by John Mead
“You say you sent for the police straight away?” the inspector wanted to know.
“I did,” Jack lied a second time as he had spent a good half hour carefully examining the scene before sending for Cage, “though I did take a quick look around after I had done so. The pair were obviously dead but I thought I should look more closely.”
“They appear to have been dead for some hours,” Inspector O’Leary informed him, the smell of their decay despite the chill weather being stronger as he approached to examine the pair, “so they probably died late last night. As you found them, could you tell me where you were yesterday?”
“I wish I could,” Jack explained. “Apparently I arrived home, somewhat disorientated and my suit begrimed, in the early hours of this morning, though unfortunately I have no memory of yesterday at all. Given my state I believe I had fallen into some type of stupor, unnoticed in an alleyway, and only made my way home by habit and luck.”
“Really? That is your alibi?” Cage shook his head in disbelief. “Anyone else, even the mayor himself, and I would have them run in this instant.”
“I’m sorry, Cage, but I see no reason to lie, at my age such things happen. As far as I can tell I have never met either of these two unfortunate souls before,” Jack understood the difficult spot he put the inspector in. “Nor have I ever killed anyone without a reason and, if I did, I would not go to such elaborate lengths as those undertaken here as I much prefer the simplicity of a gunshot or silence of the knife. All this,” Jack waved distractedly at the hanging women, a degree of disdain in his voice, “is excessive and unnecessarily provocative.”
“Provocative? An odd word to use?” Cage wondered.
“You agree it has been planned?” Cage nodded in response to Jack’s question. “Someone has thought this through and brought a double-pulley to use, knowing they could not otherwise hoist the dead weight of even two such slender bodies. The single set of foot prints and the pulleys suggests one man did this, he would also have needed to plan how to take and hold both women. How he did so I can’t say but he must have gotten them here without attracting attention somehow, carried them in singularly, stripped and tied them together. They would both need to be subdued for him to do so, otherwise one might have struggled or escaped whilst he dealt with the other. He cut the clothing from them, it is over there in a heap behind the debris in the corner, bound them together in this somewhat obscene way that you see before you and hoisted them up. He has posed them, otherwise why tie them in the odd shape they are in, and if he has posed them then it must be to send a sign to provoke others.
“Having hoisted them up he then proceeds to use the carriage whip, the one lying by the wall there, to beat them about the buttocks and thighs. Given the welts and blood this has produced they would have been alive and screamed mightily, so he would have known it was safe to do this here, having picked the one part of the riverfront which is derelict and hardly used; it was sheer luck they were found so quickly. His message delivered he finishes them off by garrotting.” Jack paused thoughtfully before adding, “I pity the one who had to listen to the other’s dying breath.”
“Amen to that, Jack,” Cage crossed himself, he had followed Stevens’ reasoning and agreed with it in full. “Anything to add before I call my men up? My sergeant will be saying we should take you in, though my superiors might ask why I thought it necessary to arrest the father-in-law of our state attorney and prospective future governor.”
“Politics is a difficult tightrope to traverse, Cage,” Jack sympathised. “Personally I try to steer clear of it myself.”
“Very wise,” Cage agreed, moving to the stairs and calling his men, setting them tasks and sending his sergeant over to officially take Jack’s statement.
Martha had no shame and she knew it because her ‘beautiful’ Belarusian told her so, and did so over and over again as they sweated together in their love making. His apartment was small, being one of four created from what had originally been one large house. The walls were thin whilst Martha’s vocalisations of the passion, that her lover sweated to produce in her, were loud. Fortunately Minsky did not mind, the apartment opposite being empty and if the widow below or the old couple who lived opposite her found it objectionable then, to his mind, they had not lived. Martha’s exhortations to her maker, usually in the form of, “God, yes!” or “God, please more! More!” or at the zenith of her passion, “Dear God, harder!” were he thought not blasphemous but divinely poetic; words that stirred him to greater effort, to toss his beloved and shameless Martha all the more strenuously.
They lay for sometime after they were spent side by side, breathing loudly, naked and sweaty, whilst their bodies and minds regained some composure.
“That, my darling Ibrahim, was like old times,” Martha, once she got her breath back, smilingly informed him. “You are like a stallion.”
“You have no shame, Martha,” Ibrahim, Karl to anyone who asked his first name, Mikhailovich Minsky was a Belarusian Jew from Minsk. He was a head shorter than Martha and of a stocky build, clean shaven with long, black, curly hair and dark brown eyes that were rarely angry and never still.
“I have only been shameless since meeting you, it is you who made me a happy adulterous, you corrupted me, you vile seducer,” she laughed, turning to him. Her body was twelve years older since they first met in early ’74 and, though she felt much the same now as then, she considered herself less attractive with the passing of time. However, Minsky did not seem to notice and still looked at her with eyes that only saw the same captivating and passionate woman of more than a decade ago. They had originally met at a time when Jack had deserted her and was thought dead, they had been neighbours and were both down on their luck and, though the difference in their height made them a comical looking couple, they found an ease and contentment in each others company that quickly led to them becoming lovers.
“You needed little encouragement,” Minsky laughed back, “and as for seduction you have many more conquests amour than I.”
She rolled over onto him, pinning his arms, her legs straddling his sex and her breasts hanging in his face, “I shall crush you for the worm you are for saying such things,” she laughed down at him. There was a playfulness in their relationship, a freedom that allowed for honesty, even when hurtful that she treasured but somehow did not seem to give the solid foundation she required; certainly she could never see herself running away with Minsky. Despite his diminutive stature, Minsky was more than strong enough to overthrow her and took possession of his prize by straddling her in his turn, pinning her by her shoulders as his loins pressed against hers.
“No,” she squirmed beneath him, only adding to his pleasure, “don’t start again, there isn’t time as I must go soon.”
“Ahhh…” he sighed falling back, “can’t you stay a little longer?”
“I am due at Abby’s and my grandchildren expect me,” she explained, though feeling embarrassed at admitting to having grandchildren, although he already knew this, somehow their current post-coital nakedness hardly seemed appropriate for a grandmother.
“Your granddaughter is a little beauty and tall like you,” Minsky commented, hoping to distract her and keep her at his side for a little longer.
“She has a temper like her grandfather,” Martha huffed, “when she does not get her way. She is but two and yet she stamps her foot and screams if she does not get to wear the dress she wants. Whilst her brother is five and quite solemn and uncommunicative and only wants to shoot everything with his toy guns, which is also rather like Jack.” Despite themselves they both laughed at Jack’s expense. “We shouldn’t laugh,” Martha eventually managed, “it isn’t respectful.”
“Tell me,” Minsky observed, still smiling though his tone was suddenly serious, “if your husband came into the room now do you think he would be more annoyed at your saying he is ill tempered and uncommunicative or at th
e fact that we are still both bathed in sweat from our love making?”
“I doubt if we would have time to ask,” Martha languidly replied, “as he would shoot us both without thought or hesitation.” then adding after a moments reflection and with much more emotion, “At least I hope he would, I hope he still loves me enough to do so.”
“Personally, I would prefer him to hate me if he shows his love by shooting us,” Minsky grinned, causing Martha to hug and kiss him.
“Time is short,” Martha pulled away, realising that their passions were rising once again, “and we have yet to resolve the predicament you are currently in.”
“I have made it clear I will not involve you,” Minsky sat up his tone sincere and insistent, his ability to lie to himself meant that he could lie with complete sincerity even to the woman he truly loved and admired.
“I can tell by the degree that your accent returns that you do not really believe what you say,” Martha laughed at him, her own affection for her ‘beautiful’ Russian enabled her to speak as she saw fit. “When you first met me all those years ago, you plotted to seduce me and use me to gain the favours of various gentlemen so we could both profit. Now, out of the blue, you return to me expressing once again your undying love for me whilst all the time hinting at the debts you have outstanding.”
“Did I not confess this to you all those years ago?” Minsky stated, somewhat hurt at the accusation, taking her smile as agreement. “And, didn’t you readily fall in with my plans, shameless as you are?” Again she smiled and nodded. “And, did I not graciously leave the field when it seemed you had found happiness? I went without making any further demands on you or your purse as a lesser man would have.”
“That is true, my dearest,” Martha agreed, trying to remain serious, despite her growing smile, “you disappeared without a goodbye as soon as I told you that Jacob DeWert had serious intentions towards me. Though at the time I did wonder if it was because Brandon O’Shea suspected you regularly bedded me whilst I was his mistress?”
“That is not true, if he suspected I would not have gotten away so cleanly,” Minsky stated ruefully. “I went the moment I heard the rumours that your long dead husband had been resurrected. I thought your life complicated enough.”
Martha turned to face him, placing her hands either side of his head, “Let us play a little game, each time you answer a question with the truth I will kiss you and allow you a liberty with your hands, if you lie I will twist your ears until you cry out. Is it a agreed?” He nodded and she twisted his ears causing him to cry out, “Just testing, so you know what to expect,” she smiled at his scowling face.
Minsky gained a kiss and various liberties with her breasts for confirming he had gone to New York City from Chicago all those years ago and had initially done rather well for himself. Then another kiss and further freedom to caress her buttocks for explaining that he had returned when a particular deal had gone badly wrong and he thought it best to vacate the great metropolis.
“When you first came back you kept away from me?” Martha asked, imparting another kiss as he nodded, “Because I had grown old and ugly?”
“No!” Minsky was quick to respond and was prepared to pinch her back if she thought it a lie, but she allowed him to continue, giving permission with another kiss, “I did not intend to stay and I thought you so well established and happy, I did not want to intrude or rekindle something that was only short term. Quite frankly, with your daughter married to Chester DeWert and your son being the senior manager of DeWert Holdings, with its railroad, mining and shipping interests, and you with your large house, grand dresses and jewellery and a husband with a formidable reputation; I did not think you would look kindly on my reappearance in your life.”
“You did not think I would sweep you up in my arms and give you a big kiss in the middle of Adams and LaSalle?” Martha recollected her immodest behaviour on recognising Minsky as he stood looking at the Home Insurance building.
“I certainly did not, you truly showed yourself shameless for the whole of Chicago to see,” Minsky laughed, remembering his own blushes at her enthusiastic greeting.
“And, you had not arranged for me to accidentally see you on that corner?” she asked the laughter gone from her whilst her eyes fixed his.
“I swear by my God, and my love for you, that I, Ibrahim Mikhailovich Minsky, did not plan or intend our reunion,” he stated with sincerity and received a kiss in return. “Though I must say I am glad it happened all the same as I missed the enthusiasm and shamelessness of your lovemaking,” for which he nearly had both ears pulled off.
“As you have pointed out I am now the wife, mother and mother-in-law of wealthy men so you will allow me to pay your debts,” she said watching him as he rubbed his ill-treated auricles, after their brief but satisfying tussle.
“And, as I explained previously,” he said, a little testily as he thought she had rather over done the twisting, although he could deny her nothing that gave her pleasure, “even if it were possible I would not allow it, I do not want you mixed up in this.”
“I do not understand,” Martha was overdue at her daughter’s and wanted the matter done with, it was nothing but money and what was that between friends such as they? “At least tell me the amount that you owe.”
“It is not the sum,” Minsky explained, trying unsuccessfully not to sound dismayed. “They have bought up all my debts, including those from New York. It is a large sum, though not to the likes of a DeWert, but they do not want money in exchange for my scrip but a service, they want me to gain for them a particular item.”
“Surely they cannot refuse cash?” Martha was perplexed but seeing how despondent Minsky was went on, “Perhaps, with the correct story, Jack could be persuaded to intervene… ”
“I’m sure he would be in his element,” Minsky ruefully grinned, “these men are of the most violent and ill-tempered disposition, what is more they grow impatient, but I will not take the risk and will certainly not involve you.”
“What exactly is it they want you to obtain for them?” Martha asked, her expression clearly showing she would not be put off from knowing all about her lover’s predicament.
“It is the O’Shea diamonds,” Minsky told her, his head in his hands.
“You are quite certain you do not know who the colored woman is?” the sergeant asked Jack for the fourth or fifth time in their brief interview.
“No, Sergeant,” Jack reaffirmed, wishing he had not lost his hip-flask as he was sorely in need of a drink, “as I have already said, I do not associate with many coloreds, of those I do few are female and even fewer young women. Now, I grow cold and stiff sitting here on this pile of old wood and bricks and, at my age, a chill is something to be avoided as are pains in the arse, so would you mind asking Inspector O’Leary if I may go about my business?” The sergeant, who still bent over Jack taking notes, hesitated for a while, but unable to think of anymore questions nor a response to the jibe about ‘pains in the arse’, relented and walked over to the inspector.
Cage was watching his men, the bodies had been lowered onto a sheet and the ropes cut from them, their torn clothing had been collected and, with the carriage whip, tackle, ropes and other items, were all being taken to the police station. The doctor, who had confirmed the time of death as being between nine and midnight of the previous night, was finishing his cursory examination. The sergeant waited patiently, a good five minutes knowing Jack’s eyes were on him the whole time, until O’Leary finished speaking with the doctor and turned to him. The inspector and sergeant muttered together for a few moments then Cage with the sergeant, now smiling, in tow walked back to Jack.
“Now, Mr Stevens,” Inspector O’Leary stated in his best policeman’s voice, which was both neutral and suspicious at the same time, “you persist in telling us you do not know the young black woman.”
“You know, I served in t
he war before either of you had kissed your first girl,” Jack responded truculently, annoyed they should doubt his word; the word of a veteran after all.
“I was born the year after the war ended,” the young sergeant informed them both. “My father was a corporal in the union infantry and it was the year he was mustered out, I expect mother was glad to see him back. Which side were you on Mr Stevens?” the question causing O’Leary to cough, covering his laugh at the sergeant’s jest at Jack’s expense.
“I served with the 1st Battalion New York Sharpshooters from ’62 to ’65 and was mustered out in Washington, a sergeant major,” Jack looked the young man up and down, thinking him a measure of the time since the war had ended: his life as a babe and child, then as a youth between hay and grass until he’d grown a man and was now a sergeant in the Chicago police. Whilst over the same time span Jack had fought the rage inside him, brought on by the death of his best friend who was blown to bits by a mortar shell that left Jack unscathed and happy to live but guilt-ridden. The years that followed of waking nightmares that left Stevens unmanned and branded him, in his mind only, a coward. How he had taken Martha and his young family west to start a new life but had failed. Eventually he had put his family on a train to Chicago with a promise to follow, but had deserted them and disappeared into the wilds of the Black Hills. His years of hunting, of living with and fighting the Indians, his time as a bounty hunter, then a more peaceful existence as a drifter and cattle drive cook before becoming a sheriff of a small town in the middle of nowhere. His accidental reunion with his family, who had thought him dead, his reconciliation and rekindled love. Followed by what? Not the peace he had sort, it was as if all feeling had drained from him since his coming to Chicago. He had become an observer of his own life, distant from Martha, his children and grandchildren; even his relationship with Kitty seemed to occur at arms length from himself, a passive actor in his own life.
The silence which followed Jack’s statement, and the passivity of his stare as he looked back over time, grew to such a length that the inspector relented in his questioning and instead took a small, slightly under-exposed photograph from his jacket pocket and showed it to Jack, “Does this help jog your memory?” he asked.
