“It really is. I had heard it was nice, but didn’t think it would be quite this beautiful. But I’m no judge of these things.”
“But I think you are, Tom.” Emily caught herself. She didn’t want to be flirtatious, but somehow she ended up sounding so. “What I mean is that it doesn’t take an extraordinary judge of beauty to appreciate a courtyard, or a garden, or a great work of art for that matter. Such things are very subjective after all, not bound by rigid interpretations, don’t you agree?” she said, looking at Martin, who appeared puzzled.
“Subjective? I’m not sure how you mean that, Emily,” he said, his eyebrows knitting. “Do you mean to say that a Michelangelo, for example, is not always to be admired as a great work of art?”
“No, not that at all. What I’m trying to say is that every one of us brings something different to their view of art and beauty. You’ll agree that no two people see things precisely in the same way?”
Tom wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but somehow Emily made it seem interesting to him.
“That’s perhaps the wrong question to ask an engineer,” Martin said. “The currency of my work is precision. Calculations, mechanical drawings, measurements, and specifications are my stock-in-trade, easily translatable one to the other.” The engineer’s voice had taken on a touch of sarcasm.
“I know that, Martin. But the end result, the thing itself has a different impact on each person who sees it. It’s as if all the prior experiences of our lives color how we see things … how we react to them.” She looked to Tom for support, but he wasn’t sure what to say just yet. “I can guarantee, for example, that my reaction to viewing the Brooklyn Bridge would be quite different from Mr. Braddock’s here. Wouldn’t you agree with that, Tom?”
Tom figured he had better start thinking of something to say, though this was a subject he had no experience with. Then it came to him. “You know, you bring to mind a conversation I had yesterday with a friend of mine. He had a very different impression of the bridge than I had.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Well, honestly, I haven’t given the bridge much thought one way or the other. After all these years, it’s like it’s part of the landscape; sort of like a tree, growing so slow you hardly notice the changes year to year, then before you know it, it’s towering over the house.”
Emily and Martin looked just a shade disappointed. “And how did that friend of yours see it, Tom?” Emily prompted.
“Well, that was the interesting part. Now, I have to tell you that Sam, my friend, is not a man of letters, not having got much past the sixth grade. Nor is he one to be going to art galleries and museums on his days off. Sam’s a good man, who I’m proud to call my friend, but he’s generally on the plain side, if you know what I mean,”
“Uh-huh.” Martin was obviously bored with Tom’s preamble.
“Well, he surprised me yesterday with his views on your bridge,” Tom said. “He told me things about it I never took the time to know, like the miles of wire in the main cables, their strength, things like that. He even knew how much each of the anchorages weighed.”
“Really, how remarkable,” Emily said. “I doubt that Charles here knows that.”
Martin looked as if he were about to quote specifications, when Tom went on.
“He remarked on its grace and the way it seems to fly across the river.” He hesitated just a second before going on, not quite sure how to say what he wanted to. “He told me, Emily, that your husband was a sort of personal hero to him.”
“Really? Well, then, would you do me the honor of conveying to your friend our appreciation? He’s more than kind to think so.”
“I will. He’ll be jealous to know I’ve met you. But that wasn’t all he said. There was one other thing that really stuck.” Tom hesitated a moment, wanting to make sure he got the words right. “It is his opinion,” he said slowly, “that to build a bridge like that was to achieve in a way … well, immortality.” He could see from the looks on their faces that they were both skeptical yet pleased at the same time. He went on quickly. “Well, ‘immortal’ was the word he used. I think he meant that to be known for something that’s so important and so permanent, that’s a kind of immortality.” Tom stopped to look from Emily to Martin, judging their reactions. “Your name lives on, forever tied to the thing you created. He got quite poetic about your bridge. It was a side of Sam I haven’t seen before.”
“How very flattering,” Emily said, obviously meaning it. “You see, “Charles? This proves my point. Here we have two contemporaries—two men of similar backgrounds. Sam is on the police force, I assume?”
“Yes. He’s a sergeant.”
“There, and both see the bridge quite differently. The fact is that their interpretations do vary, and quite markedly,” Emily said triumphantly.
“I’ve got to tell you, Emily, that after talking with him I have started to at least appreciate the bridge more deeply,” Tom said, perhaps a bit too anxiously.
“Bravo, Detective.” Tom thought that Martin’s tone was just a tad dry.
It had been an interesting lunch. In some ways, Tom supposed it had changed his life. If change could be measured in a man’s regard for a woman, then his life had changed indeed. Tom was still humming barroom ditties on his way uptown. He felt elevated. He searched for another word, but that one kept popping back into his head. Elevated was the word for it. He knew that he wasn’t of her class, but she had accepted him all the same. Charles C. Martin had too, though certainly to a lesser degree. She had asked his opinions and was interested in the answers. She had given him the feeling that what he thought mattered. In police work, of course, he was used to being listened to. Outside his world, though, he was as much subject to the rules of class and society as anyone else. In fact, in some circles, being on the force was rather looked down upon, and definitely not a social advantage. But that hadn’t seemed to matter to Emily. To Tom, her not mattering mattered a great deal.
Emmons, Lebeau, and Watkins sat together on the edge of the Brooklyn approach, their legs dangling four stories above the street. As they ate lunch, they talked about Braddock.
“I don’t know, he seemed all right to me. I think we had him goin’,” Matt said. “What do you reckon, Earl?”
“I imagine. Didn’t seem too interested in us. I don’t think he knows shit.” Earl took a big bite from his sandwich, appearing unconcerned.
“See how he got all excited to meet Mrs. Roebling?” Watkins chuckled. “He was like a hound on the scent. What the hell he would want with her I don’t know.”
“I guess he was just pleased to meet her is all,” Matt said. “She is sort of famous.” Looking around to see if anyone was in hearing distance, he said, “You know, she’s one thing I’m gonna be sorry about when we … you know. What I mean to say is we’re not out to hurt her, and it’s kind of a shame that—” Emmons lapsed into silence. He sat with the others, looking out over downtown New York. There were no answers in sight. “She’s put more into the work than her husband did as far as I can see. Hell, she’s on the site all the time. When’s the last time any of you saw Roebling?”
“Never seen him, except once in the papers,” Earl mused.
“So, what are you saying, Matt? You feelin’ like we shouldn’t do this? We all swore, you know. We swore to go through with it no matter what.” Watkins looked at Matt closely. He hoped Matt didn’t want to go through with it. Maybe it would get him off the hook with the captain—sink the whole show if both he and Matt went against it. On the other hand, Matt’s reservations gave Watkins a chance to appear as if he were still with them all the way. Watkins had to be careful, he knew. “You ain’t backin’ out now?” He was unable to keep the hint of hope in his voice.
“No, Watkins, I’m not sayin’ that. I’m with you boys all the way through, whatever comes. I’m just sayin’ it’s kind of sad to see such a nice lady get hurt. That’s all.”
Lebeau, who had been pretty quiet finally said, “
Gonna be a bunch o’ folks hurt, Matthew.” He threw some trash over the edge. “We hurt folks before. Ought to be used to it.”
Earl had a point. This was hardly the first time they would be hurting the innocent. It hadn’t been that way during the war. But after—when they started on their campaign of terror, there were plenty of innocent victims.
“Remember the trains we wrecked?” Earl said softly. “How many folks you figure we killed or hurt in them wrecks? Hundreds, I reckon.” They all remembered them clearly. “There was Angola in ‘67, Prospect, I think it was, in ’72, and Ashtabula in ’76.” Matt and Watkins nodded. “We killed a passel of Yankees with them wrecks, an’ nobody the wiser neither. Ashtabula was my favorite, I reckon.”
“If favorite is a word that can fit a thing like that,” Matt muttered. Neither Earl nor Watkins seemed to notice.
“Me too, Earl,” Watkins exclaimed. “Remember how them coaches just all toppled into that ravine, one after t’other? That was somethin’. Kilt ‘round eighty, as I recall,” he said proudly, looking over his shoulder as he did. “Thing o’ beauty the way we done it too. Damn near froze my pecker off in that blasted snowstorm though.”
“Up in the trestle sawin’ for hours. Shit, I was so damn cold, I couldn’t move my hands for days.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “Snow covered for us though. Once the train went off, they couldn’t figure what made the trestle let go.” He had to admire the way the thing was done, if not the effect. “The captain had that one figured. Just some cutting in the right places and down she went with the next train.”
They all sat quiet for a while, hearing the screams of the survivors as the fires swept through the passenger cars. The potbelly stoves at either end of the coaches had dumped hot coals, starting the cars blazing almost immediately. Most of the bodies were burned beyond recognition.
“Listen,” Matt said. “I know we’re gonna do damage to a lot o’ folks with this, and like I said … I’m with you boys to the bitter end. I think you know that.” He looked at both Earl and Watkins, who nodded silently. “Just gotta be ready for the hurt of it.”
Tom stopped at 300 Mulberry to check in. No one was looking for him, and nothing particularly important was going on, so he told the desk sergeant he was off to Bellevue and headed out. He doubted the coroner could tell him much about Bucklin that he didn’t already know, but it was wise to check. He took the El back uptown, resisting the urge to get off at Astor Place. He stood all the way, hanging on to one of the straps that hung from the ceiling. He couldn’t help thinking about Emily. She was a married woman. He had no right to think that she might be interested in him. She had education, that was obvious, and a quick, inquisitive mind. She had wealth and social standing. The more he looked at the logic of it, the more illogical it looked. But then there was the way she had smiled at him when they said good-bye—not just with her mouth, but with her eyes. And there was that little tilt of her head and a lingering pressure from her small, warm hand in his. These things had nothing to do with logic. Did they?
After walking across town from the El, Tom plunged into the echoing gloom of the corridors of Bellevue. Tom never liked the place. Its hard tile surfaces; its smells and sounds; its perpetual gloom always left him feeling depressed and anxious. He dreaded the thought of waking up one day in this place. It was a tomb for the living, big, hard, and impersonal. As he neared the coroner’s operating room, he thought he heard music. The sound of a string quartet drifted and echoed down the corridors. He heard the violins swell and it gave him a chill. They sounded too heavenly for this cold-tiled basement.
Tom walked down to the morgue and pushed the door open. He thought he heard the sound of a saw just as he entered. Dr. Thomas looked up from his work.
“Oh … Tom, c’mon in. I’m right in the middle of something, but if you’ll bear with me for a moment I’ll—” The doctor continued to saw. His apron was smeared with red, and there was a red blotch on his glasses. He seemed to be humming to himself. A gramophone was playing in the far corner of the operating room. It sounded like opera. Tom’s landlady sometimes sang opera and this sounded similar, but he didn’t know the tune. “So, Detective, what brings you to my, ah … my, ah …” Doc Thomas hooked a finger in the skull he was sectioning, pulling the top of the head open a bit more to keep the saw from binding. “Ah, where was I? Yes, what brings you to my dissectorium? As you can see, I have an interesting case … ah … here.” The doctor had a habit of almost never finishing a sentence. He was famous for it, in fact. Most everyone in the department called him Dangling Thomas.
He went back to the job at hand, squinting through his blood-smeared glasses. He sawed slowly, taking his time not to cut too deep. Tom looked on in morbid fascination. The sound of a saw on bone was a chilling reminder to him. During the war he had been in many field hospitals. Thinking of it now, the word “hospital” was a vast overstatement. Most often it was a barn, or the nearest farmhouse. Usually the cutting went on in the kitchens.
As he listened to the coroner’s saw, its rhythmic, muffled grinding took him back to a field hospital near Spotsylvania. His old head wound ached at the memory. He had followed the hospital wagons filled with wounded to check on a couple of men in his squad. The wagons snaked on rutted roads for about two miles back of the lines. The men bounced and moaned and dripped crimson on the red Virginia mud. It was easy to find the hospital. What he wished he could forget was the pile by the back door. Maybe four feet high, tangled in a grisly embrace was a collection of severed human limbs. Hands, feet, legs, arms, and unidentifiable bits drained into the dirt. As he walked up, a large pig rooting nearby dashed in and snatched an arm. The lifeless hand flopped and waved in the pig’s jaws. Tom couldn’t remember drawing his pistol, but he remembered the satisfaction of shooting the pig. He’d looked at the grisly pile for what seemed like an age. An odd notion about it had haunted him down the years. Did a limb mourn a body, as a body will mourn a limb? Did this pile of inert parts pine for the whole? Did a leg, on some biological level, cry out for its body, its blood, its energizing brain? Did these limbs long to run in a field, caress a lover’s breast, or feel a newborn baby’s tender weight? He could almost feel their searching loss.
“So, Detective, what brings you to, ah … Bellevue?” Dr. Thomas brought Tom out of his macabre reverie. He stood over the cadaver whose skull he had just sectioned, his saw dripping absently.
“A man brought in yesterday, about noon. Bucklin, Terrence Bucklin?” Tom stared at the top of the cadaver’s brain.
“Oh, yes. The one with the, ah, cranial …” The coroner waved vaguely at the back of his head.
“Yeah, that would be him. Have a chance to give him a look?”
“Yes, this morning.” Doc Thomas looked around distractedly. He put down his saw, shuffled over to a desk on the far side of the room, and pulled a report from the small pile atop the desk.
“Hm. Nasty bump on the head. Blunt trauma, extensive bleeding into the parietal and occipital lobes, extending also into the cerebellum, medulla oblongata, and spinal column. Ah, let’s see … second cervical vertebra fractured at the vertebral arch, impacting and partially severing the ah, spinal column, transverse process detached, um …”
“Uh-huh. So what does that mean exactly, Doc?” Braddock asked, shaking his head. “Explain it to this simple old detective, if you would.”
“It means someone didn’t like him much,” the doctor said, grinning over the tops of his glasses.
“Yeah, I guess not,” Tom agreed with a little chuckle. “Anything you can tell me about what hit him?”
“Oh, yes, yes, here it is. I, ah, peeled back the scalp to get a look at the pattern of the fracture. Sometimes can tell from the way the bones break.” The doctor stopped again, lost in his thoughts. Tom waited. He wondered if he was going to have to finish every thought for the coroner.
“Did a nasty job,” he went on finally. “Crushed part of the brain itself. Massive internal bleed
ing …” The doctor paused, fingering the day’s growth of stubble on his chin.
“So what caused it? What’s your best guess?” Tom asked, hoping to hurry him along. Doc Thomas looked up as if startled out of his thoughts. “By the pattern of the bone fracture, it’s my opinion that it was something about one to maybe one point two five inches in … ah … diameter.”
“Pretty small,” Tom observed, holding his thumb and forefinger in a small circle that he guessed to be about that size.
“Yes, but heavy enough, or driven with enough force to, ah … crush the skull and … drive a section of bone into the …” Thomas paused again, peering over his glasses at his notes.
“So, I’m guessing a hammer, or the end of a pipe, or something.”
“Hammer’s more likely, Tom. A pipe, unless it had a cap on the end, would tend to leave a circular ah … cut.”
Tom grunted agreement. “Looked like he was hit more than once, right?”
“Twice, you’re right. Second time actually from a slightly different … angle. Hit at the base of the skull and into the second cervical vertebra, just at the top of the neck. A glancing blow, but still powerful enough to break the, ah … neck. Cause of death was massive cranial and brain damage, accompanied by, ah … intracranial bleeding, paralysis, and cessation of respiratory—”
“Okay, I got it. Did you have a chance to look at the stain on his vest?” Tom asked just a bit impatiently, anxious to move along.
The doctor didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, didn’t care. This was his world and it moved to his own sense of time and no one else’s.
“The tobacco juice? Yes, your nice young patrolman, ah …” Thomas said, flipping through his papers.
“Jaffey.”
“Yes, quite. Jaffey passed along your concern about that. It would appear as though someone spat on your victim.”
“That’s what I thought. Fresh enough to have taken place at the same time as the murder?” Tom asked.
Suspension Page 16
