“You wouldn’t have needed to do your duty?”
“You can make jokes, but it’s true. If you really came from an orphanage, you’d know.”
Walter had no intention of discussing himself again. “I hear Emma Goldman believes in free love. That what got you to like her so much?”
“Fuck you.” Czolgosz took a breath, looked down at the book, and nodded slowly, a smirk playing on his face. “Pretty fair, copper. They got who done it?”
“I’m no copper. Done what?”
“Killed the librarian. What else would I be talking about?”
“Nah. Probably never will. You know what these street robberies are like. Could have been anyone.”
“Yeah,” Czolgosz replied somberly. “I guess it coulda.”
Walter pushed himself to his feet. “Except we both know it wasn’t just anyone. We both know that you didn’t meet her by accident. That you brought that book to library the first day to let her know who you were.” Walter started for the cell door. “I thought you’d feel a little worse that she’s dead . . . seeing that it was most likely your fault.”
“Whadaya mean, ‘my fault’?” Czolgosz had sprung to his feet. Only Walter’s size kept him from rushing across the cell.
“You botched it, Leon. The president is fine. I saw him. He’s healthy as can be. You hardly scratched him. He’ll be back in Washington by next week. Whoever’s idea this was is just cleaning up the loose ends. Like Esther Kolodkin. Lucky you’re in here. You’re about as loose an end as there is.” Walter paused, as if considering an idea that had just popped into his head. Outside, the clock rang the hour. “Unless, of course, you want to talk to me.”
“Fuck you, copper. I ain’t talking to you or nobody else.” With a stiff right index finger, the same one that had pulled the trigger, Czolgosz poked himself in the chest. “I done my duty and I’m proud of it.”
Walter heaved a sigh. “Okay, Leon, if that’s the way you want it.” He walked through the door and closed the cell door, making sure it clanged loudly. “Well, I’ve got to go now. Things seem pretty wrapped up here. See you in twenty years.” Then he turned his back and made for the door.
“Hey, copper.”
Walter turned back, but only from the waist up. His feet still pointed to the exit. “Yeah?”
“Do you think if I . . .” Czolgosz lifted his hand and rubbed across the bandage on his cheek.
“What?”
Czolgosz shook his head. “Never mind.”
“What, Leon? Do I think if you what?”
“Nothin’.”
11
The Erie County Morgue was two blocks away from police headquarters. The bodies themselves were in the basement, while the first and second floors held offices of the county coroner, the health department, and the water commissioner. The morgue area had not been part of the original building but, with the commercial development of liquid-air refrigeration, a cooling plant had been installed in the rear of the building to facilitate temporary storage of the city’s dead.
The morgue attendant was an immense, impossibly affable man named Childers. He was an inch shorter than Walter, but twice as wide, all in the waist. “Call me Chill,” he said, breaking into a broad, welcoming grin at the sight of Harry’s badge. “Everybody else does. ’Cause of the temperature down here. Get it?”
Harry assured the man the joke was not too deep for them, then asked to see Esther Kolodkin.
Childers heaved a sigh. “She was a pretty young thing.” He attempted, without total success, to sound appropriately solemn when discussing a deceased. “And a librarian to boot. Terrible to die like that when she could have been home raising a family.”
He led them down the stairs and through a corridor to a set of double metal doors. “Gonna be cold. You boys want some coats?”
Walter shook his head. “Not going to be here long enough.”
Childers shrugged, looking like a mountain of gelatin in an earthquake. “Okay by me.” He grabbed a large fur coat off a rack against the far wall. “I gotta. Been working in the cold so long, I can’t feel my feet anymore.”
“Can’t see ’em either,” Harry whispered to Walter.
As soon as the doors swung open, Walter cursed himself. A blast of cold like January in the Dakotas slammed him the face. But he refused to give Childers the satisfaction of grabbing a coat, so he followed the man inside, an equally stoical Harry next to him.
The room was twenty by thirty, each wall lined with a series of large drawers, three high and eight deep. Childers stopped at the first row on the left and pulled out the center drawer.
Esther Kolodkin, chalk white and naked, stared at the ceiling of the morgue. She was the height and weight Walter expected, with dark hair, eyes slightly almond-shaped, and a full lower lip. She would have been attractive without being beautiful. Her legs were long and thin, her waist tapered, and her breasts full. Walter and Harry looked from her face to her feet without letting their eyes linger anywhere.
They then both turned their attention to the three puncture wounds, each within inches of the other two, just below the rib cage. The wounds had been cleaned and only a small crust of mottled blood surrounded each one.
“Always feel a little funny undressing the girls, especially the nice looking ones,” Childers said suddenly. “They don’t mind, o’ course, but I’ve taken a good bit o’ sass from my wife. She don’t say nothin’ about the hags though.”
Walter glanced to Harry and, when he was certain Harry had seen the same things as he had, they nodded to Childers to push the drawer closed.
“Got her clothes?” Harry asked.
“Outside.”
Thank God, thought Walter.
The burst of warmth that hit Walter and Harry entering the hall was of equal intensity as the burst of cold going in. The effects of the dead were kept in labeled burlap sacks in a large storeroom. Childers stood beside them as they checked over Esther Kolodkin’s clothing and the scant possessions—a cheap bracelet and phony garnet ring—found with the body. After a minute or so, Harry handed the bag back to the attendant.
“Find what you wanted?” Childers asked, leaning forward to catch any chance bit of salacious gossip.
“Yeah,” Harry grunted. “Just like it seemed. Poor kid. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“That’s all?” asked a clearly disappointed Childers.
“Yeah,” Harry grunted. “What’d you think there’d be?”
“I’ll never complain about August heat again,” Harry muttered once they were back on the street. “‘We don’t neeeed no coats.’ Walter, sometimes you’re an idiot.”
“I suppose. What do you think about the girl?”
“Wasn’t like no robbery I ever seen.”
“Me either.”
“It was two guys, not one.”
“One grabbed her from behind. By both arms. The other did the work.”
“Her arms were pulled back. Stretched the dress so it tore ragged when the knife went in.”
“And they stabbed her first. Only took the purse later.”
“Yeah, no struggle. She was killed before she knew what was happening. No need to do that with a woman. Just grab the purse and go. If she made a beef, then mebbe you kill her to keep her from being heard. But no one is going to do it first, especially when there’s two.”
Harry nodded. “Unless you were trying to make it look like a robbery when what you really wanted to do was to kill her. Then you take the purse to cover the killing instead of killing her to cover the robbery.”
“Wonder if she’s really got a sister in Chicago. Would help if she did.”
“She does. One of the coppers had her name and address as next of kin.”
“You’re joking. A Buffalo copper? How in hell did he even know to check?”
Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Someone on the force must be smarter than they look.”
“That wouldn’t be hard.”
“So, Walter, an in
teresting day’s work, wouldn’t you say? Wilkie and Hanna don’t seem so crazy after all.”
“People can be right by accident, Harry.”
“You’d know, Walter.”
“Maybe. But I’m still not positive.”
“C’mon, Walter. Something went on here.”
“Something is not the same thing as the thing. Maybe Czolgosz did just meet the girl after he got to town and they were drawn together by a mutual desire to overthrow the government.”
“And the knife wounds?”
“We’re guessing. And I can’t see why you’re so anxious for Wilkie to be right . . .”
“I’m not anxious,” Harry protested. But they each knew what it meant if Wilkie and Hanna had been correct. If Czolgosz was simply some lunatic acting alone, Ireland and Foster’s failure to spot the gunman could be dismissed as bad luck, or even incompetence. But the more it seemed like Czolgosz was part of something bigger, the more it seemed that Ireland and Foster might have part of something bigger as well.
“Doesn’t matter anyway, Harry. We’ve got a trail to follow in any case. Let’s give Wilkie his wish and hustle on back to Chicago. There’s an express leaves at six. We can just make it.”
“You don’t want to stay here and try to find who killed the librarian? Might be a helpful piece of information. You’re going to leave this to the coppers?”
“I’ll bet you that dinner you want me to come to that we have a better chance finding whoever killed that girl in Chicago than in Buffalo.”
“You’re on. But not for the dinner. It’s tomorrow night. And you’ll be there.”
Harry headed to the Iroquois to collect their bags. They didn’t say much on the walk, but each knew what the other was thinking. Had one or more operatives, men in their outfit, turned traitor?
As they neared the hotel, Walter heard something. Actually, he didn’t really hear it; more like he sensed it. As they turned the corner on Eagle Street, Walter suddenly grabbed Harry by the wrist and pulled him into a doorway. He didn’t have to put a finger to his lips. Harry already knew to shut up.
They waited for a few seconds, then Walter took off his hat and carefully peeked out from the doorway. Then he moved quickly back onto the street, retracing their steps, Harry a half-step behind. As they neared the corner, a clack of boot heels echoed from the pavement. They turned on to Washington Street just in time to see a man in a black coat jump into a coach facing back the other way. It was black with no markings. The coach tore away from the curb and took off over the cobblestones. At the next corner, it careened around to the right and disappeared.
Harry took off his skimmer and rubbed his hand across his pate. “Well, we sure got someone’s attention.”
“Look like a copper to you?”
“Nope. You?”
Walter shook his head. “Might be Hanna keeping tabs on us.”
“Mebbe,” Harry admitted. “Can you figure out why he’d feel the need to do that?”
“No.”
“Me either.”
“Who else then?” Walter asked.
Harry glanced at him but didn’t answer.
12
Sunday, September 8, 1901
Walter and Harry arrived at the Grand Passenger Station on Canal Street at seven the next morning. They had taken the overnight from Cleveland and Harry had decided to book sleeping berths and charge them to the bureau. After all, he had observed with shrug, with the way Wilkie and Hanna were throwing orders and money around, it seemed only right to arrive fresh for a day’s work.
But Walter never slept well on trains. In truth, he never slept well at all. For as long as he could remember, there had always been one or another reason for vigilance. The sisters had always assured Walter he was safe with them, but he had learned that safety was something you created for yourself, not counted on others to provide. Even now, the slightest noise—the click of a shutter, a rustle of a curtain—could wake him.
Walter played through the threads of the problem for most of the night, Harry’s rhythmic breathing and occasional snorts his only distraction. He must have dozed on and off, but had no awareness of it. The puzzle dominated his thoughts. The puzzle. That was all that mattered. Imposing his skill and his brains on an adversary. Harry did know him well. No matter how stacked the deck, Walter would always choose to sit in rather than leave the game.
So, sleep or no, Walter felt refreshed as he stepped from the train to the platform, eager to play out the drama. When they reached the immense waiting room, the din became a physical force. The Grand Passenger Station was one of the myriad buildings Chicago had thrown up since the fire that trumpeted the city’s rebirth and prosperity. Red brick and sandstone, almost one hundred yards long, three floors high, with a mansard roof and clock tower in the center, the building had cost $250,000 to erect. The terminal could accommodate thirty trains, sending passengers to and from such exotic destinations as Denver, Seattle, and San Francisco. Mrs. Haverstraw, the librarian, had been correct. Once in Chicago, no place else could measure up. Buffalo could erect forty-story electrical towers, but could never match the genuine grandeur of this urgent, throbbing metropolis.
The press of humanity was stifling. Travelers, baggage handlers, vendors of food, drink, and wares, hawkers, pickpockets, prostitutes, and coppers both in uniform and plain clothes, loitered or scurried about, frenetic, seemingly aimless, an explosion of raw energy. The perfect arena to observe without being observed. As familiar as they were with the techniques of surveillance, neither Harry nor Walter had any chance of determining whether or not they were being watched in a place like this.
Outside the station, the scene only gained in intensity. Harry made to stretch.
“Why don’t we head home first?” he suggested, unsuccessfully attempting to do a mask of innocence. “Just drop off our valises and change clothes.”
Walter laughed. “Let’s just go, Harry. Hannigan’s going to be mad enough having to show his face on a Sunday. No need to stick a second burr on his saddle.”
Harry sighed and nodded grudgingly. “All right. Can’t be enough burrs on that mick’s ass though.”
They made for Adams Street, which would take them to La Salle and then north to City Hall. People, horses, carriages, and pushcarts were everywhere. Italians in derbies with long, drooping mustaches mixed with thick, fair-haired Slavs in grimy overalls, and Jews with enormous beards and dressed in black. Women in long dresses with shawls pulled tightly about them moved watchfully up and down the street. The smell of pushcart food was everywhere and everyone seemed to speak at once. Three decades after the fire, buildings were still under construction in every available niche. Children darted in and out of the foot traffic. Two street arabs began to make a grab for Walter’s valise, but were dissuaded by one quick glare from the huge man in the bowler.
City Hall was part of a massive, five-story, H-shaped complex with the look of a Muscovy fortress. The building also held the Cook County Court House and offices for top brass of the police department. One wag had noted that the senior cops wanted to be in a place where they didn’t have to walk too far to collect their payoffs.
Mark Hanna had called ahead to both Illinois’s Governor Richard Yates and Chicago’s Mayor Carter Harrison to ensure the full cooperation of the coppers. That meant Captain of Detectives Michael Hannigan would have been summoned from his day of rest to await them. As a rule, Chicago coppers in general and Hannigan in particular conducted themselves like a separate branch of government. But, although Hannigan might be a thug, he was no dunce. If Mark Hanna wanted him on Sunday, Hannigan would be there.
Inside the Dearborn Avenue entrance, Harry walked ahead of Walter and told the police sergeant manning the desk who they were and whom they had come to see.
“Captain Hannigan’s on the second floor,” the sergeant replied, in flat, oblivious cadence. “Second door on the left.”
“Let me do the talking, Walter,” Harry said softly as they mounted
the stairs.
“Sure, Harry. You’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”
Just after Harry had joined the bureau, a counterfeiting case had gone bad when the ring was tipped off that Secret Service detectives were planning a raid. Harry could never prove anything, but Hannigan, one of the three Chicago dicks who knew about the plan, had started showing up with new, tailor-made suits, and rich man’s shoes. Being a crooked copper was hardly a sin in Chicago, so Harry didn’t have any choice but to keep his mouth shut and bide his time. Until now.
One step inside Hannigan’s door was all it took to see how far he had come up in the world from his days as just another grafter. His outer office was manned by a secretary, a petite brunette no more than twenty, with round cheeks, long eyelashes, full lips, an even fuller bosom, and a pleasant, vacant expression. She showed no sign of resentment to be toiling on the Sabbath. Harry and Walter did not need to glance at each other to know that they each knew that as soon as they were out the door, Hannigan would have her go from this job to her real one.
Harry told the girl who they were, as if anyone else would be showing up, and she asked them to wait in a tinkling-bell voice. She raised herself up, managing to jiggle a good deal of succulent flesh on the lift, then opened the door and mumbled something that neither Walter nor Harry could make out. She turned back with a becoming smile and told them that Captain Hannigan would be with them shortly.
Shortly turned out to be a five minute wait that everyone knew was for show. The secretary did not lift her eyes from her desk for the duration. Finally, the door to the inner office opened and Captain Mike Hannigan filled the frame. The chief of Chicago’s detectives had white hair cut short, a thick neck, chest, and arms, and a midriff worthy of Grover Cleveland. He sported a TR-style pince-nez, which made his eyes goggle and left him appearing like an outsized snapping turtle. These features would have appeared almost comical on someone else, but on Hannigan they came off as menacing. He raised a hand perfunctorily to bid Harry and Walter enter. His hands were slabs, veterans of many a sucker punch to anyone who he decided had crossed him.
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