In the Shadow of Gotham (8 page)

My response to Alistair was accusing. “How could you in good conscience have helped someone with these kinds of thoughts? Couldn’t you see—the moment he began telling you such vile things—that you had made a terrible mistake and he should be locked up?”

“But I judged there to be no imminent danger, for even his daydreams were a tangible sign that he was still working himself up to it. And my hope was that, with conscious effort, he could begin to change the direction of his thoughts and fantasies. Besides, the bodyguard provided us a mea sure of protection.”

“And why did his bodyguard not prevent this recent disappearance?”

Alistair looked uncomfortable. “We felt Michael was making such significant progress the bodyguard was no longer necessary. We dismissed him last summer.”

Botched private justice was what it was—no more and no less. And I didn’t understand it. To strive to learn why a man succumbed to a life of crime was well and good, but only when the stakes were hypothetical and no lives were at risk. Here, it seemed an innocent girl had died as a result of this failed experiment, and nothing Alistair Sinclair had learned could be worth that cost.

“Tell me more about what happened two weeks ago, when he vanished,” I asked quietly.

“There is no more. He simply disappeared. We last saw him October 22,” Alistair said.

“Did he have friends or other family he could have sought out?”

“None that we know of.” Alistair rested his chin on his hand. “His aunt was the only person he seems to have contacted regularly, and she has not heard from him.”

He stepped over to the bed and looked at the large bloodstain on the floor. He leaned down, examined the area more closely, and pointed to the mattress. “May I?”

I nodded in agreement, and watched unbelievingly as he pulled out what appeared to be a cloth—but was actually a heavily bloodstained envelope. Hidden underneath the mattress, it had seemed part of the stained bedclothes and thus escaped our attention. As Alistair opened the envelope to expose its contents he let forth a low whistle. “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty . . .” He continued counting the wad of money now uncovered. “There’s enough here to buy one of those newfangled Model T cars that just came out.”

Or to pay my salary for a year, a few times over, I thought silently. Aloud, I asked, “Assuming this money is Sarah’s, what could she possibly be doing with so much cash?”

Alistair shrugged, rewrapped the money, and handed it to me wordlessly.

I paused for a considerable time. “I suppose I should see more of your files on Michael Fromley. Are you available to take me to your offices now?” Although I phrased it as a polite request, my tone made clear that it was a demand.

“Absolutely,” he responded eagerly.

I stopped by 27 Main Street to deposit the money into the village safe and make the appropriate calls to clear my schedule for the day. Joe, returned from the autopsy, was more than happy to manage the investigation in Dobson without me. I took with me his scribbled summary of the autopsy findings. I would review what he and Dr. Fields had learned on the trip into the city.

The next Manhattan-bound ferry was already boarding when Alistair and I approached the landing.

I had one last question for Alistair as we took our places on the top deck of the ferry. “You mentioned earlier how the killer’s mind often progresses from first imagining his crime to then actually committing it. If you’re right, and Michael Fromley has just killed for the first time, does that make him even more likely to kill again?”

Alistair’s mouth set in a firm line. “I’d say it’s good odds.”

“Then we’d better find him straightaway,” I said.

I gazed onto the rocky banks that lined the Hudson’s shores, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether Alistair’s solution was not too simple, however compelling it might be. Was I chasing a
red herring while the real murderer only slipped farther away? But no—the coincidences Alistair had mentioned were remarkable. They were coincidences of the sort that in good conscience I could not ignore. Not when the cost would be measured in human lives.

Thick gray clouds overhead threatened rain but never produced it. Fog cloaked the Hudson River in a heavy shroud, entirely obscuring not only the Manhattan skyline but also the other ferries, barges, and transport boats that regularly journeyed between the city and points north. I could barely see the approach of other vessels, even when their foghorns sounded, so I turned away from the railing rather than anxiously mind what only the captain could control. I was always discomfited traveling on a boat of any kind. While I did not fear water, or even the experience of being on a ship itself, I did have a profound distrust of those who operated such vessels. With good reason, I might add: Accidents were common enough, given that greedy owners and captains seemed more concerned with their profit
margin than their passengers’ safety. Alistair also seemed restless and tense, and we said little to one another during the short half-hour trip.

Alistair’s Center for Criminological Research was located at Columbia’s new Morningside Heights campus at 116th Street, which I’d never visited. I had spent two brief years at Columbia on scholarship until family circumstances forced me to leave. But that was over ten years ago, when the college still occupied cramped quarters downtown.

Alistair’s research center, a small, redbrick house from the early 1800s, had lingered untouched even as McKim, Mead, and White’s buildings of columns and marble sprang up around it. We approached by way of a brick walkway covered with wet, slippery leaves. Following Alistair, I pushed open the black-painted door and made my way up a narrow, steep staircase with a faded blue carpet runner to the second floor where his office was located. Two men and a woman were there already, conversing quietly—for Alistair had telephoned ahead to convene this meeting. They sat around a massive oak table in the center of the room, covered by stacks of papers, files, and books.

“Ziele,” Alistair directed, “do come in and take a seat.” He gestured to indicate where I should hang my coat. I placed my satchel on the floor beside it as a large dog with golden fur emerged from under the table to nuzzle my hand briefly.

“Oban, back here!” The woman ordered the dog back to his former spot under the table.

“I’d like you to meet my associate in sociology, Tom Baxter.” Alistair drew my attention to an unassuming man in his mid to late thirties, lanky and lean with a firm handshake.

“Tom came to us just last year from Harvard,” Alistair explained. “We’re lucky to have him join us.”

He continued with more introductions.

“Fred Ebbings, professor of psychology.” I turned to greet a stooped, rail-thin man with hunched shoulders. He appeared to be older, well past sixty.

“And my assistant, Isabella Sinclair—who is also my daughter-in-law,” Alistair added with a warm smile.

I turned to the slim woman in her mid-twenties with smooth dark hair. Exceedingly pretty, she wore a white shirtwaist and tailored dark green skirt. “A pleasure, Mrs. Sinclair,” I said.

“Likewise.” She offered a friendly smile, and her demeanor was refreshingly straightforward. “Professor Sinclair has already told us about you. It will be nice working with you.”

In the days to come, I would learn that Isabella had been widowed two years prior. As Mulvaney had discovered, her husband Teddy, Alistair’s only son, had died tragically during one of his frequent trips to Greece. Teddy’s death had forged an odd partnership between Isabella and Alistair, as grief redirected her interests from the social pursuits considered normal for a young woman of her station toward Alistair’s criminological research. And, in an arrangement of which the extended Sinclair family highly disapproved, she continued to live alone, with only an old house keeper and the dog as chaperones, in the apartment adjoining Alistair’s—living space Alistair had procured for the young couple at the time of their marriage. In short, her life revolved around Alistair’s domestic and professional interests in a way that was considered unhealthy, if not wholly improper.

“Shall we begin?” She immediately took charge. “I see we’re finally all here.” With a glance to the area behind me, she made a final introduction. “Detective Ziele, also joining us this morning is Horace Wood, Professor Sinclair’s research assistant.”

I turned sharply, for standing beside me was a slightly balding, pudgy man in his late twenties with thick brown spectacles, worn-looking trousers, and a rumpled shirt that was not fully tucked in. I scarcely registered his clammy handshake or awkward greeting, for I could not help but stare at the large purple lump on the left side of his forehead. It was a nasty injury.

“What happened, Horace?” Isabella asked.

“Tammany toughs tried to discourage my vote yesterday.” He sidled into the room and slouched into the chair next to Isabella. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I saw Isabella flinch, ever so slightly, as he brushed against her while reaching for his chair. “They knew I was a Hearst supporter.” This last was muttered almost under his breath.

“Sorry to hear that, Horace,” Alistair said, adding for my benefit, “Of course, we don’t discuss politics here as a rule.”

“We are all here to collaborate in a large effort.” Isabella picked up Alistair’s cue; his nod of encouragement was barely perceptible. “Our effort will be twofold. First, we want to find and question Michael Fromley. As you know, he has been missing for over two weeks now, and we are faced with a new, urgent reason to locate him. Detective Ziele”—she nodded toward me—“is investigating a case involving the unfortunate killing of a young woman named Sarah Wingate—a student here at Columbia, actually—and Professor Sinclair has reason to suspect Michael may be responsible. If this is true, then we need to help find him and establish his guilt.”

Horace Wood spoke up; he had a nasal-sounding voice, and his words were fast and clipped. “But we are not detectives. Isn’t what you describe a job for the police—in fact, for our detective, Mr. Ziele? I don’t see how we can help.”

“Of course you are right,” Alistair interjected smoothly, “in
that Detective Ziele will provide the greatest expertise here, in terms of the murder investigation. But he has already confirmed enough information to establish a strong probability of Michael Fromley’s involvement; suffice it to say that the crime scene in Dobson almost perfectly embodies one of Fromley’s recurring fantasies. That makes Fromley the most likely suspect in the detective’s case.”

Horace raised an eyebrow. “Does this mean you’ve given up on the idea of rehabilitating him, Professor?”

“One never gives up when something is important,” Alistair replied firmly, his tone admonishing, “but we have larger responsibilities now that will take pre ce dence. It’s our duty to help find and apprehend Fromley. Because of our work these past three years, no one else knows as much about his habits and behavior as we do.”

“Professor Sinclair believes we should begin our search for the connection between Michael Fromley and Sarah Wingate here, at Columbia,” Isabella continued. “Would you agree, Detective Ziele?”

“It’s a worthwhile avenue to explore,” I said noncommittally. I wanted to learn more about Fromley and their work with him here at the research center before I made up my mind for certain.

She went on to explain, “At the moment, it is the only common point in their lives that we can identify: She was a student here, and he of course came to the research center each day. At least, until recently.”

Alistair added, “Of course, we cannot know whether the connection we are looking for is a formal one or not. They may have crossed paths on neighboring streets or ridden the same subway car.”

I involuntarily shuddered, thinking of the case notes Alistair had shared with me.

“I take it Sarah Wingate was a blonde?” Fred Ebbings said in a weary tone.

Alistair nodded and then summarized the same material he had shared this morning with me, aiming to refresh their memories. I listened, taking stock of the differing personalities in the room. Alistair had assembled a diverse group of people for this project—so diverse, in fact, that I wondered how they managed to work together productively on a daily basis. Alistair, an ebullient personality who enjoyed being the center of attention, seemed an odd partner for Fred Ebbings’s dry wit or Tom Baxter’s common sense. For his part, Horace seemed to be a typical overanxious graduate student. And I could not yet figure out what to make of Isabella, whose quick intelligence probably helped Alistair more than he seemed to realize.

As I listened, I experienced a brief pang of conscience: To approach a murder case in such a backhanded way was contrary to everything I had learned about proper procedure. In a textbook investigation, I would work to learn as much as possible about the victim herself. After all, some facet of her life—some circumstance or some connection still unknown—had inevitably led to her death. But Alistair made a convincing case that Fromley
was
that very connection I sought.

“I believe if we analyze the crime-scene behavior we find evident during Sarah Wingate’s murder”—Alistair gestured to the large chalkboard that dominated the left side of the room—“then I can allay any remaining doubts the rest of you may have about his guilt.”

“Most of us know Fromley’s history, and I assume you’ve
told Detective Ziele the relevant details,” Tom Baxter said. “But have you fully explained your theory about crime-scene behavior? If you haven’t, the rest will make no sense.”