City of the Absent (23 page)

“Poor brute,” said Gabby. “Reminds me of Shelley's
Frankenstein
for some reason.”

“Don't waste your time or sympathy on 'im!” said Mike, losing points with Gabby.

Ransom added, “So far as I can tell, he and his brother work as a team along the wharves, accosting people for money and jewelry and anything they can turn a profit on.”

She turned on Ransom, a fire in her eyes reminiscent of Jane when riled up. “Being callous to the retarded among us does not become either of you gentlemen! It's obvious he does whatever his brother puts him up to. And why not? He's learned to trust no one else.”

“Yeah…like a monkey grinder's pet,” said Mike, a snicker escaping.

“Or any trained animal,” added Ransom. “Recalls to mind an A. E. Poe story I caught in
Harper's
about an ape trained to murder in a Paris neighborhood.”

“The two indeed make a strange pair, but we're speaking of a human being here, not an animal.” Gabby remained calm despite her punctuating this with a stomp.

“All right, say his brother is the ringleader of their little street carnival,” began Ransom. “If this dote kills someone on his brother's say-so, it doesn't make him any less guilty of murder.”

“Perhaps not, but then…” She hesitated. “…perhaps it should.”

“You'd rather see him in Cook County Asylum than prison?” asked Mike.

“He would receive more humane treatment and medical care.”

“Have you taken the time to see that asylum?” Mike argued.

“Trust me, Gabby,” added Ransom, “that asylum needs major reforms. The kind that not even Christian Fenger or the love of Christ has put a dent into. People still treat the mad as a leprosy they don't want to know about, hear about, or speak about. Result—it's no place for any man.”

“Neither is Vander likely to last long in Joliet.” Gabby's eyes had gone wide with her passion. “So there's not a damn place in all the world for people like Vander.” She stalked off.

“Fiery when she gets her hackles up, isn't she?” asked O'Malley.

“Yes…like someone else I know.”

Mike asked, “How do you want us to proceed with this Rolsky fellow in lockup?”

“Full background check, any records we might have on him, previous arrests, time spent and where, talk to his landlord, the neighbors.”

“Will do, and Rance…”

“Yes?”

“Congratulations.”

“On the lineup, you mean?”

“On beating Chief Kohler at his own game.”

“Wasn't hard to do.”

They laughed, winning the stares of others coming and going. “Imagine Kohler thinking you cut off a priest's nuts.” Mike's laugh filled the station house.

“Did make an ass of himself, didn't he?” Ransom joined in the laughter, and it felt good. After all it was justice. A rare commodity these days.

Alastair gave a wonder to who had harmed the priest with the weapon he'd carried aboard the
Lucienta
that night. Was it the crewman who'd come up the ladder brandishing the horse pinchers? Was it another down below, someone who owed Father Jurgen money, or whom the priest owed a debt? A lot of gambling went on aboard a ship. They'd just reached the entryway to the galley where Jurgen had proposed to feed the shabby old Jack Ketchum when Alastair had made his move. The nature of the attack on the priest begged the question of who meant to wreak such vengeance on Jurgen other than himself?

And there was the sudden disappearance of his boy snitch, Samuel. Could it be possible that the boy had followed him, shadowed him somehow?

Or might it be another boy, a boy aboard the ship the whole time in close proximity to the pandering Jurgen? Every ship had a cabin boy and a galley boy. Child labor was alive and well in maritime circles.

Alastair concluded it must be so. Perhaps the likely suspect was a nameless, faceless, defenseless—until he saw the pinchers—galley boy. Whoever it'd been, he'd done the deed in the presence of other sailors, mates who'd shielded him. Perhaps it would remain one of those frustrating unsolved mysteries without end. Quite fitting perhaps.

“It was perfectly sad, Mother,” Gabby told Jane
over breakfast the next morning. She'd gone into detail about Ransom's trouble with having been literally accused of the awful attack on Father Franklin Jurgen, who now lay in a coma, fighting a gangrenous infection in his private parts. Jane listened intently, allowing her daughter to go on as she described how Father O'Bannion and Kohler had done all in their power to lay it at Alastair's doorstep, this heinous crime.

“How absolutely mad Nathan Kohler must be!” Jane said of the allegation.

“I know!”

“It's just as I've warned Alastair time and again. Nathan's hatred of Alastair is beyond reason.”

“It's clearer every day,” agreed Gabby.

“Put nothing—nothing—past Kohler.”

“I'll remember that. But, Mother, there was this sad, sad giant showed up at the lineup.”

“Giant?”

“With a hunchback, yes. Name's Vander, and how he clung to his brother, when the brother was thrown into jail for coming at Alastair with a knife.”

“My God, and you in harm's way at that place! Was Alastair hurt?”

“I was never in any danger, and Alastair was masterful the way he took the knife from the other man.”

Jane frowned at this. “But why would Father O'Bannion suspect Ransom in this hideous affair?” This Jane could not fathom. Kohler, yes; Father O'Bannion, no. This felt like a bona fide mystery.

“Apparently, Alastair had gone looking for Father Jurgen the night before, and was quite upset with him.”

“Upset with a priest, Ransom? For what reason?”

“At first I heard gambling debt, but in fact it was something far worse, Mother, an allegation of wrongdoing.”

“Worse how? Wrongdoing? Be direct, dear.”

“Alastair claimed he'd gotten information that Father Jurgen had been…that is…was…”

“Out with it!”

“Petting children.”

“Petting children?”

“All right, playing with children.”

“Playing with children, how? Like St. Francis of Assisi?”

“Oh, Mother, you can be so dense for an educated woman.”

“Oh, my God, you're saying Father Jurgen has touched children inappropriately?”

“Molested, yes—but we've no real proof.”

Jane stepped off and moved about the small house and clinic, her heart racing. She imagined an enraged bull named Ransom going after a man, any man, who harmed a child. Then she shook off the thought that he could possibly have castrated a priest. “I saw the man's wound, and I must agree with Dr. Fenger. Whoever mutilated Jurgen was sending a message.”

“A message meaning what?” Gabby asked.

“A message of let the punishment fit the crime.”

“Chicago justice? The sort Inspector Ransom might mete out,” Gabby mused aloud.

“There's no proof of his involvement, is there?”

“None, and he stood a lineup in that old man's disguise of his and passed.”

“I see. But we don't have evidence of Father Jurgen's crime either, now do we?”

“Only hearsay.”

“What sort of hearsay?”

“Well…rumors are flying, but I hate to pass along a—a—”

“Pass it!”

“I only heard it by accident.”

“Overheard, yes, yes…I know you do not engage in idle gossip. What did you over—”

“That Father Jurgen had indeed molested a child, and that the child's grandfather had stalked the priest to the ship, and this old fellow bided his time, and the moment he got the least close, he—he exacted his terrible revenge for his grandson.”

“A priest molesting a young boy? It's too horrible to contemplate.” Yet she'd read lurid accounts of priests in cloisters and monasteries going mad and attacking nuns, or nuns doing likewise, some attacking children.

She recalled the horrible case popularly called the Devils of Loudun, France. Descartes had written about it in some vague attempt to quantify evil. She'd also seen it written up in a medical journal, the author an obscure German medical man who attempted to understand the psychology of temperance and abstinence, and the role that religious political fervor played in the case. The Loudun, France, incident was generations ago, in 1635, during the Renaissance.

Perhaps such horrors occurred more often than anyone imagined and were kept quiet—secrets of the Church hardly being a new concept.

Still, Jane's mind, seemingly independent of her, wanted quickly to reject the notion. Priests were sworn to serve man through the love of Christ, to walk this Earth as His angels, to care for the poor, the destitute, the ill and infirm, and especially to administer to children, and to harm not so much as a mockingbird. This accusation against Father Jurgen simply could not be.

And yet, who maims a priest in such a way without cause? And if there is cause, there is affect. Cause meant reaction to an action. Was this mystery grandfather reacting to something imagined or real? How much horrid truth might come of Gabby's rumor?

Gabby continued with her tale of all that'd happened at the station house, although Jane's thoughts had gone astray. “You'd've been so proud of Alastair, Mother.”

“Ohhh, and why is that?”

“The way he just took charge.”

“He has that quality about him, yes.”

“I mean when he leapt from the stage so…so—”

“Melodramatic?”

“Dramatically, yes! Tearing away his wig and beard, revealing himself to his accuser.”

“Sounds rather like pure theater, dear.”

“I don't mean to say he was playacting, only that he was, well, dashing.”

“Swashbuckling, heh? Well, it is a brash fool who wields a knife in Alastair's face.”

“Yes, Alastair said, and I quote: ‘I'll not stand here and be judged by the likes of this wharf scum!'”

“Ahhh
, an apt line. I can hear it rolling off his tongue myself.”

“The man with the knife turned out to be the giant's brother, also addressed as Mr. Rolsky,” she continued. “Although one of the pair is deformed, their features are uncannily similar. And Mother, recall the pair we saw that night milling about the street near Colonel Dodge's place?”

“Of course, brothers! One misshapen, a growth on his back?”

“Yes, like I said, Vander.”

“Vander? And the other one, Philander?”

“Yes, but how did you know his name?”

“And the one appears normal, he orders the deformed one about like his dog, doesn't he?”

“Yes. How did—”

“I must interview these two men.”

“What? Whatever are you talking about?” Gabby's eyes had grown wider each time her mother spoke.

“I'm,
ahhh
…conducting a study.”

“A study?”

“A medical study of criminal families…and this pair certainly sound as if they are familiar with crime. Their anecdotes might be of help.” Jane watched Gabby's features to see if the lie had taken hold or had failed.

“A mental study of criminal families, really? How fascinating.”

“Yes, fascinating.”

“Ahhh
…something Dr. Fenger set you to doing, isn't it?”

“Yes, and it pays well.” Jane latched onto the explanation.

“He's a great one for doling out studies for others to do.” Gabby paced, looking a bit hurt now. “But why didn't he put me on to it?”

“Perhaps he feared you've enough on your plate. In the meantime, I'm finding it an intriguing and absorbing study, dear. Do you think I might gain entry to the cell where this Mr. Rolsky is being held, you know, to conduct a proper interview?”

“I can get you in.”

“Wonderful. Today? This morning?”

“Today? Now?”

“Dr. Fenger is a taskmaster.”

“Why not speak to the retarded one first; he's likely to be home, and if I go with you, he'll remember I was kind to him at the station. He might open up.”

“Then later, will you get me in to see his brother?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right, then that's how we'll proceed. I merely have to do my disguise.”

“You needn't see either of them as Tewes, Mother! Go as yourself. Assert yourself. After all, you have a medical degree. Besides, Vander's sure to know nothing of Tewes, and he responds, I think, far better to women.”

“All right, I rather fancy the idea, but the final study will have Dr. James Phineas Tewes's signature on it.”

“Whatever makes you happy, but I for one am so fatigued over this business of your dual personality. And if I am, so you must be.”

“Frankly, dear, there are so many advantages to walking out there”—she pointed to the window—“as a man than as a woman, I've rather become fond of being Dr. J. P. Tewes.”

“That's become increasingly obvious, and scary, Mother, and it has put a strain on everyone around you, including me…including Alastair. And it'd go a long way in helping you two make up.”

“There'll come a time when Mr. Ransom learns how to apologize, I'm sure. Now let's make our way to see your gentle giant, Vander. I need a good talk with this fellow.”

“Well…I'm not sure where exactly he lives.”

“I'll get that information quickly enough,” replied Jane, taking her purse and herself to the phone, finding a pencil and pad while simultaneously cranking the phone. In a moment she made a show of talking to Alastair, saying she and Gabby wanted to visit Vander Rolsky, adding loudly, “We mean to bring the poor dote an urn of soup and bread, and to sit and pray with him, and to educate him as to his many options here in the city that cares.”

Feeling famished, Gabby only half heard the one-sided conversation as she scrounged about the kitchen for a slice of cheese and crackers for herself. But then she clearly heard Jane pronounce the street and address they required.

“Telephone's such a marvelous invention,” said Jane, returning to the sitting room where she shared the block of cheese and soda crackers that Gabby had placed on the table.

“You might've asked Alastair how he is faring.” Gabby munched at her food. “It must be awful…his having to endure such godawful accusations. Why do people hate him so?”

“Well for my part, I didn't want him to think I had a single
thought in my head of his being capable of such a horrid act!”

“I see…so you said not a word of it.
Hmmm
…perhaps being prudent on the subject is the right approach.”

“Shall we go see Mr. Vander Rolsky?”

“What about that soup and bread?”

“On second thought, it is rather presumptuous of us to assume the poor man has nothing in his cupboard.”

“Ahhh
yes, Mother, but I think in this case it's a fair assumption.”

Jane smiled at her bright daughter. “You are so wise.”

“And you, Mother, are so caring.”

“And no doubt your concern for the man at the police station won favor. So yes, let's take the time to gather that soup and bread. It could be our Trojan horse.”

“All right. Better to be presumptuous than unprepared.”

“Hey, I rather like that phrase.”

Gabby smiled at this. “Perhaps it could be useful at our next rally.”

“Oh please, don't you have enough to do without carrying on in the streets with those bloomer girls?”

“Suffragette sisters, Mother. For heavens sake, New York ladies run their undies up a pole, and we're all branded as fools. Besides, I'm just saying it'd make a nice banner.”

“I'm sure that men everywhere will appreciate it more than bloomer-waving flags.”

“I'm afraid too many men prefer the bloomers.”

Jane laughed and added, “And sadly, fewer still can read.”

“I'm sure that's true in the case of this Vander Rolsky.”

“Yes, from what little I know of him, I am quite sure he'll appreciate the food over the slogan. And in that spirit”—Jane worked her way around the kitchen as she spoke—“it does a heart good to do for others. Man the cooking utensils!”

“Yes…yes, it does a heart good.” Gabby followed her mother's lead. “If more people would discover that joy, I think we'd have a far better world.”

While Jane consulted her raggedy cookbook, Gabby began cutting up vegetables for the stew. Mother and daughter went about cheerfully fulfilling an old recipe. In the midst of this preparation, Jane telephoned the Bryce Hansom Carriage Company for transportation to the Atgeld Avenue address where the two suspected ghouls made their home in the first floor flat at the rear. Information she'd gleaned from Henry Dot 'n' Carry Bosch. By this time a fresh loaf of bread was rising in the oven.