The Empire of Shadows (11 page)

“The edges are smoother,” Chowder noted. “The hole has a kind of regular angle to it, like a triangle. What did this?”

“Right. Slower impact,” The doctor said, ignoring the question. “Sometimes a bullet will carry away whole sections of bone, shattering the skull like a china bowl. None of that here.”

“So, you've convinced me then, Doc. It wasn't a bullet; but I'm still not following you. Who is this man?” The coroner didn't answer him at first. Instead, he said, “This may sound odd, Detective, but I've actually seen wounds like this before.”

Chowder raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said.

“Yes. And I'm guessing you did, too, though not from the same perspective exactly.”

“Still not followin', Doc. I've never seen any sort of wound like this 'ere. Unless—maybe…” A light came on behind Chowder's eyes. “The goddamn war! A bayonet wound. For the love o' Mike!” Chowder said, scratching his head.

He remembered Bess telling him about selling the bayonet to Tupper, but couldn't imagine how that could be connected to the body in front of him. “That would be my guess, detective. A long, pointed steel spike, roughly triangular and quite capable of punching through bone of this thickness.”

Chowder was nodding but still wore a puzzled frown. “A bayonet wound?”

“You're the detective,” the doctor said.

“Yeah, well I am that, Doc, but bein' a detective ain't so much about knowin' all the answers as askin' the right questions.”

“I suppose you have me there,” the coroner agreed as he picked up a scalpel and started to make an incision around the head, starting at the hole. He was cutting with deft, sure strokes that reminded Chowder not of a butcher but an artist.

“So, my questions are these, Doc. First off, could a man make a hole like that with just the bayonet in his hand? Second, if that's possible, and I think it is, then would it kill outright or what? Third…” Chowder was ticking off the questions on his fingers one by one. The doctor looked up from his work, raising a curious eyebrow. “Can you tell what angle the blade struck from? This fella wasn't all that tall, maybe five-seven or so. The angle would help to indicate the height, ya see?” Chowder explained.

“Fourth. Let's see, oh, fourth is how long's he been departed? I'm thinkin' no more'n two days. A little hard to tell, him bein' a floater.” The body had obviously been in water, a fact so plain that Chowder hadn't even commented on it till now. “Not enough decay for much more than that I reckon. You go right ahead and correct me if I'm wrong there.”

The doctor put down the scalpel. It clattered on the steel table, echoing off the cold tiled walls.

“The answer to your first question is yes. Not easy, mind, but yes, quite possible. Hard to say if it killed outright. Maybe, maybe not. I've seen all kinds of head wounds and they're usually fatal. Still, there's a lot about the brain we don't know, Detective, a lot that we can't explain. Had one case in here recently where a construction worker took a fall and impaled himself on a crowbar. He walked into this hospital with the thing sticking out one eye. Went right through his head, too. He lived.

“One thing I can tell you is that there wasn't much water in the lungs, so I'd say he died very shortly after going into the water,” the doctor said. “As to angle, it's hard to say until I get a look at the damage to the brain itself. My guess is, and this is judging by the location of the wound in the upper rear area, that it was a slightly downward stroke.”

“Hmm,” Chowder mused, imagining the height of the attacker.

“And I'd say he's been dead about twenty hours or so,” the coroner went on. Chowder started scribbling notes in a little leather-bound book that was worn and curled at the edges. The doctor paused for just an instant, wondering what sorts of things that little book had seen scribbled in its pages over the years. The pencil scratching out hurried words was the only sound.

The coroner picked up his scalpel and resumed his cutting. A little grin skittered about the corners of his mouth. Chowder noticed and wondered at it. Doctors could be damned strange, he thought to himself.

“Lastly, this gentleman was fished out of the Hudson just north of Eighty-fifth Street about two hours ago, and, no, unfortunately I have no idea who he is. Nobody seems to know.”

They all sat together, Duryea, William, and Frederick pulling up chairs once the introductions were made. Tom and William seemed to take an instant liking to each other, especially after William told him he knew Chief Byrnes. Byrnes had been a great help in recovering some jewelry that had been stolen from his mother's townhouse back in '84. Tom chuckled at that.

“Byrnes has always kept a long string of informants, lists of thieves, forgers, safecrackers, confidence men and the like,” he told Durant. “Sometimes he'd pay for information or the return of stolen goods. Most times he'd know who the thief was by simply examining the scene and questioning witnesses. Of course, from time to time he'd have to resort to other methods,” Tom said with a shrug, thinking of Little Benny Corrigan. “Byrnes almost always got the goods back.”

“Well, I don't know how he did it,” William said, “but Jay Gould was right in recommending I see him about the matter. He had Mother's jewels back within three days. Delivered them himself as well. Remarkable man.”

“I couldn't agree more. I collaborated with him on his book a few years back. Perhaps you've heard of it?
Professional Criminals of America.
Published in 'eighty-six. Set the standard for the understanding and cataloguing of criminal types and methods,” Tom added.

Frederick shrugged but tried to sound enthusiastic. “Fascinating,” he ventured. “I regret I can't claim to have read it though. Been busy with my little project here.”

“And a wonderful project it is,” Mary said. “I can't begin to imagine the planning and work that must have gone into it. It's just staggering.”

Frederick looked pleased at the compliment. “Not much more than forest when I got here. Now my guests want for nothing, not even electricity.” The pride in his voice was amplified by the evening's drinking.

“I do have one complaint though,” Mary said when she sensed that Frederick was about to recite the long list of virtues of the Prospect House.

A frown clouded Frederick's features. “Name it, madam, and it will be addressed if it's in my power to do so. I will not have my guests displeased with any aspect of their stay here,” he said, looking at her as if he might jump up and go into action at her slightest word.

Tom knew where Mary was going and figured he'd let her see it through. She was a lot better than him at these things anyway. He never had been much of a diplomat. It wasn't a skill that got much exercise in his line of work. He recognized the gift in her, though. She'd always been able to get more with a few words than he could with an hour of bluster.

“Well, I hesitate to even mention it, Mister Durant.”

“Frederick. Call me Frederick, Missus Braddock, Fred actually. I'd be honored if you'd call me Fred.”

“Of course. And you must call me Mary,” she answered with such self-assured charm it made Tom marvel. “It's that deer of yours,” Mary went on. “He's quite bad-tempered.”

“Didn't I tell you about that damn buck? Scares more guests than he pleases,” Duryea interrupted. Mary smiled at the general. “Exactly, sir. He bit my boy Michael this afternoon.”

“Your doctor had to put a couple stitches in it,” Tom added. “Beautiful animal, but you should put him in a different enclosure, something where people can't reach in, especially children,” Tom said in a low, flat tone that didn't encourage argument.

“It's a wild animal, Fred,” William said as if they'd had this discussion before. “I know you don't want my opinion, but he'd be better off free, or better still, hanging on your wall. This caged existence doesn't agree with the nature of the beast. He's not a cow, you know.”

Fred seemed none too happy with the advice, but he did the gallant thing and said, “I'm terribly sorry, Mary.” He turned to Tom almost as an afterthought. “My sincere apologies to you both,” he continued. “Is your boy all right? Is there anything more I can do? Doctor Whelen is really quite good, I can assure you.”

Tom and Mary were quick to tell Frederick that Mike had been looked after as well as they could have wished. Frederick seemed pleased, but he wasn't done.

“I want to make this up to you both. I hope you won't mind if I insist on deducting your meals for the duration of your stay,” Frederick said, snapping his fingers for a waiter. “I won't have you decline,” he said with an upheld hand when he saw Tom about to protest. “Really. I can't have friends of Hiram's chewed upon, and I don't care how long your stay is, nor how much you can eat,” he said with a grin.

The waiter appeared and Frederick instructed him about the Braddock dining bill. “And be sure about it, Stephens,” he told the man. “I don't want to hear of it showing up on their bill.”

The waiter bowed his understanding, mumbling that he'd see to it immediately. Turning back to Tom and Mary, Frederick said, “Now, that's done” with a broad smile. He seemed to cast about the table for something to say or some other topic to change the mood. His eyes rested on the general.

“You know, Hiram we've gotten sort of sidetracked. You never did explain how our Mister Braddock here has risen from the dead.”

The general chuckled at that but there was no mirth in it.

“Can't tell you that, Fred. I'll let him tell you that part. I can tell you how I killed him, though.”

Mary gave the general a puzzled look, then turned to Tom. The corners of his mouth had tightened and hard lines framed his eyes. Tom rarely spoke about the war. When he did, it was in terms so vague that all feeling was lost, bleached out, leaving only colorless cloth behind. The one sense she'd always had was that Tom had seen and done things too terrible to be told. Whatever those things were, he kept them in a dark corner reserved only for nightmares. Those dreams had not ended with the war. All these years later they still were free to invade their bed in the grave-quiet hours of the morning.

Duryea took a long breath and downed the last of his whiskey. He signaled for another round before he started.

“It was at Chancellorsville, June of 'sixty-three. Bloody awful confusion, once Hooker lost his nerve and went on the defensive. My regiment, I was a colonel then, got separated from the units to our left and right.” Duryea took a sip of his drink once it arrived. “No place for a battle, the wilderness of Virginia. Broken ground, low underbrush, scrub pine. Can't see farther than you could throw in most places.”

Tom grunted agreement into his glass of port.

“Smoke so damn thick you couldn't see the man next to you sometimes,” Duryea continued, staring off as if trying to pierce the haze. “Anyway, we got separated. Had to withdraw or be cut off. Your husband, Mary, had somehow gotten separated from his unit, too, and fought along with my men. Had maybe twenty or thirty with him, if I recall,” Duryea said, looking to Tom for confirmation.

Braddock just nodded. He never had a precise count either, though there were those he could still remember.

“Anyway, I called for volunteers to hold our left flank while we withdrew. Sergeant Braddock was willing, if I recall, because that was the direction you figured the Twentieth was.”

Tom nodded. “Thought maybe we could work our way back, sort of slide along a creekbed there and link up,” he said.

“Right. We could see they'd be coming across a small field bordered by the creek. The sergeant, Tom here, took his men in there, facing at least a regiment. Damned crazy,” Duryea mumbled.

“Suppose it was,” Tom said with no touch of irony in his voice. “We had the Spencers,” he added, as if that was an excuse.

Duryea grunted. “Yes, the Spencers. We had come upon a wagon with three crates bound for the cavalry. Horses were dead, so I guess the teamsters just left it or were killed themselves.”

“Never would have tried it without those guns,” Tom said.

“Fine rifle,” William pitched in. “Had an infantry model once. Shot well. Better than a musket and three times the rate of fire.”

“Yup. Liked the cavalry model,” Tom said, warming to the discussion of the Spencer's attributes.

“Didn't have the range of the infantry, but better in a close fight. I'd never handled one till then, though I'd seen a few, they were that new. It didn't take a genius to see that they could fire a lot faster than an Enfield. Used to call them the ‘horizontal shot-tower.'”

“Exactly,” Duryea went on. “They deployed to the left flank, and my Zouaves were withdrawing in the best order we could, when I heard the volleys off your way. Saw them coming with my glass—through the smoke. Charging.”

There was a long silence as Duryea took another sip of his whiskey. A cuckoo clock off in the lobby started to chime and chirp the hours. Dishes rattled somewhere in the kitchen.

“Smoke blocked out what happened, but I heard those Spencers barking.” Duryea lifted his tumbler to Tom. “And I thanked the Lord for you, Sergeant.”

Tom shrugged but didn't say anything. He'd been foolish. He should have died from his foolishness like so many of the men with him. That he hadn't always left the grainy grit of guilt in the back of his throat. Finally, Duryea broke the silence. “Shouldn't have let you do it. When I heard the volleys I figured you could not possibly have survived. Inquired after you once the battle was done, but couldn't get word of you or—anything,” Duryea said in a halting voice. “Took you for dead or at best captured. Saved our flank, though.”

Mary had been watching Tom while Duryea talked. She watched his eyes. There was a smoky sadness there, a haze of years and bitter experience.

“Wounded,” Tom said. He didn't volunteer anything more except, “Spent the next couple of weeks in a hospital. Nothing real serious.”

Mary could see there was far more to the story; they all could, but no one asked. Mary didn't think she'd ever know all Tom could tell about those years. She knew how much it pained him to speak of it. Tom had let her into all the secret places in his life. There were plenty of those—the corruption in the department mostly—but other things, like how he or his men managed to get a confession, or the things he knew went on in Tammany Hall, or even the women before her, everything but this. For this there was a wall, a bitter breastwork so high he could hardly see over it. That barrier had to be assaulted gently or not at all.

Duryea looked at his watch, exclaiming, “Look at the time! I really must be going, but I want you all to dinner tomorrow,” he added, extending an invitation like a command with, “I won't hear of anything else.”

When they had accepted, the general got up a little wearily, took his leave, and ended with a final, “Come over around four. We'll do some shooting. My boys are crazy for it.”

“Well, if it's shooting you want, why don't you all come here for dinner?” Frederick said. “Our range is a sight larger than yours, Hiram, and our chef has no equal north of Albany.”

It was agreed and the general shook Tom's hand, saying, “Bring your pistol, Thomas. You can show them how it's done in the police, eh?”

Not nearly enough hours later, Mary rolled over and pried one eye open to squint at the wall clock. Rolling back toward Tom, she nudged him then leaned close to nibble his ear.

“The fish are jumping,” she whispered. “Do you know what time it is, sleepyhead?”

Tom rolled away, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Don't tell me. Let me guess.” There was a long silence as he pretended to think. “Time to go fishing?”

“No,” Mary answered with a poke at his ribs. “It's time for you to spend some time with that boy of ours.”

A grunt came from under the pillow, managing to sound guilty and reluctant at the same time.

“What time is it really?” he asked, throwing the pillow off and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“It's after nine.”

Tom groaned as he rolled his feet out onto the floor and sat up. “This is supposed to be a vacation, right?” he said as he hauled himself to his feet and stretched. “Damn! I'm sore from all that riding yesterday. Got a bruise on my ribs from the seat on that stage.” He rubbed the spot on his back with a grimace.

“No sympathy from me. Now get moving, soldier,” Mary said in mock command. Tom grunted as he stood for a moment looking out their window at the morning lake, sparkling in blue-sky reflections. Perhaps it was her pretending to give Tom an order, or the way he looked as he stared off over the water, but Mary found herself asking, “What happened at Chancellorsville, Tommy?” wishing as soon as she said it that she could take the question back.

Tom stood still, silhouetted against the morning light that poured in the window. Mary's question had ambushed him, taken him by the flank, rolling up any resistance before he could mount a proper defense. He found himself back at Chancellorsville, his mind replaying it in fits and starts, the noise and confusion, the smoke thick and stinging in the back of his throat. The volleys crashed over them, clipping branches and throwing up showers of earth. He knew he was telling Mary how it was, but it wasn't him telling it. Some other part of him was there in the hotel room, the rest was back in Virginia, ducking a thundering hail of bullets, so scared he could hardly think. Tom began to sweat as he told her how it was.

He told her how they got into position along the creek. They'd surprised the first assault, cutting down a hundred or more before they knew what hit them. In the lull before the second rush they'd slipped by their left flank along the creek, staying low. When the charge came most of the rebels' first volley tore harmlessly into where they
had
been.

Again, Tom's men had thrown them back but their losses were mounting. Though they shifted position once more, it didn't help.

“Ran right over us. Got in the creek by our right flank. Shot us all to pieces,” he told Mary, seeing the small stream running bright red in his mind's eye. The noise and the cries and the splashing of the red water flashed in his head in staccato bursts of sight and sound.