by David Wood
A large screen above the bar showed a sporting event, the nature of which Price didn’t care about. He chose a table halfway down and sat with his back to the screen. It seemed like everywhere had to have a TV hanging up these days, and he hated it. Even a small family restaurant like this, with its wonderful food and careful service, sullied itself with the modern infection. It was the only thing about Riko he disliked.
A young girl came over, smiling broadly. She was full-figured, with thick brown hair and soft, friendly eyes. “Just yourself, sir?” she asked, her accent strong.
“I’m waiting for a friend,” Price said.
“Okay.” She laid two menus on the table and left. A moment later she returned with a bottle of water and two glasses, leaving again without a word. Price appreciated that.
He pulled his phone from his pocket – some modern inventions were useful rather than intrusive – and went over his notes again. Following the dirt Carlo had dug up before, Price had done his own extensive research on both Jake Crowley and Rose Black, but had found frustratingly little to work with. Despite the recent call and photo from Carlo, he knew Rose Black was neither a reporter nor a photographer for the Sentinel. He didn’t need to research to know that, so he had no idea why she had been there with a camera. But he had found her on several social media sites, and Jasmine Richards was friends with her on most of them. So they had a connection that went back some years. And Rose most definitely was employed by the Natural History Museum in London, she was on their website listed as a historian and guide. An incredibly smart woman by the look of things.
Jake Crowley, however, was more of an enigma. He had next to no social media presence as far as Price could discover, and there was precious little information anywhere else online. He was listed as a teacher by his school’s website, so that much was true. Price had even made a surreptitious call to the school asking for him to see what that might turn up, but all they had said was that he was currently on leave and they weren’t sure when he would return. Strange activity for a teacher, Price thought. Rose had mentioned him a great dealt on her own social pages, so there was secondhand information about him there even if she didn’t mention his name, or sometimes only referred to him as J. It was obvious who she meant. She had also posted a few photos, selfies as they were known, a phrase which bothered Price for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. But even those photos were few and far between, and they did nothing to further his knowledge of Crowley.
But one thing had really piqued Price’s interest. From before, Price knew Crowley was ex-Army, but Rose had recently posted a meme about snooping on your partner’s phone, which conveyed its own questionable inferences, but she had added the comment, “When your man is ex-SAS” and included a laughing emoji.
The replies on that post seemed to confirm it wasn’t a joke, and Crowley had indeed been in the SAS “a long time ago.” Price had already discovered that little tidbit about Crowley’s ignominious exit from the Armed Forces, but it hadn’t revealed that he had been in the Special Forces. The SAS, which stood for Special Air Service, was a British Army special forces unit founded in 1941 as a regiment, and later reconstituted as a corps in 1950. Not unlike the American Green Berets, the SAS was responsible for things like covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action, and hostage rescue. Despite a little digging on his part, Price had been frustrated to learn much more. Anything about the actions of the corps was highly classified due to the sensitivity of their operations. Regardless, it added new spice to the other things Price had learned about Crowley’s final weeks in the Army.
Besides that, how long ago could it really have been, given the man was only in his mid-thirties now. So very young. Price needed to chew over these details some more and decide how best to leverage that particular morsel of information. Perhaps he could dig a little during lunch, just scratch the surface in casual conversation and see what came up.
Beyond that, all the information he had about Crowley was rather dull. He enjoyed football, and was a West Ham fan, which was apparently an English soccer team, as the sport was known here. But Price needed to remember Crowley would refer to it as football. That might be another way to lower the man’s defenses, but Price would be quickly out of his depth on that subject. And, again via Rose’s comments, it seemed Crowley was a huge fan of William Golding’s classic novel, Lord of the Flies. The whole exploration of savagery versus civilization explored in that book gave its own insight into Crowley’s nature, if he really was as much of a fan as Rose implied. Precious little, the man was something of an enigma. Price smiled, deciding he would prefer to think of it as a challenge.
Movement in the doorway caught Price’s eye, and he looked up to see Crowley enter. The man paused momentarily at the entrance and scanned the small restaurant, taking in the bar, the kitchen door. His eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced back at the entrance. It all happened in the space of a second or two, but Price recognized the trained eye of someone sizing up a place. Crowley had clearly logged everything about the eatery in that short time and had been perturbed that there was only a single way in and out. Of course, there would be a back door from the kitchen into some dark and fetid alley, and Price didn’t doubt for a moment that Crowley would have considered that too. Such a fleeting moment that revealed so much about the man.
Then Crowley’s eyes met Price’s and he smiled, waved one hand. Price slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket and stood, extended one hand to shake. Crowley’s hand was strong and rough, calloused in ways a schoolteacher’s hands never would be.
“Glad you could make it,” Price said.
“Good choice of place,” Crowley said, sitting opposite. “I haven’t been here before, but I love Peruvian food.”
“Then I think you’ll be coming here again. One of the best in the city, in my opinion. I recommend the seafood stew.”
Crowley nodded, looking over the menu. “That just happens to be a favorite of mine.”
Price smiled. “Maybe you’re all right after all.” It really was amazing the kind of minutiae a person could glean from someone else’s social media. One photo on Rose’s Facebook page of Crowley enjoying seafood, and Price had the man more at ease instantly. Honestly, people these days wore their lives like sandwich boards, no mystery or personal details kept close. And that was with Crowley hardly putting anything online himself. Price wondered if the man knew how much could be learned about him from Rose Black’s almost continuous posting, and whether it might bother Crowley to realize that. Or did he not care? Price thought maybe he would try to find out obliquely, as it could always prove to be another lever at a later date.
The waitress returned, and the two men ordered. After considering the range of craft beers, Crowley picked a Kuka ginger and mango IPA. Price joined him, and they both agreed it was an unusual but quite pleasant variation.
The conversation moved easily and smoothly, though it was plain to Price that both men were sizing each other up. Crowley clearly had concerns for his aunt, and that was entirely understandable, but those concerns might well prove to be a considerable problem as things moved along. A shame, Price thought, as under different circumstances it was entirely likely he would have become good friends with the ex-SAS schoolteacher and his shady past. Perhaps they had more in common than Crowley would be comfortable admitting in polite company.
“So you’re a schoolteacher,” Price said. “That must be a fulfilling profession.”
Crowley nodded as he chewed, swallowed. “For the most part it is. Funding makes the life difficult, those kids deserve more. But I do my best, and it’s always gratifying to see young people grow and develop.”
“Has that always been your desire, to teach?”
“No, it’s something I came to a little later in life.”
Price smiled, angling around to the subject of Crowley’s previous career. “What were you before a teacher?”
A dark look passed over Crowley’s face, then he smiled
. “A soldier. I was in the Army. But I realized after a little while that it didn’t suit me.”
“Didn’t suit? In what way?”
Crowley thought for a moment, lips pursed. “Probably best to say that I discovered I wasn’t so good at blindly following orders. My father was a soldier, and I thought it was in my blood, but I wrong.”
“So you quit?” Price wanted the dirt, but there was no way to ask for it directly. “was that easy?”
Crowley laughed. “Easier than you’d think, in fact, of the conditions are. But all that was a long time ago. I’m a teacher now.”
Silence hung between them, and Crowley was clearly happy to let it end there, his last sentence like a full stop on the subject. Price tried not to let his disappointment or frustration show.
“You visit New York often?” Price asked, to fill the conversational lull.
Crowley swallowed a mouthful of stew and nodded. “As often as I can, but just lately not as often as I’d like. Gertie is getting older, and I feel like I need to stay closer. Partly to make the most of the time she has left, of course, but also to make sure she’s okay.”
There were veiled assertions to that seemingly innocuous statement. “It is a vibrant city,” Price said, to head off more talk of Gertrude.
“Quite the jungle out there,” Crowley agreed.
Price smiled, pleased with another opening he’d been working towards coming around so easily. “That strange juxtaposition between civilization and savagery, eh? It reminds me a lot of Lord of the Flies in many ways.” Crowley looked up, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve often thought,” Price continued, “that the big city and its millions of people is not so different to that small island and its group of British boys.”
Crowley huffed a soft laugh. “You know, that’s one of my all-time favorite books.”
“Is it really? Mine too. I own a first edition in excellent condition, signed by Golding himself.” Purchased earlier that day, though Crowley didn’t need that particular detail. Price considered it $20,000 well spent if all went to plan.
“Seriously? A genuine first edition?”
“Absolutely. 1954, in excellent condition, signed on the title page. It’s housed in a custom clamshell box, but I prefer to display it so I can enjoy its presence in my home. Perhaps you might be interested in seeing it?”
“I most certainly would!” Crowley’s eyes were wide with wonder.
Price smiled, doing his best to remain relaxed and casual. “Well, you’ll have to come to my house. I look forward very much to having you there.” He looked down at his lunch so Crowley wouldn’t spot the triumph in his eyes.
Chapter 9
Rose climbed the steps and entered the gray stone New York Public Library through the center arch of the three that fronted the impressive building. Doric columns and high eaves with intricate carvings of leaves and flowers towered high above her. Inside, the space was capacious, with polished marble floors and a high curved ceiling. Several archways led to various rooms on the first floor, with huge staircases to either side leading to a mezzanine style second floor. More arches, daylight streaming through them, marched around the second level. A carving front and center between the two levels announced that she stood in Astor Hall. On the giant square columns at the start of each staircase, the names of numerous benefactors were carved. Rockefellers and counts and even Astor herself among them.
Rose moved slowly through the huge building, marveling at the age and beauty. It wasn’t old by British historical standards, but as an American institution, it held the weight of history. She tried not to resent Jake and his lunch with Matthew Price. She held her reservations about the man, and wouldn’t change her mind easily about that. She had learned to trust her instincts. Most women she knew trusted their initial reactions to men, even if they might be proven wrong later. She also knew Jake was partly pushing back against her friendship with Jazz, and she could understand that too. An electricity existed between her and the reporter that only a fool would deny. But she had no intention to act on it and perhaps he would only believe that once he saw it to be true. Any promises on her part would fall on deaf ears in the meantime. Perhaps she simply needed to give that time and let Jake see the truth of it. Besides, she could busy herself here while he enjoyed lunch with his aunt’s new beau. Maybe he’d return equally suspicious of Price and his motives after spending time alone with the man. She hoped so. That would achieve far more than Rose trying to convince him of her feelings, with no substance to back them with other than intuition.
She walked through a room with dozens of long desks, lamps with gold metal shades spaced evenly among them, three to a table. Lots of people sat at the desks, reading, researching, some simply enjoying the space, gazing around the huge room. A large wooden door with a convoluted frame stood at the far end. Above it, in gold letters, was the legend:
A good Booke is the pretious life-blood of a mafter fpirit, imbalm’d and treafur’d up on purpofe to a life beyond life.
Rose smiled. Almost deliberately opaque in phrasing, but a fine sentiment nonetheless. She began searching for books to sate her need to know more about what she had seen with Jazz and Jake in Washington Square Park. While the news story would undoubtedly be the fresh bodies, there was a lot more to the place, a long history like so much of New York City. It was built in layers, after all, from its earliest settlement to the modern metropolis. Jazz’s talk of layers had alluded to that, and it intrigued Rose to consider it.
Her research led her to discover a more morbid and macabre history than she ever imagined. In the late 18th and early 19th century, the area that became Washington Square Park was nothing more than a potter’s field, a strangely euphemistic name for a mass grave site for the indigent, poor, criminals, and victims of epidemics. The term had biblical origins, referring to a clay-heavy area of land near Jerusalem that was bought with the thirty pieces of silver returned by a remorseful Judas to the chief priests. Worthless for farming, the land came to be used to bury strangers, and the name of a potter’s field had been used to describe such places ever since.
What would become Washington Square Park was originally a farm, purchased in 1797 by the city for this purpose, and it remained a potter’s field until around 1827 when Washington Square was legally declared a public space. But its history wasn’t only sad, it was cruel. The site was also used as an execution ground, the last execution, that of a slave, took place in 1819, with the slave’s burial taking place in the same field.
During celebrations of the 50th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the place was renamed the Washington Military Parade Ground, and transformed from a burial site to a bucolic green space. But the pleasant park retained its history, the bodies that had been buried there remaining undisturbed. Rose thought that was deliciously macabre. She found excerpts from a guide book called Inside the Apple: A Streetwise History of New York City by Michelle and James Nevius, who wrote that, “While estimates vary, it seems likely that over 20,000 people were buried in the land.... The bulk of the bodies were never disinterred, which means that they remain to this day under the grass and pavement of Washington Square.”
Rose sat back from her research, equally fascinated and appalled. They had been walking over the remains of tens of thousands of people, unawares. Every day, thousands of living people did the same, and no doubt there were many such places in New York City. It really was an ideal place to hide fresher corpses if the perpetrator knew a way to secret them there. Of course, the waterworks in the park had interrupted that carefully laid plan. Those poor city workers must stumble across ancient corpses with some regularity. Of course, this time, the corpses, at least several of them, weren’t ancient. That was something else entirely.
She read on, following the rabbit hole of research into potter’s fields, which led her to learn about Hart Island, an uninhabited strip of land off the coast of the Bronx in Long Island Sound. If Washington Square Park had been macabre, t
his place was positively terrifying in its implications. The city had bought Hart Island in 1868 and used it as a burial ground and a prison for Confederate soldiers. For more than a century, the dead shared the island with living inmates of one kind or another, many of whom were likely to end up in its mass graves themselves. To this day, prison inmates, for 50c a day, bury the unclaimed dead there, stacked in plain coffins shoulder to shoulder like bricks in numbered trenches.
The corpses of the poor, the destitute, those executed by the state, or donated to medical science, and a thousand other sources, all filled trench after trench on Hart Island. New York, like many states, had added dissection to death sentences for murder, arson and even burglary by the early 19th century, circumventing an otherwise illegal practice. The demand for medical cadavers soon outstripped the legal supply of executed felons, and a black market in corpses bloomed. Slave owners “donated” or sold bodies of dead slaves to medical schools and schools in competition with each other smuggled in black bodies stashed in whiskey barrels. Potter’s fields, almshouse cemeteries, and African-American burial grounds were regularly robbed as professors paid top dollar for corpses delivered without questions asked. These corpses would then end up later interred on Hart Island, stacked in the mass graves, forgotten, unrecorded, unlamented. Over more than one hundred and fifty years, in excess of one million people had been buried on Hart Island. That was a staggering number to imagine.