Here

by Sean Moynihan

  Now alone with the two young boys in the damp alley, Falconer walked up to the barrel and looked inside again. He could see that the woman had suffered a slashed throat and several long gashes to her thighs, but her torso was still covered by her torn dress and thus, no other injuries could be discerned at the moment. Then, looking closely at her hands, he saw that she was still holding something in one of them. As he reached into his pocket to grab a handkerchief so that he could grab the unknown object, he suddenly heard footsteps behind him and looked back towards the alley’s entrance. Captain O’Connor and Detective McCloskey were running up to him. “What is it, Falconer?” the captain asked breathlessly.

  “In here, captain,” Falconer said, motioning to the barrel. “These kids just found her.”

  O’Connor and McCloskey walked over to the barrel and looked inside. “Good Lord,” O’Connor said.

  “The kids were playing hide-and-seek,” Falconer explained, “and this little one tried to get inside it and found her. His older brother here came looking for us at the station.”

  O’Connor, looking distressed over the grisly find just blocks from his precinct station house, rested his arms on the top of the barrel and then wiped his sweaty brown with one of his sleeves. “Let’s bring the boys back to the station,” he finally said. “We’ll take official statements from them and then the matron can look after them. And we’ll send officers back here to close off the place, but we must be discrete about it—we can’t attract attention and have another damn scare going on, understand?”

  Falconer nodded, and saw McCloskey do the same. Then the captain turned to McCloskey. “Tom,” he said, “you go back and grab some officers and fetch the ambulance—we’ll wait here. And take these boys with you, too.”

  “Sure thing,” McCloskey said, and the detective turned to face the young boys standing to the side. “Come on, lads,” he said, “we’re just going to go over to the station house and write down what you saw—it won’t take long.”

  Artie and Michael stepped back slightly and looked over at Falconer, appearing uneasy with McCloskey’s suggestion.

  Falconer stepped up to them and kneeled. “It’s okay, boys,” he said. “I’ll be over there shortly, and no one’s going to harm you. Just go along with Detective McCloskey here and I’ll be there shortly, all right?”

  The boys then grudgingly walked over to McCloskey and started to walk out of the alley with him, but as they did, Michael peered back at Falconer with what Falconer thought was a worried look on his face. Falconer nodded at him again, and Michael turned back towards the entrance and slowly disappeared around the corner with the detective and his little brother.

  Falconer stepped over to the barrel again where O’Connor was scanning the interior. “I was just about to look at what’s in her hand down there,” he said to the captain, taking out the handkerchief again. “See there? Let me try and grab it.”

  He bent over the top of the barrel and reached down with his arm, gently opening the fingers of the woman’s closed hand. He could see now that it was a small piece of paper that she held, and so he grabbed it lightly on its edges with the handkerchief and slowly extracted it from her fingers, and then stood up straight again outside the barrel. Carefully opening the handkerchief, he looked down at the piece of paper that had bloodstains on it.

  “What does it say?” O’Connor asked after a moment of silence. But Falconer did not reply, and only stood gazing down at the paper with a million thoughts running through his head. “Falconer?” O’Connor asked again.

  “Here, captain,” he finally said, handing the paper to O’Connor. O’Connor took the handkerchief in his hand and looked down at the blood-soaked paper, reading the small, typewritten paragraph that appeared on it.

  “What the hell, Falconer?” he finally said, looking up with a pained look on his face.

  Falconer said nothing, and slowly walked over to the brick wall, thinking of Charlie Penwill and Eli Levine.

  51

  Falconer looked at the men standing in front of Chief Inspector Byrnes’ large oak desk up on the third floor of the Mulberry Street headquarters building about an hour after the body of the unnamed woman had been found in the barrel in Mullen’s Alley. Captain O’Connor, Detective Sergeant McCloskey, and now Inspector Clubber Williams, Captain McLaughlin, and Detective Sergeant Crowley stood with him waiting as the chief inspector quietly examined the bloody note. Falconer watched as Byrnes rubbed his chin carefully with one hand as he held the note in the other, and then finally placed the note down on his desk. The chief looked up at Falconer.

  “Well, Falconer,” he said, “you have my attention now. This is very interesting—very interesting, indeed. It seems that this person is playing a game with us for some reason, and he has a healthy respect for you, that’s clear. I’m not concerned about his taunts and insults, frankly, but I do concede that we now have a possible multiple killer on our hands in the city, and he must be stopped. He says he’s responsible for these attacks, and I believe he is, but not all of them: I don’t believe we got the wrong man in the East River Hotel homicide—Ali was duly convicted by a jury of his peers based on solid blood evidence and his own lies. But the other attacks…this is the work of a copycat killer who wants to have his fun and get his name in the papers. Whoever he is, and I’m not necessarily saying he’s the Whitechapel killer, gentlemen, he is trying to do to us what the Whitechapel killer did in London—put the scare in us and the people. And we need to put an end to that now. Falconer, since he is so strangely fixated on you, do you have any suggestions on where to start?”

  Falconer felt the other men’s gazes now fix upon him, and he played with his bowler in his hands as he struggled to find words in response to the chief’s inquiry. Then, glancing quickly out the window of the chief’s office, he turned back to the men and spoke. “I don’t know if this is the Whitechapel killer either, but at this point, I have to assume that it is. For whatever reason, he seems to want to engage me, so I say we engage him and try to draw him out—cause him to make a mistake.”

  “And how do you propose we do that, detective?” Byrnes asked.

  “I reply through the Tribune,” Falconer answered, “and try to get a clue as to where he’ll strike next. I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all we have right now. If I try to get closer to him, make him comfortable with me, then maybe he’ll slip up.”

  “What?” Clubber Williams interjected from the side of the room. “You think this killer is just going to sit down and have tea with you, man?”

  “Probably not,” Falconer answered, looking over at the inspector, “but he is communicating with me right now, that’s clear. I should try and keep up the banter, keep him talking—it’s better than ignoring him and grasping around in the dark like we are now.”

  “He’s right, men,” Byrnes said as he picked the note up again off his desk and re-examined it briefly. “These messages are a direct line of communication to a psychopath in our midst,” he asserted, “and it’s our best lead so far. Falconer, think up a response and get back to me before sending anything through the papers. And you are now to take the lead on this, understand? You are officially the assigned detective on this case because you’re so close to it, for some reason. I want every resource granted to Falconer on this,” he said, glancing over at Crowley and O’Connor. “Give him whatever he needs and give him a free rein—we need to stop this menace before he attacks again. And for God’s sake, don’t let the press know anything about these latest events. We don’t need another damned scare going on—is that understood?”

  The men in the room nodded in unison.

  “Anything else?” the chief inspector asked the group. “Falconer?”

  “Yes, two things, sir,” Falconer replied. “First, we should start sending out some men in the red-light districts, but have them dressed up as women—”

  “Women?” Williams asked incredulously. “Did I just hear you right?”

  “Yes,
” Falconer replied calmly. “Just as some people on this force suggested to the British authorities three years ago—send out men dressed as women into the streets and try to draw the killer to them. Or, if you can’t do that, pay some actual streetwalkers to do it, and have plain-clothes men hovering nearby on every street corner. We have to bring the killer out into the open, and it may take using some ladies to do that.”

  “As bait, you mean,” Williams concluded.

  “That’s right, inspector,” Falconer said. “It’s the only way to get this killer, I believe, so we have to start sending them out now.”

  “All right then,” Byrnes said, “we’ll look to that, but you said two things a moment ago. What’s the second?”

  Falconer thought for a moment, and then decided it was best to come clean and make a demand. “There’s a British detective, sir, a man sent here by Scotland Yard to look around these parts after the East Hotel murder, and I’ve met him. He’s good, and he knows the Whitechapel killings, and we could use his help.”

  “Are you saying there’s a Scotland Yard inspector here in our city doing his own investigations?” Byrnes inquired. “Right under our noses?”

  “Yes, sir,” Falconer replied, “and I’d like to have him officially added to the investigation. If you want your killer, you should do this, with all due respect.”

  Byrnes furrowed his brow and walked silently over to the window of his office, where he appeared to gaze out onto the busy Mulberry Street far below. Then he turned around slowly and faced Falconer standing in the middle of the group of men. “Well, it’s a little unorthodox,” he said, “but you can have your British inspector, Falconer, provided that we go through the right channels and make it official—I assume you can make that happen, Tom?”

  “Yes, sir,” Crowley nodded, “certainly.”

  “Good then,” Byrnes said. “Let’s go get our man, shall we? And let’s try to keep the press off this as long as we can. They’ll cause an uproar again when they get ahold of this. Thank you, gentlemen.”

  The men then shuffled out into the hallway, leaving Byrnes, Williams, and Crowley standing around Byrnes’ desk. Falconer, though, stopped at the door as he was walking out and turned back to face the chief inspector. “Sir,” he said, “is anyone going to look into releasing Neumann, the suspect from Blackwell’s Island, given these circumstances?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s a good point, Falconer,” Byrnes replied. “We will contact his attorney shortly. I think it’s safe to say at this point that Neumann was framed. We will have him released forthwith, Falconer.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Falconer said, and then, drawing his bowler to his head, he walked out into the hallway. Down on the first floor, he saw Jacob Riis standing in the lobby. “Good morning, Falconer,” the reporter said, appearing surprised at seeing the detective on a Saturday at the headquarters. “What brings you here today, I wonder?”

  “Mister Riis,” Falconer said, nodding. “I just had a brief meeting with some of the brass—nothing important. Anything new and exciting for you today?”

  “Oh, I just heard of a Tammany higher-up who was found drunk and naked over in Tompkins Square Park last night,” Riis replied. “Thought I’d come down and see what it’s all about. And what about you, my good sir? I don’t see you around these parts that often.”

  “As I said, nothing important,” Falconer said, lying. “Just a young woman in my ward who appears to have succumbed to the drink last night, that’s all. It’s unfortunate.”

  “Yes, I see,” Riis said, shuffling to avoid the numerous people traipsing by in the crowded lobby. “Well, I do hope you are well, detective. It’s always nice to run into you.”

  “Same to you, Mr. Riis,” Falconer said, extending a hand to the graying and bespectacled reporter. “By the way, any new books coming out in the near future?”

  “Well, yes, I have been working on one,” Riis replied, “but I have a way to go on it, I’m afraid. It’s about the thousands of children we see running around the city all the time, parentless and without shoes, and all. You know the story.”

  “Yes, yes, I do, unfortunately,” Falconer said. “Well, I’ll look forward to reading it sometime. Have a good afternoon.”

  “Same to you, detective. I will see you around.”

  Riis then walked away, leaving Falconer in the middle of the lobby, pondering his next destination. Riis’ mentioning of the new book about the street orphans made him think of young Michael McCabe and his brother, both of whom had been placed into the protective custody of Matron O’Keefe over at the Oak Street station. He decided to step out and return to the station to see how the two boys were doing, but just as he moved to exit the lobby, he heard a voice calling out for him from the large staircase. “Detective Falconer! Excuse me…detective? Detective Falconer!”

  Falconer looked over in the direction of the voice and saw a very young patrolman who didn’t look much over twenty years of age scrambling through the jumble of personnel on the staircase and struggling over to meet him. Reaching Falconer near the exit, the patrolman stood stiffly at attention. “Sorry, detective,” he said, “but I’ve just been sent to you by Detective Sergeant Crowley upstairs. He said you are heading a new, specialized duty, and that I’d be perfect for it, so I’m reporting to you, sir.”

  Falconer, puzzled, said nothing initially and instead, simply examined the fresh-faced officer standing before him. He was very young, with close-cropped light-brown hair and blue eyes, and was of medium height, and, despite being clothed in a crisp new, blue uniform of a first-year patrolman, it was clear that he had a trim, wiry build and couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and fifty pounds. Falconer looked over the young man, eyeing him suspiciously. “A specialized duty, huh?” he asked. “Well, maybe that’s true, kid. What’s your name?”

  “Officer James Halloran, sir” the patrolman replied quickly.

  “Halloran,” Falconer said, as if repeating the name would give him a greater understanding of the person behind it. “How old are you?”

  “Just turned twenty-one last month, sir,” Halloran replied.

  “And how long have you been with the department, I wonder?”

  Halloran paused, appearing to stumble on his words, and then finally blurted out, “Two months, detective.”

  “So, Crowley said you’d be perfect for my investigation, huh?” Falconer asked. “I wonder why he’d say that, but I do have an idea. Well, come along, Mister Halloran. I’m headed over to Oak Street, and I guess you’re with me now.”

  Falconer turned and walked out of the lobby, and a few seconds later, he saw Halloran walking briskly next to him, headed down the block towards the boundaries of the Fourth Ward.

  52

  Entering the station house with Halloran by his side, Falconer inquired into the two young boys, and was directed to a room down in the basement where Matron O’Keefe presided over the lost children who on any given day were taken into protective custody by the police in the neighborhood.

  As they walked down the main hallway in the basement, they had to step over the numerous drunkards and opium addicts who were still drowsing or sitting listlessly on the floors after a night off the streets. Then, at a doorway at the end of the hallway, Falconer peered in and saw Matron O’Keefe knitting in a corner while several children played on the floor with some toys that had been provided by a benevolent group concerned with the unfortunate abandoned children of the city. He glanced at the children but did not recognize any of them, and then he switched his gaze to a corner of the room and saw Michael and Artie sitting on a cot and looking down at a magazine of some sort. Falconer led Halloran over to the boys, who both looked up and saw the detective who had been in the alley earlier that morning.

  “Boys,” Falconer greeted them, “this is Officer Halloran. He’s assisting me on the case that you told me about today.”

  “Hey, boys,” Halloran said, “how you doing?”

  The two boys said noth
ing, though, and merely looked stone-faced at Halloran, as if the new face were perhaps a new threat.

  “So, what are you guys looking at?” Falconer asked, craning his neck to read the magazine’s contents. Michael turned the magazine over to reveal its bright red, front cover: “St. Nicholas Illustrated.”

  “Ah,” Falconer said, “I know that one well. I used to read it myself—lots of pretty good stories, and they give you the nice pictures, too. Maybe Matron O’Keefe can read some of it to you.”

  “I can read it,” Michael replied defiantly. “I was reading it to Artie just now.”

  “I see,” Falconer said. “You learned to read in school?”

  “Some,” Michael replied, “but our mother taught us mostly.”

  Falconer knelt next to the cot and looked at Michael. “Is she around anymore? Your mother?”

  Michael paused and looked back at the magazine. “Nah,” he said, not looking at Falconer. “She’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Falconer said. “Where do you guys live, Michael?”

  “Just out there,” Michael answered nonchalantly. “Around the streets.”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “Your father around at all?”

  “Nah,” Michael replied, again with an insouciance that belied any troubled reflection within him. “He’s gone—don’t know where.”

  “Well,” Falconer said, “the matron here will be taking care of you just for now. We may need you to be witnesses to a possible crime committed by a bad guy, Michael. Do you think you could do that for us if it comes to that?”

  “Sure,” Michael replied, “but I don’t want to be locked up in here. It’s like we’re in jail or something.”

  “No, you won’t be stuck here,” Falconer replied. “I promise. Just be patient and they’ll find you a good place to stay.”