by Jim Beard
***
Two days on, the great city continued to hustle and bustle, set on its normal track of day and night, nurturing the hurried and the harried, life and death. But some few citizens knew that all was not normal within its borders. Some knew otherwise.
Chief of Police Peter Morton strode into the Mayor’s office midday, when the lethargy of lunchtime had evaporated and the determined rush to “get things done” had resumed. The office’s din was a pleasing one to Morton, reassuring in its noise and traffic.
“Hizzoner in?” he inquired of the Mayor’s secretary, a cute little number he found himself too nervous of a type to ask out. The girl shook her head, opened her mouth to say “No” when the outer door of the office opened and admitted several people, one of them being Pat Battle.
Morton observed the Mayor, District Attorney Wildenburg, Assistant District Attorney Totty, and a clutch of other lawyers, one of them a woman, Frances Dodge. The Chief took notice of her fine, slim form as she passed.
The Mayor’s secretary called out as her boss made his way to his private office.
“Deputy…I mean, Chief Morton is here to see you, sir.”
It was somewhat of a common mistake in the new year. Morton’s predecessor, Douglas Fram, had been greatly admired and respected and his death had not fully registered on those who knew him and dealt with him on a daily basis. Peter Morton was liked, but he was not well liked. To most who worked in the city’s well of officials, bureaucrats, and support personnel, he was still Deputy Chief.
“Follow me in, Chief,” said Battle, and Morton, buoyed by the Mayor’s matter-of-fact acceptance of him in the position, fell in with the group.
Inside the office, Battle took off his coat, shook droplets of water from it – it had been raining for more than twenty-four hours – and settled himself behind his big, oak desk.
“Let’s have it, Chief,” he instructed Morton.
The Chief cleared his throat, glanced around at the others. “Well, we don’t know a lot. There wasn’t much left at the yard. Looks like at least two boxcars had been connected…err, not the normal way, but connected by extending the bodies of the cars themselves. Made a bigger space. Hard to say what they were using them for, but they wanted some space, that’s a certainty.”
Wildenburg snorted. “For what?”
“As I said, we don’t know a lot,” Morton told him, resisting the urge to sneer back, “but there were a lot of bodies, over four dozen of them. All transients, by the look of them. Hoboes, bums…not much left after the fire to identify them further.”
“And it was nitro?” asked Battle, his mood deadly serious, his brow creased and heavy with concern.
Norton nodded, caught himself. “Yes. Yes, several barrels of it, Mr. Mayor. Enough to…well, it blew up a good portion of the yard. Good thing it started raining not long after or it might still be burning now.”
He let it go quiet after that, when no one jumped in with another comment. The atmosphere was definitely somber in the room, accentuated by the sound of the rainfall upon the office’s window.
“Hoboes,” Battle said quietly, his blind eyes half-closed. “Tramps. Lots of them.”
Wildenburg shifted, swinging around to face the Mayor. “Now, Pat, look. I know what you’re thinking, but –”
Patrick J. Battle rose from his chair to his full height. To those in that room, it seemed as if he engulfed it.
“Henry – shut up.”
The District Attorney looked stricken by the command, but Chief Morton guessed that he was just feigning insult. Frances Dodge wore a small smirk on her lips. The others stood there, faces ashen.
“We can’t take any chances,” the Mayor said. “This city needs to get back on its feet. It was a terrible winter and a worse fall. It needs the spring. Nothing can prevent it from embracing it.”
He swung his head around to face D.A. Wildenburg.
“Gather the task force. We’ve got some work to do.”
***
Lynwood Totty Jr. stood once again in the damp basement of the decrepit building on the Old East Side, sweating and lips puffed out in abject fear.
“Say it again.”
He could barely see The Red Judge. The figure was there, rimmed with faint illumination, but something had changed. The theatrical nature of his first audience was absent; the hooded and robed presence seemed somber and his voice quieter.
Totty gripped his hat tightly, looking over the edge of it into the darkness.
“Th-the task force. He’s called it together again!”
The Red Judge gave no reply. Totty assumed he was thinking.
“Tell me once again who all was in that room.”
The Assistant District Attorney gulped and rattled off the names for a second time. “We had just come in from looking at the Festival doings,” he added. “We –”
“Never mind that. I don’t need to hear any more. Here’s your money. You can go.”
Totty snatched up the cash, resettled his hat upon his round head, and dashed back up the stairs, unconcerned by the creaking and groaning protests it made.
At the top of the staircase, he stole one glance back down into the room before rushing through the door and out onto the rain slicked sidewalk.
There, The Red Judge continued to sit, silent and sullen.
***
Faces came to him again as he carefully slipped off the vestments and hood, for his entire body ached and his skin was scorched in several places along his arms and legs.
Markie St. Joseph, crying for justice; Helen Jonquil, too, but hers laced also with vengeance. Doug Fram’s broad face, like those of Easter Island, stared at him in stony silence, imparting wisdom, but also fear.
Beyond the unease the faces offered, what disturbed him most was that the lovely features of Louisa Battle followed the others.
Lane Danner stepped back and took in the sight of The Red Judge’s robes. Would it be enough? He narrowed his eyes at the mask. Did he have what it would take to save everyone?
It would require everything from him, perhaps even his life. This he knew with acute certainty. The horror had returned to the city. The writing was on the wall, so to speak.
He could hear the rain outside the building and the very sound of it cooled him, eased his burdensome thoughts. Corpus vile, he mused to himself. I’ll have to look into that.
Pulling on his jacket and hat, Lane Danner stepped back out into the city.
To Be Continued In:
Chapter Two
“Rats in the Walls”
You have just finished reading
CORPUS VILE: DEATH IN THE CITY, CHAPTER 1: THE RED JUDGE
by Jim Beard
This story is part of the Single Shots Signature Series.
Edited by Tommy Hancock
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock
Director of Corporate Operations-Morgan Minor
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers
Cover Art, Design, and Logos by Jeff Hayes
E-book Design by Russ Anderson
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