Second Street Station (7 page)

Mary sat on the bench outside Chief Campbell’s office. He was already forty-five minutes late and each passing minute gave her more time to obsess over what she had done. She had always been bold about her knowledge, but this time she had gone too far. Her actions could reflect poorly on Billy and possibly Sean, too. Sean was trying hard to make a career for himself, and the last thing Mary wanted to be was a stumbling block.

When Chief Campbell finally arrived, he entered his office without even looking at Mary. After thirty seconds, he emerged.

“Well, Miss Handley, are you coming in or not?”

Chief Campbell had developed a technique for dealing with people during his twenty-two years on the police force. He found that if he was able to keep them off balance, he usually got an honest reaction. Unnerved, Mary entered his office.

“Do have a seat, Miss Handley,” he said. “We have some important matters to discuss, not the least of which is your unusual behavior on Degraw Street.”

As Mary sat, Chief Campbell walked around his desk to his chair.

“I am sorry if my impetuous actions offended you in any way, Chief Campbell,” Mary blurted out, then continued at breakneck speed about Kate being Goodrich’s fiancée and how her brazen behavior was only intended to help her grieving friend.

Chief Campbell sat back in his chair, unconsciously scratching his neck just under his chin. After many versions of “I’m sorry,” Mary concluded with, “You have my solemn promise I will never interfere ever again.”

Chief Campbell stared at her briefly, then said, “That’s reassuring, yet also unfortunate.” Mary was confused. “I had hoped, Miss Handley, you would help us find Charles Goodrich’s murderer.”

Chief Campbell’s technique worked. Mary was beyond off balance. She was absolutely stunned…and totally delighted.

Chief Campbell was late for his meeting with Mary because he had been forced to take a detour that would change everything. He had been summoned to police headquarters by his bosses, Police Commissioners James Jourdan and Daniel Briggs.

Jourdan sat behind his large desk. A natty dresser in his fifties, he was tall and thin with a thick crop of brown hair. He smelled of too much cologne and sported the mustache of a dandy. Jourdan was hardly that; it was more wishful thinking on his part than anything else. Briggs was in his late forties and Jourdan’s polar opposite. He was average height, balding, and heavyset with a pronounced double chin. Though he wore an expensive suit, there was always something amiss: a stain on his tie, a cigar burn, etc. Briggs was forever puffing on a cigar and would bark his displeasure if the minutest detail didn’t go his way.

Briggs stood behind Jourdan, occasionally glancing out the window at the female protesters in front of their building. He grunted his disapproval of their chants, their signs, and their mere presence. Being more political, Jourdan kept his views to himself. However, he had been under pressure from both above and below him and thought this latest directive from the very top might get everyone off his back.

“We would like you to hire a woman to spearhead the Goodrich murder
investigation,”
Jourdan said, clasping his hands on his desk. “As soon as possible.”

“A woman?” Chief Campbell said, as if making sure he had heard Jourdan correctly.

“As a separate private investigator, of course,” Jourdan hastily added, “not as part of the force. We definitely don’t want to set that precedent.”

“Absolutely not,” Briggs chimed in.

“Did Goodrich’s brother make this request?” Chief Campbell responded. “We already had to halt everything at the murder scene until he arrived. I realize he’s—”

“Alderman Goodrich had absolutely nothing to do with it,” Jourdan assured him. “This comes straight from Chapin.” He was referring to the mayor of Brooklyn, Alfred C. Chapin. Jourdan then nodded ever so slightly toward the window behind him. “The women’s groups have been stirring up trouble. Apparently, some of them have friends in high places, and the mayor feels we need to placate them.”

“They belong in the kitchen and the bedroom and no place else, damn it!” said the ever-combustible Briggs, capping it off by spitting out a piece of his cigar.

“I can’t put an inexperienced female on a murder case. She’s bound to falter.”

Briggs put his two hands on Jourdan’s desk and leaned forward. “That would be awful, a real crying shame.”

“Naturally, you will give us progress reports on her activities, and we’ll be conducting our own investigation while the press follows her,” Jourdan continued, any attempt at subtlety already foregone by Briggs.

After pausing to consider his alternatives and finding none, Chief Campbell said, “I understand, gentlemen. I’ll find someone.”

Further discussion would be useless. Chief Campbell knew an order when he heard one. He stood, they all shook hands, and he left.

Briggs could no longer contain himself. “I hope this works. Any day I expect to see Campbell’s goddamn name on my door.”

His fear wasn’t misplaced. Chief Campbell’s reputation as a very competent detective was growing every day.

“Not after this,” Jourdan calmly replied. “Trust me. Chapin has done us a favor.” He smiled mischievously. “Definitely not after this.”

It didn’t take much thought for Chief Campbell to realize the commissioners were using Mayor Chapin’s request to set him up. Subtlety was definitely not their strong suit. What they didn’t know was that Chief Campbell had no desire to have either of their jobs. He liked being out in the field and didn’t want to be trapped behind a desk. But he doubted they would believe him even if he told them so. They wouldn’t be able to fathom not wanting a promotion.

Chief Campbell had to obey orders, and he’d been pondering how he could do so in the least damaging way. Mary Handley appeared to be bright and observant, and had apparently studied criminology. The coroner had confirmed her assessment of the crime and even found three books in the garbage with a bullet hole through two of them and a bullet in the third. That exhibited a reasonable level of competence, certainly more than had been displayed by that fool Russell. He was annoyed that she had hustled her way into the crime scene and had planned to reprimand her accordingly, but that kind of
resourcefulness
could also be a plus. The way he reasoned, in the short time he had, he could do worse.

“In addition to the fifteen-hundred-dollar reward the department is offering for catching the culprit, how does seven dollars a week sound?” he asked Mary, part of him hoping she’d walk out the door.

“To an unemployed sweatshop worker?”

Chief Campbell found himself liking Mary. He admired her spirit, her sense of humor, and unlike some men, he admired women with brains. His wife was always a step ahead of him, and that suited him just fine. He couldn’t tell her that her job was to be a dupe, but he could at least stress certain dangers that would be involved.

“I wouldn’t take this lightly, Mary.”

“Chief, one thing I’ve always been able to count on is my mind. When I’m put on an even playing field, I can compete with anyone.”

“There will be nothing even here. You will be a woman in a sea of men working on a high-profile murder case. As far as I can recall, it’s never been done before in Brooklyn, New York City, or any place in these United States. The press will be relentless, and your life will be fraught with danger. You’ll have enemies everywhere, within the department, too, all the way to the top.”

That was as far as he could go without revealing the commissioners’ plan. But none of it mattered to Mary. This was her opportunity to fulfill her dream. All that was going through her mind was the saying she had seen on Wei Chung’s charm years before.

Ji qing ru yi,
she thought.
May your happiness be according to your wishes.
Holding her head up, Mary looked Chief Campbell directly in the eye and smiled.

“I’m used to adversity, Chief. I’m a woman.”

He had done his part in trying to dissuade her and had failed. Chief Campbell hoped this experience wouldn’t destroy her, but more important, he hoped it wouldn’t kill her.

It was late morning when the Bowler Hat arrived at the Zuckerman farm after camping out the previous night. He had spent hours the day before searching Pithole and the surrounding area for his horse and buggy. As he plodded along, chastising himself for not preventing the gunfire that spooked his horse, he was reminded of an incident that had occurred during his boyhood in the Cuyahoga Valley of Ohio. His parents had a farm. While his father was plowing the field one day, a rattlesnake spooked his horses and they took off, trampling and killing the family dog, a collie. The Bowler Hat’s parents and five siblings were distraught, and he thought the crying and wailing would never stop. The Bowler Hat was ten, and it was the first time he had realized he was different. He felt nothing, nothing except an overwhelming sense that his family was weak and that he was strong. His mother noticed, and she gave him a good whipping, calling him “an unfeeling godless child.” He never broke; he never cried. That’s when he realized he had a special skill.

He pulled his horse and buggy up to the farmhouse and stopped as Albert Zuckerman came out to see what he wanted. When the Bowler Hat first laid eyes on him, he found it hard to believe Zuckerman was Jewish. Six feet tall, muscular, with blond hair and blue eyes, he was Romanian with an accent to match.

He could easily pass for one of us,
the Bowler Hat thought.

Any doubts he had were erased when, after having convinced Zuckerman he had a friendly business proposition, they entered his farmhouse. On the doorway was one of those Jewish decorations. Zuckerman saw the Bowler Hat stare at it.

“It’s a mezuzah,” he explained as he kissed his hand, then touched it. “It ensures that God will watch over our home no matter where we are.”

The Bowler Hat smiled. Zuckerman would soon discover that God was nowhere to be found. Hell had come to pay him a visit.

An hour later, Zuckerman was tied to a chair. He had a broken cheekbone, a smashed nose, and two cracked ribs, but he still refused to sign over his land.

“Take our offer. You’re going to, eventually,” the Bowler Hat reasoned. “You might as well do it while you still have some semblance of a face left.”

“Go to hell!” screamed Zuckerman as he spit blood in the Bowler Hat’s face.

The Bowler Hat reacted swiftly with a fist to Zuckerman’s cracked ribs. Zuckerman cried out in pain, but he wasn’t budging. He looked up defiantly.

With each blow, the Bowler Hat’s admiration for Zuckerman grew. He was becoming weary from hitting him, and the place in his arm where he had been shot was starting to throb. Yet the Jew was still full of fight. At this pace, he might kill him before he signed over his land. That would be messy, and the Oil Trust didn’t like messy.

There was a chance of a surprise with every job; some were unfortunate, some fortuitous. What happened next he could only describe as serendipitous.

A horse and wagon could be heard approaching. Seemingly out of the blue, Zuckerman got anxious. It was the first time he showed any concern at all.

“Firn avek!”
he shouted in Yiddish.
“Firn avek!”

The Bowler Hat was fluent in many languages. Yiddish was not one of them, but he didn’t need a linguist to realize it was a warning. He stuffed his handkerchief in Zuckerman’s mouth and forced it closed with his hands so he wouldn’t make a sound.

Amelia Zuckerman was an exotic-looking beauty with a lithe, supple body. She was returning from a trip to Titusville, where she had bought food and supplies for the next few weeks. She was excited that the dress she had ordered from Philadelphia had arrived. She and Albert liked to dress for dinner once a week. It was their way of keeping some semblance of civilization in a place where there was none.

“Albert, come help me unload the—” Amelia stopped after entering and seeing her husband. “Albert!” she screamed in shock.

The Bowler Hat had never seen such a beautiful Jewess. At that moment, he knew exactly what to do. He punched Zuckerman in the face as hard as he could. Zuckerman’s last conscious moment was filled with his wife’s horrified scream.

Later, Zuckerman awoke to cold water being splashed in his face. It was a jolt, but it meant he was alive. He soon realized he was still tied to the chair and had been moved to his bedroom. Zuckerman turned his head, then froze, petrified by what he saw. Amelia was totally nude, her hands and feet tied to the four corners of their bed. The Bowler Hat stood next to the bed wearing only his undershorts.

“Welcome back,” the Bowler Hat said, grinning tauntingly.

“Amelia!”

“Amelia. So that’s her name. Thank you for the introduction. It will make what we’re about to do more personal.” He pulled down his undershorts.

“Albert!” Amelia screamed, her anguish tearing at her husband.

“Leave her alone! Leave her alone, goddamn you, or…”

“Or you’ll what?”

The Bowler Hat climbed on top of Amelia as Zuckerman struggled to get loose.

“You bastard!” Zuckerman yelled at the top of his lungs, but his anger soon turned to desperation. “Please, leave her alone,” he pleaded. “I’ll sign whatever you want. Just leave her alone.” Then Zuckerman started crying. Not just crying, sobbing.

The Bowler Hat smiled. His job was done. He just needed to get the bill of sale signed, then leave. He was a businessman, and this was all about business.

As he started to get up, the Bowler Hat caught a glimpse of Amelia. She looked at Zuckerman with such sympathy, such compassion, such love, that he was overcome with a desire to teach her a lesson. It was almost involuntary when he entered her. Zuckerman’s sobbing and Amelia’s struggling only excited him more. In no time, he was finished.

Riding away in his horse and buggy, the signed bill of sale in his breast pocket, the Bowler Hat reflected on what had just transpired. He had left the Zuckermans huddled on the floor together, both crying
uncontrollably.
It disgusted him. The Jew was tough; he’d give him that. But in the end he broke. Most men did. It was just a matter of finding their weak spot. The Bowler Hat was confident he didn’t have one, though he was a little concerned about his transgression. Discipline was a way of life for him. Work demanded he be in total control. In this instance, he hadn’t been. Again, he questioned himself. Was he slipping? Again, he immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous and categorized what happened as no more than a perk of the job.

As he spotted Titusville in the distance, his mind wandered on to other matters, and he headed into town, hoping his train would be on time.