The Gemini Agenda

by Michael McMenamin

  Cockran introduced a single photograph that had been taken that morning. A full view, clearly showing the marks of her earlier beatings overlaid with fresh, new welts.

  “No further questions, Your Honor,” Cockran said.

  Chester Bowles sprang to his feet, but the Judge held up his hand. “Sit down, Chet. I’ll handle this. I realize you have filed for divorce, Mrs. Waterman,” the Judge said in an even voice. “But as of last night, you were still legally married to Wesley Waterman. Correct?”

  Ingrid nodded her head.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” the Judge said, admonishing her. “The court reporter can’t record a nod of the head.”

  “Yes, correct,” Ingrid said in a tight voice.

  With that, the Judge smiled triumphantly and turned to Cockran: “Your contempt motion is denied and your temporary restraining order keeping Mr. Waterman away from his Central Park West apartment is dissolved. I am also dissolving the TRO as it pertains to Mr. Waterman’s holdings in I.C.E. I will leave the TRO in effect as to all his other holdings.”

  Cockran was instantly on his feet. “Your Honor…”

  But Judge Donnelly cut him off. “Mr. Cockran, the common law is clear that a husband is legally incapable of raping his wife. If he managed to have marital relations with her last night, I say more power to him. Until they’re no longer man and wife, your client would be well advised to try and enjoy what the law will not allow her to avoid. I’ve looked at the photographic evidence and she’s a good looking woman,” he said, holding up two graphic photos of Ingrid and her blond lover. He had a sly smile on his face as he looked at one, then the other.

  “It seems to me she was thoroughly enjoying herself there. Her husband certainly deserves his piece of her even more than her lover.”

  “Your Honor! This is a travesty!” Cockran shouted. “He beat her unconscious!”

  The Judge looked down at him and this time he did make eye contact. “Mr. Cockran, any red-blooded American husband who discovered his wife with another man doing the lewd and disgusting things this… this woman is shown doing in these photographs, would have done the same thing. No jury would convict him. In short, Mr. Cockran, she deserved it and I have good reason to believe she didn’t object in any event. I understand that she’s something of a masochist and often asks her husband to punish her.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it myself but I suppose married couples can do what they want in the privacy of their own bedroom.”

  The Judge rose from the bench, his voice more high-pitched. “So don’t use the word ‘travesty’ to me again, Mr. Cockran, unless it’s you who wants to be held in contempt and spend a night in jail. You want to see a travesty?” the Judge asked. “I’ll show you a travesty. These are a travesty.” With that, the Judge took all the glossy photographs of Ingrid with her lover and threw them from his bench. Cockran watched them flutter to the floor at his feet.

  “Court’s adjourned,” Judge Donnelly said, and rapped his wooden gavel on the bench.

  29.

  How About Europe?

  New York City

  The Chrysler Building

  Monday, 16 May 1932

  THEY held a post-mortem in Cockran’s office, Sarah and Ingrid sitting in the green club chairs in front of him, Bobby Sullivan in the corner to his side and slightly behind him.

  Cockran had been silent and furious the entire ride back from the courthouse. He knew there were bent judges, just like there were bent coppers. He learned that from his father. Tammany Hall politics as usual. But this was so much worse. Waterman had bought a judge, that much was clear. Chet Bowles emerging from Judge Donnelly’s private office and the judge saying Ingrid was a masochist was proof of that. But, a hit and run accident killing Judge Perkins? Coincidence? Cockran didn’t believe in coincidence when it came to Waterman.

  Cockran turned to Sullivan. “Bobby, is there any way you can find out from your contacts if Waterman was behind Judge Perkins’ hit and run murder?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I know Eddie Monahan, and he has his own enemies. Those are the ones who gave me the lowdown on him. I’ll ask around. But a hit on a judge is too hot. Odds are it was out of town talent.”

  Cockran didn’t reply and swiveled his chair around and stared out towards the towers of lower Manhattan. What the hell could he do to keep Ingrid safe?

  Finally, Sullivan broke the silence. “And would you be finished communing with St. Thomas?” Sullivan asked. “Will you look the other way while I do what needs to be done?”

  Cockran knew what Sullivan wanted. The two men lived by different codes. Cockran believed in the rule of law, not men. Sullivan didn’t. But there were times, Cockran thought, when Sullivan was right. Last year in Germany, dealing with Nazi thugs out to sabotage the factories of a Cockran client, had been one of them. Today was another. Cockran had no moral objection to Sullivan killing Waterman. Indeed, the one thing possibly keeping Waterman from an early grave was the protective figure of Owney Madden. He suspected, however, that even Owney couldn’t save Waterman from Sullivan’s wrath if Cockran didn’t stay his friend’s hand.

  The problem was Ingrid. Waterman was a public figure, a captain of industry. I.C.E. was one of the country’s biggest companies. His murder while undergoing a messy divorce would inevitably involve Ingrid. There would be an investigation. Those photographs of her would be shown to the police and press, their content publicized even if the actual photos were not. Suspicion would be cast upon her. Sullivan, of course, would have an iron-clad alibi but Owney Madden would know better and he might well tip off the police after the fact.

  Cockran decided he would talk later to Sullivan and explain it to him. It was not in his client’s best interest to have Waterman killed while the divorce was pending. He would tell Sullivan that killing him after the divorce was a different story entirely. Sullivan would be satisfied with that. He was a patient man. Sometimes.

  Cockran swung his chair back around to face Ingrid and Sarah. “Ingrid, your husband bought the judge today and probably had Judge Perkins murdered. You’re not safe in New York. We’ll appeal and win because the law is on our side. Husbands can’t legally rape or beat their wives in New York. But that will take several weeks if not months. Meanwhile, even Mr. Sullivan can’t keep you safe here twenty-four hours a day. Too many things could go wrong no matter how many guards we hire. Are there people you can go to back in Minnesota?”

  Ingrid was calm and cool. Cockran admired that. Another woman might have broken under the humiliation the judge attempted to heap on her in court. But not Ingrid. She shook her head and replied in a firm voice. “No, Bourke, there isn’t. My parents are dead. My brother and sister are traveling in Europe. There’s nothing for me in Minnesota. Besides, Wesley knows I grew up outside St. Paul. Even if I stayed with friends there, he would be able to find me.”

  “Is there anywhere else you can go where your husband couldn’t find you?”

  Ingrid smiled. “How about Europe?”

  “You have friends there you can stay with?” Cockran asked.

  Ingrid smiled more broadly this time. “You might say that.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  Ingrid paused and closed her eyes. “I’d rather not say. Will you need to contact me?”

  “Probably not,” Cockran said. “But it would be useful if we had a way of reaching you.”

  “Okay. Here’s what we’ll do,” Ingrid said decisively. “We’ll have a code. I may be traveling in Europe. I may stay with a friend. I may catch up with my brother and sister and travel with them. Do you have some paper?”

  Sarah handed Ingrid a legal pad and Ingrid began to write. When she finished, she handed the legal pad to Cockran. “I’ll book passage on the next ocean liner to Hamburg. I won’t stay there, but you can leave messages for me at the American Express office. I’ve numbered each city I may visit. I’ll send telegrams from each new city. They will contain chatty, “wish you were here” messa
ges. Within each message will be one – – and only one — number. That’s where you can reach me next. At the American Express office in that city. Okay?”

  Cockran agreed and turned to Sullivan. “Bobby, we’ll have our religious discussion later. Meanwhile, take a suite tonight at the Plaza. Register under false names. Stay with Mrs. Waterman twenty-four hours a day until the next ship leaves for Hamburg. Most ships which dock in Hamburg stop in Ireland first. I need you to sail with her at least as far as Ireland. She should be safe after that. If you do all this, I’ll pay for a two-week holiday in Donegal. Just keep me posted where I can reach you if I need you. Will you do this?”

  Sullivan eyes were cold. “Could I have a wee word with you in the hall?”

  Cockran nodded. He stood up, walked outside with Sullivan.

  Sullivan spoke in a soft voice. “I’m not daft. Spending twenty-four hours a day with Mrs. Waterman from now on and then accompanying her on a ship as far as Ireland where I’m to spend a two-week holiday means that Waterman has at least three more weeks to live.”

  Cockran patiently explained to him why the death of her husband prior to the divorce was not in Ingrid’s best interest. After that, Waterman’s fate was up to Sullivan and his conscience.

  Sullivan nodded his acceptance. “By the way,” he said, “it wouldn’t have worked.”

  “What wouldn’t have worked?” Cockran asked.

  “Telling me St. Thomas Aquinas wouldn’t approve me rubbing him out.”

  “Really?”

  Sullivan nodded. “Sod St. Thomas. I trust once Mrs. Waterman is asleep tonight you won’t object if I pay a visit to the gentleman in question and teach him some manners?”

  “No broken bones?”

  Sullivan barely nodded. “Ribs?”

  “Okay. Ribs.”

  Sullivan turned to leave and Cockran spoke again. “Bobby?”

  Sullivan turned back.

  “Hurt him bad, Bobby. Hurt him real bad.”

  COCKRAN sat in his empty office after the others had left, a lamp on his desk furnishing the only light. He looked out his window and down the island, the lights of skyscrapers twinkling in the twilight. Cockran had left word at Mattie’s hotel of his change in travel plans this morning and to call him tonight by no later than 6:30 p.m. He looked at his watch. 7:15.

  This wasn’t good. Bobby had convinced him Mattie would be safe in Detroit for at least a day because, as of Sunday evening, no one in Madden’s gang knew Eddie Monahan was dead. Mattie would leave Detroit for Chicago on Tuesday morning. Chicago would be the place where she might be in peril, not Detroit. Now he wasn’t so sure. Late in the afternoon, he had taken a call from O’Hanlon who had traced the laundry ticket to its owner, Frank Templeton. Like the Schmidt brothers, Templeton was a former MID agent. Like them, a black drape was on his file and could only be lifted by former General Van Deman.

  He looked again at the time. 7:40. The New York Central’s Wolverine No. 17 left for Detroit at 8:30. If she didn’t call in the next twenty minutes, he would have to leave. The MID link between the attacks on him and Mattie was disturbing. Was Waterman somehow mixed up in all those murders Mattie was investigating? The three black drapes might be a coincidence but his days with MID and, later, Michael Collins had taught him to believe in coincidence only if all other explanations were tested first and found wanting.

  At 7:55, Cockran had picked up his leather Gladstone bag when the telephone rang.

  “Mattie! Is everything all right?”

  “Of course, why do you ask?”

  “My message this morning asked you to call by 6:30. I was worried. Two nights ago, someone tried to kill you. Remember?”

  “Oh, that. I’m sorry. I’m still at the newspaper. I got caught up in typing my notes and lost track of time. Anyway, it’s just what I thought, Bourke. Twins! I found the birth certificates for two more victims today. Twin brothers! Ted found the same in Denver. Sisters!”

  “That’s great, but have you found who’s responsible? It’s not some maniac if he’s using muscle from Owney Madden. And it’s worse. I found out Frank was an ex-MID agent who likely works for a retired army general named Van Deman. Waterman used two former MID agents just like Frank to attack me. Last night the same two agents held his wife down while Waterman raped her and then beat her unconscious.”

  “Oh, that poor woman! Is she alright?”

  “For now, yes. Bobby’s with her. Look, I’m coming to Detroit on the night train. I’ll get in at 7:45 a.m. and grab a taxi to the airport. Don’t take off without me.”

  “I agree about the danger. But why not just call Frank Nitti? He did a swell job in ’29.”

  Cockran shook his head. Great. Add a Chicago gangster to the list of people—and not him—Mattie had needed to keep her safe. How many was it? Four and counting. Nitti, Bobby Sullivan, that bastard who seduced her in Europe and, most recently, that colossal jerk Ted Hudson. He let it pass. Hard to argue with facts. “I don’t think so. Nitti had a good reason to keep the IRA off our backs in ‘29. But the Capone mob doesn’t run a bodyguard service. For all we know, they may be in bed with Madden. And they sure don’t want to mess with the feds which is how they may interpret the MID connection Listen, I’ve got to catch the train.”.

  Mattie got the message. “It’s not necessary, Bourke. Really,” she said and paused. He didn’t reply and she continued, “But I’ll wait at the airport. I love you, you know. Forever.”

  “Me, too,” he replied.

  “You’d better.”

  30.

  His Holiday Was Over

  Norden, Germany Friday,

  20 May 1932

  THE waves of the North Sea rolled gently onto the German coast while the sea gulls flew off in terror from an Alsatian that charged down the beach at breakneck speed. The seagulls squawked their protest at the unruly canine as they flapped away to a safer vantage point. The Alsatian turned his head, tongue hanging from his mouth, and barked to his master for approval.

  The teenage girl holding the arm of Kurt von Sturm laughed her approval as the Alsatian came running back to celebrate. “He’s after the gulls again, isn’t he?” she said, turning her sightless eyes toward her big brother. “I haven’t taken him for a walk on the beach in months.”

  Sturm looked down at his nineteen year old sister Franka, still struggling to merge his memory of the gawky adolescent with the beautiful young woman holding onto his arm now. Her hair was blonde, like Sturm’s, straight and smooth, tucked under a handkerchief that bound her hair. She was so beautiful, he thought, her eyes so clear. She didn’t appear to be blind until she looked directly at him. It was easy to forget her blindness for a moment and then remember it all over again, the pain almost as fresh as the first time.

  “How could you torture poor Storm?” he said. “So close to the beach yet not take him?”

  “I need someone to take me!” She said, whirling on him. “Torture for Storm would be a walk on the beach where he couldn’t run free! Now you are my eyes and Storm can be a dog.”

  Sturm felt a pang of guilt. He felt it every time he came home to his mother and sister. He felt it the moment he got off the train and saw Franka already smiling with excitement that her big brother had finally come home but the dignified figure of his mother couldn’t have provided a starker contrast. She was still thin, her blonde hair gone white, the burden of raising a young daughter alone weighed down upon her shoulders. But she bore it stoically, with strength, like a good German Frau.

  She knew his mother loved him, but her eyes still seemed to reflect her disappointment that he had never returned home. Their father killed in the last year of the war, Sturm could have provided the father figure Franka needed and helped his widowed mother raise his little sister. For a von Strasser, however, Germany came first, as it always had. His work for Geneva meant that he rarely found time to visit his mother and sister.

  His mother had never said so directly, and Sturm was certain she never would
, but he often wondered whether she blamed him for what had happened to his sister. Franka had been blinded in a riding accident when she was nine years old. Sturm was away. She had been riding that morning with their mother and, had Sturm been home, he would have been with them, riding as a family as he had done with his parents during his childhood. Because he had not been there, Franka was deprived of such a childhood.

  Three ill-clothed, hungry men had attempted to waylay a well-dressed woman and child, easy pickings in a post-war Germany on the verge of anarchy. But his beautiful, blonde mother — her hair color not yet changed — had reacted as the lioness she was, striking the brigands with her riding crop and urging Franka to spur her horse into a gallop. Her mother had done the same and the shots which followed in their wake missed. Franka was a good rider but her horse had been startled by the shots and she could not bring the stallion under control and her mother’s mare could not keep pace. A mile from the ambush it happened. Her horse stopped short at a fence and Franka was thrown free, her head hitting a rock, her world cast into darkness.

  Sturm and Franka were drawing near the seaside home that Sturm had bought for them five years ago. He could see the outward edge of the long screened porch on the front of the house which rested on the grassy hilltop facing the sea. He had chosen the house because Franka could enjoy the ocean breeze from the porch and listen to the waves roll against the shore. He saw another figure on the hill, standing outlined against the porch. It was his mother and she was waving to them with one hand. The other rested at her side and it was holding something.

  Sturm’s smile faded at the sight of it as they drew closer. Telegrams reaching him in Norden invariably meant communiqués from Geneva. His mother knew enough to know that telegrams from Geneva were important. Sturm knew enough to know that his holiday was over.