City of the Absent (17 page)

“Good riddance, I say. That fair took the life of Mayor Harrison, and how many others?”

“It's not the fair that killed anyone, not even progress or science or industry, you big oaf. It's like blaming our woes
on God. God doesn't build shabby houses that burn or crumble under the wind, and God does not tell us to stand on a precipice and fall. We humans do a fine job of getting ourselves killed without God's interference one way or the other.”

“Jane…I want to come back to you…back to your bed.”

She said nothing.

“Tonight…now. I need you.”

“Well…I don't need you. I don't need
any
man!”

“Alastair!” It was O'Malley below them in the alley entrance off the fire escape. “I've found something!”

“What have you, Mike?”

“A pair of spectacles, broken and bloodstained, I think.”

“Did Dodge wear glasses?” asked Ransom of his son.

“For reading in bed at night, yes.”

Again Mike shouted from the street. “And a book, Ransom, a holy book.”

“Bible?”

“No but close enough.”

“God hadn't a hand in it, heh?” Ransom quietly said to Tewes.

Little else remained to be done at the Dodge
home, and while the man's son had become increasingly on edge and apparently guilt-ridden over what had happened, Ransom felt a need to flee and to take Tewes with him. With Nathan escorting Killough home, with Mike O'Malley taking what little evidence they had to lock up, and with Philo long gone to develop the photographs, Alastair escorted Jane Francis to street level, to peer down the alleyway where Mike had discovered pieces of the puzzle.

“A sure place for a waiting wagon or other transport,” said Jane, speaking in her own voice and dropping Tewes's.

“I'm thinking it's the same creeps who got Nell, the ghouls.”

“Only this time they had the privacy and time to get the whole body and not piecemeal.”

“There're still other possibilities. You heard the son. The man had angered a lot of people. It could be a simple matter of murder.”

“Nothing about murder strikes me as simple,” Jane said.

“Straightforward, then. Poor choice of words. I meant mundane, usual, typical murder coming out of a typical motive like love, hate, vengeance, money, greed, food.”

“Ahhh
…look for the white elephant or pink alligator, you mean?”

“At least rule out the usual and obvious first.”

“Or jump on it and foolishly ignore the unusual? Isn't that how you've cracked your most bizarre and satanic crimes? The weird and unthinkable gets ignored until enough bodies are racked up that—”

“OK…I take your meaning.”

“Besides, Alastair, how many simple murders have you investigated where the body is disposed of?”

“A few. True, not many, but some.”

“Mafioso
hits most likely.”

“They know how to cover their tracks, yes.”

“Apparently you do, too.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“This city ought to erect a statue to you!”

He laughed at this. “Not enough brass.”

They'd begun to stroll toward her house below the gaslights of Belmont. “But Alastair, the old man had no dealing with the Italian gangs.”

“Anyone can hire an Italian assassin.”

“All the same, Alastair, just last night on my way home…”

“Yes? Go on.”

“Take me to Muldoon's. Buy me a pint of ale,” she countered.

“If it'll help, sure.”

They walked to Muldoon's instead of Jane going home. For a moment outside the tavern, under the dull light of lamps, the last line of this day's horizon blinked and died forever. They'd been in and around Dodge's home for over an hour and a half, a long time to stand over a bloodstain.

 

Over red ale, Jane told Alastair of the strange pair she'd seen standing on the street outside Dodge's home the night before. “And I had such an odd, inexplicable feeling come over me.”

“An odd feeling? Really.”

“Don't mock!”

“You know very well I can't arrest and interrogate two men on a feeling.”

“The hell you say! You do it all the time!”

“On my cop's sense, yes, but not on a feeling you or Dr. Tewes might have.”

“Where is the difference?”

“Experience, know-how, instinct.”

“I tell you, these two did not
belong
on that street. I tell you, they were up to no good.”

“But you never saw them before?”

“Never,” she lied now, thinking he'd get no more from her with his attitude of superiority.

“Do you think you might recognize them if you encountered them again?”

“I do.”

“Then come down to the Des Plaines station house.”

“What for?”

“To examine our rogues gallery of rats that've taken up residence here.”

“Photos?”

“Yes.”

“It could be a waste of time if you don't have them in your books.”

“Yes, but on the other hand, you might be surprised.”

“I'll try to get around.”

“Don't try. Do it.”

“All right, sometime soon.”

“Yes, soon.”

They drank a second round, and he walked her back to her place, where, standing on the porch, he said good night while hoping she'd invite him in, but she failed to do so; still stinging from their previous disagreement over Samuel, he imagined.

 

When Ransom rounded his block, having decided to walk from Jane's to his residence, a goodly distance and a brisk exercise, he saw a man in shadow up ahead. Shadows along
Kingsbury Street fell into the category of black holes, and when the figure stepped in and out of each cut of light made by the lamppost, Ransom made out a lanky, sinewy, tall man with bones for a frame: Hake.

Although Alastair had hoped to see Frederick Hake, and by all rights ought to've expected him, he felt such an uneasiness with the entire Pinkerton organization by now that it still came as a surprise to find Hake at his doorstep.
Just how closely am I being watched?
he wondered.

Did Hake come bearing information or a wild-hair notion to get back at him? Was he a courier of news that might help, or had he come with a knife or a gun in hand?

Ransom immediately let the dangerous, nervous fellow know that he'd seen him at a distance, calling out his name, “Hake! Is it you there? Step out where I can see you, man! And show me your hands are empty!”

Ransom had already torn his .38 from its sheath—a shoulder holster beneath his coat. Hake hesitated only a moment before stepping back out into the light.

“We need to agree not to use my name,” he said, coming closer. “Don't want nobody to know I'm working for you, do you?”

“Probably a good plan. So how shall I refer to you?”

“Ohhh…dunno…have always fancied the name Reginald, though.”

“So it is, Reginald. What've you got for me?”

“I dared not carry it with me, but I know you'll want to pay well for it.”

“What is it?”

“It is a dossier.”

“Nell's notes?”

“Forget about Nell's notes. She kept no notes, and if you ever see Nell's notes, know that they're phony.”

“Well then, what is this dossier?”

“It's on you.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am indeed. They're building a case for your having
murdered that fellow you suspected of being the Phantom of the Fair.”

“Suspected? Has there been a single garroting murder since the bloody suspect disappeared?”

“You needn't convince me of it.”

“A jury'd laugh 'em outta the courtroom. Don't know a Chicago judge who'd entertain the notion either.”

“That might change if they get to someone, someone talks…least that's what Kohler has Pinkerton chipping away at—your friends, so-called.”

“How'd you come by the file?”

“How do you imagine?”

“I imagine Pinkerton hired you in the first place because of your felicity with locks and your history as a second-story man.”

“I've given up burglary, Inspector, except as a means to an end, as in this end, to work for you.”

“Be sure then that you keep your nose clean. Look here, when Pinkerton learns this file on me has been stolen, he's likely to become a bit upset. Make yourself scarce for a while but not before you place the dossier in my hands.”

“I'll need some travelin' funds. Wouldn't mind going to see my sister in Cincy.”

“I didn't know you had a sister.”

“Everybody needs one.”

Ransom doled out twenty dollars to Hake. “When can you get it to me?”

“Twenty won't get me far.”

“You'll have twenty more when you turn over this so-called file.”

“Ahhh
…it's a careful man you are, Inspector. Good. I am a careful man as well.”

“The file?”

Hake looked about, as if expecting to be shot at any moment. “Caught a fellow following me earlier. Could be a Pinkerton operative…”

“Or the man you owe money to?”

“Or him, yeah…”

“Get the file to me.”

“I'll come 'round three in the morning. Have that twenty ready.”

“Knock three times on my window,” suggested Ransom. “So I know it is you and not someone else.”

“Window?”

“Back of the place, my sleeping quarters.”

“See you then.”

“Don't come back empty-handed, Hake.”

“You have me word.”

Hake slipped back from sight into the deep cut blackness of an alleyway as sure-footed as one of the cat-sized river rats Ransom had often seen along the wharves. He could not help but wonder if this man was not working both sides, accepting payment from Pinkerton as well as him. He had no doubt that Hake had ransomed his soul more than once. Three a.m. was a time of dark consequences.
What was it Twain said of the hour? That we are all a little crazy at three in the morning.

Ransom knew he must expect a setup and a possible attack either from Hake or others.

Jane Francis Tewes could not sit still, her mind
racing with questions swirling about her ears, questions about the two men she'd seen outside old Dodge's place two nights before, and now Dodge was missing, blood spatters discoloring the rug beside the old man's bed. Something untoward had happened, and it appeared his place had been ransacked for jewels, money, bonds, and keepsakes. The intruder or intruders had gotten away with it during the night, and Jane could not get those two faces out of her head. She instinctively knew that these “associates” of Shanks and Gwinn had had something, if not all, to do with her missing neighbor and items from that house.

For this reason, she went slumming as Dr. Tewes. She'd grown to like red ale, and it had become Dr. James Tewes's favorite libation. She had gone first to Cook County Hospital, certain she must do this on her own and tell no one, not Dr. Fenger, and certainly not Alastair. Either or both would put an immediate stop to her plan.

It was a simple plan: closely watch the off-duty activities of Shanks and Gwinn. See if they might lead her to the strange pair she'd spied from the coach the other night. Her reasoning was neither heroic nor intelligent, she knew. Her
motivation was, in fact, money. Everyone had heard what Alderman Killough said about remuneration to those who solved his father's murder and who determined where his body might be. Why shouldn't Dr. Tewes benefit from this situation? She could certainly use the money toward Gabby's education, and perhaps with some left over for another donation to Hull House, her pet charity.

And so she went down to Cook County the following late afternoon, not to watch Dr. Fenger operate, and not to learn her craft, but to tail Shanks and Gwinn, and to hope that their paths would again cross those of the strange couple whom she feared had killed Dodge not so much for his money or material things, but for his body and organs, his head and brain.

She timed it well, getting to County just as Shanks and Gwinn stepped off duty. The two had gotten paid, and just as she suspected, they went on a spending and drinking binge. She tried to keep up without their noticing.

It turned into a whirlwind of travel across Chicago's underbelly and through Chicago's darkest holes, from Hair Trigger Block to Chinatown; however, despite her tenacity, Jane did not once encounter the odd pair she sought.

Meanwhile, with each ale that Dr. James Phineas Tewes consumed, Jane Francis Tewes felt an increasing personal and bodily risk, finding herself balking at the bawdy house where Shanks and Gwinn ended up. She'd had to struggle the harder as the evening wore on to set aside that portion of her brain sending an insistent code to herself that screamed:
not another alcoholic drink!

 

Three
A.M
. came and went, the clock ticking on to 3:05…and Ransom dozing…then three-ten and Ransom opening one eye to see…then three-fifteen, at which time both eyes shot open wide as the doorbell rang. The thing sounded like a two-alarm at the firehouse.

In his nightshirt, gun in hand, Ransom inched toward the door, fully expecting that Nathan Kohler and Pinkerton, hav
ing decided that collecting dirt on him had proved a slow process with few results, had devised an assassination plot instead, using Hake as their decoy.

As he came within inches of the curtained doorway, he saw the silhouette in shadow not of a tall, lanky Hake but of a small boy.

The boy snitch, Samuel, rang his bell again. For half a second Ransom wondered if the men aligned against him had gotten the boy to come in on their side and were using him. Samuel's disheveled and even beaten appearance might attest to this onerous suspicion. Were they using the boy? Would Ransom feel the scorching fire of a bullet ripping through him the moment he opened the door to Samuel? But Sam had grit, and he honored his friendships. It didn't fit.

Ransom tore open the door in a show of defiance to the blackness all round. “Samuel? You alone? It's after three in the morning.”

“I need your…your help,” the boy weakly said.

The boy had been beaten, his clothes strewn about him as if he'd hastily dressed, there were blood spatters here and there, and his nose was caked with dried blood. Through the curtain, Alaistair'd had an inkling of the boy's distress, still, he was stunned to see just how shaken and beaten was this boy standing on his doorstep.

“What's happened to you, son?”

“I—I—I—
ahhh
…”

Looking about for any movement in and around the street, Ransom hustled Sam inside his dark home, which to the boy, he knew, must look like a cave dwelling built into a mountainside. It was a first floor flat, a rental, but Ransom had made it his own, surrounding himself with leather, wood, and books. “Sam…what're you doing here, and what's happened?” he repeated to the silent little fellow.

“I got beat good.”

“I can see that much! Well, we'll get you fixed up!” He had been dozing when Sam rang his bell, but the sight of the boy cleared his head. Half listening still for Hake's three knocks at his window, which likely were not coming, Ran
som imagined two things: One, he was out twenty dollars for nothing, and two, his young snitch had gotten into a street fight he'd lost.

“He beat me good this time, but I got 'im back, I did.”

“Sam, who did this?”

“Father.”

“Father? You told me you had no family.”

“He's not any father of mine! Not—Not no more.”

“And what's his name?” Ransom worked to gather warm water, soap, and a hot washcloth. He was soon cleaning the boy's wounds as he spoke—wounds that ranged from red welts, blue bruising, a black eye, and a missing front tooth, along with a nasty red choker. “Where's he live? Where can I find him?” He began pacing before Samuel. “Where can I find him?” repeated Ransom, agitated, moving about the darkness like a cave-dwelling creature. He grumbled while looking for his clothes, shoes, and cane, and he realized only now that Sam was reluctant to say any more. “Sam, at the very least, this creep needs a good talking to!”

“You'll kill him.”

“No, I won't kill him. Where's he live?”

“St. Peter's.”

Ransom froze. “The church? My church?” While Alastair had not been inside St. Peter's since he was Sam's age, he still considered it his church. He'd been a choirboy before he tired of the pomp and circumstance.

“He's a—a—a priest at the church,” stuttered Sam, “a-a-and he's a bad man.”

“Why…why would he beat you, Sam?”

“He thought he could do to me what he's done to Tommie, Jonas, and some other boys.”

“Done what? Tell me!”

“He wanted me…that is…wanted me—”

“Spit it out, Sam, like a man!”

“But I ain't no man!” he cried out.

Ransom pulled the boy into him, hugging him. “Whatever it is, we can deal with it together then, Sam…Sam?”

“The bastard…he wanted to put his…his thing in my mouth. At first, he just wanted to rub it against me, then for me to hold it, and next…well.”

“I get the picture, Sam, and you're right, this priest is a bastard.”

“Tol' 'im I'd be damned in Hell before I would!”

“That how he put it to you? That your everlasting soul was at stake?”

“Said…said it was a good, holy act I'd be doing.”

“Sin-ofabitch! Sin-ofabitch!”

“Said it was a sign of good penance to do anything—
anything
—to make a priest's hard life better.”

“Said that, did he?”

“Said a boy's gotta do whatever a priest tells 'im, he says.”

“Bastard.”

“I put up a fight.”

“Good for you, Sam!”

“Hit him with a big cross.”

“Really?” Ransom lightly laughed.

“Pulled it off his wall and smacked 'im good! Bloodied his head, I did.”

“Good, Sam.”

“Bloodied his head with it, I did,” Sam repeated, relishing the moment.

“Hold on! He had you in his private quarters?”

“That's where he's done other boys; that's where he gets ya.”

“Calls himself a priest,” muttered Ransom. “Look, why were you there to begin with?”

“Not for what he wanted! They give us boys free soup and bread.”

“No such thing as a free lunch, Sam. You'll learn that in time.”

“It was for acting as a choirboy, he told me.”

“Choirboy, huh? That's what he called it? Acting as a choirboy?”

“He never said a bad word ever.”

Euphemisms,
Ransom thought.
The degenerate wraps himself in religious euphemisms.
“Father Frank, isn't it?”

“Yeah…how'd you know? Oh, yeah, you're a detective. Think I wanna be an inspector some day, sir. Father Frank. What'll you do to him, sir?”

“What do you think I oughta do, Sam? Say the word.”

“I couldn't say, sir. I guess…whatever comes to you, I s'pose.”

“Good, I'm glad we can agree on that.”

Ransom gave the boy a towel, a huge new bar of Nelson's fragrant soap, and Eddy's shampoo, and pointed out the indoor shower, but Sam stood gaping, not knowing how to work the controls, having never seen indoor plumbing before. So Alastair demonstrated, turning on the shower and flushing the toilet. Both actions made the battered boy gleefully laugh, and this reaction hurt his injured eye and cheek where the man of God had hit him. Ransom then left Sam to his privacy.

Soon, when Sam came out of his shower wrapped in the towel, Ransom saw his face for the first time without any smudges or grime. He hadn't any idea how handsome the little fellow was until that moment.

Outrage over what'd happened to “his boy” sent a red cloud of anger coursing through Alastair's head, and he feared one of his major headaches might follow. The red he could feel, even smell, where it sat behind his eyes, smoldering like a fiery dye racing through his brain, but he struggled to remain calm for the boy's sake. “Bet you're hungry,” he said, as he thought:
How could some sick priest—an adult sworn to the work of the Lord—take advantage of so innocent a face or person?

“I truly am starved,” replied Sam, seemingly unaware of the battle raging within Ransom. “But I don't expect no charity. I'll work it off. I'll find word on that murdered Pinkerton agent lady for you.”

“Good man, Sam.”

Ransom went about feeding the boy bread and a leftover
stew. The whole while, his mind turned over the event that had chased Samuel to him. In fact, molesting a child sexually was the one crime he had terrible difficulty understanding. He could not fathom it. While he could place himself into the shoes of a desperate man who breaks and enters, a thief who robs at gunpoint, a train robber, bank robber, a murderer even, he simply could not do the same with what Dr. Fenger called the “lowest form of life, below that of the grave robber, the man who robbed a child of his or her innocence.” Nor a mother or father who kills their own off-spring, or raises their children as criminal vermin or murderers. Often out of a deep evil seed embedded in some undiscovered island of the human mind. And too often, these child molesters and child killers were found in the end hugging a Bible or other religious tract, like Father Frank Jurgen.

Fenger had hinted that Shanks and Gwinn had both been raised in a horrible manner and were abused as children years before they found one another and gained some modicum of love from one another. Ransom had joked at the notion, saying, “I guess even toads can feel love in some perverted form.”

Fenger had lost his temper with him, shouting, “The two take care of one another, watch one another's backs, give one another moral support and love, Rance, perhaps something you can't understand. Most married couples don't do near that much for one another these days!” It was Christian's final word on why he'd gone so far out of his way to help the two reformed resurrection men.

Samuel ate heartily and the stew disappeared in huge gulps, as though it were some exotic food he'd never before tasted. “Minds me of rabbit stew my mum made when I was a little kid,” the nine-year-old finally said, mopping up the last vestige of stew with his bread.

Ransom asked, “Whatever became of your ma and your da, Sam?” His mind kept rolling over the notion of this damnable priest blackening the good name of the church he still thought of as his. The man disgraced his robes over a driving
need to demonstrate complete domination over a weaker person—not unlike an animal in a cage that must dominate all the others sharing that space. Ransom could find some thimble full of understanding for all the deviants and perverts he'd known, but not for the man who crossed the sexual line with a child. Try as he might, he could never get a reasonable explanation out of such a man, and he could not, as a result, understand the mental chaos, the sexual confusion, or the demoralized heart. Ransom simply could not fathom a being who could ruin a child for a handful of euphoria. It was all just so disgusting for him to contemplate that even attempting to understand it proved painful.

His final conclusion was one any farmer would do with a perverted animal on the farm—
castration
. Then throw such perverts into prisons and asylums without their jewels, and by all means keep them away from children. One such fiend had told Ransom during an interrogation that “a child has no idea whatsoever the
power
it holds over me, Inspector.”

“Power over you? A child?”

“The child…how it attracts me…like a childhood memory of a place I love.”

“You mean a child attracts you like a moth to flame?” Ransom had asked the degenerate.

“Yes, although the flame has no intention of harming the moth, and you got it backwards, Inspector.”