Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Suspension (40 page)
“Really?” Byrnes turned to stare at Tom, the surprise clear on his face. “Don't know him. A rookie, right? Why?”
Tom wished he had a real good answer to that, but he'd opened his mouth
and he wasn't going back on it, not in front of Byrnes. “Call it a feeling, sir. Jaffey's new but he shows promise. Unlike some of the more experienced men, he'll listen and take orders. He also behaved very well in our fracas at Gotham Court. Saved my skin, is more like it. Soâ”
and he wasn't going back on it, not in front of Byrnes. “Call it a feeling, sir. Jaffey's new but he shows promise. Unlike some of the more experienced men, he'll listen and take orders. He also behaved very well in our fracas at Gotham Court. Saved my skin, is more like it. Soâ”
“I don't know, Tom. I've never met your man Jaffey, but I would hesitate to have a new man behind me on a case like this. He's only been on the force a short time I take it?”
Tom shrugged. “Six months, give or take.”
Byrnes took a last pull at the stub of his cigar, then crushed it in the ashtray on his desk. “Well, that's a decision I can't make for you. I suppose you know best who you'd like to watch your back. Sometimes it's best to go with your instincts, even if it doesn't seem quite right at the time.” Byrnes hesitated an instant before saying somewhat reluctantly “I'll request Jaffey's detachment to you for the duration of the case.”
Tom went back to his desk, hoping he'd made the right decision. He got back to his unfinished letter and read it through once more to get his train of thought back. He decided to add that he was interested in the records of all the men in the regiment, especially their company, date of enlistment, deaths, date of discharge, and parole. He figured he'd get Byrnes to sign it too. It might get a little quicker response coming from him.
“May as well cast a wide net,” Tom muttered. “You never know what you might catch.”
M
ary let herself in. Her key was pretty new, and it caught in the lock. For a moment she thought it wouldn't turn, but a jiggle and a twist did the trick. Grant and Lee waited like library lions at the end of the hall, eyes bright and ears pricked forward.
ary let herself in. Her key was pretty new, and it caught in the lock. For a moment she thought it wouldn't turn, but a jiggle and a twist did the trick. Grant and Lee waited like library lions at the end of the hall, eyes bright and ears pricked forward.
“Well, hello, you two,” she said sweetly. “You going to sit there, or do I get a proper greeting?” They slowly got up and meandered toward her, dignified and aloof. “That's a fine welcome. I don't suppose I ought to give you the chicken scraps I have in this bag.” She held it up as if they'd know what she was talking about. “I'm not at all sure you deserve them.” Grant rubbed her leg, arching his back and rubbing his ear on her calf. “That's more like it, soldier. You always were a ladies man, just like your master. You may just earn a treat, after all.” Mary fed the cats her scraps. They jostled each other to get their heads into the bowl, and Lee bit at Grant when he got too rough. “You show him who's boss, Lee. Got to keep your man in line. They need to be shown their place every so often, and it's up to us ladies to show it to them.” A smile stole across Mary's face.
She went into the bedroom and started to unpack a few things from the small bag she carried. As she did, she began to imagine herself unpacking all her things some day. It hadn't been that long ago when thoughts like that were beyond her imagination. She was a whore and a madame. Marriage had no part in either of those occupations. Over the years she had built her walls high, the better to protect her heart ⦠and her dreams. It had taken discipline to deny herself what she wanted most. She had denied herself but not her dreams. Those dreams were modest, really. She didn't want the fancy Fifth Avenue mansion, like Madame Restell. She did not crave fame or harbor ambitions for the stage. She liked money and the things it would buy, but she didn't dream of having more of it than would keep her comfortably. Her ambitions were much more commonplace and ordinary than most would have imagined. The love of a good, honest man was at the core of it. He wouldn't care what she did for money. He'd be able to see beyond that, and he would love her for herself. They would reveal themselves to each other in the quiet hours and share life's joys and sorrows. There would be children and the miracle of birth would be her miracle. They would build a family.
Ordinary dreams. But they called for an extraordinary man. Thinking back, she supposed she knew that the first day when she saw him on her doorstep, ready to arrest her. He hadn't lusted like the other men, though the lust was there. He hadn't ogled her body, though it was there for the ogling. He had looked her in the eye, as if trying to see the person behind the madame. Though they hadn't said much to each other, there were volumes sent and received.
She was loosing the reins on her dreams now. It was dangerous, she knew. She risked everything when she risked her heart. She had suffered many a cut to that vital organ over the years, and there wasn't much left unscarred. What there was she was willing to give to Tom. He knew what she gave. And he knew in his awkward way what a delicate gift it was. Mary smiled to herself as she started a bath. She had another gift in mind when Tom got home.
M
att and Earl had split up when they left police headquarters. For the next half hour, they watched their backs for detectives, doubling back, stopping to watch the street in store windows, and popping into shops to check for anyone following. Neither was followed. They met up again at Paddy's. It was still an hour before their regular meeting, so they took a table in the corner, where they could watch the street without being surprised or overheard.
att and Earl had split up when they left police headquarters. For the next half hour, they watched their backs for detectives, doubling back, stopping to watch the street in store windows, and popping into shops to check for anyone following. Neither was followed. They met up again at Paddy's. It was still an hour before their regular meeting, so they took a table in the corner, where they could watch the street without being surprised or overheard.
“Who the hell done it, ya think?” Earl wondered once they had settled with their beers.
“Shit, I don't know. Nobody knows what we're up to but us seven ⦠well, six now,” Matt corrected himself.
“Only thing I can figure is that fuckin' Braddock done it, or had it done.”
“Nah! I don't think he did it. It don't make sense,” Matt said, shaking his head. “Watkins would be worth a lot more to him alive than dead. You see how anxious he was to get something out of us?” Earl nodded agreement. “He needs information, not dead men. He's in a hog wallow, looking for clover,” Earl said into his beer.
Matt looked back with a puzzled expression but there was the start of something else. “So, who done it?”
Paddy's was filling with the evening crowd. Bob held court in his corner table by the window, telling two others how Hooker lost his nerve to Bobby Lee at Chancellorsville.
“Only good thing come o' that was Jackson gettin' shot by his own men. Some say that was worth losing the battle for. Cost the rebs more than most anything else that fool Hooker could have done.”
“Damned if I wouldn't like to put a ball in that man's head, talkin' about Stonewall like that,” Earl said under his breath.
Matt shrugged. “Hell, he's right, Earl. We woulda been better off losing the battle than Jackson. Besides, he's a cripple already. Putting a ball in his head might be doing him a favor.”
Bob was warming to his subject. The beer was talking, and it was loud enough to be heard anywhere in Paddy's.
“Damn Jackson flanked the whole fuckin' army. First thing we knew was when the skirmishers drove the deer out of the woods into our lines. Hell, deer, rabbits, coons; they led the fuckin' assault. Jackson just brought up the rear.” Everyone at Bob's table laughed.
“I swear one more word, and I'm gonna take off his other damned leg.”
Matt put a hand on Earl's arm. “No good doin' that, Earl. Let's go. We can get a beer somewhere else.”
Earl grumbled, but he got up and walked through the sawdust and out the door, all the while glaring at Bob.
Matt looked at his watch. “Don't really have time for another beer anyway. May's well go over to the office.” They walked down the stone sidewalks of Peck Slip and headed for the offices of Sangree & Co.
T
om was stamping his letter to the War Department, when he thought of another he should send. It wouldn't be proper to just show up at the Roeblings' door like some traveling salesman. Such things had to conform to the
social graces. Social grace was an area not fully developed in Tom. It was a matter of thought, not instinct. Still, he did his best at writing a note to the chief engineer, asking if he could call in two days' time. He checked it over after he had finished. Aside from one careless blob of ink and some doubtful phrasing, it would do. He sent it off with the other.
om was stamping his letter to the War Department, when he thought of another he should send. It wouldn't be proper to just show up at the Roeblings' door like some traveling salesman. Such things had to conform to the
social graces. Social grace was an area not fully developed in Tom. It was a matter of thought, not instinct. Still, he did his best at writing a note to the chief engineer, asking if he could call in two days' time. He checked it over after he had finished. Aside from one careless blob of ink and some doubtful phrasing, it would do. He sent it off with the other.
His purpose was not to interrogate Roebling. Rather, he hoped that the man could shed some light on some things. It was clear that somebody was very concerned about keeping their activities quiet. Tom had to treat every possibility seriously. Thinking of the possibilities, the list he came up with was short. The most likely cause was fraud. As J. Lloyd Haigh had proven when he supplied defective wire for the main cables, there was a lot of money to be made from promising one thing and delivering another. Haigh had been able to commit fraud, supply substandard wire, and still keep his contract after being caught. It wasn't such a stretch to assume some other group was trying something similar. When the layers were peeled back, murder was usually about money. Where a project like the great East River Bridge was concerned, the money came in buckets. All sorts get drawn to the trough. Even small leaks in a few of those buckets could mean big profits to anyone willing to drill the holes. Tom walked out of police headquarters trying to imagine how he'd go about defrauding the bridge project. The possibilities seemed endless.
He kept turning what he knew over and over in his mind while the El chugged uptown toward home. He liked taking the El after dark. Lighted windows flashed by, like moving photographs. It reminded him of a moving picture book he had seen once. He had flipped the pages and watched, fascinated, as a horse and rider seemed to gallop across the pages. He stared out the windows, a mobile urban voyeur, peeping into living rooms on the fly. Pieces of people's lives flitted by. Tom thought of the million and more inmates of New York. What were they doing now, at this instant? Eating, drinking, rolling a sucker on the Bowery, making love, driving a hack, patrolling the streets; a million things in a million different ways went on at any instant in time. But out of all the human hustle and bustle, all the infinite variety of activity, there were some whose minds were focused on the bridge. He knew they were out there somewhere. They had left their calling cards. They knew who he was and what he was about. Though they might include Matt Emmons and Earl Lebeau, he couldn't prove it, at least not yet. There might be some on this train with him now. Let them come, Braddock thought, looking over his shoulder. He'd welcome an end to the mystery.
Tom was still thinking of conspirators as he walked up the stairs of his place. He opened the door tentatively, almost expecting black hands to reach for him from his darkened hall. He closed the door with a soft click of the
latch behind him. Something registered in his mind, raising the beginnings of alarm. He sniffed like a hound testing the air. With careful steps, he prowled the hall. As he neared the bedroom door, he recognized the scent of candles and the faint hint of honeysuckle. A dim warm glow crept from under his door. The beginnings of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. With a slow hand, Tom pushed in the door. It swung lazily, revealing a different room from the one he'd left that morning. Candles bathed the walls in fluid yellow light. It seemed as if he'd stepped into a chapel, each candle a prayer and a devotion. He hardly recognized the place. Mary lay on his bed. The light rippled on her golden skin, as if she swam in a veil of fire. Her smile was slow and teasing. Tom stood rooted in the doorway.
latch behind him. Something registered in his mind, raising the beginnings of alarm. He sniffed like a hound testing the air. With careful steps, he prowled the hall. As he neared the bedroom door, he recognized the scent of candles and the faint hint of honeysuckle. A dim warm glow crept from under his door. The beginnings of a smile teased the corner of his mouth. With a slow hand, Tom pushed in the door. It swung lazily, revealing a different room from the one he'd left that morning. Candles bathed the walls in fluid yellow light. It seemed as if he'd stepped into a chapel, each candle a prayer and a devotion. He hardly recognized the place. Mary lay on his bed. The light rippled on her golden skin, as if she swam in a veil of fire. Her smile was slow and teasing. Tom stood rooted in the doorway.
“Oh, Mary,” he said like a whispered prayer.
“Welcome home, Tommy. I've been waiting for you.” Her hands stole to her breasts in a soft insistent caress, her taut belly rolling in supple waves. Tom drew a long ragged breath. She purred to him softly. “You were so long in coming, I started without you. You don't mind, do you, Tom?”
He just smiled and started to unbutton his shirt.
“Mmm, yes,” she whispered. “I want to see you.”
“Oooh, you wicked, wicked girl.” He groaned. Tom's clothes came off without his eyes leaving hers. Mary watched, her hands moving over her body as Tom bared himself to her. It was Mary's turn to draw a ragged breath. She watched, fascinated. This was a game they hadn't played before.
“I want you so much, Tommy,” Mary said in a whisper.
A mischievous grin split Tom's face. “Show me.”
Continuing to work has been with me a
matter of pride and honor!
matter of pride and honor!
âWASHINGTON ROEBLING
W
hen the meeting had convened without Watkins, there was a buzz of speculation around the table. Matt and Earl started to tell how Braddock had taken them in for questioning when the captain stood, serious and erect, as if on parade. With an officer's dignity he called for silence in a tone that stilled the room instantly.
hen the meeting had convened without Watkins, there was a buzz of speculation around the table. Matt and Earl started to tell how Braddock had taken them in for questioning when the captain stood, serious and erect, as if on parade. With an officer's dignity he called for silence in a tone that stilled the room instantly.
“Watkins is dead,” the captain said clearly. “I killed him.” The words fell like sword strokes. Thaddeus let the silence reign for what seemed minutes. “As captain, I have the dual responsibility of the welfare of my men and the success of the mission. As you know, I have tried to balance the two ⦠but we know too it's the mission that has to come first.” The men listened. Thaddeus couldn't tell if they were with him or not. They gave no sign of what they felt. “We knew that in '61 ⦠and nothing has changed with the years. It is the one constant in military life.” He gave a small internal shudder the men didn't see. “The burden I swore to bear. Our mission ⦠was in jeopardy, put at risk by one of our own. Faced with that situation, a sacrifice had to be made.”
He had wanted to end it there but almost before he realized it, he went on to tell them his heart. “I swear to you, I would just have readily sacrificed my own life if it could accomplish the same end.” He tried hard to maintain his air of command, his military demeanor. The men deserved that. It was hard, though, when he spoke of Watkins. “I pray you all understand how very seriously I approached this. It was something I was loath to do, and I prayed that the Almighty might assist me and show me the true and righteous path.” He paused for a moment, needing a second to collect himself.
“You must knowâI mean, I want you all to understand thatâthisâwas an agony for me. I did not make it lightly, and though I know in my heart it was the right thing to do, it will forever be a burden of ⦠of regret to me, that I hadâwas forced to do it.” He had no intention of telling the others of his suspicion of Watkins. Some things were best left unsaid. He looked at the men one by one, seeing each truly. “I know I will have to answer to my maker some day, just as I answer to you all now.” By the time he finished his head hung to his chest. He hadn't wanted to let his emotions show, but it couldn't be helped. Maybe that was the thing that made it easier for the rest to accept. They could see the beast he'd wrestled. He was the captain, but he was just a man.
It was done and it could not be undone. None of them liked it but they all seemed to accept it. Even Sullivan, who could be more sensitive to the human issues of their little group, took it well. The fact that Watkins was the least valued member of the team was an advantage. There was a feeling too that Watkins had brought this on himself. His wagging tongue had killed him, as sure as any bullet. Jacobs, in his clerk's voice, said it first.
“It wasn't you who killed him, Captain. You just finished the job started by his big mouth. He was dead already. Just didn't know it.” A couple of them nodded agreement.
“Reckon it's true,” Earl said. “Don't like one of us goin' down, but when I think on it, he did kinda have it comin'.” He looked around the table for agreement, then went on. “Watkins coulda paid that price weeks ago fer blabbin' to Bucklin. You just done what you had to, Cap'n, and you could have done it sooner, 'ceptin' you not wantin' to put down one of yer own.”
One by one they voiced their support. Each was sad to lose a comrade, but they had lost so many over the years that one more didn't hit them the way it might other men. They would stick by the captain till the end. Let the bodies pile where they may. At the last, when they drank to their success, they'd toast the dead. They'd drink in silent remembrance to those who fell by the side of their long, long road. The captain had his absolution.
The conversation turned to Matt and Earl next to report on their treatment by Braddock. They were all encouraged to hear how little the detective seemed to know. It appeared too that the death of Watkins came none too soon. It was noted how quick the police were to appear on the scene. A sleeping man, as Watkins appeared to be, might have ridden back and forth across the river for hours before being discovered. The police had been watching the ferry, they decided. It had been a closer thing than they would ever know.
The captain, taking control as usual, turned to Sullivan and with an encouraging smile said, “Now, Patrick, can you move on with the plans as you outlined
them to us a few days ago? You've had time to work out some of the details, right?”
them to us a few days ago? You've had time to work out some of the details, right?”
Sullivan stood. “Pretty much, sir.” He didn't feel much like talking, not after just hearing that the captain shot one of their own. He felt like death. The doubts he'd talked about with Lincoln seemed to have mushroomed in the last few minutes. He couldn't stow them in the back of his mind any longer. Looking at Justice, he could see the same in his eyes. Still, he went on outlining his plan.
They'd done this before, on a smaller scale with the many bridges they blew during the war and the three train wrecks they'd engineered after. The methods were similar. The scale and complexity of this job was altogether different though.
“As you know,” he began, “we're going to blow just enough so it will tear itself apart. Thanks to Bart we have the plans, and he and I have gone over them carefully for the last two weeks.”
Bart rolled out some plans on the big table and they all craned to get a good look. It was a work of art really, an incredibly precise scale drawing of the bridge as seen from the side. All the major components were shown: caissons, towers, anchorages, approaches, roadway, main cables, suspenders, and stays.
“Now, gentlemen, here's how I see us bringing down the Eighth Wonder of the World,” Pat said.
He could have a flair for the dramatic when he got warmed up, the captain thought, smiling.
Sullivan recapped the basics of the plan, which they had decided on some time before. He wanted to be certain everybody was following.
“The trick is to make the span unstable. The stiffness of the roadway is the key. That's why Roebling put this bracing in.” Jacobs did the pointing for Pat. Even if by some miracle the bridge held together and didn't drop into the river, the carnage from the explosions would be devastating. Hundreds would die, certainly. Sullivan had a mental image of it as he spoke. He could hear the explosions like dull thunder, the sharp metallic twang as the stays snapped and whipped down on the crowded roadway.
“You see, by cutting the stays here and here,” Pat said absently, lost in his vision of destruction, “and the suspenders from just two of the main cables, we can drop one side of the roadway.”
Within twenty minutes Sullivan had laid it out for them, at least the parts he'd worked on. The vision had faded. Timing was as critical as placement of the charges, he told them. “First the suspenders, trusses, and beams, then the stays, say about five seconds apart.” Ideally that's how it should work, but
there would be problems coordinating that. They went over the obstacles for a minute till the captain finally said to move on. He wasn't at all sure they'd be able to time it that closely. The last thing Pat touched on was the number of charges and his estimate of how long it would take to set themânot more than an hour and a half. Charges would be placed on a total of twenty-six suspenders where they connected with the support beams, thirteen charges each for the upstream main cable suspenders. Additional charges would be placed to cut the stays and the trusses over the tracks. They needed to work at saving time, and preparation was the key. Sullivan had ideas for practice drills, some of which could be carried out on the bridge itself. They didn't anticipate any police patrols on the bridge, but there would be police at each end, and traffic to watch out for even at three in the morning. They needed to expect the unexpected.
there would be problems coordinating that. They went over the obstacles for a minute till the captain finally said to move on. He wasn't at all sure they'd be able to time it that closely. The last thing Pat touched on was the number of charges and his estimate of how long it would take to set themânot more than an hour and a half. Charges would be placed on a total of twenty-six suspenders where they connected with the support beams, thirteen charges each for the upstream main cable suspenders. Additional charges would be placed to cut the stays and the trusses over the tracks. They needed to work at saving time, and preparation was the key. Sullivan had ideas for practice drills, some of which could be carried out on the bridge itself. They didn't anticipate any police patrols on the bridge, but there would be police at each end, and traffic to watch out for even at three in the morning. They needed to expect the unexpected.
“Very good, men,” the captain said when Pat and Bart had finished. “One other thing we should work on is the running of the detonator wire.” The detonator wire and the positioning of the portable dynamo they'd need to generate their charge were real sticking points. So far they had only sketched out plans in this area. “It occurs to me that the wiring for the lamps will be commencing soon. Suppose we were to have Earl and Matt assigned to the crew. Might be possible to run our wire along with the wiring for the lamps.”
“The wires to the charges on the stays will have to be run along with the explosives. Those charges will be up on the towers. Nothing to be done about that,” Pat pointed out. “But if we could get our wire out to midspan beforehand, it would save a bunch of time and risk. I been working on how we might do that, but truth be told, I don't like what I've come up with. I do like the sound of your idea, though.”
Thaddeus agreed but looked off as if calculating odds. “If we can get our wire to midspan under their noses it would be sublime,” he said, relishing the thought.
The meeting broke up shortly after that, with a plan for Bart to get Matt and Earl assigned to the lighting crew immediately.
“Anything to add?” Thaddeus asked, looking around the room.
Earl spoke up in his laconic drawl. “Yeah, Cap'n. I don't think Roebling's gonna like it much.”
W
hen Tom got to his desk for the dog watch at 6:00 A.M., the first thing he noticed was the telegram. It lay in the top of his in box, small, white, and harmless. Like most people, Tom figured that unexpected telegrams were not good news. He picked it up as if it might bite. It was from the desk sergeant at
the Thirteenth. It read: boy in custody on thievery charge stop claims to know you stop holding him for arraignment at Essex Market Police Court at noon stop boy claims to be Michael Bucklin stop advise stop Tom read it again. After their last meeting, he would have bet he'd never see the boy again. It sounded like he was in trouble, though, and Tom didn't think Mike's grandparents needed any more of that. He went to the telegrapher's office in the basement.
hen Tom got to his desk for the dog watch at 6:00 A.M., the first thing he noticed was the telegram. It lay in the top of his in box, small, white, and harmless. Like most people, Tom figured that unexpected telegrams were not good news. He picked it up as if it might bite. It was from the desk sergeant at
the Thirteenth. It read: boy in custody on thievery charge stop claims to know you stop holding him for arraignment at Essex Market Police Court at noon stop boy claims to be Michael Bucklin stop advise stop Tom read it again. After their last meeting, he would have bet he'd never see the boy again. It sounded like he was in trouble, though, and Tom didn't think Mike's grandparents needed any more of that. He went to the telegrapher's office in the basement.
The telegraph office was in rooms 1 and 2 of the basement of Police Headquarters. From there, headquarters was in touch with every station house, hospital, railway station, including the Els and fire house, in the city. Wallace Wylie was on duty when Tom went in.
“Morning, Wally.”
Wylie looked up from his desk. His head had been very nearly touching it.
“Shouldn't you be heading home? Where's Brennan?” Tom asked.
“Not in, I'm covering.”
“Ain't life grand? How've you been, Wally? Haven't seen much of you lately.”
“Oh, fine, Tom, fine,” Wally said through a yawn. “Nothing new. Kids are growing like weeds. Wife's getting big with our third.” Tom almost envied him. “That's great. Nice to hear some things are normal. Got a message for the Thirteenth.” Tom held out a slip of paper.
“You've been busy lately, Tom,” Wally said as he started to finger the telegraph key. “I hear things even down here in the catacombs.”
“I bet you do.” Tom knew that Wylie was probably the best-informed man in the building. “Things have been interesting. What was that old Chinese curse? Something like: âMay you live in interesting times.' Last couple of weeks, I'm thinking maybe things have been a little too interesting. Anyway, I gotta run. Thanks for the help.”
Tom ran into Chowder on the way upstairs.
“So, I hear you got Dolan and Heidelberg assigned to you now,” Chowder said. “What's up? You into something big?”
“Bucklin case. Looks like it may lead to other things.” Chowder just raised his eyebrows. “Like the East River Bridge.” Tom answered his unasked question.
Chowder whistled. “You wouldn't be shovelin' shit on my shoes, now, would you, Thomas? What's the bridge go to do with that Bucklin case?”
“Pretty strong whiff of something like fraud or conspiracy. Byrnes smells a big case, wants to keep his hand in. You know how that goes.” Chowder understood completely.
“I don't give a damn,” Tom said honestly. “Let him grab the headlines, if it
comes to that. At least I got some extra help and I'm still in charge of the show.”
comes to that. At least I got some extra help and I'm still in charge of the show.”
Chowder slapped him on the shoulder. “Could be a big career move for you, boy-o. Keep you out from under Coffin's thumb. How's it look? Any suspects?”
Tom turned suddenly glum. “That's sort of a problem. My main suspect turned up with a .32 caliber headache yesterday.”
“The fella on the ferry? Heard about that,” Chowder said, putting the pieces together. “The plot thickens, eh, Tommy?”
“Got Byrnes's attention,” Braddock said in an obvious understatement.
Chowder gave an exaggerated nod of his big head. “Now I got it, laddie. Crystal clear, it is. Well, listen, I got to get movin'. You be careful, y'hear? Sounds like that could be an unhealthy case.”
“Sure thing. We gotta have a beer sometime, catch up, you know?”
Chowder looked pleased. “Right-o, Tommy. Let's do it soon.”
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