Second Street Station (24 page)

She tried to maintain an appearance of normalcy while in the store, but once she had said good-bye to Mrs. King and had gone outside, she let go, stumbling a few steps toward a pole and clinging to it. Out of breath, the fresh country air did nothing for her. She forced herself to think, to put a plan together. When she got back to Philadelphia, she would send Chief Campbell a telegram telling him to detain Kate for questioning.

Mary planned to spend her train ride back to Manhattan trying to figure out how her friend might not be the killer. Having not yet found that rationale, she slowly made her way to the pharmacy to collect her driver, praying to God she’d get to Kate before she could hurt anyone else.

Jourdan and Briggs stood on the train platform of track nine in Grand Central Depot. The noon train from Albany had just arrived, and as the passengers streamed by, they anxiously peered through the crowd for their man. It didn’t take long.

A handsome Spaniard in his late twenties was being escorted in handcuffs toward them by two police officers. Roscoe Rodriguez was back in New York. Jourdan slapped his companion on the shoulder, and Briggs smirked. The Goodrich killer was theirs, and so would be all the glory that went with him.

“We’ll take him from here, boys,” said Jourdan.

Jourdan and Briggs relieved the officers of Rodriguez and escorted him up the platform toward the main terminal by themselves. They wanted to shout for joy, but instead they put on their most official faces as they led him through the doors.

A throng of reporters mobbed them as they entered the main lobby area. Briggs and Jourdan acted surprised at the presence of the press, even though they were the ones who had leaked the arrival of Rodriguez. Relishing the moment, they stood tall and preened as flash powder exploded from cameras. The reporters kept firing questions at them until Jourdan raised his right hand to quiet them. He and Briggs had rehearsed this moment and had flipped a coin to see who would go first.

“Hold on, gentlemen, please,” said Jourdan. He paused for effect. He wanted to make sure everyone could hear him. If he had spoken any louder, he would have been heard on Lexington Avenue. “This poor excuse for a human being is Roscoe Rodriguez, the man responsible for the murder of Charles Goodrich.”

“I never killed anybody,” Roscoe Rodriguez shouted, protesting his innocence.

“You’ll have a fair trial, sir,” Jourdan responded calmly, “before you’re hanged.”

Briggs chimed in, “Or make history…by being the first to be fried in the electric chair.”

There were some laughs mixed with chatter as more flash powder popped.

“Commissioner Jourdan and I spearheaded the
investigation,”
Briggs continued as he returned to their planned speech, “and we are thrilled to finally get this vermin off the streets. Now, if you’ll excuse us, boys, we have a job to do.”

As they made their way through the crowd with Roscoe Rodriguez, they were barraged with questions. Briggs glanced at Jourdan. Everything was working perfectly.

On track four, Chief Campbell waited for a different train. He had gotten Mary’s telegram and immediately dispatched officers to the Lowry Hat Factory and to Kate and Mary’s tenement building. Lizzie King, a.k.a. Kate Stoddard, had vanished. Chief Campbell found it perplexing, but he wasn’t aware of how fearful Kate was of getting caught. She was constantly on alert and had taken to carrying an umbrella with her, rain or shine. On her way home, Kate had spotted an officer inside the door of her tenement building. She shielded her face with the umbrella, kept on walking, and never returned.

Mary stepped off the Philadelphia train and was surprised to see Chief Campbell.

“Chief, you didn’t have to meet me.”

“I know.” He took her arm and carefully guided her toward an exit that was in the opposite direction of the main lobby, where Briggs and Jourdan were performing their dog-and-pony show. He cautioned her not to speak, and it wasn’t until they were out on the streets of Manhattan that he informed her of Kate’s disappearance. It was the last piece of damning evidence. Mary was sure her friend was guilty.

“How could Kate have found out?”

“Forget about her for now,” said Chief Campbell. He couldn’t think of any good way to phrase it, so he just let it out. “I’ve been ordered to fire you.”

Mary came to an abrupt halt. The last few days had been full of shocking surprises. She wondered when they were going to end.

“Commissioners Jourdan and Briggs believe they already have their man,” he explained. “So your job is done.”

“But we both know—”

“It doesn’t matter what we know.”

Mary saw her one chance at achieving her dream ending in utter failure. She couldn’t let that happen.

“Give me an opportunity to bring her in. I can do it. I know I can. Please.”

Chief Campbell hated the position the commissioners had put him in. He didn’t resent authority. What he resented was that any authority had been given to those two idiots. He had grown to like Mary. She was smart and had good instincts. She deserved a break. And she was probably right about Kate Stoddard’s being the one they were after.

“We never talked. You never saw me. And don’t dare show up until you have her.”

Incredibly grateful, Mary went to hug him. “Thanks, Chief! If you weren’t married…”

“What?”

Her hands still in the air, she froze and lowered them. Not a good idea. Chief Campbell was not the hugging type.

“You…wouldn’t be married. That’s all.”

Mary waved a self-conscious good-bye, then disappeared around the corner. Chief Campbell watched her as he wondered how long he would be able to keep Briggs and Jourdan at bay with the flimsy excuse that Mary had gotten lost in Philadelphia.

Jourdan and Briggs couldn’t have been more pleased with their performance for the press at Grand Central Depot. All that was left were a few minor details, and Jourdan was excited that Lucette was at the police station to see the conclusion of the case. He was sure she’d be impressed. They hadn’t progressed beyond spooning, and he hoped she would finally succumb to his unbridled passion.

Lucette slipped her arm through his as she, Jourdan, and Briggs walked through the halls of the station to the interrogation area.

“I’m so proud of you, Jordy!” she squealed.

“Not here, Lucy,” Jourdan whispered as he disengaged his arm. “This is business.” Briggs snorted. In his opinion, Jourdan had thrown out any sense of decorum the second he took up with Lucette.

They reached the door to the interrogation room and stopped to savor the moment, Lucette quivering with anticipation. Briggs opened the door, and they went inside.

Still handcuffed, Rodriguez sat at a table with the two officers who had escorted him off the train. Lucette looked impatiently around the room.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready. Where’s Roscoe?”

Jourdan realized Lucette might be somewhat jittery. He patiently waited until he caught her eye, then pointed to Rodriguez. “Right there,” he stated with a comforting smile.

“That’s not Roscoe.”

Jourdan got closer to Rodriguez and pointed again. “Sure it is. He’s our Roscoe!”

“Well, he may be your Roscoe, but that certainly isn’t the Roscoe I know.”

Briggs had been watching this exchange with as much patience as he could muster. He was a time bomb, and the clock had ticked to zero.

“I knew we were being hornswoggled!”

Jourdan’s head was swimming. “Wait a minute. There has to be an explanation!”

“An explanation,” Briggs responded, pretending to consider his suggestion. “Ah, yes, of course. Here’s one.” He looked Jourdan directly in the eye. “Her tits are blocking your vision!”

Jourdan lunged for Briggs, knocking the cigar out of his mouth. Briggs retaliated with a knee to his groin. Lucette screamed. Jourdan had just socked Briggs in the abdomen when the two officers got between them to break it up.

During the scuffle, Roscoe Rodriguez was laughing hysterically.

Mary had spent two and a half days camped out at the Twelfth Street Post Office. She got there an hour before it opened and stayed until an hour after closing. Her reasoning was based on the premise that old habits die hard. Kate had consistently received her mail there since Mary had first met her, and if she was still in the city, chances were that wouldn’t have changed.

On the third day at lunchtime, for those who had jobs that allowed for such a luxury, people poured in and out of the post office. Mary leaned on a lamppost, trying to appear casual but watching carefully for any sign of Kate.

A policeman rode up on a horse and stopped in front of her, blocking her view. She moved to the front of the horse, so she could still have a decent line of sight to the post office.

“Madam,” the policeman declared, “you’ve been loitering here for days, and the storekeepers are nervous.”

“Nervous?” Mary replied, keeping her eye on the post office. “Why in the world would…” And then she understood his implication. “I’m no whore, sir. I defy anyone to say I left with a man.”

“Madam, no one accused you of being good at it.”

This was a delicate situation. She was lucky that the officer didn’t recognize her, because she was supposed to be off the case and working incognito. Yet she couldn’t divulge who she was in order to get rid of him for the same reason. She was pondering this problem when she spotted Kate across the street. She had just rounded the corner and was on her way to pick up her mail. Mary abruptly scooted to her right and hid behind the horse’s rear. The policeman took exception.

“What in the world do you think you’re—?”

“I’m leaving, Officer. Good day.”

Having seen Kate enter the post office, Mary scurried across the street to position herself for when she left. The policeman watched her walk the length of the opposite block, then turn the corner. Satisfied that his job was done, he rode on.

Kate came out ten minutes later stuffing the last of the letters into her handbag. She didn’t realize that some were actually sticking out as she headed to the corner from which she had come. Mary had counted on her returning in that direction, and to avoid detection, she was behind the opposite corner, checking periodically for Kate. She followed, keeping a safe distance behind, and watched Kate turn down a side street.

Mary turned down the same side street, but there was no Kate. She had disappeared. Looking from side to side, Mary ran along the rows of brownstones that covered each side of the street. Still no Kate. It didn’t make sense. It was possible Kate had an apartment in one of the brownstones, but this was a higher-rent district and Mary doubted she could afford one here.

Walking back up the block, Mary was more meticulous in her search and was rewarded when she spied an envelope on the sidewalk next to stairs that led down to the basement of a brownstone. It was addressed to Kate. Instead of walking down into the unknown, Mary climbed a few steps up toward the entrance and peered over the banister. Kate was there, hiding at the side of the bottom staircase, crouching and waiting.

“Hello, Kate,” she called out.

Startled, Kate’s head jerked up in the direction of her voice as Mary continued.

“I always loved games. Hide-and-seek was one of my favorites.”

“If you had grown up in Haddonfield,” Kate said as she stood, gathering herself, “you’d know not to hide behind the hind legs of a horse. Most times you’ll get kicked.”

Kate pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Mary. She motioned with it.

“Please join me.”

Mary had no choice but to comply. At this point, she was convinced that Kate was good with weapons. Her voice had also taken on a strange detachment, which meant, Mary concluded, that Kate might be capable of anything.

“All of Brooklyn’s looking for you, Kate,” Mary said as she took her time descending the stairs toward the basement.

She was almost at the bottom when Kate pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Mary in her right shoulder, the impact knocking her to the ground.

“I can’t allow you to arrest me, Mary,” Kate said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Please don’t be upset. It’s not serious, I promise.”

It certainly felt serious, but Mary knew she had to ignore the pain as much as she could. Keeping the conversation going became her priority, or one of two things was going to happen: Kate would either leave or kill her.

“Like the boy you shot in high school?”

“Oh, you know about that. You wouldn’t have liked him, Mary. He was vulgar, nothing like your Charles.”

“Was your Charlie vulgar?”

For the first time, Kate showed some real emotion. Remembering Charles Goodrich stirred up unpleasant feelings of anger, rejection, and resentment.

“He had it in his date book. ‘Eight a.m. to seven p.m.—work. Eight thirty p.m.—Pick up clothes at Lin’s Laundry. Nine p.m.—Break up with Kate.’ ” She turned to Mary, full of hurt and rage. “I came after laundry, Mary. Laundry!”

Now Mary knew who had torn the pages out of the date book. More important though, they had stopped talking, and that wasn’t good, especially considering how angry Kate was.

“I don’t know if it’ll make you feel any better,” Mary said, wracking her brain for topics to keep Kate engaged. “But I just discovered my Charles is a morphine addict.”

“Well, what do you know,” mused Kate. “Men are scum. You and I are too good for them, Mary.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

Mary was trying to figure out how she was going to get to her feet and knock the pistol out of Kate’s hand. She tested her shoulder by trying to move. The pain was too great, and she groaned. Luckily, Kate was lost somewhere in the recesses of her mind, traveling on a road meant only for the pathologically insane.

“I showed Charlie what true love is. I spent all night holding him, cleaning him, changing his clothes. My Charlie was going to look perfect. When I left, he was more handsome than when he was alive.”

In spite of all that had transpired between them, Mary felt pity for her.

“Kate, let me get you help.”

But Kate would have none of it. “I’ve been to Taunton. I’m not going back!” she vehemently declared, and started up the stairs to the street. Soon Kate’s emotions did an about-face, and so did she. She returned and bent over Mary.

“I’m really going to miss you, Mary,” she said sweetly. “Please don’t make me kill you.”

Then, in a flash, she disappeared onto the street above. Mary struggled to get to her feet. She knew she had to somehow overcome the pain. She thought of all that had taken place since she took the case—the giant German who attacked her twice, Edison, Morgan, Wallenski, the Chungs, Charles, and now Kate. She became angry, very angry. It soon turned to outrage, and it was more than enough to propel Mary to the railing, where she grabbed on to it with her left hand and lifted herself up. There was pain, but it didn’t matter. She made her way up the stairs and stumbled onto the street.

Mary spotted Kate halfway down the block, and the folly of chasing after her set in. In her state, it would be almost impossible to catch her, and if she did, what could she do? Frustrated, Mary anxiously looked around for an answer. She saw the policeman who had rousted her earlier coming down the block on his horse.

“Officer, officer!” she screamed. “That woman’s the Goodrich killer!” And she pointed to Kate.

She was afraid he wouldn’t believe her, but her being shot was evidence enough. The policeman broke into a gallop, heading toward Kate.

“Be careful,” Mary called after him. “She has a pistol!”

The policeman pulled his pistol out of his holster and pointed it skyward as he was riding. Kate kept walking, minding her own business as if she hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on.

The policeman closed in on her. “Halt, madam. Halt!”

With the cool alacrity of a trained killer, Kate turned, dropped to one knee, and shot the policeman. He fell like a duck in a shooting gallery, his horse galloping off down the street. Mary was shocked. She wanted to help him, but now was not the time. Pistol in hand, Kate was marching up the street toward Mary.

Mary scrambled for her life. She tried to run but soon discovered it was useless. Her wound slowed her down too much, and all the time Kate was gaining on her. She ducked down the stairs toward the basement of another brownstone and hid behind a wall where she couldn’t be seen by anyone on the stairs. It was a desperate move. Mary didn’t have a pistol or knife or anything to defend herself when Kate came down those stairs. And she was coming.

Then she remembered. Mary ripped open her pocketbook and took out the broken piece of glass she had wrapped in a washrag and had kept as a symbol of Charles. It needed to be a lot more useful than a symbol now. She re-wrapped the washrag to protect her skin before placing it in her left hand. The jagged edge exposed, Mary raised it high, poised to strike. She was breathing heavily, and she knew that would give her away. So, holding her breath, sweating, Mary stood there, opposite the basement, waiting to see if she was going to live.

At first sight of Kate, Mary lunged, slicing wildly at her, hoping that if she didn’t hit her mark, she might scare her enough to have time to get the pistol out of her hand. How she was going to do that, she didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. Mary hit her mark. She cut a deep gash in Kate’s right forearm, causing her to drop the pistol. Mary immediately kicked it away. Kate staggered back, her left hand covering the gash on her right arm, but that didn’t stop the blood from oozing out. She was in a complete state of disbelief.

“But…you don’t carry a weapon.”

The adrenaline in Mary’s body was working overtime. She had never felt such a surge of energy. She tossed the piece of glass aside.

“Something else you don’t know about me. I’m a lefty, you crazy bitch!”

With everything she had, Mary drove her left fist into Kate’s chin. Kate’s head shot back, and the force of the blow propelled her against the wall, then down onto the cement. It would be a long while before she woke up.

The doctor patched up Mary’s shoulder and put it in a sling. She was lucky. Kate’s bullet hadn’t broken any bones, and he assured her the healing process would be speedy. Kate had promised that the wound wasn’t serious, and it wasn’t. Unfortunately, the news wasn’t as good for the policeman. He was going to live, but the recovery would take months and his career was over. Mary went to his hospital room and thanked him profusely, but she still felt awful. It had been his dream to be a policeman, and she knew only too well what it was like to have your dreams dashed.

Mary got a hero’s welcome from the men at Second Street Station. They stood up and applauded when she entered. Sean even planted a kiss on her cheek in front of everyone.

“Good job, sis. I’m proud of you.”

Mary searched his face to determine whether his display of affection was real or for show. It was real, and she was touched by it.

“Mary Handley,” boomed Chief Campbell’s voice as he came out of his office. “You were wounded in the line of duty and need to be home resting. Now go.”

He waved his hand for her to leave, but Mary didn’t budge. “I promise I’ll go home, Chief. Right after I see Kate.”

Chief Campbell turned to Sean. “My sympathies, Handley. Now I know why you were having so much trouble getting her to shoo when we first met. Your sister’s incurably hardheaded.”

“Yes, sir, Chief. Hardheaded and the smartest person I know.”

It would be a while before Mary got used to Sean complimenting her.

It was a good walk to get to the cell where Kate was being held. Mary and Chief Campbell had to pass a row of offices before entering an anteroom to the holding cells. On the way, the two of them chatted about the crime, a normal occurrence after a big arrest. As they entered the anteroom and the guard took out his keys to unlock the iron-bar door leading to the cells, Chief Campbell scratched his head.

“He breaks it off with her, so she returns the next night and blows his brains out.” It was hard for Chief Campbell to process. “I’m glad my courting days are over.”