refuge.
“If nothing else, Uncle, don’t you care about who murdered Sadie and Carrie?”
“Of course I do,” he said sharply.
“Well, if the police and the mob decide they have their man, how hard do you think they’ll be looking for the actual killer?”
“That is out of my hands.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to press my uncle to give me permission to do something. Then I realized he would never do that.
And I didn’t need him to.
I stood. “Stay here, then. Go home if they release you. But whether you like it or not, I am not going to let you stand accused of something you didn’t do. You often tell me if behavior pleases or offends you—well, your presence here offends me. That the man who killed Sadie and Carrie is still free offends me. And if thy right eye offend thee.… You’re a clergyman, you know the rest. Good night, Uncle. I hope you can get some sleep.”
* * *
As I was escorted out of the jail, I wondered what time it was
. Much of the city was asleep, but it was a busy time at police headquarters, with officers coming off their shifts exhausted and hollow-eyed as enraged drunks and shouting women were being hustled in. It was not a long walk back to the refuge, but it wouldn’t be a pleasant one. I was wondering if I could call Berthe to come and meet me when I heard Officer Nolan say, “Miss Prescott? Do you have someone to take you home?”
The collar of his uniform was unbuttoned, his gray hair mussed; they kept cots downstairs for patrolmen working the late shift, and I guessed he had been about to retire for the night. I felt a pang of sympathy, then remembered my uncle was now lying on a cot behind bars.
“I’ll be fine, Officer. I imagine the streets are crowded, even at this hour.”
Buttoning his collar, he called, “Frank? Sign me out, I’m taking the young lady home.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I don’t want you to be the third woman killed on my watch, Miss Prescott.”
As I had predicted, the streets were still bustling even at this time of night, and the walk to the refuge from the new police headquarters at Centre Street was a path crowded with people, horses, and their leavings. I held my skirts up and saw that Officer Nolan kept a firm hand on his nightstick. He was not a young man. I wondered if mediocrity or malice from higher up had kept him walking a beat all these years.
“You wouldn’t do this if you thought my uncle was guilty,” I pointed out. “You’d think the killer was behind bars and all was right with the world.”
“Still plenty of trouble on the streets,” he said, refusing to be drawn.
“How much do you know about Chick Tricker, Officer Nolan?”
He glanced at me. “Not as much as I’d like. The man’s got his friends.” From the careful way he spoke, I understood those friends to be his fellow officers.
“But you know he runs several brothels and clubs.”
“Did either of the women who were killed work for him?”
“I don’t know. But they worked in this neighborhood, so it’s not impossible he was taking money from them. Have you ever heard anything about Bill Danvers?”
Death of an American Beauty Page 12