The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

  Flynn handed around five handbills.

  'Don't paw at 'em!' Flynn barked. 'Anybody damages one of these, they're going to jail for destruction of evidence. I ain't kidding.'

  Each piece of paper was rough and cheap, about seven inches wide by eleven long, and each bore the same red ink-stamped message, the unevenness of which made plain that it had been hand-printed, one letter at a time:

  Rimember

  We will not tolerate any longer

  Free the political prisoner or it will be sure death for all of you

  American Anarchist

  Fighters

  The newsmen copied furiously.

  'Cedar and Broadway,' Flynn resumed, using his pointer again, 'is four minutes by foot from the incendiary location. That leaves no doubt about what happened. The anarchists parked their animal-powered vehicle on Wall Street at approximately oh-eleven-fifty-four. When they reached Cedar and Broadway, they placed these circulars into the mail receptacle, three minutes before the explosion.

  'It will be recalled,' Flynn went on, 'that the circulars connected with the bomb outrages of 1919 looked just like these here and were signed by the same enemy organization. If any further cooperation was needed, which it ain't, it will also be recalled that the Chicago Post Office bombing of 1918 occurred on the third Thursday' — pronounced toyd Toysday — 'of September, which yesterday was too. The exact anniversary. In other words, these are the same terrorist Bolshevikis who bombed us in 1918 and 1919 — Eye-talians associated with the Galliani organization. There's your story. You print it. I will now read you the names of the wanted.' Reading from what appeared to be an arrest warrant, Flynn continued: 'Carlo Tresca, anarchist leader and known terrorist; Pietro Baldesserotto, anarchist; Serafino Grandi, anarchist and revolutionary; Rugero Bacini, anarchist; Roberto Elia, anarchist.'

  The newsmen kept scribbling some time after Flynn had finished his recitation. Then one of them called out, 'Was J. P. Morgan hurt, Chief?'

  'What are you — stupid? J. P. Morgan wasn't even in town yesterday,' said Flynn. 'This outrage was not directed at Morgan or any other individual. It was an attack on the American government and the American people and the American way of life. You put that in the papers.'

  'What can you tell us about the horse and wagon, Chief?' a newsman asked.

  'The witnesses thus far examined,' said Flynn, 'have told us that the horse was facing east, which ain't legal under traffic regulations. But terrorists don't care too much about traffic regulations, do they?' Flynn's torso heaved up and down at the last remark, which he apparently found humorous.

  'So you haven't identified the wagon?' asked a reporter.

  'They blew it up, you chucklehead,' Flynn shot back, irritated. 'How are we supposed to identify it? It's in a million pieces — and so's the horse. Any more bonehead questions?'

  'What about Fischer, Chief?'

  'Don't worry about Fischer,' said Flynn.

  'Have you caught him yet?'

  'Who says I'm looking? NYPD wants Fischer; let them look.'

  'But how did he know about the bombing?'

  'Who says he knew about it? The postcard never said bomb. And it said the fifteenth, not the sixteenth. I ain't gonna comment on Fischer. If you ask me, he's a mental case who got lucky. Now get out of here, all of you. I got men in the field waiting for orders.'

  Under vaulted gold-leaf ceilings, Younger pointed out to Colette and Luc the caricature of old Mr Woolworth himself, carved in stone, counting his fives and dimes. They boarded the express elevator. The boy's eyes fixed in wonder on the winking lights that indicated the breathtaking passage of floors. Only a slight rocking of the car and a whistling of air betrayed the rapidity of their ascent.

  Fifty-eight stories up, they emerged through heavy oak doors into a blinding blue sunlight and a wind so fierce Younger had to take Colette around the shoulders and Luc by the hand. The three-sided observation deck was lined with sightseers, coats flapping. At a railing, Younger, Colette, and Luc — on his tiptoes — gazed down on roofs of buildings that were themselves taller than the tallest cathedrals of Europe. Impossibly far below, rivers of mobile humanity — minuscule models of people, cars, buses — flowed and halted en masse to strangely slow rhythms. This was not a bird's-eye view. It was the view of a god witnessing America's breach of the first axiom of divinity, the separation of earth from heaven.

  Behind them, the heavy oak doors swung open again, discharging another elevator load of visitors onto the deck. Among the newcomers was a man in a fedora pulled low over his forehead. He walked with a limp, and his clean-shaven face was mottled with scarlet patches — burn marks of some kind.

  As the reporters field out of his office, Big Bill Flynn sat down behind a large oak desk, taking up a fountain pen like a man with important documents to sign, although in fact the only papers on his desk were newspapers. Two dark-suited assistants stood behind him, one on either side of his desk, hands behind their backs, feet apart.

  Littlemore remained in his seat, toothpick protruding from his mouth, examining one of the handbills. 'Isn't that funny?' he asked of no one in particular, after the last newsman had left.

  Flynn addressed one of his deputies: 'What is this guy, deaf?'

  'Hey, buddy, you deaf?' asked the deputy.

  '"Or it will be sure death for all of you,'" said Littlemore, quoting the hand-stamped message. 'That's what I call a threat, because it says something's going to happen. But how about what already happened? I mean, if you were leaving behind a message after you blew up Wall Street, wouldn't you say something about what you just pulled off? You know, maybe ominous, like "Today was just the beginning." Or throw in a little taunt, like maybe, " We took down Wall Street, next we'll come for all streets.'"

  The detective had sung the last words, to the tune of 'Ring Around the Rosey.'

  'Who the hell is this guy?' asked Flynn.

  'Who the hell are you?' asked a deputy.

  'Captain James Littlemore,' said Littlemore. 'NYPD, Homicide. Commissioner Enright asked me to be the Department's liaison officer with the Bureau. I'm supposed to offer you our services.'

  'Oh yeah?' said Flynn. 'Well, there ain't going to be no liaison officer, because there ain't going to be no liaisoning. Now get out of here, will you?'

  The second of Flynn s assistants leaned down and spoke softly into his superior's ear.

  'You don't say,' said Flynn aloud. He leaned back in his chair. 'So you're the guy who turned up Fischer?'

  'That's right,' said Littlemore.

  'Think you got something there, do you, Littleboy?'

  'Could be,' said Littlemore.

  'I'll tell you what you got,' said Flynn. 'A crackpot. You'll be interviewing him inside an asylum.'

  'I don't know about that,' said Littlemore.

  'I do,' replied Flynn. 'He's in one now.'

  'Where?'

  'You want him. You find out.'

  'How do you know?' asked Littlemore.

  'Let's just say I got it out of the air,' said Flynn, his torso shaking again. His deputies seemed to consider this remark a witticism; they joined in his laughter.

  'Well, I guess I got to congratulate you, Chief Flynn,' said Littlemore, returning to his scrutiny of the handbill, which he now held up in the light over his head. 'Never seen a case this big broken so fast.'

  'That's why they pay us the big bucks,' said Flynn.

  'Say, Chief,' said Littlemore, 'did you see all those soldiers outside the Treasury Building? I wonder what they're doing there.'

  'They're there because I ordered them there,' said Flynn. 'Somebody's got to protect United States property when the police department's got its heads up its pants. Now scram.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Littlemore. He stopped in front of the chalkboard map of lower Manhattan and scratched his head. 'Those anarchists, I'll tell you — how do you catch people who can do the impossible?' asked Littlemore.

  'What's impossible?' said Flynn.

&n
bsp; 'Well, they leave their horse and wagon on Wall Street at 11:54 and walk four minutes to the mailbox at Cedar and Broadway — that's what you said, right? Mail gets picked up at 11:58. Bomb goes off at 12:01. How much time is there between 11:54 and 12:01?'

  'Seven minutes, genius,' said Flynn.

  'Seven minutes,' said Littlemore, shaking his head. 'Now that surprises me, Chief You think they'd leave their bomb ticking for seven whole minutes? I wouldn't hive. I mean, with the horse blocking traffic and all. If it were me, I'd have set my timer for one or two minutes. Because in seven minutes, somebody might move the horse out of there — maybe even discover the bomb.'

  'Well, nobody did, did they?' barked Flynn. 'Nothing impossible about that. Get him out of here.'

  'Maybe nobody moved the horse,' said Littlemore as the two deputies approached him, 'because it was only there two minutes.'

  Flynn signaled his deputies to wait: 'What are you talking about?'

  'My men took statements from a lot of folks who were there yesterday, Chief Flynn. Eyewitnesses. The horse and wagon pulled up on Wall Street only one or two minutes before the bomb exploded. Your anarchists, you got to hand it to them. They leave Wall Street at 11:59 or 12:00, and they get to Cedar and Broadway before 11:58, when the mailman picks up their circulars. How do you catch people who can do that?'

  No one answered. Flynn stood up. He slicked back his oiled hair. 'So you're a captain, huh? How many men report to you? Six?'

  'Enough,' said Littlemore, thinking of Officers Stankiewicz and Roederheusen.

  'I got a thousand. And my men ain't like yours. There are two kinds of cops in the NYPD — the ones on the take, and the ones too stupid to realize that everybody else is on the take. Which kind are you?'

  'Too stupid,' said Littlemore.

  'You look it,' said Flynn. 'But not stupid enough to get in the way of my investigation. Are you?'

  Littlemore went to the doorway. 'I don't know; I'm pretty stupid,' he said, shutting the door behind him.

  Flynn turned to his deputies. 'Get me a file on that guy,' he said. 'Get me wife, friends, family — everything. And see if Hoover's got anything on him.'

  Luc broke free from Younger and ran to the far side of the deck, which looked out on the water. Nearby, a pack of schoolboys shouted to one another about something they saw below. Luc ran toward them.

  'Look at him,' said Younger. 'He understands what those boys are saying.'

  'Not their words — how could he?' replied Colette.

  'He can read the newspaper,' said Younger.

  'In English? Impossible,' answered Colette. They stood side by side at the railing and gazed out onto the vast urban panorama. She put her hand on his. 'I wish I didn't have to go back.'

  He removed his hand and took out a cigarette.

  'You don't care if I leave?' she asked.

  'I recommended you to Boltwood. You're leaving him with no one running his laboratory. Of course I care.'

  'Oh. Well, I don't like your Professor Boltwood anyway. Do you know what he called Madame Curie the other day? A "detestable idiot.'"

  'He's just jealous. Every chemist in the world is jealous of Marie Curie.'

  'Men are very cruel when they're jealous.'

  'Are they? I wouldn't know.'

  No one glancing at the man who had limped into the center of the platform would have seen the dagger in his right hand, tucked invisibly against his inner sleeve. Colette herself might have turned around without recognizing Drobac, whose mass of whiskers was now shaved off. Only his eyes — the small, black, perceptive eyes peering out below his low-cocked hat — could have given him away He held the knife by its blade, one finger caressing its edge. There was no danger of his being cut: as with all good throwing knives, both of its edges were dull. The point alone was sharp.

  An experienced practitioner of the knife-throwing art, if he intends to kill, will throw at the victim's heart. Of those organs whose puncturing is virtually certain to cause death, the heart is the largest — saving of course the brain, which is rendered inaccessible by the hard bone of the cranium. The victim's ribs might be thought a significant obstruction, but it isn't so. Provided that the throw is sidearm, not overhand, there is no real difficulty. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the victim's ribs will let the point slip through. Indeed one might almost say they guide it home.

  Younger and Colette had their backs to Drobac, as did everyone else on the observation deck, because he stood in the center while they were all at the railings. A good knife-thrower has no compunction about taking aim at his victim's back, which assures, after all, the element of surprise. All that's required is a blade long enough to pass through the soft tissue of the left lung with sufficient metal remaining to pierce the meat of the heart. In the case of a slender victim, a shaft of eight inches will usually do. Colette Rousseau was slender, and the knife in this case was a dagger with a ten-inch steel blade. Drobac's breathing slowed.

  'That's good,' shouted Detective Littlemore to a workman operating a pneumatic drill. 'Keep her clear.'

  Littlemore was now on Wall Street, in front of the Morgan Bank, where the bomb had exploded the day before. Two uniformed officers — Stankiewicz and Roederheusen — kept pedestrians at bay. Across the street, the Treasury and Assay buildings still looked like an army garrison, with a company of soldiers positioned around them.

  The drill bit cracked one cobblestone in the blackened crater, then another. Littlemore signaled the workman to stop. Crouching down, brushing dust and pebbles aside, the detective prized free a horseshoe from the stones. It was a size four shoe; the remains of a shamrock nail were visible. Stankiewicz and Roederheusen peered over his shoulder. Littlemore flipped the shoe over; the letters HSIU were imprinted on it.

  'How do you like that?' said Littlemore. 'You boys know what HSIU stands for?'

  'No, sir,' said Roederheusen.

  'Horse Shoers International Union.'

  'Something strange about that, Cap?' asked Stankiewicz.

  'Sure is.' Littlemore did not explain what.

  On the Woolworth Building observation deck, a clutch of schoolboys erupted with shouts and stampeded at full speed from one side of the deck to the next. Luc chased them, close on their heels; an alarmed schoolteacher trailed after, close on his. Colette cried out her brother's name and broke into a run, certain that Luc was going to trip and tumble over the guard rail.

  Drobac smiled. He was still standing, alone and unmoving, in the center of the platform. Colette was running from his right to his left at the far side of the deck. The gusting wind died for an instant, and in that instant he took a single broad step, as a fencer does in a lunge, flinging his knife backhanded. In general, he favored moving targets, which offered more of a challenge. But Colette did not present even that challenge. She had become quite suddenly stationary: Luc had stopped abruptly, bringing the schoolteacher to a halt just behind him, bringing Colette to a similar halt.

  The dagger spun in the air exactly three and a half rotations, parallel to the ground, and entered the girl's back. The point slipped through her ribs, puncturing her lung. But it was the right lung, not the left, and as a result the knife point, when it emerged from that lung, never touched her heart.

  A knife piercing an individual's back characteristically causes its victim to throw both arms wide and high in the air, to scream, and to fall forward at least a step or two. All that happened here. This was unfortunate, because her forward steps propelled her over the railing. There was still a fair chance her fall might have been arrested by one of the balconies below. It was not to be. Her body, somersaulting, hit a parapet and bounced outward. The collision caused a morsel of concrete to crack loose and fall alongside the girl's body, accompanying her fifty-eight stories to the earth. At exactly the same moment, the girl and the concrete chip hit the sidewalk, which there consisted of a mosaic of colored glass squares. On contact, the concrete chip rebounded several stories high in the air. Considerably heav
ier, the girl's plummeting body ripped through the colorful glass tiles with a sickening thunderclap, plunging into the subway station below.

  Littlemore heard the crash all the way from Wall Street. He listened for an aftermath, for the sounds of riot or terror. Hearing nothing more, he resumed his instructions to his men: 'Stanky, you take this shoe straight to Inspector Lahey.'

  'Can I tell the press about it?' asked Stankiewicz.

  'Make sure you do,' said Littlemore. 'But the Feds don't touch that shoe, you hear me?'

  'Excuse me, Captain,' said Roederheusen. 'Mr O'Neill's still waiting to talk to you.'

  Terrified screams rent the rooftop of the Woolworth Building. Schoolboys gaped and yelled in horror. Only Luc was perfectly silent, reaching his hands, with a strange and protective intelligence, to take those of his sister.

  The dead girl was the schoolteacher who had stopped short behind Luc. Had Colette taken one more step, Drobac's knife would have found her. But because of the schoolteacher's unexpected halt, the knife had pierced the right lung of the wrong victim — the unlucky schoolteacher — rather than the left lung of its intended target.

  The mass of people on the observation deck, not having seen the knife, believed they had witnessed a ghastly accident. A new load of sightseers just then emerging onto the deck added to the confusion. Younger, however, had seen the knife in the schoolteacher's back, and now he saw a man limping toward the heavy oak doors that led to the elevator bank — the only person leaving the platform amid the pandemonium. Drobac glanced back as he passed through the doorway. Younger recognized the small, black eyes at once.