In the Shadow of Gotham (24 page)

So what was the truth of it? I wondered. Was it possible that Fromley’s confession was merely conjectured fantasy? His own fictionalized version of a real murder he had read about in the papers? Or, was he guilty of this crime—and we simply could not verify it because his confession was riddled with flaws? Perhaps the details of the murder had become irretrievably confused
as they intermingled with his fantasies. I found myself as much at a loss to make this judgment as Alistair had claimed to be.

“So what are your thoughts?” I asked Tom after I finished. We looked at each other uneasily.

“Well,” Tom said, “Fromley was nothing if not a troublemaker, and he certainly appears to be the man you want for murdering Sarah Wingate. But the Shea girl?” he said, and frowned. “Not a shred of hard evidence points that way. Not even the boy’s own confession, since I personally believe Fromley would have better remembered the details of what was supposedly his first murder.”

He paused a moment before he continued. “What you may not realize, however, never having met Fromley, is how sharp he is. Fred maintains Fromley is a psychopath.” He paused for a moment, observing my reaction before going on to ask, “Are you familiar with the term?”

“I assume it is an academic term for a crazed murderer,” I said dryly.

“Sort of,” Tom acknowledged with a rueful smile. “It actually designates a specific kind of personality. A person who is considered psychopathic lies just for the fun of it. Fromley often did; he may have given us a false confession just for his own amusement. You’ll also recall from what we have told you that Fromley was both impulsive and aggressive, so he was often involved in fights. What would be considered psychopathic about this behavior was that he never felt remorse for what he had done. If he hurt or mistreated someone, he was completely indifferent to their pain, because he had previously rationalized why they deserved their mistreatment.”

Tom looked at me intently, as if wanting reassurance I had
followed him. I recognized it as a teacher’s habit; he wanted to be sure his listener had understood one point before he ventured on to the next.

“I understand,” I said, anxious for him to continue.

“I explain this so you don’t lose sight of how intelligent he is. So you don’t forget how easily and expertly he lies. I would not put it past him to have fabricated the entire confession simply to put Alistair in the very position of indecision and uncertainty in which he found himself. Fromley would have enjoyed watching Alistair squirm as he wrestled with his doubts. And,” he added, “I also do not discount that if he were guilty of Moira Shea’s murder, he may have contrived to riddle his confession with so many errors it could not be deemed credible. That way, he could both claim credit for the crime and yet remain safe from punishment, since reasonable minds would doubt his culpability.”

“Then why bother confessing at all? Why do you claim he needed ‘credit’ for having committed the crime?” I asked. Tom was persuasive, but this part of his analysis made no sense to me.

“Because Fromley wanted Alistair to appreciate his criminal plans—both real and imagined,” Tom said. “Alistair’s research with Fromley, whatever benefit it might produce for scientific advancement, created a troubling effect upon Fromley’s ego. He came to feel self-important as a result of having educated men hanging upon his every word, working full-time just to try to figure him out.”

“I suppose that makes sense. But since we cannot conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that Fromley did—or did not—kill Moira Shea, I have a dilemma regarding Alistair.” I looked at the mass of material that fully obscured Tom’s desk. “There’s not enough hard evidence here for me to tell the city police and
expect to be taken seriously—especially since it involves a killing that occurred over three years ago.”

Tom’s mouth formed a grim, hard line. “And it would destroy Alistair’s reputation. I’m sure you’re aware of that.”

I said evenly, “My only concern is what will best help us solve the Wingate murder—and prevent another one like it. If I report Fromley’s link to a past crime, within the city’s jurisdiction, the detective bureau would at least offer us additional resources. But we would also have to deal with political posturing and the press—both of which may hinder our ability to track down Fromley.”

We debated the issue for the better part of the next half hour, back and forth, until at last we came to a resolution. Tom remained concerned with protecting Alistair’s reputation—a view he frankly acknowledged to be self-interested, given his own affiliation with Alistair and the research center. But together with my own concerns about third-party involvement, we reluctantly agreed to keep the matter to ourselves, at least for now.

“This is only because I think undue attention to Alistair’s lapse in judgment would undermine our efforts in the Wingate case,” I said. “Yet, to what extent do we continue to involve Alistair?”

“You mean you would consider ending the association?” Tom seemed genuinely shocked, despite the matters we had just discussed.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I do not trust him. From reviewing this evidence”—I gestured toward the stacks of paper on Tom’s desk—“I know the allegations involving Fromley are questionable. The Fromley confession is of dubious value, and Alistair strenuously denies using undue influence in the Smedley case.
But it doesn’t change the fact that Alistair put his own research above and beyond all other concerns. Can you honestly tell me otherwise?”

“That judgment is one only you can make,” Tom replied frankly. “I believe the ethical line Alistair may draw is different from your own. But such differences, while hard for you to understand, may not be unethical. I have no doubt that compelling evidence would have convinced Alistair to turn Fromley in. But lacking that, he chose to continue as before.” He paused a moment. “You know, he’s not as unsympathetic to your priorities as you seem to think.”

Something about his tone was odd; I looked sharply at Tom. “What do you mean by that?”

“Alistair has been a criminal law professor for his entire career. But it was simply that—a career—for the longest time. It occupied his days, earned him the respect of family and friends, and”—he smiled slightly—“permitted him free time to pursue more social interests. Criminology did not become his passion—his obsession, really—until his son Teddy was killed.”

“Killed?” I asked sharply, recalling how Isabella had stiffened at the mention of Teddy’s name. “I had heard only that Theodore Sinclair died tragically while traveling in Greece.”

“Not exactly,” Tom said. “He was killed during a robbery. Teddy, just like Alistair, believed he was invincible.” He added, “When he was robbed, he fought back. He might have lived otherwise. The loss—and some unsettling circumstances surrounding it—affected Alistair profoundly.”

And Isabella, I thought, feeling a surge of sympathy for her. Some people would say a young man who died too young was simply that—no more, no less. But I knew better. Murder was different.

“After Teddy’s death,” Tom continued, “Alistair became driven to understand
why
. He wanted to learn everything he could about the motivation and point of view of people who commit crimes, especially those who kill. On a personal level, he needed to know; and intellectually, he also believed that if we learned more, then the disciplines of sociology, psychology, and law could do more to prevent the criminal mind from developing in the first place. Or, at the least, we might arrest the path of the criminal mind’s development early on and redirect it. Rehabilitate it, in Alistair’s terms.”

Tom paused a moment to let me digest this information. “I tell you this much, to help you understand, but this is Alistair’s story. If you need to know more, you must ask him. There are other complications . . .”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Understood.” I suspected those complications were somehow related to Isabella’s odd silences, perhaps even to Mrs. Sinclair’s permanent separation from Alistair. But I was not like Alistair. He had felt compelled to uncover my own secrets; I was content to let his lie.

We were interrupted by Mrs. Leab’s brisk knock at the door. “Detective, you just received a message by courier.”

I thanked her and read it quickly. “It’s from Joe. The Yonkers police lab where I sent Michael Fromley’s shaving bowl and brush for fingerprint analysis has confirmed they were
not
a match with those prints retrieved from the Wingate home.”

I sighed deeply in frustration. Just like Fromley himself, hard evidence linking him to this crime continued to elude me. The lab report proved neither his guilt nor his innocence, since the prints from the Wingate home could have been left by anyone. But the lack of a tangible link was disappointing.

As I got up to leave, I noticed a page from the Fromley materials that had dropped under my chair. It was a page that had been appended to Moira Shea’s autopsy report. It looked insignificant, having only to do with burial instructions, but I scanned it nonetheless. As I read the final notation, an electrifying jolt ran up and down my spine, and my hands began to tingle. I read it once more, to make sure I understood it.

On August 22, 1902, just before the body was to be released to Potter’s Field for a pauper’s burial, a woman claiming to be Moira Shea’s mother had come to retrieve the body for a proper funeral.

That woman’s name was listed as Mrs. Jackson Durant, a widow who was a resident of New York City. But she had signed herself
Mamie Durant.

My thoughts raced as I wondered how to make sense of it. Was this connection to Moira Shea the reason why Mamie had terminated our interview so abruptly?

And just as suddenly, came the more unsettling thought: If no formal, public evidence had ever officially linked Michael Fromley to Moira Shea’s murder, then why did Mamie Durant react so strongly to the mention of Fromley’s name? She had also known exactly where he lived. She must have felt he was to blame for the murder, but how could she have known? It was yet another unsettling reminder that Fromley and his uncertain past affected this case in ways I had yet to comprehend.

“There you are, Ziele!” Alistair’s voice was full of relief. He had just entered the building and begun bounding up the stairs, two at a time, when he caught sight of me. “Listen, I need to speak with you for a moment and clear the air from last night.” Although his energy was as boundless as ever, he looked at me anxiously and taut lines of worry etched his brow. For the first time, he showed some sign of the strain of the past few days.

“No need,” I said, clearing my throat. “I reviewed your case files this morning with Tom, and I understand your difficulty somewhat better. Not that I agree, mind you. But I think we need to put our differences aside and concentrate on solving this murder case.”

“Why, of course.” He grinned broadly, his usual confidence
and enthusiasm suddenly returned to him. “My thoughts exactly. There has to be some connection between Michael Fromley and Sarah Wingate that will establish solid proof and lead us straight to Fromley; we’ve only got to keep working and we’ll find it.”

I had begun to explain my next step when we were interrupted by a high-pitched cry of shock—immediately followed by the sound of Isabella’s dog Oban furiously barking. We raced toward Alistair’s office where we found Isabella, shaken and appearing small in Alistair’s chair; Oban, agitated and running in circles; and Mrs. Leab, dumbfounded, staring blankly at a large cardboard box that sat open on Alistair’s desk.

Alistair charged into the room and, seeing no one was hurt, pulled the box toward him. After he saw its contents, he reprimanded Mrs. Leab roughly. “Why did you allow Isabella to open this? You should have saved it for me.”

“But it was addressed to her, Professor. Not you.”

Alistair flipped back the box lid to confirm it, and there it was:
Mrs. Isabella Sinclair, The Center for Criminological Research.

“But why would he address it to me?” Isabella asked. Now that the initial shock had receded, her curiosity had returned.

As I peered inside, my stomach lurched when I recognized the long braid of blond hair, smattered with bloodstains. I realized its significance with a start: It was Sarah Wingate’s missing hair from the crime scene.

“It came through the regular mail?” I asked, examining the outside of the box carefully for any sign of a postmark; there appeared to be none.

“I found it on the steps outside,” Mrs. Leab said. “It was
there when I came in this morning.” A look of anxiety crossed her face. “I’d like to go wash up.”

Alistair excused her, suggesting she return to her own work. She was ill at ease, disturbed that she had touched the package that contained such awful things.

I pulled on my white cotton gloves. “Has anyone looked at this?” I lifted out a yellowed envelope that had been nestled under the braid. It contained no markings and was not sealed.

Isabella shook her head.

I carefully removed the note folded inside and moved closer to show it to Alistair. Written on heavy white paper it read:

Your move, Professor. Here’s a little remembrance in case you miss our regular chats. Maybe your daughter-in-law would like to spend some time with me.

Below was a messy scrawl, a signature I could not decipher. But Alistair recognized it immediately as that of Michael Fromley.