by Joanne Dahme
As I turned to leave, the lieutenant called over from his desk and said Detective Buchanan had been summoned to assist with another case. He was unsure of the whereabouts of Russo. Russo, he said, never missed an appointment. I stood for a moment, allowing the lieutenant’s comment to conjure my own image of Russo—ubiquitous and reliable. I decided then and there that I would have to find Russo, or I would never rest that night.
I hurried south on 16th Street, no longer thinking about the cold and barely aware of the smell of sulfur that permeated the air from the iron foundries and the Baldwin Locomotive Works, which crowded the few blocks between Buttonwood and Callowhill streets. I was on my way to the boarding house where Officer Russo rented a room. The lieutenant had told me that the home was next to a livery stable on the 1600 block of Vine Street. He couldn’t remember the actual address.
When I reached the corner of 16th and Vine, I could smell the horses and the sweet aroma of damp hay. It was dark, and in this area of town, the street’s gaslights illuminated a subtle suggestion of brightness. The street was deserted, and only the occasional neigh of the horses broke the pervading silence. The livery stable was to my right, straddled by the house on the corner and the house at the beginning of the long line of brick row homes, which had obviously witnessed many seasons.The house on the corner was completely dark, but the other home hinted light on its first floor, behind its thick, dark curtains.
I climbed the few steps and knocked. After a few moments, an elderly woman opened the door cautiously. She was pleasant but tired looking. Her clothes looked worn but clean in the muted light.The welcoming aroma of beef stew greeted my senses.
“Excuse me,” I cleared my throat. “I’m here to see Officer Russo. My name is Sean Parker, and I’m with the Bureau of Water.”
The woman blinked at me, and then looked hesitantly up the narrow stairwell directly behind her. She looked back to me again. “He had two other gentlemen call on him, not two hours ago.” She spoke softly with an Irish lilt. “I don’t know if they’ve left yet. Were they also with the Bureau?”
“Probably not. Perhaps they are police officers.” Maybe Buchanan and another officer were here, I thought. Maybe something extraordinary surfaced concerning Mrs. Murphy’s murder investigation. But the woman, whom I assumed was the landlady, didn’t seem sure and squinted back at me.
“They didn’t look like police officers,” she said, shaking her head.
“Perhaps they are detectives,” I amended. “Would you mind if I joined them?” I was afraid the question sounded absurd, as if Russo were throwing a party. When she looked back up the stairwell, I continued, “He asked me to come by—to answer a few questions—about the epidemic.”
Suddenly, she looked confident, shaking her head and motioning for me to come in. “The typhoid—a terrible thing. But it was much worse at home—the diseases and the suffering.” She looked at me sympathetically. “I’ve been telling all my boarders to boil their water, you know. I always do. It’s always so—dark—for water, almost like an ink.” She stared at me expectantly.
I smiled. At least the city’s warning to boil water was reaching some people. “Very good,” I agreed. “It’s kind of you to look after your boarders that way.” I was surprised to see her look down and blush like a young girl. I peered over her shoulder at the stairway. “Do you mind?” I asked again, tipping my head in the same direction.
She placed a small, veiny hand against her cheek. “Forgive my manners, come right in.” She stepped back to make room in the narrow hallway. “This is very important, your business. Mr. Russo is on the third floor.” She pointed up the stairwell. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but I have trouble with the stairs. My knees are weak,” she pointed out.
“Of course not. I can find my way,” I smiled, squinting up the ascending corridor before taking the steps.The house smelled of an odd mixture of disinfectants, fresh air, and stew. My mother had cleaned much in the same fashion, opening all the windows to blow out the dust and germs.
The house was obviously too much for the landlady to maintain.The dark, patterned wallpaper was faded and peeling, and the furniture was scuffed and threadbare. I placed one hand on the railing, more to lighten my weight on the stairs than to gain any balance from the rickety banister. I was surprised that Russo would live in such a place. Had he no family? And even if he were alone, Russo seemed too meticulous. Then again, I reminded myself, police officers’ salaries, at least the honest ones, were far less than my own.
The old woman stood at the bottom of the stairs as I climbed, to ensure that I would find my way. I grabbed the newel post on the second-floor landing, which nearly came off in my hand, cursed quietly and crept down the hall, passing the closed doors. I paused for a moment to listen for voices or some noise of people moving about but heard none. It would appear that no one was home but the landlady.
The gas fixtures barely cast light, so I moved more slowly as I walked up the stairs to the third floor. Without realizing it, I was suddenly holding my breath, not wanting to disturb the silence. Only two rooms occupied the third floor. The one door toward the front of the house was slightly ajar. I felt the adrenaline pump through my body. I knew that this was Russo’s room.
I paused, straining to hear voices or movement. The third-floor landing and hallway were narrower than the downstairs hall, and the gas fixtures were even weaker. In the dim light, I could not discern shadows from solid objects. I was careful as I approached the room. It was dark. And three men, even if they were speaking softly, would emit some hum of conversation.
“Officer Russo,” I called, knocking lightly at the door. Instinctively, I braced myself for some impact, but none occurred. I wondered how Russo’s earlier visitors left the house without being seen by the old landlady. For the first time, I felt the stir of concern. Then I recalled the smell of the cooking stew. She must have been in the kitchen.
“Officer Russo?” I inquired again, this time standing in the door’s threshold, pushing the door open slowly and fumbling for the switch of the gas fixture. I felt a fleeting sense of relief when I found it. Turning it on, I quickly glanced about the room.
Dear God, I thought as I advanced to the bed. Officer Russo lay sprawled across its bed covers, blood running from his nose and lip.
“Russo,” I whispered as I leaned over him, quickly feeling for a pulse and searching his body for other signs of violence. I don’t know why I whispered, except that perhaps I didn’t want to alarm the landlady. Russo groaned slightly when I touched his forehead.
I quickly looked about the room and noticed nothing was disturbed. It was obvious that whoever the men were, they were only looking for one thing—Russo.
The room was small, containing only a wooden table and chair, a wardrobe, which was partially opened, exposing two pressed police uniforms, and a nightstand beside the bed. On the nightstand was a bowl with some water, an empty glass, and a towel. I quickly grabbed the towel and dipped it into the bowl. Squeezing it lightly, I sat carefully on the bed and began wiping Russo’s face, being careful to keep the water from his mouth.The water and the touch of the cloth caused Russo to stir.
“Russo, what happened?” I asked.
“Mr. Parker?” Russo whispered, as I continued to wipe his face. He appeared disoriented. He tried to raise his head.
“There’s no one here, Russo.” I stood up to rinse the towel and then once again applied it against Russo’s swollen lip. “Keep your mouth closed tight. And please, call me Parker, or Sean, but not Mr. Parker. I think we’re beyond the formalities now.”
Russo tried to smile but winced in pain. “Could you help me sit up? I feel like I’m at a disadvantage.” He struggled to lift himself from the bed.
“Of course,” I replied, glad to be doing something useful. I picked up the pillow from the floor and placed it against the wall, which acted as the bed’s headboard. Then I slipped my hands under Russo’s arms and helped him sit with his back resting against the
pillow.
“God, you look a mess,” I couldn’t help saying. It was a shock seeing Russo in such a state. His dark hair was mussed, the white shirt he wore bloodied, and his nose and lip were already a bit swollen. “Who the hell did this to you? Were you robbed?” I asked, almost wishing that were indeed the case.
Russo didn’t know. He simply shook his head. I was heartened to see that his dark eyes flashed with anger now. He was obviously coming round. “I was just getting prepared to change, to meet up with you, when two men burst through my door.”
“You didn’t recognize them?” I asked, wanting to hear at least a description.
Russo ran his hand through his thick, dark hair. “I wouldn’t have recognized them even if I knew them. They both wore stockings over their heads.”
“Stockings?” I couldn’t disguise my shock. I had heard of robberies conducted in this manner, but it seemed extremely odd to me that men would take so much trouble to go after one person. “What did they want from you? Did they say what they were after?”
“No,” Russo shook his head, as he rubbed his temple with his hand. He grimaced as he shifted his weight. I could-n’t help but be impressed by Russo’s calm and controlled demeanor now. Even lying on the bed, propped up on the pillow with blood splattered on his shirt, he radiated a methodical determination. “They didn’t say a thing. Just forced their way in and began beating me. I think I lost consciousness for a while, but when I regained my senses ...”
Here Russo paused, for the first time a look of concern touched his face.
“What is it?” I asked anxiously.
“They made me drink some water,” he said breathlessly. “I wasn’t completely alert yet.” He paused, again shaking his head, but this time in disbelief. “They had a canteen with them. They forced me until it was empty. God it tasted putrid.” He sounded incredulous, and then he looked at me. “Is there anything I should do—to avoid getting sick?” he asked softly.
My jaw dropped. I could not imagine anyone even conceiving of such a depraved act. I could only repeat Russo’s words slowly. “They made you drink water?” Under ordinary circumstances, the charge would sound insane. But in its current, poisonous state, drinking the water could be a death sentence. I found myself anxiously searching Russo’s battered face in the dim light but knew I would see nothing but the cuts and bruises of the fight.Typhoid could take over a week before the infection would manifest itself.
“Can you make yourself sick?” I asked. Russo looked at me skeptically. “It’s worth a try. Then you must get some rest—and something to clear your throat. I’ll ask your landlady to boil you some tea.” I felt my response was woefully inadequate. I moved the chamber pot to the edge of Russo’s bed.
Russo only stared at it. “I’ll give it a try, after you go downstairs, Parker,” he started more urgently, “I still need to do my job.” He paused. “I wanted to talk to you tonight about—some allegations that some colleagues of Dugan’s made about you.” When I opened my mouth to protest, Russo waved to me to be silent.
“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “Neither of us place much weight in them. Essentially, they claim that you feel threatened by Dugan, that you will lose your job, and that you, in turn, have threatened him and his wife.” Russo leaned his head back, resting it against the wall.
“The man is a monster,” I interjected quietly, struggling to hold my tongue.
“He is something—out of the ordinary, to be sure. But we don’t have any evidence to tie him to Mrs. Murphy’s death.” Russo took a deep breath, pausing for a moment. Even this simple act caused him discomfort. “Detective Buchanan had some new information, which he was going to share with me tonight, before we both met up with you. Perhaps this information—precipitated the attack against me…”
“I went to the station house, Russo,” I interrupted. “Buchanan wasn’t there. According to your sergeant, he was called away on another case.”
Russo frowned. “I have to find the detective. I need to make sure that he is all right.” Russo struggled to get up from the bed but doubled over in pain.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I chided. For a moment, I felt like his father. “You aren’t going anywhere,” I said, as I guided Russo back to his half-prone, half-sitting position. I covered Russo’s legs with a blanket, pulling it as far as his waist. I felt a bit awkward. “I’ll find Buchanan for you,” I said gruffly. “I’m up to my neck in this as it is.” I stared at Russo’s bloodied shirt. “Do you want to change that?” I asked, gesturing at it, “Before I go?”
Russo smiled but shook his head. “Not now, thank you. When I move, it hurts more than I care to withstand. It can wait.” Again, his brows furrowed.
“Parker, what do you know about Chief Trout? Personally, I mean. He seemed a bit—agitated today when I saw you both.”
“Trout?” I repeated. I couldn’t fathom any evil notions about Trout. “I admit, he’s upset. Dugan has been like the Devil to him. If you want my opinion, I think Dugan is trying to ruin him, just as he ruins anyone standing in his way,” I added vehemently.
Russo nodded thoughtfully. “You may be right. But he appeared to me like a man possessed. And if it’s Dugan that possesses you, it may drive one to do dangerous things.”
I didn’t like where the conversation was going, and I noticed that Russo was clearly getting weaker. “You need to get some rest. I’ll see if I can locate the detective. Where does he live?”
Russo stared at me contemplating the answer, and finally replied. “I’ve never found the detective at home, not since his wife died ten years ago. If he was called out on a true emergency and if he is finished with his work, you will find him at Dooner’s. It’s a saloon on 8th and Chestnut. Try the second floor.They serve meals there.”
“Should I go to the station house first to report this?” I asked.
“No. Just find Detective Buchanan. I’ll report this in the morning.”
I couldn’t help but raise my eyebrow. I’d be surprised if Russo was able to make it down the stairs unassisted tomorrow morning. But I shared the same sense of urgency about locating the detective.
I looked around the room to see if there was anything else I could do for Russo before I left. “I’ll find him. And I’ll let him know what happened to you tonight.” I didn’t like the idea of leaving Russo here, but I knew that his attackers had accomplished what they wanted to. There was no need for them to return. “I’m going to let your landlady know that you are ill and ask her to get you that cup of tea—with plenty of lemon and sugar. It’s good medicinally,” I added, realizing it sounded like a woman’s cup of tea.
“Mrs. Morrow,” Russo replied helpfully.
“Right. And I’m sure Mrs. Morrow will make a wonderful nurse.” I hoped to God that Russo had a strong constitution, strong enough to fight off the typhoid. “Now just concentrate on doing what you must and then getting some sleep,” I instructed.
Russo nodded weakly, the earlier energy he had shown now depleted.
I closed the door. I felt uncomfortable relying on Mrs. Morrow, as she had trouble with the stairs. I decided that I would ask my father to come by in the morning. He was always good in a crisis and made a robust pot of soup. He could also assist Russo with whatever needs he had.
As I quietly felt my way down the stairs by the gas fixtures’ flickering light, I was aware of my accelerated heartbeat and an urgent desire to run to 8th and Chestnut. What Russo’s attackers did tonight was clearly diabolical. What better instrument for murder existed, than the one provided by the city itself? I then felt a vague sickness as I hurried down the stairs, praying that I would find Detective Buchanan healthy and whole tonight.
ROSE
Iawoke before dawn, as I had slept fitfully, tortured by dreams of Nellie. I kept seeing her tumble over the arch’s balustrade. I couldn’t stop seeing her lying on the path below, the hem of my green cape fluttering in the wind beneath her broken body. In my dream, Nellie was calling to me. �
��Rose, please help me, please help me.” Her eyes were bloodshot and pleading. I wanted to fly to her, but my feet were riveted to the deck of the arch. Julius had been calling to me too, mumbling deliriously from his bed as the typhoid wracked his body. I couldn’t see him, but I knew where he was. It was the wind that delivered his cries to the arch. I wanted to cover my ears with my hands and scream. But then I was awake, breathing fast. I listened to the darkness for a moment. All was silent. Not even the wind bumped against my windowpanes.
I slipped quietly from bed, shivering in my linen nightdress. I opened the door and crept to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I decided to dress early and go down to the conservatory. I wanted to calm myself and do some thinking.
The signs of death were all about the neighborhood. Every family seemed to be wearing black for someone. Every house had its drapes closed and black bunting decorating its exterior. I was still upset over Patrick’s insistence that Julius be nursed in his own home. “What would I do if I lost you, Rose?” Patrick had asked me, looking suddenly vulnerable. Had his bottom lip actually trembled? How could I not honor his wishes?Yet I felt a coward. Julius was like a father to me.
I dressed without light, as my eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. I would check on Julius again today, as I had Brigid prepare soup and bread the night before for Julius and his sister, Eliza. He had looked so wan when I had visited him yesterday, shrunken by the disease. Eliza had been careful to follow the doctor’s instructions not to give him solids. I couldn’t help but think that the lack of food was also making him weaker.
I crept down the carpeted stairway and walked silently through the halls to the kitchen. Patrick had built the conservatory at the back of the house, and it was my favorite room. I slipped through the glass doors of the vestibule, which connected the conservatory to the kitchen, and sat in one of the wicker chairs, waiting for the dawning sun to color the night-blue sky with streaks of pink light. Now the scene provided some sense of normalcy.
