That afternoon, I stopped by Alistair’s offices at Columbia University, in Morningside Heights, to let him know that our services were no longer needed. He was not alone: the two Times reporters, Frank Riley and Jack Bogarty, were huddled around his desk.
“Ziele, come join us.” He got up with alacrity and pulled another chair closer to his desk. “You remember our friends from The Times.”
I returned their greeting reluctantly, not moving from the door. Then I declined Alistair’s offer as politely as I could. “I’ll wait outside until you’re finished,” I said. “My own business is a private matter.”
Riley stood. “We were just leaving anyhow, right, Jack?” He pumped Alistair’s hand vigorously. “Thank you for all your help today. And we’re looking forward to dinner tomorrow night.”
“And we promise we’ll give you a good mention in the article,” Jack said. “You too, Detective,” he added as he passed me on the way out.
“Dinner?” I asked Alistair as I took the seat Riley had just vacated. “I didn’t even know you were in contact with them.”
“Of course. It’s an arrangement that works well, Ziele. I share a little information with them, they share a little with me.” He shrugged. “Jack has given me tickets to a couple of Broadway shows, and Frank plans to take me to a baseball game to see Christy Mathewson play for the Giants. But don’t worry— I would never say anything to compromise your investigation.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said flatly. And I told him how all evidence pointed to Timothy Poe as the man responsible for these three horrific murders.
“I know science doesn’t lie,” he had said, shaking his head in disbelief, “but it goes against everything I had thought we understood about these killings. What do they believe to be his motive?”
They didn’t have an exact motive, of course. But given all that had been discovered about Poe’s lifestyle, they didn’t require anything specific. “General depravity” would suffice.
We talked for some time, both of us uncomfortable with the way this had wrapped up. Alistair seemed even more unsettled than I was. The evidence against Poe was solid. And yet we were in agreement: Poe as the murderer went against what both my experience and Alistair’s learning had taught us. Unfortunately, we were now observers looking in at the case that had once been ours. And even if I’d been armed with more than the conviction of my beliefs, my efforts would have been unsanctioned, nothing more than those of a Good Samaritan. But I had nothing else.
Before I returned to Dobson, I made my way to a small coffee-house two blocks south of Grand Central. Sitting there, enjoying the strong aroma of the coffee and its reassuring warmth, I was not in the mood for company— especially not that of my father.
I was aware of his presence moments before he took a seat in the chair opposite me.
“You’ve been following me again.”
He flexed his thin fingers, then said, “Got to keep the skills sharp, old boy. And I’ve good enough reason for it lately. My creditors have resurfaced to cause me trouble.”
A ten-year absence, and absolutely nothing had changed.
He continued to talk, saying, “I’ve actually found some information that may help you with your theater case. I brought someone . . .”
Before I could interrupt him to say it didn’t matter anymore, a woman entered as if on cue. And I found myself staring yet again into a face marked by green eyes and surrounded by red curly ringlets: that of Molly Hansen.
“You know my father?” I looked at her in consternation.
They exchanged a guilty look that told me more than I wanted to know, even before my father colorfully described her as his “boon companion of late.”
He stepped away, succumbing to a coughing fit. Molly cast a worried glance after him, but didn’t follow.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when we talked earlier, Simon,” she said sheepishly. “I was afraid if you knew, you wouldn’t help me.”
“Actually,” I said delicately, “I didn’t help you.”
She flashed a brilliant smile. “Oh yes, you did— though you didn’t know it. All you had to do was walk with me into that bar, and those watching me, wanting their money, knew I’d made your acquaintance. So when I told them a small white lie or two the next day, they were inclined to believe me. Besides,” she added, rather too gaily, “you wouldn’t want a sick man like your father to suffer at the hands of his creditors.”
So my good name had been bandied about in backdoor dealings to secure my father more time to repay the debts he’d incurred as naturally and inevitably as other men breathed. Any other day, I would have been furious. But today, I had far worse things on my mind.
“Well,” she took a deep breath, “I asked your father to bring me to you because I have some information that may help with your case.”
I am not quite sure why I responded as I did. No doubt it was the dark mood I was in at the time— coupled with my anger over how my father and Molly had conspired against me. Some people simply couldn’t be trusted. Most people, in fact.
“There is no case,” I said, pushing my coffee cup aside. “They’ve found enough evidence to apprehend someone. The case is solved.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly? That’s wonderful. I’m just surprised.” She thought for a moment. “Who did you arrest?”
My father rejoined us, sucking vigorously on one of the candies that offered him temporary relief.
“I can take no credit for the arrest,” I said, avoiding her question. She could read all about Poe herself in the papers soon enough; I had no desire to discuss it. “But Captain Mulvaney has solid evidence linking the man he arrested to the murders.”
“So you don’t believe they have the right man?” My father’s eyes lit up with interest.
“I’ve no reason to disagree,” I replied.
“Ah,” he said, touching a finger to his lips. “But not disagreeing— and actually agreeing— are two entirely different matters, are they not?”
“Not where irrefutable evidence is involved.” I was in no mood to discuss my own doubts right now.
“Pshaw,” he said with a jovial look. “I say, show me the evidence, and I’ll show you evidence a skillful chap like me can manipulate. Even fingerprints. I’ve been known to fake them myself in my time.”
“Yes, well, it’s not like that.” I turned to Molly. “What was it you wanted to tell me anyhow?”
“I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
It was with little regret that I thanked her for thinking of me and I assured her that the case was resolved. It was unlike me. Normally I’d have wanted her answer nonetheless— simply to complete the process and ensure I’d left no lead unexplored, no stone unturned. But tonight, I’d had enough.
After some further talk in which I reluctantly agreed to meet my father for dinner that Friday, I took my train to the small, dingy flat in Dobson, not far from the railroad tracks, that I called home.
I tiptoed up the stairs so as not to wake my landlady on the first floor, opened the door soundlessly, and collapsed onto the threadbare gold sofa that the prior tenant had not bothered to remove— and I had not bothered to replace.
This night, it looked particularly worn and shabby. A depressing place, I thought. The walls were a faded yellow rose wallpaper. A rickety rocking chair with a broken wooden slat was beside me. But the carpet— provided by my landlady herself so that downstairs she would not hear footsteps— was a nice, thick blue wool.
Though I could have afforded a nicer place, it seemed pointless to do so when my time here was limited . . . when there was no one with whom to enjoy it.
I reached over to my brown satchel and emptied its contents. There were several pages of notes that should probably be returned to Mulvaney, if only for his files. And an apple, now bruised, that I had meant to eat at lunchtime, but never had.
It was only after I tossed the limp leather bag aside that I noticed a dirty, crumpled white pap
er protruding from the side flap pocket. I pulled it out.
At first, I felt violated that someone had slipped it into my bag without my knowing it.
Then I took a long time to read it and thoroughly absorb its contents.
Detective Ziele,
I’m writing to you on the chance that I will see you again or find a sympathetic soul to deliver this message. You seem to be a fair-minded man who will listen to me, even though others believe I am lying.
I swear to you I am innocent. I’ve killed no one: I was not at the Aerial Gardens, and I’ve never touched those needles.
I’ve been framed— tricked in the worst way imaginable. On Saturday, a man stopped to ask me for directions. When I leaned down to examine his map, he covered my mouth with something to make me pass out. I can remember nothing else until the time of my arrest.
I can’t survive this for much longer. I’m sure to die if you cannot help.
Timothy Poe
Poe must have placed it in my bag when he reached toward me at the precinct house earlier today. It was an act of complete desperation.
Were the contents of the letter genuine?
I wasn’t sure. But after reading the letter over and over, I couldn’t put it aside, its claims forgotten and ignored.
My gut told me that Timothy Poe was innocent of these murders. He was an accomplished actor who had lied to me and hidden scandalous aspects of his life. Despite that, I couldn’t imagine him wining and dining these actresses as the killer had done, buying them dresses and promising to make them stars, before coldly killing them.
And now in this letter before me, Poe’s words, rambling and disjointed as they were, seemed to strike a note of truth. I knew Alistair would agree. He had never felt that Poe fit the profile of this killer. The letter was just what I needed to turn my frustrated belief into the kind of action that might save the case.
After several telephone exchanges, Alistair and I made arrangements to meet downtown at the New York University offices of Dr. Vollman the next morning. I still had the film from the tattooed verse, and I agreed to have it processed and bring the photographs to the meeting for Alistair’s handwriting expert to examine.
I did not bother to telephone Mulvaney, who would have dismissed Poe’s letter as the posturing of a desperate, guilty man. We would be on our own.
Was I meddling in a case now best left alone? Maybe.
But, despite all evidence to the contrary, I believed what Poe had written. At worst, I would waste my efforts over the next several days while I chased a red herring. I could live with that. Besides, I was still on official leave from my job as a policeman in Dobson. And if Mulvaney had indeed imprisoned the wrong man, then I had a larger responsibility to an as-yet-unknown actress— one at risk of playing her final role.
PART
THREE
Our position is altered; the right course is
no longer what it was before.
—George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss
Tuesday
March 20, 1906
CHAPTER 22
Dorrey’s Coffee Shop
After a night of unrelenting insomnia, I woke to a pounding headache the following morning. Dawn’s first light— as well as a cup of coffee and a dose of Bromo-Seltzer—finally brought me some mea sure of relief. I was distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of working behind Mulvaney’s back on a case he believed to be closed. We had been friends and colleagues for so long, it seemed almost a betrayal of trust— never mind that he no longer kept me within his own confidence.
To be fully at ease with my decision, I wanted to evaluate one discrepancy that continued to vex me. Specifically, it was the claim Timothy Poe had made in his letter that he had never been to the Aerial Gardens— and had never touched a hypodermic needle like those found in his flat on MacDougal Street.
Yet, Mulvaney had obtained the most solid evidence I could imagine to contradict that claim: Poe’s fingerprints.
Last night my father had said that fingerprints could be faked easily enough— and today I intended to find out how.
Based on a tip from the desk clerk at the hotel where I knew my father was staying, I found him at a small coffee shop on Greenwich Avenue called Dorrey’s, across the street from his hotel. It was a nondescript place with four tables and a grumpy matron servicing them.
He looked up in surprise when I came in. I noted the heavy lines on his face and dark circles under his eyes. He had not slept last night, either.
He coughed into his handkerchief. “Simon, why . . . I didn’t expect to see you before our dinner on Friday.”
He pushed aside a plate of half-burnt, buttered toast. He had eaten little, and I couldn’t tell whether the bread was simply inedible— or whether the tuberculosis had taken its toll on his appetite.
I took the seat across from his, glancing briefly at the empty coffee mug and crumbs in front of me.
“You just missed Molly,” he explained.
I pushed her leftover mug aside.
“I have a question and I need your help. Last night,” I said carefully, “you told me that fingerprints can be faked. It sounded to me as though you’d even done it yourself. I need to know more.”
He smiled broadly, revealing even teeth that were no longer as white and well cared for as I remembered. Then he tapped his head. “Nothing a smart man with a particular kind of education cannot master, if you get my drift.”
I nodded, but said nothing. It was encouragement enough for him.
“Back in the day when I needed some extra cash, I got a job from Bully Mike—”
“No details, please.” I cut him off with a quick smile and a note of warning.
“Oh, well— of course, of course.” He coughed again, hard, but if there was blood I saw no sign of it.
I remained silent for a moment until his coughing fit eased, and Mrs. Dorrey finished pouring me a cup of coffee. Though the brew wasn’t as strong as I normally preferred, it would do. After downing half the cup, I moved the saucer to my far left, positioning it on a small section of the tablecloth that was un-stained by some previous diner’s breakfast.
My father returned his handkerchief to his pocket, then shifted his position, trying to get comfortable again. He leaned in close to me. “A couple years ago, I was commissioned, shall we say, with the task of making someone’s fingerprint appear in a place it had never actually been. And your police department bought it hook, line, and sinker— though they weren’t the audience I intended to fool.” He paused and looked around before he said, “Private justice, you understand,” in a conspiratorial whisper.
It was all I could do not to groan aloud. My father was a con artist: his skills ran along the lines of trickery and deceit, not violence. But he also practiced what I considered willful blindness. Always desperate for money, he scrutinized neither the hand that paid him nor the consequences that inevitably followed the “tasks” he undertook.
“Walk me through the process, then, step-by-step.”
His eyes lit up. “Are you telling me that your training as a detective has taught you none of this?”
“Why would it?” I shrugged. “Until fingerprints have more value in court, there’s little point in fully understanding how they can be altered or outright forged.”
“You don’t say. I didn’t realize they were so unimportant. In fact, I learned my forgery trick from a fellow who spent time up at Sing Sing. Time in jail didn’t take him out of the game, but his fingerprints did, temporarily at least. At first, because the state had his prints on file, he had to be careful. Then he learned the art of forgery and was able to return to his old ways.”
I finished my coffee and ordered yet another. “You were about to tell me,” I reminded him, “exactly how you forged this print.”
“Ah.” He laced his fingers together. “Do you read detective fiction, son? Are you familiar with Arthur Conan Doyle’s story ‘The Adventure of the Norwood Builder’?”
“Frankly, I’m surprised that you are,” I said dryly. My father was not an educated man and had never been much of a reader. His active mind had favored other pursuits.
“Well, it interested me for reasons other than literary merit,” he said between coughs. “You see, in the story, a man uses his thumb to press down upon a soft wax seal— as is typical when sealing up a legal packet. The villain in the story then takes the wax impression from that seal, moistens it with his own blood, and transfers it to a wall at the scene of a murder.”
“But that’s fiction. Made up.”
“Is it?” He arched an eyebrow. “Don’t think it hasn’t been tried.”
“So if you generate a mold, you can fake a fingerprint?” I asked, my tone skeptical.
“Ah.” He touched a finger to his lips. “That way is often complicated. But it has inspired some of us to seek out other, more successful ways. . . .”
“Such as?”
“You can directly transfer the print without obtaining a mold. All you need is a decent surface to capture the original print, like a cup or glass,” he motioned to his empty water glass, “and a little candle wax.”
“Go on.” For once, I actually had the sense that he knew what he was talking about.
“Well, you take something that will pick up the fingerprint and its residue, like a thin veneer of candle wax. That’s what I used. The print is reversed, but that’s okay. Because when you then press the wax to the final surface— the one where you want the print to appear— it flips yet again and is perfect. Of course,” he smiled proudly, “very few people can do it correctly. It’s a difficult skill.”
“But when the police can’t use it . . .”
“It still can create suspicion, no? That was all I was hired to do when I planted a fingerprint on an object its owner had never touched. Not provide definitive proof, but to create suspicion. It’s a powerful emotion, son, suspicion. Once it catches hold of someone, all rational thought tends to disappear—”
A Curtain Falls Page 19
