In the Shadow of Gotham (23 page)

Finally, he looked at me, and I saw both honesty and fear reflected in his eyes as he replied, “I do not know.” He seemed to collapse in the chair. “What do you plan to do now? Are you going to proceed as we have been doing? Or are you going to sound the alarm, and circulate this information?”

My response perfectly echoed his own.

I looked at him squarely. “Like you, I do not know.”

It was half past eleven by the time I returned to Dobson that night. Despite the late hour, Joe was awake, reading in the front parlor that had become his convalescence room. He preferred that room, with its view of the street leading down to the train station and factories, to the second-floor bedroom that would have isolated him from the daily rhythms of life in the village. As a result, the sofa had been converted into his sickbed, and a bookcase brought in with all manner of reading material. After I peered in the window and confirmed he was up, I tapped at the glass, and then let myself in through the front door at his signal.

Joe greeted me with surprise and pleasure. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Ziele. Thought you had a murder to solve.”

“How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Okay. I’m getting old. I don’t recover from ailments as fast as I used to.”

“This wasn’t just an ordinary ‘ailment,’ ” I reminded him. “A stroke is a major illness; you shouldn’t expect too much of your body, too soon.”

“Bah.” He waved me off. “I wasn’t made for the sickbed. I’ll lose my mind, as well, if my body doesn’t heal soon.”

“You like to fish?” I changed the topic, after noticing Izaak Walton’s
The Compleat Angler
was bookmarked on the table beside him.

“Fly-fishing,” he confirmed. “Just hope I’ll be back in shape by April, when the spring season starts.”

“I’m sure you will be,” I said. “I brought something to drink. Do you have a glass?”

“You’ll find them in the corner cabinet in the dining room.”

I returned a moment later with two glasses and placed them on the table nearest Joe. Then I pulled out a bottle of brandy, a favorite I had just purchased.

“I assume Anna’s safely in bed?” I raised an eyebrow toward the upstairs before I poured him a stiff glass. Joe’s wife had definite ideas about what convalescing patients needed, and I strongly suspected liquor would not meet with her approval.

He chuckled. “Nearly two hours ago. The woman is worn out tending to me. She’s very thorough. I’d frankly trade some of that care for a bit more freedom. ”

More soberly, he added, “I want to stay involved in the case. I can still manage Mayor Fuller and his complaints. And I can still supervise all the work done by those helping us from Yonkers.”

“Agreed.” I raised my glass and toasted him. “To your health—and a speedy recovery.”

“Aye,” he said.

He savored the aroma for a few moments before he spoke again, his tone matter-of-fact. “You’re in a dark mood. And why should that be? The last I checked, you had use of both legs and all your wits. In my opinion, a man that can say that has no worries.” Joe’s words were full of jest, but his eyes were serious and searching as he looked at me.

“Actually, I may have lost my wits,” I admitted, the fingers of my left hand tracing circles around my brandy glass. “I placed my trust where I shouldn’t have.”

“You mean with that Columbia professor and all his cockamamie ideas?”

I nodded, and filled him in; I left out no detail as I described what I had uncovered as well as what Alistair had said in his own defense. “I think what troubles me most,” I said, “is my sense that Alistair is still hiding something. I am convinced he has not yet told me the full story of the Fromley matter.”

“Now you’re being smart again,” Joe said. “But the real question is: What are you going to do with what you know? How does it affect solving Sarah Wingate’s murder?”

“I’m tempted to bring the city police into the case. I could do so in an instant if I shared what Alistair told me,” I said. “But the drawback would be the political infighting that would result. And the press would be all over it, the way they cover any story with a hint of scandal or impropriety. Taken together, those are two complications that could potentially hinder the investigation more, on balance, than additional city resources would help. So much attention would send Fromley permanently underground.” I sighed deeply. “I also know the scrutiny could well destroy Alistair’s reputation.”

“And why do you care about that?” was Joe’s rejoinder.

I was unsure, and I admitted as much to Joe. The press would seize upon Alistair’s currying of personal favor and disregard for police authority; they would sensationalize it into the sort of scandal that sells newspapers. And while in my angrier moments I thought that was exactly what he deserved, I knew that to punish him would not help me solve this case any faster.

“Alistair’s admission underscores the danger Fromley poses,” I said. “We need to find him. That’s really the only priority, but chasing him is like chasing a ghost. Wherever I look, I discover places he has been and people he has hurt. But I cannot find
him.
”

“Then maybe you need to think more like a ghost,” Joe suggested, only partly tongue-in-cheek. “In other words, where does a man like him go when he needs to disappear? If you can figure that out, then you might better your odds of finding him. And you, of all people, should know the places a man can disappear in the city.”

It was the first time Joe had alluded to knowing anything about my personal history; but then again, this night had been full of surprises. And while most of them had been unpleasant, Joe’s company had been unexpectedly good-natured and helpful. In the aftermath of his stroke, the petty awkwardness between us was gone. After I bid him good night, I returned to my own bed and a fitful sleep in which I dreamed of my own father and his innate ability to disappear into the fabric of the city whenever he fell deeply in debt. I thought of all the hiding places I had known him to choose. Which of them would appeal to someone who wanted to disappear permanently? If I could answer that, then perhaps I would be much closer to tracking down the elusive Michael Fromley.

Saturday, November 11, 1905

Joe and I had reached an agreement last night: He would continue to manage the Dobson end of the investigation from home, and I would focus on whatever was required in the city. Unsurprisingly, Alistair was not in his office when I looked for him the next morning. I had come here, however, in hopes of consulting with Tom Baxter. Earlier, he had impressed me as level-headed and pragmatic; I could not imagine he would have countenanced Alistair’s decisions about Fromley had he known of them, and I was interested to hear what he would say now. I found him at his desk, almost buried among several piles of papers.

He greeted me with some surprise. “Good morning, Ziele. I didn’t expect to see anyone else here so early this morning.” He
waved his hand over his desk, explaining, “Just trying to get some midterm exams graded. I’d hoped to return them to my students this week, but I’m making such slow progress, I fear they will be disappointed.”

I returned his greeting and then waited a moment as Tom paused uncertainly, looking at me as though trying to divine what I wanted before I told him.

“Sit down,” he said finally; “you look as though you’ve got something on your mind.”

“You might say that,” I said with an ease I did not feel. I claimed the chair across from him. “Actually, I need to speak with you about a matter that occurred two years ago in October 1903. While I believe that is before you came here, Alistair may have told you something about it.”

I explained the relevant details I’d learned the previous evening, leaving out nothing of importance. As I suspected, he had known nothing of Fromley’s purported confession, and seemed only slightly less appalled than I had been to learn of the cavalier way Alistair and Fred had chosen to conceal this information. As his brow furrowed in concentration, I allowed him to digest the problem for a few moments before I mentioned that I wanted to examine any relevant case files.

“A capital idea,” Tom said, swinging around in his chair energetically. “Surely the files can help with some of the information we’re missing.” He glanced at his watch; it was already nearly nine o’clock. “Mrs. Leab should be in by now—I’ll ask her to bring them to us.”

In addition to light housekeeping and cooking duties, Mrs. Leab kept appointments for all three professors, typed their letters and formal reports, and engaged in limited filing duties. Tom returned with her after just a few moments, each of them
carry ing a stack of thick files.
CASE NOTES / OCTOBER
1903” read the label on each, with sublabels designating the more specific material contained therein. Though unsurprisingly, there was no overt reference to Michael Fromley’s confession. Tom divided the papers into two stacks. We each read silently, trading papers as we finished them, until we had digested the material contained within. The body of material primarily consisted of Alistair’s case notes, but observations by Fred Ebbings, copies of police reports detailing the circumstances of Moira Shea’s murder, and newspaper clippings covering the same were also included.

I have a terrible memory for criminals themselves. Unless there is anything particularly unusual about a criminal’s personality or the crime itself, the facts of one case blend together with the others in my mind. And yet, I remember each and every victim with a clarity that astounds me. Each haunts me—and Moira Shea began to do so that morning, the moment she assumed shape and form from the scant facts I gleaned about her in the reports. She had recently trained as a nurse at the Bellevue Training School for Nursing and was working her first job, as a private nurse for an elderly woman on East Sixty-first Street. She occasionally volunteered at Miss Wald’s Henry Street Nurses Settlement. One police officer speculated that her murder was premeditated, committed by someone she had encountered while working in poor neighborhoods. This struck me as unlikely; the nurses who tended to the sick were so badly needed in the roughest of areas, they were welcomed, never hurt.

The pictures in Moira Shea’s file showed a woman with strong features. Her hair was piled high atop her head and she wore glasses with simple frames. From her expression alone, I
could imagine she had not easily succumbed to her killer. That was confirmed when I found the coroner’s report detailing the significant number of defensive wounds she suffered; she had fought her attacker vigorously.

Moira Shea was twenty-one when she was stabbed to death in a vacant warehouse near the East River in August 1902. The autopsy report indicated there was no evidence of sexual assault, although some of her clothes were missing when her body was found. As Alistair had mentioned last night, Moira was last seen traveling downtown on the Second Avenue El by witnesses who came forward later. Those on the car near her described a man oddly dressed; he wore a brown trench coat despite the summer heat. His behavior had attracted attention, too; he had mumbled to himself and stared at each woman on the El intently. He had gotten off at Moira’s stop, following in her direction, yet apparently keeping his distance. Witnesses could say nothing more; several were alarmed they had not intervened or at least taken him more seriously at the time.

After thoroughly reviewing this evidence, I turned my attention to Fromley’s confession. I saw immediately that Alistair had been right on at least one count: Fromley’s story was full of troubling discrepancies. According to the police report, Moira had been stabbed fourteen times; yet Fromley stated he “couldn’t remember” if he had stabbed her more than once or twice. Her stab wounds were about the face, hands, and chest; yet Fromley claimed to have beaten her with his fists, then slit her throat. The coroner had estimated her time of death as around six o’clock in the evening; Fromley maintained he killed her near midnight, after “enjoying her company” for the evening. That was a euphemism for the sort of sexual violation the coroner’s report explicitly ruled out.

In evidentiary terms, Alistair was right to be less than entirely convinced by this confession. Had I been the police officer in charge of questioning Fromley, so many discrepancies would have raised real questions in my mind, as well. And yet, that was precisely the point: Alistair had taken it upon
himself
to make that judgment call. And to make that decision alone was neither his responsibility nor his right.

But if Fromley’s confession was lacking in terms of hard, logistical details, it was nonetheless filled with exceptionally lurid details to describe his motivation for murder. “I didn’t like the way she avoided me,” he had said. “She looked right past me—as though I were nothing.” According to his notes accompanying the confession, Fred Ebbings had suggested to Fromley that perhaps, like all well-bred ladies, she had been cautioned not to interact with strangers. But Fromley refused to accept that possibility. Instead, Fromley believed the woman was purposely ignoring him; he grew angrier and angrier that she did so; then he decided he would make her regret it. The more he looked at her, the more he wanted to make her see him. “I kept staring at her face,” he explained, “and looking in her eyes. When she didn’t look back, I decided I’d have to
make
her look.” His confession continued along these lines, detailing his determination to make her appreciate his true power. He claimed to have followed her and subdued her by the abandoned warehouse where the actual murder took place.