The Styx

by Jonathon King

McAdams folded his hands across his stomach in a classic pose of deep thought and let Byrne turn toward the door, but when the Pinkerton was halfway across the room he spoke again, this time in a voice of paternalism.

  “We have many powerful friends and connections in New York, Mr. Byrne. In the tapestry of money and business and politics are found many crossovers, the reach of which are myriad and deep.”

  Byrne turned.

  “I have no use for your money, sir. So I’m not interested in your bribery, or anything else you or your conniving family might offer.”

  He started toward the door. McAdams let him take two more steps.

  “But do you have an interest in the whereabouts of your father, Mr. Byrne?” he said, his voice sounding self-assured, confident, and not a little greasy.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE arraignment hearing for one Shantice Carver on the charge of murder was to be held in the stuffy second-floor room of the jailhouse. Faustus was there early, standing at the foot the outside staircase, smoking a Cuban cigar and watching the procession of attendees climb the stairs.

  The traveling judge, John E. Born, had ridden in his carriage from the town of Juno, where the Dade County seat was established. Faustus knew that Born had been newly appointed as the third county judge in the area by Gov. William Bloxham. He also knew that Bloxham was a staunch backer of Flagler and considered the railroad baron a land developer who would save the state from its present financial ruin. In Bloxam’s first term as governor he’d sold four million acres of state land in the Everglades for twenty-five cents an acre to bolster state coffers, a real estate move only a true swampland-for-money entrepreneur could love. Faustus wondered about the new judge’s integrity, whether he would owe his allegiance to the governor, and thus the Flagler powers on the island.

  The night before, Byrne and Faustus shared what they’d each discovered. Mrs. Birch’s admission to Faustus of firing the shot that killed Danny was hearsay. But Faustus put it out there first, unadorned, and had watched carefully as the muscles in Byrne’s jaws tightened.

  Byrne had put on his characteristic, internal and stoic face, and Faustus had waited an appropriate time in silence. “It was my duty to request that the woman turn herself in to the sheriff,” he said at last.

  “And?” Byrne said.

  “If I can recall her words correctly, she simply stated ‘My dear sir, we do not turn ourselves in. We hire the likes of you to avoid such messiness.’”

  Byrne recounted his meeting with Mr. McAdams, explaining the real estate deal that Danny had somehow become involved with, and the fact that Marjory McAdams had been involved all along. Faustus stored all his newfound knowledge away. Today his goal was to have the charges against Miss Carver dropped, repercussions be damned.

  Next up the staircase were the sheriff and his cadre of deputies. The fat man wore a tight but not unfriendly look on his face.

  “Good day, counselor,” he said to Faustus as he tipped his hat and climbed the stairs, his huge legs pumping like mechanical pile drivers. Faustus could nearly feel the shivering of the wooden structure beside him. Trailing behind the sheriff, almost as an afterthought, was man Faustus knew to be the attorney Marcus Willings, a real estate lawyer who had been appointed as the temporary prosecutor for the district. He was a civilized and studious man, given to bookish language and a also given to bend to the sheriff’s wishes in all matters. His was simply to be Cox’s puppet.

  Next to arrive was a thin, bespectacled man that Faustus recognized immediately as the editor of the local Gazetteer newspaper whose creative nickname was “Town.”

  “Glad that you could come, Mr. Cryer,” Faustus said.

  “Not a problem, Mr. Faustus. It just so happens that I too am to face the judge this morning in a civil matter.”

  “A civil matter, sir?”

  “The sheriff has filed suit against me and the newspaper for slander,” Cryer said. “You do recall the crusade we led last year against the rampant crime threatening the city and Sheriff Cox’s inability to handle the situation?”

  “Yes, certainly,” said Faustus. “I believe that at one point the man threatened to hickory whip you.”

  Cryer chuckled at the recollection. “But I am rather more intrigued by your message on the murder charge and your investigation, Mr. Faustus.”

  “Then my effort was not in vain, sir. Though I admit my motive for inviting you was to have the proceeding recorded by someone outside of the parties involved.”

  “Again, a role I take as a matter of duty. It is what we do.”

  At nine o’clock the first-floor door to the jail was opened and Shantice Carver was led out by a single deputy. She was dressed in the same clothing she’d worn when they arrested her days ago. With her head bent low and feet shuffling she looked like a lost soul heading for the gallows. Faustus stepped out. “Miss Carver. Pick your head up, my dear, you will be walking from this place in a short time as a free woman or my name is not Amadeus Faustus.”

  The woman’s eyes met his, and their redness, their utter deadness, took Faustus back to a place on a battlefield in North Carolina in 1865 where he did not want to go, to faces that he had struggled mightily to forget.

  “Please, my dear,” he said. “Despite our circumstances in life, hope is not a dirty word.”

  The guard snorted and pushed Carver forward up the staircase. Faustus turned and looked across the street before heading up himself. Leaning against the rough hewn wall of a new dry goods store, Byrne was watching. He tipped his head to the old Mason. It was a sign to Faustus that steps had been taken to guarantee certain evidence had been secured as they had discussed the night before.

  The sheriff’s sparsely appointed office had been reorganized as an impromptu courtroom. A dozen cane chairs were arranged on the open floor facing Cox’s desk as if expecting a crowd. Faustus knew this to be a ploy, only done for show. Citizens of the area were openly restricted from attending court proceedings by the sheriff ever since the lynching two years ago of the alleged killer of the property appraiser. In the past, when traveling judges came to conduct business, they said they merely assumed that the place was empty because no one in the community gave a damn about the cases he oversaw, or such would be their excuse if questioned. Sheriff Cox ran his own shop the way he deemed appropriate. Yet there was a twinge of consternation trying to hide in his fat face this morning as he straddled one of the now overburdened chairs and watched as the new judge sat behind the sheriff’s personal desk.

  “All right, gentlemen, let’s get on with the matters at hand before the damnable sun begins to cook us like steamed vegetables,” Judge Born announced, eschewing the typical “all rise” and all other formalities of courtroom decorum that Faustus was used to in his city experiences with the law.

  “I am Judge John E. Born, the new circuit court representative. And for those of you who may find yourselves here on a regular basis, you should know that I don’t take kindly to the use of my time for listening to manure shoveling, and I am not, and I reiterate, am not beholden to any proprietor, owner, county politician or railroad baron as the case may be in my rulings or interpretations of fact.”

  The judge looked up only once from his sheaf of papers during the pronouncement and that was when he’d used the phrase “railroad baron” as if to challenge anyone who might not interpret his meaning.

  “I owe my allegiance only to the law, gentlemen,” he then said. “And while I sit here, it is the law and justice that will be served.”

  Faustus heard the sheriff shift his weight, the cracking and groaning of the wooden legs of his chair rising in complaint.

  “In the matter of Miss Shantice Carver who is being arraigned this morning on the charge of murder in the first degree,” the judge said, looking at Carver.

  “I assume, ma’am, that since you are the only female present that you are Miss Carver and I ask you to rise.”

  Both Carver and Faustus stood.

  “Your hono
r,” Faustus said. “My name is Amadeus Faustus and I will be representing Miss Carver in this matter, sir.”

  The judge lowered his reading glasses, peering over the top of the lenses for an uncomfortable length of time. If he was surprised that a southern lawyer would be representing a raggedy-looking Negro woman in a capital crime, or was taken by the sight of the well-dressed attorney towering over the small black prostitute, it did not show in his face.

  “Excuse me for digressing, sir,” he said instead. “But are you the same Amadeus Faustus of the 39th Regiment of the North Carolina Confederacy at Murfreesboro in the year of 1862?”

  Faustus took in the judge’s northern accent, his similar age, and the obvious scrutiny in his eye, but did not falter.

  “The very same, your honor. I was an officer with the medical corps during the battle of Stone River.”

  The judge let time pass again.

  “I sir, was with the Union Army under General William Rosecrans at the time,” he said. “Your name and your actions during battle are legend, Mr. Faustus. For treating and saving the lives not only of your fellow soldiers, but those of wounded Union troops as well. I commend you sir, to your face.”

  This time the wood of the sheriff’s chair stayed silent.

  “Now then,” the judge said, returning to his papers. “According to this document prepared by the sheriff’s office, Miss Carver, who is employed by the Poinciana Hotel, is charged with the stabbing death of one Charles Bingham during an altercation on the island of Palm Beach.

  “Said crime is alleged to have occurred on property next to Miss Carver’s domicile where later was found a murder weapon, that being a knife.

  “Further stated is the fact that Miss Carver is known to also be in the business of prostitution and that Mr. Bingham was a known customer, this being offered as motivation for the killing after an alleged argument over a transaction consummated by the individuals involved.”

  The judge looked up from his reading, his eyes this time focused on Sheriff Cox.

  “This is your report sheriff and included is a finding by the local acting medical examiner as to the death of Mr. Bingham by stabbing, is that correct sir?”

  “It is, your honor,” Cox said.

  The judge looked down at the papers again, offering nothing but a studied silence before looking up at Faustus.

  “By your presence sir, I assume you have a rebuttal of these facts or is your client prepared to plead guilty to the charge?”

  “I am only prepared to present the real facts, your honor,” Faustus said, knowing he was overstepping his bounds, but hoping that the informality of the country court would give him leeway. “As the document before you is filled, sir, with lies.”

  The legs of the sheriff did not fail him. The big man came out of his chair as if he’d been goosed and he drew in a breath with which to power his indignation. But the judge beat him to the bark.

  “Sit down, Sheriff Cox! You will have your turn,” Judge Born snapped. “And Mr. uh, Prosecutor, Conlon. Be it understood that you represent the state at this hearing, not the sheriff.” Conlon nodded.

  The judge turned to Faustus.

  “I do hope you have something of substance to back up such a statement, Mr. Faustus.”

  “I do, your honor.”

  “Be succinct, sir.”

  Faustus clasped his hands in front of him and with a voice devoid of emotion but unwavering in conviction, began to enumerate.

  “First, your honor, after a close examination of the body of said Mr. Bingham, which I myself conducted in the presence of witnesses, the diseased did not die of a stab wound, but of a bullet, sir. And as is proven by the powder burns that still mark his throat, said bullet was fired at close range. Thus, the bullet entered the front of the neck at an upward angle and lodged in the third thoracic vertebrae.”

  Faustus then turned, ever so slightly, toward the sheriff.

  “These facts, your honor, have been covered up by the sheriff’s office in conspiracy with the appointed medical examiner. I submit, sir, that an independent examination by an expert of the court’s choice will in fact come to the same conclusion that I have, your honor. As you well know sir, from your own afore mentioned military service, bullet wounds do not lie.”

  The judge remained impassive. Faustus continued.

  “Secondly, sir, I have eye witnesses, including a manager of the Royal Poinciana, his assistant, a daughter of Mr. Flagler’s vice president, a handful of residents of the community, and Mizz Carver herself, who will testify that when the body of the deceased was discovered, he had a roll of cash money stuffed, sir, into his mouth. That money, your honor, is neither included in the victims effects, nor is it in the sheriff’s report. I bring it to your attention only to dispel the sheriff’s convenient theory that the motive for Mizz Carver’s so-called actions where monetary in nature.”

  The judge was now staring at the sheriff, his glare itself daring the man to stand again and refute Faustus’ words.

  “And thirdly, your honor, I have personally obtained a confession by the actual killer of the victim, who, to my face and in her own words, admitted that she shot said victim in the throat after confronting him over a blackmail attempt, she being the wife of a well-regarded Palm Beach banker who was a frequent patron of my client’s, uh, services, sir.”

  Despite the explosive nature of the statements, the judge remained stoic, more thoughtful than was comfortable for either Faustus or the sheriff. But behind him, Faustus could hear the frantic scratching of a pen on paper and imagined the excitement that a journalist such as Mr. Cryer must be feeling.

  “What say you, Mr. Conlon?” the judge finally said.

  “Bullshit!” the sheriff bawled, yet he remained in his seat.

  “I, I, I don’t know, your honor,” Conlon babbled. “I was just recently, your honor, apprised of the…”

  “I see,” said the judge, cutting the man off. “Although I do not doubt Mr. Faustus’ abilities to medically assess a true bullet wound when he sees one, it should not be too difficult to find a coroner of ability and state sanction to confirm the manner of death of Mr. Bingham.”

  “Already buried,” grunted the sheriff.

  “Under whose authority?” said the judge.

  “Seven day rule, your honor,” replied the sheriff. “It’s a city ordinance. A hedge against disease when we can’t find next of kin.”

  “Another statement that is patently false, your honor,” interrupted Faustus. “An associate of mine, a Pinkerton by standing, has secured the body of the victim despite attempts made last night by some unfashionably late and previously unemployed grave diggers to carry out orders to remove said body from Mr. Maltby’s funeral parlor.”

  Despite himself, Sheriff Cox twisted his head to take in the visages of his deputies sitting in the back row of chairs. They in turn looked at one another, stupidly shrugging their shoulders.

  “And your honor, said Pinkerton is in fact the true brother of the deceased, whose real name is Daniel Byrne,” Faustus said, again in a clear and unemotional statement. “Being the only surviving relative of the deceased, Mr. Michael Byrne is outside at this moment, and he has rightfully claimed his brother’s body. He will submit to an independent autopsy.”

  This time Sheriff Cox stood, staring at Faustus, his mouth open, a look of complete astonishment pulling down at the flesh of his face. “Pinkerton,” he whispered.

  Judge Born scratched a note for himself and again took a few moments. The temperature in the room was rising rapidly. The judge took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his brow. Almost as if he’d given permission, the sheriff followed in form.

  “Right.” The judge turned to Faustus. “And as to this confession, counselor, may I assume that you do not have said confession as a signed document or are you going to surprise us all even more?”

  “No, your honor. Following the conversation with the suspect, I was dismissed from the room where the adm
ission of guilt was made. And I believe, sir, that perhaps a statewide prosecutor may need to be empowered to delve into the matter as said suspect is an out-of-state resident.”

  “If I may ask a basic question, Mr. Faustus, in view of such incredible statements that you have made before this court. Have you any witnesses, sir, to vouch for your client at the time of Mr. Bingham’s, uh, Byrne’s demise?”

  “At this point, your honor, I do not. As it stands, the only witness, a seasonal maid at the hotel and a friend of my client, has also been murdered. And I have reason to believe she was killed by the same hand that took the victim’s life in this case.”

  Carver, who until that point seemed not to have listening, looked up at Faustus and pleaded with a single cry: “Abby?”

  The room had gone silent but for the frantic scratching of the newspaper editor’s pencil.

  “By God, man, I must say you strain your own credibility with such statements, Mr. Faustus,” said the judge. “Are you aware of this occurrence, Sheriff Cox?”

  Cox was staring straight ahead, gathering himself, or perhaps simply burning.

  “We were informed of an accidental death at the hotel this morning, your honor,” the sheriff said with an emphasis on the word accidental. “I sent the coroner, uh, acting coroner, to retrieve the body, yes sir.”

  “And in the interest of the sheriff’s upcoming investigation of said death,” the judge said, looking from one man to the other. “Would you be willing, Mr. Faustus, to aid in that inquiry with whatever knowledge you have of the situation?”

  “Quite simply, your honor, the deceased, Miss Abigail Morrisette, was a co-conspirator with my client in the blackmailing scheme. After the aggrieved woman confronted and killed Mr. Bingham, she discovered that her maid was involved, and in an attempt to silence her, pushed her down an elevator shaft.

  “If the sheriff would inspect the suspect woman this day I believe he will find a set of scratch marks on the left side of her neck. If he takes traces of the skin matter from under the murdered woman’s fingernails, he will find a similar match of skin and face powder consistent with the suspected woman’s wounds. There seemed to be a bit of a cat fight, your honor.”