Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  He smiled at me again as if he were smiling at a child. “Rose, you are young and naïve. If anything, these men want to see contracts awarded to me. They, and their constituents, are the beneficiaries.” He patted my hand. “As I told you before, whoever is writing those letters wants the contracts for himself. Threatening letters are a ploy designed to frighten off the competition. This tactic is as old as the world.”

  “But what if the writer was serious about his threat? Why can’t that be a possibility for you?” I insisted.

  Patrick sighed. “You aren’t going to give this up, are you?”

  “No,” I replied, my jaw set.

  “Give me the letters, Rose. I will take them to the police, just to please you. But I’m afraid they will be a waste of everyone’s time.” He held out his hand expectantly.

  I searched his face. He looked resigned, impassive, too ensconced in the love seat to fight me any longer. I glanced at the chiffonier and then back to Patrick.

  “Do you promise me ...” I began. His laconic manner made me daring.

  Patrick suddenly straightened. His eyes clouded although his face remained calm. “Rose, you doubt me?” he asked, sounding wounded. I never heard such vulnerability in Patrick’s voice.

  I flinched at the accusation. “I’m sorry, Patrick. It’s just that this is extremely important to me, for Nellie and her family’s sake.You must understand.”

  I didn’t wait for his reply. I went to the chiffonier and opened the top drawer, slipping the letters from beneath my undergarments. My hand was trembling, although all I felt at this moment was the extreme fatigue.

  “Thank you, Patrick,” I whispered as I handed them to him. He quickly inspected the small bundle before slipping them into his coat pocket.

  “Please do not spirit any of my possessions away in that fashion again, Rose, I beg you.” He suddenly sounded patronizing as I stood before him.

  “They were addressed to me,” I reminded him, before turning my back to him to face the bed. I crossed my arms. “I have one more thing that I must ask you, Patrick. I didn’t mean to find it, but while in your study, I ran across a glove box ...” I trailed off.

  His laughter caused me to flinch. “Is this the source of your anxiety? That glove box? You aren’t jealous, my dear, are you?”

  I still wouldn’t turn to him. His mirth made me angry. “You are being hurtful, Patrick. Just answer me,” I insisted.

  He was suddenly behind me, his arms encircling my waist. He pressed my body against his, his mouth lightly kissing my neck. “I picked up those gloves for Peter. He has had some troubles with his lady friend and was a little lacking in money. And as I know your taste is exquisite, I bought her the same pair of gloves that you had chosen for yourself. I hope you don’t mind. Gloves aren’t as singular as a dress, are they?” he teased.

  I wanted to believe him, although I had a difficult time imaging Patrick’s unattractive and boorish foreman having any permanent lady friends.

  “Really, Patrick?” I whispered. “For Peter?” Patrick’s physical presence dissolved my trepidation.

  He tightened his embrace and ran his lips over my ears and hair.The smell of a woman’s perfume suddenly overpowered me, although the scent was faint. I wanted to believe Patrick. I pulled away because I needed to see his face.

  “Don’t push me away, dear,” he warned, grabbing me again and forcing me against him. He sounded playful, but there was an edge to his voice. His hands clasped my upper arms. “I am your husband,” he whispered into my hair.

  I was horrified, but I didn’t want to fight him. I wanted to prove my faith in him—in my faith that he would give the police the letters and that the gloves were for Peter’s poor girl. I wanted things to be the way they were before Nellie died.

  SEAN

  I blew on my hands, rubbing them together to get the blood moving. The bracing cold of the late October morning took me by surprise. I hadn’t bothered yet to make the trip to the attic trunk to retrieve my old Chesterfield. Up until now, the morning coats that I wore as my uniform had been sufficient to keep me warm on my walks to work or around the neighborhood. But today I felt defeated by the frost that covered the grass of the North Garden of the Water Works. The frozen dew sprinkled the withered blades with milky beads of water, wetting my shoes and the cuffs of my trousers. Even the trees in the garden looked pinched by the cold, the lifeless branches of the weeping willows swaying desolately in the brisk breeze.

  I dug my hands into my pockets as the path fell under the shadow of the distribution arch. My sights followed the large blocks of stone as they vaulted into the smooth curve, fifty feet above my head. I paused between the arch’s abutments, their stones darkened by the morning dampness. The white grout, which bonded them together into one impregnable structure, reminded me of the veins of some straining beast. I pulled my collar up and continued toward the Water Works. I didn’t like the morbid direction my thoughts were taking.

  What did I need to do to convince the filtering committee that something must be done in light of their latest decision to postpone the filtration plants ordinance to enforce the sewer laws? Even more bewildering, what was I to do about my feelings for Rose Dugan? My father had called me on it, accusing me of dueling with one of the most powerful men in Philadelphia because I was thinking with my heart.

  I shook my head, disgusted with myself, as I glanced toward the circular fountain.The water thrust itself into the air, only to fall away, defeated, in graceful back flips. The cold air gave the water a metallic sheen. I made a mental note to turn the fountains off for the season to prevent the plunging temperatures from bursting the pipes.

  It was then I noticed a crew of men beyond the line of trees that marked the end of the North Garden, by the path that led to the steamboat wharf, adjacent to the public boat-house. Two men stood in the bed of the wagon, rolling what appeared to be sections of pipe down a ramp onto the dirt. I silently swore. Trout was supposed to keep me informed of any water or sewer pipe installations in the area of the Water Works. I wouldn’t have seen the men through a canopy of summer leaves. I quickly strode over in the direction of the wagon.The horses had already been released from their bridles and were tied to the post in front of the steamboat wharf.

  “Excuse me,” I called. They were all dressed in flannel shirts and overalls and the sturdy brown brogans worn by men of labor.Two of them were lining up the pipes in a row and stopped to point to a man in an engineering cap that stood in the front of the wagon plans in hand. I turned my attention to the lanky young man with reddish hair, an angular face, and a traditional Irish complexion.

  “Excuse me,” I repeated, directing my questions to the youth I assumed was the foreman. He looked oddly familiar to me, and I guessed I probably recognized him from other construction projects in the city. It wasn’t until he trained his dark blue eyes on me that I recognized him. I felt a stab of alarm.The foreman was one of Patrick Dugan’s men.

  I remained calm and established a neutral tone that belied my feelings. “I’m Sean Parker, the Fairmount Water Works engineer. Can you tell me what you are doing here? I didn’t receive the notice from my office.”

  Four of the five men shared the same obvious Irish heritage. They stopped what they were doing to observe the exchange. The foreman allowed a group of college scullers, with oars over their shoulders, to pass him before he spit his chewing tobacco into the dirt. He then wiped his hand on his pants—all for display, as the long embedded dirt did not rub off. “I’m Peter Brophy. I’m the foreman for this job.”

  “Don’t you work for Dugan Construction?” I asked.

  Peter Brophy said nothing at first and instead watched the scullers entering and leaving the various boathouses in a continual procession. He continued chewing before he answered. “Yeah, that’s right. Why do you need to know?” He asked the question as if it were a dare.

  I struggled to hold my temper. I didn’t appreciate Brophy’s surly attitude.

&
nbsp; “I need to know exactly what you and your crew are working on here,” I replied. I no longer felt the numbness in my hands. My frustration was warming my veins. “It is my responsibility to ensure the protection of the river water being drawn in this area for the reservoir.” I stepped closer to Brophy. “Is that enough explanation for you?” I could hear the other men guffawing and talking among themselves.

  Brophy smiled slowly, suddenly enlightened. I stared into the smooth face, the face of almost a boy. How I hated this dance between the contractors and the city engineers, hated it even more because of Brophy’s age—perhaps he and I shared birth years. He narrowed his eyes and widened his stance. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  “We’re replacing a few sections of the sewer here, the one that connects to that manhole,” Brophy pointed with the plan to a manhole cover by the wharf, “that drops into the interceptor sewer,” he finally replied, a new tone of affability injected into his voice. “Do you want to see the plan?” He waved it in front of me.

  “Yes, thank you I would.” I crossed my arms, peeved at the baiting, and watched as Brophy unrolled the drawing and then expertly creased it to display the area by the steamboat wharf. Inwardly, I felt relieved. The plan showed the interceptor sewer as a dotted line, hugging the east bank of the Schuylkill River. Eventually the sewer journeyed through the gardens of the Water Works, to a final outfall pipe far below the dam. Crosshatching marked the sections of the three-foot diameter cast-iron pipe to be replaced. I looked back at the pipe sections.They seemed to match the size and quantity called for in the plan.

  I handed the drawing to Brophy. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.”

  “My pleasure,” Brophy smiled, giving the eye to his men to continue working.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I stopped by periodically, I trust?” I asked. I wanted Brophy to know that I’d be watching this job.

  “Be glad to have you, Mr. Parker,” Brophy replied, slapping his hand into mine and pumping it a bit too animatedly.

  As I walked back to the Water Works, I couldn’t help but wonder how the hell Trout could have ever allowed this job to be awarded to Patrick Dugan.Trout reviewed the projects that were due for bidding and the list of those awarded. I couldn’t believe that Trout wouldn’t have at least warned me that I would be tripping over Dugan’s men on my way to work.

  I hurried through the North Garden, pulling my watch from my coat pocket. George, my senior mechanic, would be waiting in my office. We always began the day reviewing daily operation and maintenance logs. I quickly crossed the forebay, glancing about the deck. The deck and Fairmount Dam gazebo were empty. A chilled mist was suspended over the Schuylkill, so that the Pavilion and gazebo looked other-worldly.

  George was seated in the wooden chair beside my desk, his daily log in his lap, when I opened the door. He immediately stood.

  “I’m sorry, George. Have you been waiting long?” I motioned for George to take his seat again. George’s overalls were relatively clean, and his dark hair and mustache still shiny with oil.

  “No, Sean, don’t worry about it. I just finished my cup of tea.”

  I looked around my office as he took a seat behind my desk, which was covered by unread reports and letters. A large box containing a failed gear was in the corner and plans remained rolled on the drafting table. Over the past two weeks, I hadn’t the opportunity to do my job. I cursed softly, something I never did in front of my men.

  George stiffened. “Sean, is everything all right?” he asked. He was staring at the stacks of paper.

  “Yes, everything is fine George. I’m just grumbling over the work I need to catch up on. Did you hear that the City Councils’ filtering committee postponed the filtration bill?” I added.

  “Yes, I did. But when you came flying into your office, with that look in your eyes ...” George shrugged.

  I could only imagine how I must appear to my men lately. Certainly not as the same engineer who strived to exude patience and confidence when it came to the operation of this site. “What’s your report, George?” I smiled tiredly, grateful that some things were working normally.

  George reviewed the maintenance performed on the pumps and turbines, the minor structural repairs that had been completed, and some water sampling that had been done at the reservoir. “Sean, the north basin of the reservoir is due for its annual inspection. Do you want me to begin draining it on Sunday?”

  The momentary ease in tension I felt evaporated quickly.We always performed these structural inspections on the reservoirs in the fall, when the demand for water was less than during the hot summer months. But for some reason, I felt perturbed by the thought of an empty basin. Could my discomfort have something to do with Dugan’s crew? I’d be damned if I let Dugan affect my operations.

  “Go ahead, George. Let’s see if we can engage a photographer after the basin is drained. Photographs of the work required would be useful,” I added.

  George nodded, closing his logbook before he stood. He was always anxious to get to work. As he opened the door, he turned, remembering something important.

  “Sean, that police officer has been on the hill since early this morning.”

  “You mean Officer Russo?” I asked incredulously, although I knew that nothing should surprise me when it came to Russo.

  “I think so ... the Italian officer. He didn’t ask to see you. ‘Just wanted to take another look around’ he said.”

  I stood, forgetting my reports momentarily, to follow George. “Is he still out there?” I looked past the forebay and on to the hill, squinting to see through the mist. It was then that I saw Russo walking down the reservoir path.

  I sighed. “George, we’ll have to resume our meeting later.”

  I waited for Russo at the bottom of the hill, my arms folded. “Can I help you, Officer Russo?” I called, a bit irked. By now, Russo had reached the forebay and was staring at the statue of Diana, lost in thought. He turned to me and smiled. If Russo detected the annoyance in my voice, he ignored it.

  “Good morning, Mr. Parker. Thank you for your offer of assistance, but I’m just reviewing the layout of the reservoir again.”

  I followed the reservoir path with my eyes to see if anything looked amiss. I knew Russo was only doing his job, but his presence disturbed me. I had not heard from Russo since the officer had left me standing on Spring Garden Street.

  “And how is the investigation going?” I asked, the impatience evident in my voice. The thought of Dugan’s men on one side and Russo on the other was too much for me to bear. I felt trapped between hostile forces, without ammunition or a plan of defense. “Please tell me that you have found something.”

  Russo grew serious; his dark eyes looked into mine. “Not really, Mr. Parker. Some rumors. But not enough yet to draw any conclusions.” I frowned. It was apparent that Russo was not ready to share information. “I didn’t mean to offend you the other day,” he added, looking suddenly pained.

  I was taken aback. Russo was a hard man to gauge. He was close to me in age, and he shared the same passion that I did for our respective work. From what I could tell, Russo was always on the job. Nevertheless, his uniform was spotless and his buttons and badge polished.

  “You didn’t,” I mumbled uncomfortably. I couldn’t believe that Russo was making me feel guilty.

  Russo smiled, completely disarming me. “Detective Buchanan should be along in a few minutes.” Russo glanced in the direction of the forebay bridge. Before I replied, he continued, “The detective will be interviewing Mr. and Mrs. Dugan. I also know that he is interested in Mr. Dugan’s opinion on the City Councils’ vote to postpone any action on filtration.” He stopped to measure my reaction. “He thought that you must be very satisfied.”

  I felt my jaw drop. “What are you and the detective trying to suggest, Officer?” My voice rose with indignation. How the hell was I supposed to feel about the Councils’ actions? But the fact was, I didn’t feel good, not after Trout explaine
d their true motivations. And Russo made it sound as if Buchanan was looking at me now as a suspect.

  “We’re not suggesting anything, Mr. Parker.We’re simply sifting for motivations.” Russo seemed sincere. His brown eyes held no malice.

  Suddenly, he waved in the direction of the forebay bridge. I spied a large man dismounting from a bicycle, the modern style with two wheels of the same size. He struggled for balance, as he tilted the bike to one side to lift his thick leg over the bicycle’s bar. He wore a tan turtleneck sweater, thick wool socks, knickers, and high-top shoes. The outfit was topped off with a cyclist’ cap.

  “Surely, this is not the detective,” I said under my breath.

  “It certainly is,” Russo countered. “Don’t underestimate him.”

  Neither of us made an effort to move.We were mesmerized by the sight of Detective Buchanan walking his bike across the bridge and then wiping its chassis with a white cloth before leaning it carefully against the side of the Watering Committee Building. I had the terrible feeling that Mrs. Murphy’s case was doomed.

  Detective Buchanan was red in the face, his dark, bushy eyebrows flecked with perspiration. But he certainly appeared invigorated as he thrust his hand out to me.

  “Mr. Parker, I presume?”

  I slowly extended my own hand, returning the firm grip. “Yes, I’m Sean Parker. How can I assist you and Officer Russo?” I offered warily. “The officer hasn’t provided me with much guidance.”

  Buchanan’s stark blue eyes widened in mock surprise. “Actually Mr. Parker, Officer Russo is one of my more loquacious investigators.” I looked skeptically at Russo. Buchanan then spun to look around at the site. “This is still the beautiful spot I remember. I don’t have the opportunity to get out here often. Whatever leisure time I have I try to devote it to riding my bicycle. Have you ever ridden one yourself, Mr. Parker?”

  Buchanan’s garrulousness was disarming. “No, I can’t say I have, Detective, although I see them more and more often on my own travels in the city. Aren’t they a bit unsteady on the cobblestones and bricks?”