In the Shadow of Gotham (39 page)

My fingers circled my revolver—imperceptibly, I hoped.

“There is nothing noble about stealing or killing. No matter how you try to justify it.” I took two steps closer.

He pointed his gun directly at me. “You are placing blame on the wrong person. The question you should be asking is, what moral right did
he
have”—he gestured wildly toward Alistair—“to use the school’s good money toward the most awful of purposes—a depraved criminal. A man like Fromley didn’t deserve to live. I did a good thing by killing him.”

A long pause followed in which none of us said anything; we were almost afraid to breathe.

“You may as well cooperate with us now, Horace,” Alistair said finally. “Just let Isabella go. If you know nothing else about me, you at least know I can help make it easier for you with the authorities. I have influence, friends in the police and judiciary. Let her go, and I will help you.”

Horace’s laugh was wild and maniacal. “Yes, Professor. Maybe you can study me then, like you did Fromley. I can be your new research pet.” Then his eyes grew cold. “I am no project. And there will be no authorities. I am not some common criminal you can manipulate as you like.” He gathered more confidence. “Here is how this will work, instead. You will both go over there.” He gestured toward the stone wall behind Isabella. “You will get on your knees with your hands above your head, facing the wall, and begin to count slowly from one to one hundred. Do it now,” he said, jabbing the gun once again at Isabella’s head. “Or else she dies.”

Alistair and I glanced at each other wordlessly and I saw that we both understood the situation: Horace was prepared to kill us all, and Fred was unlikely to interfere.

Where was Fred? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him behind us. He had his gun in his left hand and his cane in his
right hand. Fred was right-handed, I recalled. His most dangerous weapon was in the wrong hand.

Horace was the real danger.

We had to act now.

“Let me see your hands!” Horace said in a menacing tone.

Just then Isabella stood up, throwing her weight against the ropes that held her, dislodging Horace’s gun as she fell, toppling her chair. Her action gave us the split-second element of surprise that we needed.

Alistair and I both ran for Horace. Alistair lunged for his arms. I grabbed hold of both legs with the intent of pulling him down.

It was then that a crushing blow hit my back, sending me rolling backward until I was pinned under a chair. Searing pain along my right side rendered me almost immobile.

Through my agony, I realized Fred’s cane had hit me from behind. How had the old man managed to put so much strength in his swing?

Fred materialized from nowhere, and used the toppled chair to restrain me, my good arm pinned behind me. Only my useless right arm was free.

Where was Horace? I couldn’t move my head, for the chair pressed too deeply against me.

I heard footsteps—but whose? And was that Isabella crying?

From nearer than I expected, I heard Horace’s voice saying, “Let’s finish it now.”

He was by Isabella. I had to do something.

I closed my eyes and focused every ounce of strength I had left in me toward my bad right arm.

Up, up, I thrust my arm against the chair with great effort.
I pushed with all my might though the pain nearly overwhelmed me. The chair toppled, but Fred fell on top of me.

No matter—my left arm was free. In a fluid movement, the result of years of practice, I grabbed my own gun, shoved it under Fred’s arm, and took clear aim at Horace’s own arm.

I missed.

Everyone ducked as the bullet ricocheted across the room.

Alistair lunged again, but Horace was too fast. He sidestepped Alistair’s grip easily and aimed his gun at Isabella’s head. We heard a click.

Alistair and I screamed, “No,” in unison. I shoved Fred out of my way and he fell, striking the stone floor headfirst with a loud thud. I aimed once more for Horace. This time, I hit my mark. The bullet pierced his right leg, sending him crashing to the floor.

I was there in an instant, managing somehow to pin Horace’s stout frame under me.

But I was a second too late. Horace’s shot rang out with a deafening blast.

Alistair caught Isabella before she slumped to the floor, and I watched in horror as a red stain spread over her chest.

Fred lay senseless in the corner. Horace moaned in pain, clutching his leg, as I secured him with the rope that moments ago had bound Isabella. It was only a flesh wound that I had given him. Then, I joined Alistair in working to stem the swell of blood that came from somewhere within Isabella’s ribs.

“You saved her, Ziele,” Alistair breathed. “He was shooting to kill. The gun was pointing directly at her heart.”

But as Isabella’s blood continued to flow freely, I was consumed with worry. I hardly noticed the throbbing pain in my own arm as I ripped my shirt into strips for Isabella’s wound.

With Horace secured and Fred unconscious, Alistair went to get assistance, and I waited in an anxious silence that was broken only by Horace’s whimpering and Isabella’s staggered, hoarse breathing.

Don’t let her die
.

I prayed the words without being entirely aware that I was doing so.

That plea was never far from my lips, even several hours later when Alistair forced me into the guest bedroom of his apartment.

The news was reassuring. “The doctor said she will make it, but she requires sleep and quiet. The bullet missed her vital organs, so there is no immediate danger.” Alistair’s eyes were filled with empathy as he said, “Why don’t you stop your vigil and get some rest? You’ll be of no use tomorrow otherwise.”

Because I lacked the will to object, I obliged—and promptly fell into a fitful sleep haunted by images of Isabella, Horace, Fred, and a faceless Michael Fromley. It was a relief to wake the next morning to hot coffee and an appointment for Horace Wood’s arraignment downtown, where he would be formally charged with three counts of murder and one count of attempted murder.

Fred had yet to regain consciousness. He was now in the hospital under police guard. He would be charged as an accessory to murder when his health permitted.

It should have been a moment that gave us satisfaction. Justice, it seemed, had been done. Isabella would heal, Fred would pay for his wrongdoing, and Horace would find himself permanently behind bars, if not in the electric chair—a fate which, as Joe commented when I telephoned him with the news, was no better than Horace deserved.

But as I thought of Sarah Wingate and Stella Gibson and even Michael Fromley, I felt only emptiness, struck by how meaningless such justice would be. We had worked tirelessly to find our man; now that he was found, we would work to bring him to trial and ensure that he faced up to the crimes he had committed. It was the best we could do. But it could not bring back those who had been lost.

Perhaps that is why the news we heard late that morning changed nothing. Just before we were to leave for the arraignment downtown, we got word that Horace Wood had cheated society of whatever justice a court may have fashioned.

It was the fault of the night guard, who had forgotten to remove the prisoner’s suspenders.

Horace was dead.

He had hanged himself in his cell overnight.

Wednesday, November 15, 1905

For what could well be the last time, I stepped out of the elevator onto the eighth floor of the Dakota building and crossed the hallway to number 8A. I would see Alistair shortly, but first, I hoped Isabella was well enough for a brief visit. Alistair had mentioned by telephone that she was recuperating as well as could be expected from her gunshot wound.

A tall, severe woman with black hair pulled into a tight knot answered my knock.

“You are?” She regarded me with cold disapproval. No doubt she was the nurse attending Isabella.

I forced a pleasant smile. “Detective Simon Ziele. Is Mrs. Sinclair at home?”

She shook her head. “Mrs. Sinclair is not receiving company.
The police already took her statement. Multiple times, despite her condition.” The nurse gave me a baleful look.

When I spoke again, my voice was authoritative. “Please give her my name. I’m not here on official business.”

She glared, but permitted me to enter. After disappearing a moment, she directed me to follow her into the front parlor room where Isabella waited.

Isabella brightened and greeted me with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, Simon.” She sat on a small sofa under a quilt, looking thin and pale, surrounded by books, magazines, newspapers, and of course her dog. He wagged his tail when I approached but did not leave her side.

“You, too.” I took the chair opposite her, easing myself into it, for my own body was heavily bruised from Sunday night’s altercation. “You’re feeling better?”

“I am.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll be even more so when Nurse Cabot’s duties are finished. She’s competent, but too heavy-handed for my taste.” She regarded me solemnly. “How are you?”

“Good. I have a couple days off, now that this case is finished.”

That had been Mayor Fuller’s doing. His congratulations on a job well done had been exaggerated and insincere. But Joe had explained it, saying, “The mayor’s just relieved the case is solved, the killer wasn’t a local man, and we didn’t screw anything up.”

“I see our case made the news.” I picked up her copy of the
Herald
. The main headlines continued to focus on the mayoral election scandal, but at the bottom of the first page I read:
LOOSE CANNON IN THE IVORY TOWER
. The
Times,
resting on her coffee table, proclaimed,
RENOWNED CRIMINAL LAW PROFESSOR HARBORS KILLER IN OWN RESEARCH LAB
. The irony in the title did not escape me; the
headline might have referred to Michael Fromley as easily as Horace Wood. I did not blame Alistair for misreading the danger Horace posed, but I had yet to forgive him his reckless behavior regarding Fromley. Alistair had brought Fromley to the research center knowing that he likely had blood on his hands. For Alistair to pretend otherwise was disingenuous. No matter how unreliable the evidence, Alistair had chosen to disregard it rather than investigate it. He had thought only of his own research goals and taken a risk—one that Horace and Fred had exploited for their own purposes.

I gave her a quizzical look. “How is Alistair taking all this?”

“You can ask him yourself.” Alistair flashed a wide smile as he walked into the room and greeted me. He leaned over and poked at the
Herald
in my hand with his index finger.

“A poor excuse for journalism, that’s what it is. The story is riddled with loose speculation and factual error.”

I looked more closely and saw what he meant. Dates, Fred’s name, and even Horace’s cause of death had been botched in the write-up. Alistair would no doubt obtain a retraction of the more egregious charges. But such a remedy, buried in the fine print on page twelve of tomorrow’s news, would do little good if enough damage were done today.

“Will the research center survive?” I asked, trying to gauge the extent of Alistair’s concern.

His response was edgy. “It remains to be seen; the decision depends on the Columbia trustees. Unfortunately, the papers are fascinated with the story, and they find new angles to explore every day.” He sighed deeply. “I suppose, while embarrassing for us, what they sensationalize is less damaging than it might be. After all, they could have dug up far worse had they stayed on Fromley’s trail. The accounting scandal and Horace’s suicide have
made for more interesting news than speculation about whether a dead man did—or did not—have murder on his conscience.”

Alistair didn’t mention the rumors alleging he had curried judicial favor to secure a murderer’s release into his own custody. Fortunately for him, they had died a sudden death. Alistair made a few sizable political donations to the right people, they in turn had made the right phone calls, and Alistair’s suspected breach of ethics was quashed at the editorial level. In other words, no reporter who expected to be paid for his efforts would waste time on that story.

“We’ll weather this,” he was explaining. “It’s professionally embarrassing, but muckrakers like this”—he swatted at the paper again—“ultimately will not destroy the work we do. In a matter of months, it will blow over.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “What about Fred?”

Alistair shook his head. “Nothing new. He hasn’t regained consciousness since Sunday night. He may never do so; apparently with each day that passes, his chances of recovery grow slimmer.” He thought for a moment. “It’s strange. I don’t harbor the same anger toward him that I do Horace. I suppose it’s because Fred was less calculated in his intent. He jumped at the opportunity to steal when it presented itself, but he didn’t seek it out.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I agree.” I returned the newspapers to the coffee table. “But tell me, what bothers you more: their betrayal, or your not having seen it?”