The Styx (40 page)
The judge was now staring at the sheriff, his glare itself daring the man to stand again and refute Faustus’ words.
“And thirdly, your honor, I have personally obtained a confession by the actual killer of the victim, who, to my face and in her own words, admitted that she shot said victim in the throat after confronting him over a blackmail attempt, she being the wife of a well-regarded Palm Beach banker who was a frequent patron of my client’s, uh, services, sir.”
Despite the explosive nature of the statements, the judge remained stoic, more thoughtful than was comfortable for either Faustus or the sheriff. But behind him, Faustus could hear the frantic scratching of a pen on paper and imagined the excitement that a journalist such as Mr. Cryer must be feeling.
“What say you, Mr. Conlon?” the judge finally said.
“Bullshit!” the sheriff bawled, yet he remained in his seat.
“I, I, I don’t know, your honor,” Conlon babbled. “I was just recently, your honor, apprised of the…”
“I see,” said the judge, cutting the man off. “Although I do not doubt Mr. Faustus’ abilities to medically assess a true bullet wound when he sees one, it should not be too difficult to find a coroner of ability and state sanction to confirm the manner of death of Mr. Bingham.”
“Already buried,” grunted the sheriff.
“Under whose authority?” said the judge.
“Seven day rule, your honor,” replied the sheriff. “It’s a city ordinance. A hedge against disease when we can’t find next of kin.”
“Another statement that is patently false, your honor,” interrupted Faustus. “An associate of mine, a Pinkerton by standing, has secured the body of the victim despite attempts made last night by some unfashionably late and previously unemployed grave diggers to carry out orders to remove said body from Mr. Maltby’s funeral parlor.”
Despite himself, Sheriff Cox twisted his head to take in the visages of his deputies sitting in the back row of chairs. They in turn looked at one another, stupidly shrugging their shoulders.
“And your honor, said Pinkerton is in fact the true brother of the deceased, whose real name is Daniel Byrne,” Faustus said, again in a clear and unemotional statement. “Being the only surviving relative of the deceased, Mr. Michael Byrne is outside at this moment, and he has rightfully claimed his brother’s body. He will submit to an independent autopsy.”
This time Sheriff Cox stood, staring at Faustus, his mouth open, a look of complete astonishment pulling down at the flesh of his face. “Pinkerton,” he whispered.
Judge Born scratched a note for himself and again took a few moments. The temperature in the room was rising rapidly. The judge took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his brow. Almost as if he’d given permission, the sheriff followed in form.
“Right.” The judge turned to Faustus. “And as to this confession, counselor, may I assume that you do not have said confession as a signed document or are you going to surprise us all even more?”
“No, your honor. Following the conversation with the suspect, I was dismissed from the room where the admission of guilt was made. And I believe, sir, that perhaps a statewide prosecutor may need to be empowered to delve into the matter as said suspect is an out-of-state resident.”
“If I may ask a basic question, Mr. Faustus, in view of such incredible statements that you have made before this court. Have you any witnesses, sir, to vouch for your client at the time of Mr. Bingham’s, uh, Byrne’s demise?”
“At this point, your honor, I do not. As it stands, the only witness, a seasonal maid at the hotel and a friend of my client, has also been murdered. And I have reason to believe she was killed by the same hand that took the victim’s life in this case.”
Carver, who until that point seemed not to have listening, looked up at Faustus and pleaded with a single cry: “Abby?”
The room had gone silent but for the frantic scratching of the newspaper editor’s pencil.
“By God, man, I must say you strain your own credibility with such statements, Mr. Faustus,” said the judge. “Are you aware of this occurrence, Sheriff Cox?”
Cox was staring straight ahead, gathering himself, or perhaps simply burning.
“We were informed of an accidental death at the hotel this morning, your honor,” the sheriff said with an emphasis on the word accidental. “I sent the coroner, uh, acting coroner, to retrieve the body, yes sir.”
“And in the interest of the sheriff’s upcoming investigation of said death,” the judge said, looking from one man to the other. “Would you be willing, Mr. Faustus, to aid in that inquiry with whatever knowledge you have of the situation?”
“Quite simply, your honor, the deceased, Miss Abigail Morrisette, was a co-conspirator with my client in the blackmailing scheme. After the aggrieved woman confronted and killed Mr. Bingham, she discovered that her maid was involved, and in an attempt to silence her, pushed her down an elevator shaft.
“If the sheriff would inspect the suspect woman this day I believe he will find a set of scratch marks on the left side of her neck. If he takes traces of the skin matter from under the murdered woman’s fingernails, he will find a similar match of skin and face powder consistent with the suspected woman’s wounds. There seemed to be a bit of a cat fight, your honor.”
At this point Faustus stepped toward the sheriff, removing an envelope from his inside coat and placing on the table before him.
“And this, sir, is a bird feather found in the hand of the dead girl. I believe you can easily match it to feathers missing from the suspect woman’s hat.”
“May we know the name of this out-of-state woman?” Cox asked, reaching out for the envelope.
“Do you plan to investigator her in this matter?”
Cox turned to the judge. “Considering what you have brought before this court, it would seem now that I must,” Cox said, and Faustus could see the wheels turning in the man’s head: the opportunity of holding power over one of the Flagler’s guests, the use of such power to demean their haughty ways, or perhaps to be paid off for not doing the same.
“Then I should say, your honor, her name is Mrs. Roseann Birch,” Faustus said, turning to the judge. “And now, your honor, since there is another viable suspect identified in the murder for which she is charged, I request that my client be released on bail, sir.”
Judge Born watched the two men, bemused perhaps by Faustus’ chess playing and Cox’s transparencies.
“Bail will be set in the amount of ten dollars,” he replied.
“Now hold on one damned second there, yer honor,” Cox blathered, letting his street language slip through. “That cain’t be right!
The judge had endured enough and, in the absence of a gavel, banged his fist on the wooden table.
“Not only is it right, sir. It is just,” he barked. “And it will also be just for me to summon a special prosecutor from Tallahassee to look into the whereabouts of the money Mr. Faustus has spoken of, the discrepancies of the medical report on the victim’s death, and the attempts to withhold that information from this court and the legal system.
“You will find that a new day is dawning in the state of Florida, sheriff. Things will no longer to be done as usual. Welcome to the twentieth century, sir.”
Cox stared at the judge, his back teeth grinding, the muscles in his jaw flexing, but still he was silenced by his chastisement.
“And as for you,” the judge said, turning to Faustus. “You with your bevy of bombshells, I would ask one question that may seem basic, but must be entered in the record just the same. Motivation, sir? For a woman of social standing to engage in such heinous crimes.”
Faustus simply raised his eyebrows in that way of his.
“We may be entering a new century, your honor, but as the playwright says, and it has ever been, Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”
With the arraignment abruptly ended, Judge Born was quick to toss out the only other business of the day, the motion of a civil suit by the sheriff filed against the local newspaper editor. It would be, under the circumstances, superfluous at this point, the judge said. With that, he seemed to say a silent prayer and called an adjournment.
The parties involved all exited the room and descended the steps. Led by Faustus, who, after paying Shantice Carver’s ten dollar bail, was at his client’s elbow, trying to explain to the woman what had just transpired. The judge followed, trailed by the sheriff, who was whining vociferously about a miscarriage of justice. He in turn was being harangued by the newspaper editor, who was asking questions about what the sheriff intended to do about accusations of a double homicide on Palm Beach Island. Bringing up the rear was the sheriff’s now-shy deputies and bailiff, who were in no hurry to incur their boss’s wrath.
At the base of the staircase, Michael Byrne waited, cap in his hand despite the strong sun. When Faustus saw him, he tried to catch his eyes, to indicate that all had gone well. Faustus was worried about the steel baton he feared was concealed under Byrne’s hat. To help deflect the possibility of violence, Faustus quickly turned to the judge behind him.
“If I may, your honor,” he said. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Michael Byrne, brother of the deceased victim. He has recently taken possession of the corpse in question and will both verify his identity and give permission for the new autopsy.”
The judge nodded at Byrne but did not extend his hand.
“My sympathies for your loss, Mr. Byrne. It is my hope that this extraordinary affair can be sorted out and, be assured sir, that an investigation into the carriage of justice will be overseen.”
Byrne bowed his head just enough to show respect, but not enough to lose sight of Sheriff Cox, who was glowering at him from the final step of the staircase.
“If there is anything else, Mr. Byrne, that needs to be brought to my attention, as if enough has not already been elucidated this morning, then do not hesitate to call on my office,” the judge said.
“There is one thing, your honor,” Byrne said, stepping in front of Sheriff Cox’s before the man could take his final step off the staircase. “I would like my father’s watch returned.”
The metal baton flicked out from Byrne’s hand like a stinger. Its tip caught the chain on Sheriff Cox’s vest and froze there. The motion was too fast for the fat man, or perhaps he was already too stunned from the day’s explosions to react.
“By God…” Byrne cut him off. “It is a Swiss made gold fob watch with blue-steel hands and my father’s initials, CHB, engraved on the back.”
The judge looked at the sputtering sheriff and held out his hand. Byrne lifted the watch out of the vest pocket with the tip of his baton. After the judge inspected the piece, front and back, he unfastened the chain and placed the watch into Byrne’s hand. He winced, as if a terrible odor had just invaded his nostrils, spun on his heel, and walked away.
“By God, Byrne,” Faustus said, uncharacteristically awed. “You never cease to amaze, my young friend.”
“Nor do you, Mr. Faustus,” Byrne said. “I trust that since Miss Carver has shed her leg irons, things went well upstairs?”
“As well as could be expected. Whether there will be any follow-through is yet to be ascertained. I doubt though that Sheriff Cox will be in authority for long. I do not think this particular judge is one to look the other way. But there is little we can do now except to wait, I am afraid, for justice to come around.”
Shantice Carver was still standing at Faustus’ side, trying to decipher perhaps from their faces and words just what the hell had just occurred. They, however, were both looking out across the lake, taking in the white shine of the Royal Poinciana glowing in sunlight.
“I suppose you are, by necessity, going to leave us now,” Faustus said. “You are in possession of your brother’s body, you can take him home. That was your purpose, was it not?”
Byrne kept looking out on the water.
“This state will need men like you, Mr. Byrne, to succeed.”
Byrne still did not look at the elderly man. “You mean to build grand edifices to my ego?” he said. “To plunder and devour? To shift a natural beauty to a man-made one in our own concrete and glass image?”
Byrne closed his lips, realizing he was proselytizing in a manner that was foreign to him.
“Don’t mock yourself, Michael,” Faustus said. “You are a man of ethics and morality, and in your heart is a sense of justice that a society cannot exist without. The Flaglers and Birches and McAdams of the world can build sanctuaries unto themselves, but it takes men like you to build a civilization.”
Shantice Carver stood next to the men, drawing a pattern in the sand with the worn toe of her work shoe, and they both seemed to recognize the piety that was being splashed around on all parts.
“I may take on your challenges someday, Mr. Faustus,” Byrne finally said. “But for now, there is one final thing I do have to do.”
“Yes,” Faustus agreed, reaching out to shake Byrne’s extended hand. “I suppose there is.”
O
N
Tuesday morning Michael Byrne stood on the rail platform at the southern entrance to the Poinciana. He was dressed in his Pinkerton clothes, the trousers still a bit salt stained but the brogans cleaned and polished. He was there on Harris’s orders to help Mr. Flagler aboard the train to New York.
