Behind the Iron

by William W. Johnstone

  “Bathhouse, then mess hall,” the lead guard barked.

  And so Fallon’s morning went. A quick scrubbing of hands and face, drying off with a towel that felt like a brick, and then into the dining hall for another wretched meal of boiled potatoes and cold, repugnant coffee. They did serve biscuits this time, which if you dipped into the coffee for a few minutes did not break your teeth. And there was a smidgen of ham, or something that looked kind of like ham, with the potatoes.

  After breakfast, he marched with the others to the broom factory, while other groups went off to make saddle trees, or shoes, or furniture; some went to the exercise yard; more than a few went to break rocks; and others were returned to their cells. No one was sent to the hospital. And Ford Wagner remained nowhere to be seen.

  At the broom factory, Fallon was ordered to the makeshift barn in the corner, where he and other inmates whose names he did not know found the bins of sorghum, tons and tons of broomcorn, sorted out by grades in quality.

  He set to it, scooping up an armful of the dried, tan crop and moved in a line from the barn to the factory, always with his head down, always in an orderly fashion, and once he was inside the rank-smelling factory, he followed his instructions. He deposited the corn in the basin where another inmate would put a broom together. Then Fallon was heading back to the barn to gather more sorghum.

  It was work. Like the jobs he had been given in Joliet, mostly where he had worked in the laundry. It was work. Yes, sir. And Fallon thought about the men who had to do this to put food on the table for their wives and kids. He understood how he had been blessed with the jobs he had held. Driving cattle, sitting on a horse, free as the day is long. It wasn’t easy work. Not by a damned sight, but it had seemed so wonderful all those years ago. Those jobs weren’t the same anymore, though. The railroads had ended the long drives. So had barbed wire. And working as a deputy marshal had always seemed like being free, too. Dangerous. Even deadlier than punching cattle. But he was good at it. And, deep down, he knew how much he loved it. Not the killing. Not the gunfights. Not the pressure of not knowing who might be waiting behind the door you were about to kick open. But he was free.

  Always free.

  The whistle blew at last. Again, Fallon’s clothes and hands and fingers smelled like the straw, the broomcorn, the working end of hundreds of brooms, that he had been handling all day. He stank of his own sweat. His legs and arms and back were sore. He filed into a line and waited to be marched back to the bathhouse and maybe over to the exercise room. It looked like he would not be visiting Doctor Thaddeus Gripewater this day. Maybe never.

  “Fallon!”

  Eyes down, Fallon stepped out of line. “Yes, sir!” he answered.

  A brute of a guard came to him. “Step in front of me, fish,” the guard said. “You’re to report to the hospital. Ready. March!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Thaddeus Gripewater was drunk.

  That much was obvious to Fallon, and to the big guard, who had announced, “Prisoner here as ordered, Doctor,” as soon as they had stepped inside the hospital.

  The old man sat at a table, his eyes red, his face without much color, a glass, almost empty, in his hand, and two bottles before him. One was empty. The other was uncorked and the contents down to the label.

  “Doctor?” the guard called out again.

  Gripewater lifted his head and stared, but his dead eyes did not appear to realize who stood before him. Slowly, with trembling hands, he brought the glass to his lips and slurped down the rest of the contents. Just as slowly, the glass was lowered. It rested on the table, and Gripewater brought the hand back up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

  His hand, Fallon noticed, usually spick-and-span, appeared filthy.

  “Oh,” Gripewater said. He reached his shaky hand and picked up the bottle, tilted it, and filled the glass. The bottle returned, and Gripewater stared at the glass.

  “Oh,” he said again.

  The big matron, Eve Martin, stepped around a corner, followed by four female prisoners. One of those was Jess Harper. Fallon did not know the others.

  “Well,” the guard standing behind Fallon said in a voice that made one of the girl’s shudder. “I didn’t know you were up here, Bedbug. You’re lookin’ fine, darlin’, real, real fine.”

  The smallest of the women, the girl who had to be Bedbug, shivered. Like all of the prisoners, she kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to look up. No, that wasn’t quite the case. Jess Harper stared directly at the guard, and her eyes burned with fury. So did the matron’s.

  “Get out,” the matron ordered.

  The guard cleared his throat. “Now, ladies, this here is a desperate criminal.”

  “Out!” Eve Martin put her hands on her hips. She might have outweighed the guard. She certainly was two inches taller.

  “It’s all right,” Doctor Gripewater said, slurring his words. He gestured. “There’s no place for him to go. There’s no place for anyone here to go. Except . . . to . . . hell.”

  The matron now turned her hot glare to the drunken sawbones, but only briefly. An instant later, she was moving to an examining table, barking orders at Gripewater, Fallon, the guard, and the women convicts.

  “I’ll examine him, Thaddeus. Just the stitches in his legs. Harper, fetch some alcohol from the counter. Claire, get some bandages off the shelves. Liza, take that bottle away from Thaddeus before he throws up all over the floor you just mopped. Fallon, hang your jacket on the rack by the window. And take that hat off. Where were you raised, in a barn? And you . . . are you deaf or something? I said get out. Get out, Malachi, right now before I throw you out. Wait by the door, you big galoot. I’ll have Fallon out of here before you can whistle Yankee Doodle Dandy. No, that’ll take longer. God, Fallon, I can smell you from here. Off with the shirt, too, and go wash your arms and hands good and thoroughly in the basin on the table over there. Bedbug, get some towels. Move, Fallon. Move before you miss your supper. And I’ll tell you just one more time, you giant, stick-wielding sadist, get out of here before I toss you out. Thaddeus, do us all a favor and go lay down or just drop dead.”

  * * *

  Fallon hung up his jacket, stripped off his shirt, and found a stool to sit on while he unlaced his work boots.

  “Socks, too, honey,” said Bedbug, a thin, brown-haired girl with scars on her face and a nose that had been busted more times than Fallon’s. Fallon wet his lips and moved toward his wool socks.

  The girl whispered. “Don’t worry, hon. Malachi ain’t lookin’ inside, and I won’t tell nobody about the blade you’re hidin’.” She giggled. “Hell’s fire, sonny, ever’ man in stir has got hisself a pig-sticker of some kind.”

  Fallon shoved his socks, and his knife and sheath, into the boots, and stood, feeling awkward about being shirtless and in his bare feet in a room filled with four women. No, five women. He had to remind himself that Eve Martin was of the fairer sex.

  Bedbug wet her lips. “All right, hon, now let’s go get yerself cleaned up a mite before Miz Eve starts curin’ all that ails ya.”

  * * *

  He sat on the table, clean as he could be, and watched Jess Harper clean the stitches over his wound. The other women prisoners stood before him, while the big-boned woman of a matron ran her rough fingers through Fallon’s hair.

  “No lice,” she announced.

  The raven-haired girl, Claire, snorted: “He ain’t been here that long, Miz Martin.”

  Martin’s fingers stopped on the lump on Fallon’s head. “Does that hurt?” she asked.

  “Not as much as when it got put there.”

  “Today?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Her fingers left his head, and she moved down the table, where Jess Harper gently rubbed alcohol over the stitches in his calf. Unlike the matron, the young, expectant mother had a gentle touch. Fallon could not imagine what his cellmates would say if they heard about his examination in the hospital. Four young women
doted on him. Of course, then there was Eve Martin, too, who doted on no one—especially Doctor Thaddeus Gripewater.

  Martin stopped beside Jess. Her giant right hand reached up, and Jess Harper froze, lifted her head, and closed her eyes as the matron placed the back of her hand against Jess’s forehead.

  “How do you feel?” the matron asked in a soft voice that made Fallon think the big, surly woman actually had a heart. She lowered her hand and waited for the answer.

  “I’m all right,” Jess said faintly.

  “Go lie down,” the matron ordered.

  “But . . .” Jess stopped herself, nodded politely, and left Fallon. He watched her go behind the curtains. Bedbug went with her. Claire took over the cleaning of Fallon’s leg, and Liza wrapped the bandage over the wound.

  The matron stuck a thermometer in Fallon’s mouth. “Hold that under your tongue, Fallon,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” She glared again at the doctor, who still sat at the table, a newspaper before him, but the bottles of alcohol long removed. Fallon watched Martin disappear behind the curtain, too, where he figured she was checking on Jess Harper and Bedbug.

  “Whatchya in fer?” Liza asked.

  Fallon turned his attention to the two other prisoners. “Hell if I know,” he replied.

  Both of the girls laughed.

  “He’s funny,” Claire said.

  “Cute, too,” Liza said.

  “Ain’t they all?” Claire said.

  “I’m a pickpocket,” Liza said.

  “She’s good at it, too,” Claire said.

  “Not good enough,” Liza said. “Or I wouldn’t be here.”

  Claire batted her eyes. “I’m in for manslaughter. He didn’t treat me right. I got two more years to go, but that’s fine with me. It wasn’t manslaughter. I murdered the bastard.”

  Fallon nodded. He couldn’t figure out what else he could do.

  Liza walked away, to chat with Doctor Gripewater, who just stared off through the window, looking at nothing, comprehending nothing. The pickpocket lifted the newspaper, and her eyes widened.

  “Claire!” she called out, and the woman swore under her breath and walked across the room to the table.

  Pointing at a headline, Liza said, “Ain’t this the fella . . . ?”

  Claire said, “Liza, you dumb hussy. You know I can’t read.”

  Liza read the name, “Mr. R. R. Ness, attorney at law, forty-two years of age.”

  Claire stepped back. “Oh, my word . . .” she said.

  But then the matron was back. She jerked the thermometer from Fallon’s mouth, tossed it into a bowl with hardly a glance, and told Fallon: “Get dressed, get out. You’re the healthiest man in The Walls.” Her hard eyes turned toward the doctor sitting in his chair. “Prisoner or free person,” she added.

  Standing by the window, Fallon pulled on his shirt. He watched the big guard—Malachi, that was what Eve Martin had called him—standing a few feet away from the hospital, carving his quid of tobacco with a pocketknife. Fallon looked at the keys hanging from his belt. He heard himself whisper, “Pickpocket,” but quickly dismissed that thought, and sat down to pull on his socks and shoes, discreetly returning the sheathed knife into his left boot.

  “Thank you, ladies,” he said as he took his hat. He glanced at Gripewater, but realized the doctor was in no condition to be asked to loan a prisoner ten dollars in paper currency, one-dollar notes. He sighed. He was pretty certain Eve Martin would not loan him a penny.

  Hat on, he pulled on his jacket, and reached for the doorknob.

  “Fallon,” Gripewater said hoarsely. Turning, Fallon saw the old man beckoning him. He did not look back at the guard, who had been keeping his attention on the prison yard. Fallon came up to the doctor, who just sighed and tapped the newspaper that Liza had been reading.

  It was not much of a story, with a small headline, but Fallon picked up the paper and read.

  NO MOTIVE, SUSPECTS

  IN MURDER OF

  SLAIN ATTORNEY

  Governor, Police Chief

  Plead for Any Witnesses

  To Come Forward—

  Demand Justice

  LOCAL BUSINESSMAN MIRED IN DISPUTE

  WITH DECEASED HAS ALIBI, TELLS REPORTER,

  “I WOULDN’T NEED A KNIFE TO KILL THAT SWINE”

  R. R. Ness to be Buried

  In Family Cemetery

  The headline was longer than the article, which ran on the bottom of the right-hand corner next to some advertisements and a few quotations from the Bible the editor had used to fill white space. The paper was the Citizen’s Evening Call. Fallon read:

  Mr. Toby Q. Harrelson, Jefferson City’s chief of police, said no witnesses have come forward after the brutal murder of Mr. R. R. Ness, attorney at law, 42 years of age.

  Mr. Ness, whose ancestors date to when Missouri was a territory, was found in an alley next to his office. He had been stabbed repeatedly, and his throat was cut. Police officers believe that the foul crime was committed sometime after 8 p.m. Wednesday night after Mr. Ness had dined with clients and friends at Delaney’s Fried Fish.

  Mr. Jonah McNabb, a longtime associate of Mr. Ness, said the attorney was in fine spirits after taking supper and said that he was returning to his office to finish a brief that he intended to file with the court on Monday morning.

  It was been well reported that Mr. Ness was preparing a case against Mr. Luther Scott, of Scott & Associates Enterprises of Missouri. The two men have been feuding for months, and Scott, Mr. Ness has alleged, even threatened the life of Mr. Ness.

  Reached in his office this morning, Mr. Scott denied the allegation and also said that he was eating in the same restaurant on the night of the murder and was still dining until the restaurant closed. Dominique Delaney, owner of the popular eatery on the waterfront, confirmed that to this Evening Call reporter.

  Governor Horatio Boone, who was a solicitor with Mr. Ness a decade earlier, pleaded for anyone who might know something of the crime, or saw anything suspicious, to contact the city police as soon as possible.

  “This outrage must be righted with a quick and just trial,” Governor Boone said.

  Mr. Ness is to be buried at the Ness Family Cemetery tomorrow immediately after his funeral at the Lutheran Church of Jefferson City.

  Fallon laid the paper back on the table. He wondered if the man named Scott had actually told a reporter what the headline claimed but the story never mentioned. None of the names mentioned, none of the places, and nothing in the article meant a thing to Fallon, who stared at the doctor and waited for the drunk’s eyes to focus.

  “Now look at page four.” This time, Thaddeus Gripewater did not slur his words. “Above the fold, in the first column, halfway down.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Fallon read:

  BODY FOUND IN HOTEL ROOM

  Second Brutal Murder in Days

  Shocks Our Beautiful City

  The body of a woman visiting Jefferson City was found in her room at the Hotel Missouri this morning. She had been stabbed repeatedly, and the brutal nature of the bloody act left Mr. Toby Q. Harrelson, Jefferson City’s chief of police, asking if Jack the Ripper has arrived in the capital city of Missouri.

  Jack the Ripper is the name given to the scoundrel who murdered several women a few years back in London.

  The murder is the second in as many days in Jefferson City, following the brutal slaying of Mr. R.R. Ness, a prominent attorney. Mr. Ness was also knifed repeatedly and his throat cut from ear to ear.

  This time, however, the killer left behind the weapon. Policeman George White described the knife used as a hunting knife with a handle made from a deer’s foot. The blade was seven inches long and razor sharp.

  The woman murdered was Julie Jernigan, a reporter for the Kansas City Enterprise. She has been registered at the hotel for five days and was writing a feature article on the state penitentiary in town.

  Harold Underwood, superintendent of the p
rison, expressed his sadness over the slaying. Jernigan was a fine reporter, Underwood said, adding that he regretted her story about the fine job being done in the prison would never get to be read.

  Fallon now knew why Thaddeus Gripewater had been drinking. He felt like taking a shot of the doctor’s rotgut gin right about now.

  And now Harry Fallon had a pretty good guess about what was going on inside The Walls. He remembered that knife. He knew that weapon all too well. It was the knife Ford Wagner had brandished, had tried to plunge into Fallon’s heart.

  Dazed, stunned, disgusted, and saddened, Fallon stepped away from the doctor, uncertain of what to do next. He moved toward the door but felt that pressure rushing to his head, and now he turned and strode back to the doctor. His first instincts were to jerk the drunken sop to his feet, slap him senseless, shake the old man till he spilled out everything that he knew. That, however, would just send Malachi in with his line stick. And Fallon would be back in the basement of A-Hall.

  Fallon sat back in the chair. If the guard outside looked through the window, it would appear that Gripewater was still examining, or at least talking to, Fallon.

  “The man who killed her,” Fallon said, barely recognizing his own voice. “Was the same man who killed that lawyer.”

  Gripewater only blinked.

  “Ford Wagner,” Fallon said. “They let him out to kill the attorney. Right?”

  No response.

  “And then they had him kill the girl, because they feared what she knew?”

  The doctor wet his lips.

  “But how did they get Wagner out?” The question trailed off. He remembered the conversation with The Mole. Killer Coleman Cain had talked about being let out to do jobs. Jobs he did not like. Then, after he refused to do any more of those . . . hired assassinations, that was the only thing to call those murders. After that, Underwood and the others left The Mole in the dungeon but brought other men to kill people. That’s why they had thrown Fallon in with The Mole. They hoped the crazy old man would have killed Fallon.