The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (4 page)

Doc Ames was an old-time moss-back politician, chief ringster of a Democratic political machine that had operated in and out of power in Minneapolis for almost forty years. He’d also honed his medical skills as a surgeon for the Seventh Minnesota during the Civil War, and after coming back home he started a thriving practice doctoring up early Minneapolis families. Never one to turn away a patient, his big-hearted personality made a natural fit for politics, so he got himself elected to the state legislature first, then worked himself up the party ladder. Doc eventually served three terms as mayor, all as a Democrat, but this past autumn he’d managed to wiggle his way to a Republican endorsement. When a change in the law offered any person of any political inclination the chance to vote in any primary, the charming, popular Ames focused his forces on swamping the Republican primary with true-hearted salt-of-the-earth Democrats, and he was comfortably voted into office based on their overwhelming turnout. In whose interests would he act, however, when it came time to govern? This was the question on the lips of Minneapolitans of every stripe and ilk. And would he devote all of his time to the mayorship or would he continue to practice medicine, as he always had, giving free treatment to the most downtrodden and destitute, the bums, saloon-slummers and streetwalkers, in exchange for their unwavering support? Campaign hustlers were expecting a reward for their work, and for many of these supporters a city salary would be just payback for services rendered. Whatever happened, Queen thought, there would be some hard feelings out there, adding to the old man’s already formidable list of enemies.

The question that most concerned Queen, however, was about the man who would control the entire city police force. Col. Fred Ames would soon be appointed as police superintendent. He was a dour, uninteresting man, opposite in every way from his delightful older brother, Doc. In every precinct house in Minneapolis, cops were discussing the matter, laying bets on what the mayor’s sibling would do once he took charge. They argued over whose heads would roll into the ranks of the unemployed, and who would survive only to freeze their bones on another winter patrol.

And despite Doc’s confidence in his brother’s abilities, the man had a dubious past. Particularly scandalous were some of the rumors that had come from the Philippines, where Colonel Ames had served with the 13th Minnesota Regiment only a couple of years before. His name had splashed across the front pages with words like “coward” and “incompetent” attached to his conduct. Queen didn’t know Colonel Ames nearly as well as his brother, or the minute details of the scurrilous stories, but he suspected the colonel had his own agenda and intended to see it through.

Queen also knew where he stood with Doc Ames. They’d been friends for years, including past Republican terms when Queen was forced from the city payrolls and back to work as a private detective. Col. Fred Ames was another matter entirely. Queen and the colonel were civil to each other but had never shared a drink or a genial conversation. It was always business. Both brothers knew Queen’s value in getting Doc elected, but Queen wasn’t so sure Colonel Ames would do him any favors once the new administration took hold.

His head still hurt a little from the night’s festivities, and he cursed under his breath that the streetcars were running slow. Still a good couple of miles away from his house, he picked up his pace, even as he passed a collection of colorless hovels that sat on a block notoriously known as Hell’s Half Acre. He’d been here before on many occasions, and even walked a beat through its crooked paths once or twice. It had a reputation from far back as a slum and an eyesore; a place even veteran policemen shied away from if given a choice.

“Help, someone get the police! I need help!”

Queen whirled around. His hand instinctively went to the handle of his pistol, tucked in a holster under his jacket. The voice was urgent, but wasn’t coming from the block’s worst section. He continued down Third Avenue and turned left on Eighth Street, towards the Church of the Redeemer. Eyes squinting, he marched forward, searching for the source. Despite his age of forty, he was in fair condition. Still, as he increased his speed to a fast jog, he felt a little sting in his lungs. He heard the shout again coming from an alley, and within a few steps he found Officer Merriam. The blue-coated patrolman was crouched in a small open lot, white with an inch of fresh snow. The snow’s beauty veiled the grime of rough, slanted shacks and piles of decaying wood. It made the drab landscape almost romantic, like a woodcut from Harper’s magazine. Then he saw the young woman under Merriam’s scrutiny, and the pool of blood around her head. Brown, bent sunflower stalks lay crumpled beneath her thin body.

“Is she alive?” Queen huffed as he drew close. Merriam looked up. His bell shaped hat lay in the snow by his knee, and his forehead glistened with sweat.

“No, sir. I can’t find a pulse, and she’s ice cold.” His eyes were wet. He roughly wiped them with his sleeve, avoiding Queen’s stare.

“Pretty girl,” Queen said. “Even with a broken nose.”

Merriam’s face was flushed. “What should I do, Mr. Queen? I mean Lieutenant…er…Detective?”

“I’m all of the above. Go get the coroner,” Queen replied. “And by the way, what are you doing calling out for police help, anyway? You
are
the goddamn police. She wasn’t going anywhere, for Christ’s sakes.”

“Yes, sir. She just looks so lonely lying there. I just thought—”

“I already told you, Merriam. Go.”

The patrolman nodded and dashed off.

Queen bent down to examine her. He was struck again by how lovely she was, despite the deep bruises on her face and legs. Not even a pair of shoes to cover her chalky, pale feet. Barebones thin, and scantily dressed for this weather, except for a coarse, frayed boy’s jacket, he noted. He gently held up her head, unbuttoned the jacket’s top three buttons and pulled back the neck of her gown. He found the source of the blood, a bullet hole, just above her left breast. It’s a shame that a girl could be done in this way, he thought.

He stood up and examined the fence and her position. The front of her gown was caked white, and by the looks of the deep snowy imprint next to her body, she had fallen on her front side prior to being shot. He glanced around, searching for tracks. The snow was untouched around where she lay, except for his and Merriam’s powdery prints.

A sound startled him. He looked up, and saw a little boy behind an ash can a few feet away, no more than seven years old. He held a chunk of ice like a weapon in his mittened hand. “Is she dead?” he blurted.

“What the deuce? Why are you out here by yourself?”

The boy took a step forward, straining around Queen to look at the girl.

“Do you know anything about this?” Queen asked.

He shook his dirty face and dabbed at the yellow slime that hung from his nostril.

“Well, stay out of my way. Your mother should be ashamed of herself, letting you out alone like this.”

“She’s sleeping. I didn’t have nothin’ to do. Jus’ wanted to play.”

“Play somewhere else. Something bad happened here. You shouldn’t see.”

“Too late. I already did.”

“Did you see what happened to her?”

“Naw, not that. Just seen the body. I also seen a white cloud. Middle of the night, I guess.”

“A white cloud in the middle of the night, you guess, huh? Were there fairies dancing on it too?”

“I seen it, I swear. Right over there.” He pointed to the end of the fence, close to church property. “Over a man.”

“You saw a man?”

“From my window. I sleep right there.” Queen looked up at the rat-trap house next to them.

“What time?”

“After midnight. I just heard somebody shoot and I looked outside.”

“What did he look like? Tall, short, fat?”

“Don’ know.”

“And you saw her laying on the ground and didn’t tell your ma?”

“Ma drunk too much booze last night. No point in trying.”

“You’re an irresponsible little snipe, you know that?”

“To hell with you, Mister.”

Queen scowled at the kid until he retreated back to the ash can. He considered shooing him back home, but wasn’t in the mood to tilt with a tot.

He bent down again and took one of the dead girl’s delicate hands in his. Dark raw rings circled her wrists, and her fingernails were uneven and chipped. Gently, he turned the hands over and pulled a small splinter from under a nail. He looked up. The fence was tall and unpainted. His eyes scanned for loose boards, thinking perhaps she had found an exit through the fence, but it seemed well built. Then he glanced to the top. There, farther up than he could reach, was a piece of fabric, fluttering in the breeze. He looked at her gown again, and found the tear. What had she been doing up there? Did she get the splinter from the fence? He walked its length until he found a crack and peered through.

“This is your idea of crack detective work? Peeping through knotholes?”

Queen turned and saw fellow cop Chris Norbeck walk up next to him. His old partner had his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets and a cigar in his mouth. He was grinning madly.

“Damn, if my hands don’t feel like they’re gonna fall off. Forgot my gloves at home this morning.” Norbeck looked down at the girl and pushed her leg a little with his shoe. “That skeleton-bone wag-tail looks dead.”

“Now why would you call her that?”

“You’d rather I call her a whore?”

“I’d rather you shut your pan and let her be.” He stared hard at Norbeck, challenging him to say more. Norbeck knew better and lowered his head a little in deference. Queen didn’t like Norbeck much for a number of reasons, besides the obvious one, which was that he was an outright ass. First, Norbeck grinned like a leering baboon at the most inappropriate of times. Second, he had a queer habit of winking knowingly, at everything and everyone. The third was the most difficult to ignore. Weeks ago, a doctor had told Norbeck he was suffering from acne rosacea. The red, veiny rash had spread across his face and deformed his nose into a bulbous mass. It looked to Queen like the bottom of a sack of potatoes too long in the cellar. Norbeck was overwrought with worry about it, and had even knocked around a handful of men who had dared to mention it in conversation. Every day Norbeck slathered a smelly ointment obsessively over the affected parts, prescribed to alleviate the maddening itch. The doctor had claimed that drinking made it worse, but Queen wasn’t sure if Norbeck was so wracked with fear to cut that important part of his life out cold.

Queen pointed at the top of the fence. “She must have climbed up something on the other side, to escape from what we both know this house is known for.”

“And she almost made it.” Norbeck flashed his insufferable grin.

“Almost.”

“So do we go in and arrest him?

“Arrest him? Who?”

Norbeck pulled out a revolver from a holster under his coat and pointed at the house. “Emil Dander. Who else coulda’ done it?”

“Put that away. I thought your goddamn hands were cold.”

“Danger has warmed them.”

“Well, tell danger to unwarm them and shuck that gun.”

“Come on, Harm. I ain’t Catholic, but I’m pretty damn sure Dander ain’t no saint. He did it, and we both know it.”

“So he just shoots his own girl? She’s worth more alive than dead.”

“Maybe he was drunk.”

“Maybe you are.”

“Maybe I am,” Norbeck laughed.

“Let’s see if Dander is home. Perhaps we’ll catch him at breakfast.”

“He leaves a girl dead by his back fence and acts like nothing happened? I’ll bet you a dollar he’s flown the coop.”

“Well, let’s go see.”

“He’s got a few bad fellows working for him. Maybe we should send for more officers.”

“I thought you just said you didn’t think he was there.”

“I don’t, but we should still watch our step.”

Queen looked disapprovingly at Norbeck. “Stay pat if you want, and watch the girl. It’s a good place for you. I’ll go alone.”

Norbeck rocked on his heels and scratched at his face. “I ain’t afraid. But somebody should wait until the coroner comes.”

“Kid, where are you?” Queen shouted. The boy crawled out of a broken box, and walked over to the men.

“I thought you told me to go ‘way,” he said with defiant, puckered lips.

“Yeah, but you obviously didn’t. Here’s a nickel. Make sure no one goes near her until more police arrive. Can you do that?”

“Hell if I can’t. But my ma says you’re nothin’ but a stupid bull and I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you.”

“Watch that language,” Norbeck snapped, “or I’ll slap that filth right out of your mouth. Bulls are what riff-raff say. We’re detectives.”

Norbeck trailed behind Queen and they went back down the alley to Eighth Street, turning back onto Third Avenue to the face of the house. It was certainly a misfit on this block. Two storied and brick, it stood out like a whore’s pimple against the moldering shanties that surrounded it. The front fence was far shorter, and made from iron. A decorative gate barred the entrance to the front yard.

“Usually there’s someone on the other side to let people in,” Norbeck said. “A kid named Ollie last time I was here. Don’t look so cozy, does it?” He chuckled to himself and withdrew a hand from his pocket to shake the gate. “Locked up tight. Anyone there?” he shouted. No one answered. The window curtains were drawn, and the house appeared dark and dead.