“Yes, we’re aware of that,” Falconer replied. “This is just a follow-up type of thing…for copycats and such…you understand.”
“Right...I suppose so,” Dysert said slowly.
“Look,” Falconer said as he took a seat in front of the desk and motioned for Levine to do the same. “We don’t want to get in the way of your investigation out there, but it would be very helpful to us down in the Fourth if you could let us come along for the ride out to the island so that we can see what happened with our own eyes. You are headed out there again today, I imagine?”
“Yes, I am, actually,” Dysert replied. “Headed out this morning, just to finalize some interviews. I suppose there’s no harm in another detective coming along. And the professor here is okay? I mean, this is a little unusual…you’ve not run into any difficulties with his ‘consulting?’”
“No, nothing at all,” Falconer replied briskly. “He’s been very helpful during our investigations—a real library of criminal knowledge, I’d say, right, professor?”
Levine looked at Falconer, and then back at Dysert. “Uh, yes, absolutely,” he said. “Happy to lend any help that I can to the police force, Detective Dysert.”
“Right, well…we’ll be catching the launch in an hour,” said Dysert. “Here’s the dock number over at the 86th Street Pier.” He wrote down something on a slip of paper and handed it to Falconer. “See you there?”
“Absolutely,” Falconer replied, tipping his hat. “Much obliged, Dysert. Uh…mind if I ask you? Has your suspect talked yet?”
“Don’t mind at all, detective,” Dysert said. “Yes, he’s talked. He’s denied it all—says someone set him up. He’s a cook in the asylum’s kitchen—a foreigner—and we found some blood and probably the knife that was used among his belongings, as well as some ripped cloth in his pocket that appears to match the material from her hospital gown that was torn in the killing. He’s pretty thickheaded, though, somewhat of an idiot himself, I’d say. But with the blood, the knife, and the ripped cloth, it looks to be a quick case.”
“Thanks,” Falconer said. “We’ll be seeing you in an hour. Shall we, professor?” He and Levine then stood up and walked out into the hallway.
“Have you ever been out there?” Levine asked as they walked back towards the exit of the building. “To Blackwell’s?”
“Sure,” Falconer replied.
“Anything you should warn me about?” Levine said. “Given that it’s a lunatic asylum, I mean.”
“Don’t worry, professor,” Falconer said. “Just be ready for a whole lot of noise.”
26
Fifty minutes later, they walked up the gangplank to the river steamboat, “Thomas S. Brennan,” docked at the 86th Street wharf, and entered the passenger compartment with Detective Dysert.
“It’s not a bad boat,” Dysert explained as the roar of the steam engines increased in volume and the boat moved slowly off its docking. “It entered service in eighty-four, and it takes only ten minutes to get over to Blackwell’s—real convenient.”
“Haven’t been out here in a while,” Falconer stated. “I thought they were closing up the place.”
“Well,” Dysert replied, looking out upon the sunlit, sparkling water that was slowly moving by, “the men are now all housed either on Ward Island, Hart Island, or the new facility over in East Islip. But most of the women are still out here. And believe me—it’s too many women for the space they have.”
“Didn’t the Nellie Bly business convince them to build some new places for the women?” Falconer asked. “That wasn’t a pretty picture she exposed in the newspapers.”
Falconer had followed very closely the series of exposés that Miss Bly, the intrepid newspaper reporter, had generated a couple of years earlier after she had tricked authorities and feigned insanity to gain admission into the Blackwell’s insane asylum. Her shocking dispatches cataloging the horrendous conditions inside the asylum had been secretly transferred to the waiting hands of colleagues on the outside and had caused a great uproar in the city and beyond when published.
“Yes, it did cause some changes,” Dysert said, grinning. “Did you get a chance to read it? Fascinating stuff. They’ve taken steps to improve the facility, but I think the asylum is in its last days, frankly. It’s just too old and obsolete for this sort of thing.”
“Hm,” Falconer grunted as he scanned the island that was getting closer and closer ahead. Levine walked up to them standing at the railing and spoke above the din of the ferry’s engines and the wind whistling by their ears. “May I ask you gentlemen a question?” he said. “Why has this homicide out here not gotten the same press attention as the East River Hotel killing? I’ve really not seen much of anything in the newspapers today.”
“Maybe because it looks like the answers are there already and there’s not going to be any mystery,” answered Dysert. “A basic killing of a lunatic female by a hospital staff member who probably tried to take advantage of her in her helpless state.”
“Yes,” Falconer chimed in. “Seems like the death of an unnamed patient out at an insane asylum just doesn’t have the draw of other homicides, professor.”
“I should mention, too,” Dysert said, “that the Central Office has basically told us to keep this one quiet. They apparently don’t want to scare up any more of this Ripper business that was in the papers. So please—don’t go anywhere with this, all right?”
“Keep it quiet?” asked Falconer. “Headquarters told you that?”
“Yes,” Dysert replied. “The word from down there was basically to book the cook and move on from this homicide quickly and quietly, and don’t get the attention of the newspapers. So, if you could keep silent about this one, if you know what I mean? If anything gets out because of one of us, it’ll be our heads.”
“Right,” Falconer answered, glancing over at Levine and then out at the river and to the island that was getting nearer and nearer up ahead. He looked over beyond the shoreline to the large gray buildings that stood inland in the distance and said nothing more on the way to the dock.
27
When the boat finally came alongside the dock at the north side of the island and workers tied it securely to the several mooring bollards sticking up out of the planking, Falconer, Levine, and Dysert stepped down off the gangplank and were greeted by a man dressed in a suit. Falconer noted to himself that the man seemed to be about forty or so and was thin and well-manicured. “Welcome to Blackwell’s Island, gentlemen,” he said to them. “I’m Doctor James Speed, Deputy Superintendent of the asylum. Please—if you’ll allow me to bring you to the facility up the hill. We have a carriage waiting.”
The four men then trudged briefly up a gravel pathway to the waiting open carriage and climbed onto it. Once they were seated, the driver led the team of horses up a road through a lush grove of woods and picturesque green lawns beyond which stood an occasional tree. It was truly a beautiful spot of ground, Falconer thought to himself as they rolled quickly towards the enormous three-storied stone building that housed the asylum just ahead of them.
He scanned the impressive structure intently as the got closer: two long, stone buildings, each with three separate floors, emanated outward from a central, hexagonal stone tower at right angles like a pair of stiff limbs. The outer section of the tower, similarly three stories high, looked more like the robust fortification of an 18th century military fort than an administrative center for a mental asylum. Then, projecting up and out of the middle of the stone tower was a high wooden dome, itself also three floors high, with windows on all sides and a crow’s nest peeking out at the top. Affixed to a high pole that extended high above the crow’s nest, Falconer could see an American flag waving in the breeze and giving the whole tower a very martial feel.
When the carriage came to a stop, the men alighted from it in front of two elegant stone staircases leading up from the drive to the raised first floor of the stone tower, where a canopied porch led into the main entrance of the plac
e. Speed escorted the men up the stairs and into the large entrance. After signing the visitors’ registry, the men then followed Speed up a curving, inner staircase to the third floor of the tower. Falconer glanced around as they walked: the tower seemed abuzz with activity, with many staff members walking back and forth between offices, and voices chattering within each hidden room. At the top of the stairs, Speed opened a door and ushered the men into a spacious inner office where apparently the administrators of the asylum did their work. Speed offered the three men a seat and then sat down himself behind his desk.
“Well, then,” he said. “I am sorry that the superintendent cannot meet with you today after this terrible incident, but I want to assure you that I am at your service in any way possible as you complete your investigatory duties on the property. And I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask—would anyone care for a smoke?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Dysert said as he took a cigarette cheerfully from the assistant superintendent. “Thank you.”
“Professor Levine or Detective Falconer?” Speed inquired.
“None for me, thank you,” answered Levine.
“Just a light, thanks,” Falconer said as he reached into his jacket pocket for a cigarillo. Speed reached over and lit a match for the detective and then sat back in his chair.
“Well,” he said, “it seems that Mister Neumann is not the man we thought he was. He seemed to be a very quiet sort who just went about his duties in the kitchen, and then this happens.”
“Yes, well, you’d be surprised who commits the worst of crimes in the city,” Dysert said. “Sometimes it’s the man who has a spotless record, and then for some reason, he just snaps one day.”
“I don’t suppose he’s admitted to the killing?” Speed asked.
“No, not yet,” Dysert answered. “But the case is solid, as you know, given our search yesterday. I don’t believe a confession will be necessary to secure a conviction.”
“So how can we help you today, detective?” Speed asked as he flicked the ashes of his cigarette into a crystal ashtray carved into the shape of a sperm whale sitting on his desk.
“I’d just like to speak again with the kitchen supervisor and the attendant who found the body, if you don’t mind,” replied Dysert.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Speed said, “anything, detective. I’ll call for them.”
“And, Mr. Speed?” Dysert asked.
“Yes, detective?”
“The chief inspector wants none of this in the newspapers, if you know what I mean. With all the Ripper hysteria over the past couple of months and with this German cook already in jail, we feel that it’s best that we just keep this between the department and your facility, you understand? A prosecution will proceed shortly, and it will just be another unfortunate incident that we’ve had to deal with in the city, regrettably.”
“I completely understand, detective,” Speed answered immediately. “You’ve got the culprit who committed this terrible crime, and I agree that there’s simply no reason to add to the hysteria, as you so aptly out it, that your department has been dealing with since April. And…”
Falconer thought he could almost detect the faintest sign of a smile appear on the assistant superintendent’s face.
“…we think that it would be simply terrible for the patients here if word got out that an insane cook strangled and stabbed one of their own on the grounds—just not good for their care and rehabilitation, I should think. Don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Speed,” Dysert said. “I’m glad that you agree with my department. Shall we?”
“Yes, please,” Speed said, getting up out of his chair. “Let’s go get those two staff members and you can be on your way. If you’ll follow me?”
The four men then exited the office and descended the winding staircase that hugged the inside wall of the tower. Falconer had not said anything when Speed and Dysert agreed to bury the case in the name of civil order, and he remained silent on the way to the interviews with the asylum staff members, but the whitewash was nagging at him. It was clear why Byrnes was quickly moving to keep things quiet: the murder of Old Shakespeare had come close to causing a panic in the city and now Ali was about to be brought to trial and supposed justice. Another similar murder of a woman on the heels of the Ripper scare would put the D.A. and police headquarters on the defensive yet again, even if Carrie Brown’s murder had not been at the hands of the Whitechapel killer. The newshounds would be all over this, Falconer thought, and would be going for Byrnes’ throat after his confident assurances that Ali had killed Miss Brown and Jack the Ripper was never even in New York.
Apparently, some clouds had come in since the men had gotten off the boat, and he could hear a soft rain begin to fall outside as he contemplated the machinations of headquarters and walked down a long hallway towards the facility’s kitchen. The rain could be heard hitting up on the rooftop, and as they walked, it slowly started to come harder until it sounded like a steady roar, like a steam engine rushing by. Falconer looked over at Levine, who looked up in the direction of the sound and wiped some perspiration from his forehead.
This place had an ominous feel to it, Falconer thought. It had been noisy in the hexagonal central building, but now that they were walking down the hallway in one of the long, stone annexes, it was strangely silent. Then, as they walked farther and farther down the hallway, he almost thought that he could hear faint voices coming from somewhere in the facility. They were not, however, the voices that one would typically expect to hear in a stone office building—the reasoned and sensible chatter of professional men and women going about their daily routines—but rather, were strange and uncontrolled voices, voices that seemed inhuman in a way, closer to the wild cackles and shrieks of animals one might find in the forest or the jungle. Indeed, he thought as the men neared the end of the hallway that these voices sounded like the heart-stopping howls of the wolf that he had heard once as he walked in some northern woods with his father.
“Do you hear that?” Levine asked as they neared the kitchen area.
“What?” asked Dysert?
“I hear it,” said Falconer grimly as they came to stop at an open door. “I’d guess that would be your patients, Mister Speed?”
Dysert turned his head back towards the beginning of the hallway from whence they had come, apparently trying to listen more intently.
“Yes, patients up above us on the higher floors,” Speed said nonchalantly. “There’s no need to be frightened—simply the ravings of harmless women who have lost their sensibilities, I’m afraid. You get used to it.”
He turned and led them into the large kitchen and pantry area of the facility, and then moved off into a back office alone. Moments later, he returned with a large, red-haired man with a mustache.
“This is Mister Gustav Bolen, the kitchen supervisor,” Speed said. “He’ll be happy to speak to you, gentlemen.”
Bolen sat down with the men at a large, rectangular wooden table in the kitchen, and Speed instructed the other workers nearby to leave the room. Dysert then revisited the prior night’s events with the rotund Swede.
“Mister Bolen,” Dysert began, “you found the knife that we took into custody inside a bag that Mister Neumann owned, is that true?”
“Ya,” the man replied in a thick Swedish accent. “We were searching with your police officers last night and I looked into Alois’ bag—he keeps it hanging from the nail over there.” Bolen pointed to a row of nails punched into the wall near the kitchen office. “I saw the knife in his bag. Didn’t look right to me, you know? It should have been with all the rest of our kitchen knives. Then, I reach in and see that it has blood in there, you understand?”
“Yes,” Dysert said. “We are analyzing that blood now, and we do believe that it will be confirmed as human. Now Mister Bolen, I know that you were cleared of any suspicion in this—and that’s as we expected—but is there anyone else who might’ve been inside here after the time when yo
u all left after cleaning up after supper?”
Bolen scratched his chin with a burly and scarred hand for a moment, and then looked back at Dysert. “Nah,” he said. “No one would be here at that time, at least no one should have been in here.”
Dysert pressed him some more: “Did Mister Neumann ever say anything to you about this, or about the girl perhaps?”
“No, sir,” Bolen replied. “Neumann, he very quiet. He don’t bother no one down here. I never see him trying to talk to any girl out here, either.”
“Did you ever see any strangers lurking about down here yesterday?” Dysert asked. “Anyone who wouldn’t belong?”
“No,” the big cook responded firmly. “There was nobody—just the other men who work in here.”
“I see,” Dysert said. He turned to speak in a hushed voice with Falconer and Levine.
“Anything else, gentlemen? Anything I missed?”
Falconer shook his head, and Levine did the same.
“Well,” said Dysert, turning back to Bolen. “I believe that we’re done here for now, Mister Bolen. We don’t want to keep you from your duties any longer. Thank you for your time again.”
“Okay,” Bolen replied. “No problem.”
As Bolen wandered off, Dysert turned to Speed and asked where Timothy Gentry, the attendant who had found the body, could be found at this hour.
“Unfortunately, he’s upstairs on duty in one of the wards,” Speed replied. “If you don’t mind the patients, I think we could bring him into a side office momentarily. Would that work?”
Dysert looked at Falconer and Levine quickly and then turned back to Speed. “Certainly,” he said. “That would be fine.”
“Very well then,” Speed said. “Shall we?”
The four men got up out of their chairs and walked through a doorway leading out into the hallway. Speed walked directly across the hallway to a set of locked doors and unlocked them. He then led the men up a flight of stairs. When they reached the top, he unlocked another set of doors and then directed the men to turn right and head down the long hallway again. As they walked, Falconer could immediately see that they were in a different world now: patients were walking about in their off-white asylum gowns, some talking to themselves, some gesticulating wildly, all clearly under the throes of some manic energy, some disease of the mind that unhinged them permanently from this real world. Every so often, a staff member, similarly clad in white but with dark trousers on, would walk by silently accompanying one of lunatics, or would rush hurriedly by, as if to respond to some emergency in one of the wards.
Here Page 9
