Here

by Sean Moynihan

  “Yes, sorry to hear that, inspector,” Falconer said. “I don’t suppose you both have time for dinner and drink tonight perhaps? To close out the proceedings?”

  Falconer waited for an answer as Penwill and Levine both looked at each other, as if waiting for the other to speak. Then Penwill turned back to Falconer. “You know what?” he said with a large grin on his face. “That sounds splendid, Falconer. Professor, can we count on you?”

  “I believe that I’m free,” Levine said, also smiling. “I’d love to join you.”

  “Well, then, that’s settled,” Penwill said. “A little end-of-the-case celebration between friends and colleagues. I couldn’t ask for a better send-off.”

  “Terrific,” Falconer said, putting his bowler on top of his head. “Meet at your hotel at 7:00?”

  “Absolutely,” Penwill said. “Look forward to it.”

  “Yes, I’ll be there,” Levine said.

  “And who knows?” Penwill said, as he, too, fixed his bowler atop his head. “Perhaps this isn’t the end for us, and another case will come calling in the future. You never know, gentlemen.”

  Falconer smiled, this time broadly. “Yes, inspector, that’s true—you never know.”

  84

  Levine sat at his desk on the Saturday following Falconer’s epic rescue of Miss Bly. He looked out the window in front of him, and beheld a sunny morning coming to life on the New York City streets outside his apartment. He looked down at his typewriter and thought of where to start. He pondered this for a moment, and then placed his hands on the keyboard, and began to write.

  These are my personal recollections of an extraordinary experience I was lucky to have had concerning some momentous events in the history of New York City. It involved a murder mystery, and it all began when I received a message from a New York City police detective by the name of Falconer…

  Epilogue:

  Wharf 41, West Street,

  New York City

  6:00 a.m. April 23, 1902

  85

  Ameer Ben Ali looked down from his position behind the railing on the bow of the river steamship, Adirondack, and gazed at the people lining the quay and the great buildings looming over the riverfront. It was very early, and they had been steaming all night, but the sun was coming up now and the city stared at him in all its immensity and power. He stood and admired it and felt the wind on his face.

  Ah, he thought. Just as I remember—so noisy and so full of people. People moving every which way and all that great noise! New York…I am here at last.

  He turned to Ovide Robillard, his attorney who had accompanied him down from the state prison for the criminally insane in Matteawan, and smiled. “Here we are, Mister Robillard—I still cannot believe it.”

  “Yes, here we are, finally, Ameer,” Robillard replied. “It has been a very long road for you, and you should remember this moment—freedom.”

  “Yes,” Ali said, turning back to look at the activity along the wharf. “Freedom.”

  The large five-decker steamship sidled into its berth along the busy wharf and the men below began to tether it to the shore. The boat then emitted a long double-burst of its loud horn and Ali could see the shore party begin to connect the walkway to the boat so that passengers could disembark.

  “Come along, Ameer,” Robillard said. “It’s time to get on shore and make a brief statement. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Ali said. “And then?”

  “And then we head over to the French Hospital on Ninth Ave. to get you checked out before we get some rest before your journey home tomorrow. Come on—let’s go down.”

  Ali moved slowly down a stairwell with Robillard by his side. At the exit to the boat, they stood momentarily behind a line of passengers disembarking, and when their time came to walk down the gangway, they both gripped the railings and slowly made their way to the shore.

  As Ali came down to the bottom, he could hear voices shouting his name: “Mister Ali? Mister Ali? Can we speak to you, please? How are you doing? How does it feel to be exonerated?”

  Robillard touched him gently by the elbow and directed him over to a line of reporters to the left of the line of people moving onto the shore. “Hello, gentlemen,” Robillard said cheerily. “Mister Ali is very pleased to be here today with you, and he will make a brief statement, but please note that he is also very tired, and we will reserve the taking of questions until tomorrow. Ameer?”

  Ali looked up and saw Robillard gesturing for him to step forward and speak, as they had rehearsed several times on the journey down from Albany. He hesitated but, remembering that his command of English was now much better than eleven years earlier, he moved slowly up to the line of newsmen. “Yes,” he said, “hello to all of you. It is so good to be free again.”

  “Ali!” a reporter shouted quickly over the others. “How do you feel now that you spent eleven years of your life locked up after having been falsely convicted?”

  Ali looked over at the man, who, like the others, held a pad and pencil in hand and looked at him intently, waiting for some word from the former prisoner. “Well,” he said, “I must say that I am rather angry about it all. I never saw or heard of the woman I am accused of killing. They arrested me and dragged me to Oak Street station. There I was pointed out as the murderer. ‘Look for bloodstains!’ shouted Inspector Byrnes, and his police tore the clothes from me. They took off a clean shirt; when they brought it back it was spotted with blood.

  “They did the same with my socks. They scraped my fingernails for blood and dug into the quick until they drew my own blood to make the case against me. I was a stranger. I did not know your language and I was helpless, but I have never ceased to wonder how such things could be in this land of the free.

  “My new lawyer said a new trial would free me, but it would cost one thousand dollars to secure it, and I had no way of getting the money. Governor Flower came twice to see me, and I thought he would pardon me, but nothing came of it. I was content in prison, for I felt that sometime or other the truth would prevail and that my innocence would be established. I am free now, but I have to begin life all over without a cent. My wife is dead. I know nothing of my children. They talk of sending me to Algiers. I would like to stay in New York, but if Mister Robillard wants me to go home, I will do so.”

  He stopped talking, and the reporters, who had been eagerly writing down all that they could during his speech, heard the silence and immediately began peppering him with more questions. Robillard, however, brushed them aside and took him by the arm again, ushering him to a waiting carriage that had been arranged. “Sorry, gentlemen,” Robillard said as they moved through the throng. “That’s all for now. Thank you very much for your time this morning.”

  Ali walked carefully with him amidst the crowd of people on the wharf and headed over towards the carriage waiting by the curb of West Street. As he and Robillard reached it and the driver hopped down to assist them, he then noticed a tall figure walking towards them from the sidewalk, it seemed. The tall man walked quickly and removed his bowler as he approached, and Ali felt that somewhere, he had seen this man before, but he could not place it exactly. He saw the man walk up to him and then Robillard spoke up from his right side near the door to the carriage. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said curtly, “questions are over for now.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” the man said. “I’m Falconer. I work for the federal government, but I was a detective with Oak Street when Mister Ali was prosecuted.”

  “Oh?” Robillard said, appearing surprised. “Well, what can we do for you, Mister Falconer? We must be getting on to the French Hospital now, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, I completely understand, and I don’t want to take up your time this morning,” Falconer said. “I just…well, I’m here to offer an apology to Mister Ali, for what it’s worth. I know that won’t help him recover those eleven years of his life, but I’d like to offer it all the same if you can just give me a minute.”r />
  Ali looked at Robillard, who looked back at him. Ali nodded and Robillard turned to Falconer. “Well, I have to say that this is taking me by surprise,” he said, “but I suppose we can take a minute with you. I’m just not sure what you are apologizing for, Mister Falconer. You weren’t the chief inspector or the district attorney who led this prosecution.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Falconer said, “but I was a part of the investigation. In fact, I was at the head of it, and I want you to know that at the time, I didn’t believe you were guilty, Mister Ali. I believed that it was someone else and that you were just being railroaded.”

  “And so, you feel somehow complicit, Mister Falconer?” Robillard asked.

  “I suppose,” Falconer said. “I tried to catch the actual killer, but I guess I just didn’t try hard enough—he got away from me, and he disappeared, and I couldn’t stop your prosecution, no matter what I said. And I am sorry for that, sir.”

  Ali looked at Falconer and smiled. “It is okay, Mister Falconer,” he said. “I know that you did what you could do for me, and that is enough for me. It is good—is no problem. I am free now, and I have my life back again. I thank you for trying, sir.”

  Ali then reached out and took Falconer’s hand is his and shook it slowly. He looked at the former policeman’s face and smiled again, more broadly this time, and he saw that Falconer seemed somewhat relieved now, although he was not smiling, but only nodding slowly.

  “Well, Mister Falconer, we must go now,” Robillard said. “As you can see, Mister Ali certainly does appreciate your words this morning, and appreciates your efforts eleven years ago, despite how it all turned out. May I ask before we leave, though, did you ever get an identity of the actual perpetrator? A name perhaps?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Falconer replied. “Like I said, he got away, and we’ve never been able to track him, whoever he was. I’m sorry.”

  “Understood, Mister Falconer,” Robillard said. “Well, then, please excuse us now, and thank you again.”

  “Yes, thank you for taking the time,” Falconer said.

  Ali then entered the carriage and took a seat next to Robillard, who gave a signal for the driver to depart. As the carriage moved slowly off, Ali smiled and looked at Robillard, who patted him on his knee and said, “Interesting, meeting him like that, eh, Ameer?”

  “Yes, yes,” Ali said, and as the horses in front of the carriage moved into a trot, and the carriage headed more sharply down the street to head across Manhattan, he turned and looked back through the open window at the wharf, and he saw Falconer walking away along the quays with his hands in his pockets. Amidst all the activity and people on the wharf, Falconer looked lonely and separate and forlorn somehow, and Ali wondered how it had been for him, to know that the accused was innocent but to not have any support from the heads of police, and then to chase the real killer through the streets of New York and lose him in the night. That man has also borne a lot these eleven years, he thought.

  He poked his head out of the window and looked farther back, and watched Falconer walk down the wharf until he suddenly tramped across the street and disappeared around a corner. Ali then eased back into his seat and thought of his home, of Algeria, and of his children.