In the Shadow of Gotham (25 page)

Alistair frowned deeply, holding the paper up to the window to examine in the light. “This is unlike him,” he said, looking intently at the paper, and tilting it first one way and then another. He turned to his large file cabinet and, after searching for only a minute, he pulled out a large file that apparently contained writing by Michael Fromley. He laid out one sheet for comparison, and we compared the dark, heavy strokes of black ink.

Alistair said, “It certainly
seems
to resemble his handwriting.”

“But?” I sensed that he remained troubled.

Alistair put down the letter and repeated his earlier comment. “It is not like him. I would never expect him to admit his own guilt, and certainly not in this way.” He was emphatic.

“But perhaps you do not know him as well as you believed.” I thought again of the unwarranted trust Alistair had placed in Michael Fromley. “None of you do.”

He chose to ignore me, replying only, “Tom has a good eye for evaluating handwriting—it is something of a hobby for him. We can leave it for him to examine. Meanwhile, I think this incident, taken with the attack on you and Isabella last night, must lead us to refocus our search.”

We were interrupted by Mrs. Leab; her voice thick with worry, she informed Alistair that there were people congregated downstairs wanting to speak with him.

“People?” he asked.

“I think they’re newspaper reporters.”

I accompanied Alistair downstairs, and we had barely opened the door when a stocky, balding man armed with a notebook accosted us. With barely a glance at me, he quickly set upon Alistair. “Professor Sinclair—we’re hearing reports that you pulled political strings to let a murderer loose. Is that true?”

Suddenly Alistair was surrounded by reporters from four local newspapers. They had materialized from nowhere to circle around him, and their questions came in quick succession.

“This is Sheffield with the
Tribune,
” another voice announced. “I understand your family is closely connected with Judge Hansen, who dismissed attempted-murder charges against Michael Fromley and approved releasing him into your custody as part of a plea for lesser charges. We have a quote from the
initial prosecutor on the case, Frank Hogart, alleging that bribery was involved. Do you care to comment?”

Yet another man, this one short and pudgy, shoved his way to the front, wielding an umbrella like a scythe to cut through the crowd. “Yoder here with the
Times
. Is it true that this same man whose release you negotiated has now embarked on a murderous rampage just north of the city?”

Alistair backed into the vestibule, shut the door partway, and looked at me in stunned disbelief. “You?”

“No, Alistair,” I said. “I’ve discussed the matter with no one outside our circle.”

“Maybe the Wallingfords, then,” Alistair muttered, “trying to deflect attention from their family.” He sighed wearily. “Well, now that they’re on the scent of this, they must be dealt with. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

As he moved outside onto the stairs, he began to address the throng of reporters. “Gentlemen, it seems you have some questions—and some grave misunderstandings—pertaining to a research project we have been conducting here at the Center for Criminological Research.” His demeanor and voice rebuked them sharply. “I know each of you adheres to high standards of journalistic integrity, and no one wants to publish unsubstantiated rumors that will lead only to a libel suit.” He paused to let the warning sink in. “If you’ll bear with me a moment, I will be happy to explain this project and its background for the benefit of your readers.”

I managed to make my way through the crowd, and Alistair’s voice trailed off as I moved farther away from the stairs. Obviously Alistair was handling himself well, but the unwanted questions and unwelcome attention were exactly the sort of distraction I had hoped to avoid.

Suddenly I became aware of Isabella at my side, slightly out of breath from having run to catch up with me. “Simon, wait,” she said. “Haven’t you heard me calling your name?”

“Why, no,” I said, caught off guard. “What’s wrong? Alistair appears to have the reporters well in hand.” I could see she was agitated and I assumed her concern related to the aggressive newsmen who had pigeonholed Alistair.

“No, no—it’s not that,” she said impatiently. I noticed her right hand was clenched around a yellow piece of paper. “Alistair’s friend McGinty from the coroner’s office just telephoned. There’s a dead body that may relate to our case, so McGinty thought . . .”

My heart sank. We were too late. I felt an all too familiar frustration that our efforts had not been enough. Alistair’s prediction had proven true: Fromley had killed again. We should have managed to find him before now.

“Who is she?” I barely managed to breathe the words. I was not ready to confront another victim like Sarah Wingate.

“I don’t know. McGinty didn’t say.” Isabella looked stricken. “He mentioned only that a body had washed up from the Hudson River. A man walking his dogs discovered it; apparently information found nearby links the corpse to Michael Fromley.”

“Where is the body? Have they taken her to the morgue yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. McGinty called right after they got word at headquarters. The coroner’s still on site where her body washed up, near Seventy-ninth Street.” She handed me the paper where she had written the address.

“Then that’s where I’m headed,” I said. “You’ll let Alistair know?”

Of course she would have anyway. I was simply trying to give her something to do that might distract her from asking to come with me. I did not want Isabella’s company, not for this. Not when I felt such a strong sense of failure—and when I knew what horrors most likely waited down by the riverbank.

The Hudson River loomed cold and gray before me. There was a biting chill in the air that seemed to sharpen my perception of everything—from the trees that displayed their few, last, withering leaves to the hulking black barge that roiled the water downstream. Odd how cold temperatures can generate an effect that is uniquely visual.

A group of policemen huddled together by the riverbank near Seventy-ninth and Riverside. They were obscured by the coroner’s wagon, a rickety contraption that had somehow managed to lumber over the rough, rocky earth all the way down to the river. I suspected they had not wanted to risk carrying the body far in light of its condition, for even just a few hours in the water badly decomposed a corpse.

I quickly recognized Jennings, the coroner with whom I’d had many dealings in the past. He was a short man, overstuffed and unevenly shaped. But I had seen him at work on the autopsy table and, in complete disproportion to the rest of his body, his hands moved swiftly and expertly, as did his keen mind.

The officer in charge, a strapping Irishman with a shock of red hair and strong accent, was addressing a group of young men who were obviously rookies. “Okay, lads, let’s get to work. We need to search up and down the shore, the whole perimeter.” One young man looked positively green with nausea, and all were decidedly uncomfortable. I suspected few had ever seen a dead body before. This was not to say that those of us more familiar with the sight never felt ill—I could already sense my own stomach beginning to churn—but I liked to think we veterans learned to disguise it better.

The officer waved his hands broadly, gesturing up and down the waterfront. “And remember, anything that may be relevant, just bring it to someone’s attention. Anything at all.”

I approached Jennings, greeting him in a louder voice than usual, for his hearing seemed to grow worse with each passing year.

He looked up in surprise. “Ziele, why, I thought you were working upstate now.”

“Not upstate—I’m just north of Yonkers, in one of the river towns,” I said, accustomed to this sort of comment. It was all a matter of perception, and not long ago, I would have thought of Dobson in exactly the same way. Even our current location on the Upper West Side was considered to be very far north by many.

“I’ve got a case in Dobson that brings me back to the city,” I said.

For a moment, I thought even more explanation would be
necessary; the redheaded officer came over to question me, but retreated after noticing that Jennings seemed to know me quite well.

“It may relate to your business here.” I indicated the large covered corpse Jennings had been working over. “What have you found out?”

Jennings cleared his throat. “River dumps are tough cases, you know that.” It was an admonishment, one I well understood. When a corpse was in the water even a short period of time, much of the evidentiary information a coroner might obtain was destroyed.

“I do,” I said. “But I also know that you still have opinions.” I continued in my most persuasive, reasonable voice. “I won’t hold you to anything until you’ve done the full autopsy.”

Somewhat mollified, Jennings grunted; then began to speak slowly. “Here, we’re relatively lucky that the cold, moving water of the Hudson helped slow the body’s decomposition.”

He trudged over to the side of the wagon where the corpse would be more accessible, and I followed. Though it helped that we were outdoors, I could already detect the distinctive smell of rotting flesh. We approached the form covered by a thick black blanket, and I watched with trepidation as Jennings lifted its edges and pulled the blanket to expose the body’s head and upper torso.

I staggered back in shock. It couldn’t be—and yet, there was no mistaking what I saw before me.

“This is a man,” I managed to say. The words caught in my throat.

Jennings looked at me in amazement. “Well, of course it is.”

“I expected a woman,” I said, aware that I now sounded idiotic.

Jennings dignified that only with a grunt. “As I was about to explain,” he began, “this is a river dump, so—”

I cut him off. “I need you to back up a moment. I understood there was evidence connecting this corpse with Michael Fromley. How is this man connected to Fromley?”

Now it was Jennings’s turn to stare. “This man isn’t connected with Michael Fromley,” he said in exasperation. “We believe this man
is
Michael Fromley.”

Silence followed—and time stood still.

I regarded the misshapen mass of flesh and bone in front of me. The man’s features had been rendered unrecognizable by his time in the water. Was it really him—the man we had hunted and almost despaired of finding?

And by slow degrees, the logical conclusion dawned on me: If it were Fromley, then this case might be over. Sarah’s killer would be present and accounted for, his guilt sealed by circumstantial evidence. It would be a phenomenal end to the case.

But first, I needed some confirmation from Jennings. “May I see the identification you found on him?” I asked, gesturing toward the pile of soggy personal effects.

Jennings shrugged. “Fine with me if it’s okay with Bobby.” The short, square man snapped to attention upon hearing his name and nodded. Like most rookie policemen, he was slightly intimidated by Jennings.

“What do you have?” I asked him. He stepped aside to let me examine the things.

“Mainly soggy odds and ends, sir,” he replied. He was right. There was a sock, as well as a thick bundle of cloth that I determined to be a coat. Some papers fished from its pockets had been carefully laid aside to dry. And there was a small pile of rocks—pebbles, really—next to the papers.

“Those rocks were in his pockets and mouth, sir—probably intended to weigh him down,” Bobby explained. “Didn’t work particularly well; whoever wanted him to stay down should have used heavier ones.”

I recognized a couple of theater tickets and what appeared to be a pawnshop receipt. But there was no wallet or ring—in short, nothing that might identify the corpse. “Why do you think this corpse is Michael Fromley?” I asked, puzzled. “I see nothing to indicate it here.”

“Sorry, sir.” The young man flushed with embarrassment as he pulled a watch and chain from his own vest. “It’s because of this, sir. They told me to keep it safe, and I’d forgot I put it in my own pocket to do so.”

I cradled the gold pocket watch in my hands. On the back was clearly etched an inscription:
Michael J. Fromley, 8–11–98 from your loving Aunt Lizzie
. I did not yet allow myself to feel more than initial relief. Watches were often stolen or borrowed; only a proper autopsy would firmly establish whether this was truly Michael Fromley. I dared not hope just yet.

“Any other identifying information?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Jennings replied. “They’ll have already contacted the family for dentals, as this corpse has got a gold tooth. If that matches Fromley’s dental records, then I’ll have no trouble making a positive identification during the autopsy. But now all I’ve got is that watch. And of course, the fact that Fromley has been reported a missing person.”

So the Wallingford family had filed an official report. My one-time meeting with Clyde Wallingford had left me skeptical as to whether they would do so. Wallingford had seemed to believe Michael Fromley was entirely Alistair’s responsibility.

“Tell me how he died,” I said, returning to Fromley’s
corpse—for I had begun to accept that it probably
was
Fromley’s body that lay exposed on the coroner’s wagon.