Second Street Station (8 page)

This was a big day for W. W. Goodrich, and he was determined to look his best. In the morning he went to his favorite barbershop for a shave and a coif. The barber there always did a superb job, especially when advised about the importance of the occasion, and on this day what he had achieved bordered on magnificent. When it came to dress, little thought was necessary. He would wear his favorite suit, the one he’d had specially tailored on Savile Row in London. His derby hat perfectly complemented it, as did his custom-made cane with the solid-gold handle.

His brother’s funeral had taken place the day before. It was a large affair with an impressive turnout. Of course, most of the attendees had come to pay tribute to him, including political friends and foes and even the mayor. To be fair, there had also been a smattering of Charlie’s acquaintances, but no matter. That was his brother’s moment, and today was his. As he stood on the steps of Second Street Station, everything was going as planned. His proclamation at the funeral that he would have an announcement the next day had attracted much attention. It was everything W. W. Goodrich had hoped it would be. There were about eighty or ninety people crowding the sidewalk and spilling onto the street. It wasn’t the voluminous crowd that had appeared at his brother’s brownstone when word of his murder had spread, but it was a good size. Of greater significance, there were reporters representing all the local newspapers and a reasonable number from Manhattan, too. The others, mere citizens and even the ubiquitous women protesters, also seemed anxious to hear what he had to say.

W. W. Goodrich had started formulating his speech shortly after he learned of Charlie’s murder. It had to possess the perfect combination of determination, controlled outrage, and grief. The result was magical. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand. W. W. Goodrich had always known he had this ability, an ability that would take his political career far beyond Brooklyn. But opportunity was the key. He had to admit Charlie deserved credit for giving him that, but he knew it required a special man to take advantage of it, and it was more than evident how special he was.

He was beyond the halfway point of his speech. He had reached a crescendo and was heading toward his fleeting moment of grief, the one that would show his vulnerability yet also assert his manhood. He had rehearsed it over and over and was sure it would net him great results.

“…And so I, Alderman Goodrich, am offering a reward of thirty-five hundred dollars to anyone who provides information leading to the capture and conviction of my brother’s killer. This is not done out of disrespect to the Brooklyn Police Department. They are fine men who risk their lives for us every day. It is rather done in the belief that one man can still make a difference and also, to be perfectly honest, so that my family…”

At that moment, the unthinkable happened. A murmur started to rumble through the crowd. At first, he thought it was merely people reacting to his generous offer. But soon he realized that, beyond all reason, he was losing them! He quickly searched his mind. What event in Brooklyn could possibly trump his?

“There’s Mary Handley!” shouted Amanda Everhart, the leader of the protesters.

“She’s right!” screamed one of the reporters, and everyone rushed toward Mary. In no time, W. W. Goodrich stood alone on the steps, delivering his speech to himself.

“One man can still make a difference,” he repeated as loudly as he could in an attempt to recapture his audience, but he was drowned out by the women protesters.

“Who’s the one? Mary’s the one! Who’s the one? Mary’s the one!”

Mary hadn’t expected this kind of reception. Chief Campbell had warned her of the notoriety that accompanied the job when he had hired her, but in truth, she hadn’t given it much thought. She was consumed with the joy of having gotten her dream job, and with her concern for Kate. She had checked in on Kate the night before and had told her about the job and how she was going to catch Charlie’s killer. Kate was in no mood to talk. It was
understandable.
The wound was still very fresh.

Mary had made an effort to dress well that day, not for her public but rather to make a good impression at her new job. Her choices, though, were very limited. She called what she was wearing “the best of the worst.” It was a pale blue dress, a hand-me-down from her mother that she had personally altered. The color matched her eyes, and it contrasted nicely with her blond hair and fair complexion. Underneath it was a corset, a bustle, and a host of undergarments that made movement difficult.

“Designers of women’s clothes are either sadists or, at the very least, jealous husbands,” she often ranted about her pet peeve. “They’ve made it abundantly clear that our comfort is irrelevant and that we’re not expected to stray far from home.”

As Mary saw the crowd approaching and braced for the onslaught, she made a vow to stand strong. She wasn’t going to foster any stereotypes by acting meek.

The reporters immediately started tossing out questions. “As a woman, how do you expect to catch the Goodrich murderer?”

“Why, with both hands, of course,” Mary calmly replied as she kept walking toward the police station. Laughter rippled through the crowd. They sensed a newspaper darling, and a barrage of questions followed.

“What’s your hairdo called? Who made your dress? What brand of perfume are you wearing?” Close to the police station, Mary stopped.

“Please, this is a murder
investigation.”

“Our readers want the female angle,” a reporter shot back.

Mary considered his point, then replied, “Tell them I prefer Paris chic but, like them, can’t afford it.”

Once again there was laughter. Mary paused and looked around. She realized she was good at this. All she had to do was be herself, and they seemed to love it.

“Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I don’t want to be late for my first day of work.” She gently pushed by several in the crowd who were blocking her access to the stairs and started to make her ascent, reporters still shouting questions as she did.

W. W. Goodrich made one last, desperate effort to regain their attention. “I’m donating thirty-five hundred dollars,” he shouted, repeating his offer, “thirty-five hundred from my own personal funds to anyone, anyone at all who provides information that…”

But he had become invisible. After Mary entered the police station, the crowd was still buzzing about her as they wandered down the steps.

Led by Amanda Everhart, the women protesters resumed their chanting.

“Who’s the one? Mary’s the one!”

Always the politician, W. W. Goodrich gritted his teeth and did his best to paste a smile on his face. He arched his back, forcing himself to stand up straight, as he jauntily made his way down the steps, then up the block, all the while haunted by the chanting. Only the occasional clanging of his cane revealed how furious he really was.

Mary was glad to be inside the police station. Dealing with the reporters was fun, but she was anxious to get to work. The evidence room was in the basement, and as she made her way to the stairs, no one stopped to say hello or to acknowledge her with a nod. She liked that everyone was busy. She wanted to do her work without interruption.

The basement consisted of a very long hallway off of which were numerous rooms on each side. The hallway was damp and very dark, the only light being flickers seeping out from under the closed doors of the rooms in use. A strong musty odor permeated the air, and though not seen, water could be heard slowly dripping from the ceiling. It was cool in the basement, and the hard stone walls made it chillier.

Mary stepped off the stairs into virtual darkness, barely able to see a few feet in front of her. A drop of water landed on her nose.

Nice greeting,
she thought as she wiped it away.

She was slowly venturing forward when a figure materialized out of nowhere, startling her. She was relieved to see it was Billy.

“Oh, Billy, you gave me a fright. I’m looking for the evidence room…”

But Billy continued on and up the stairs, ignoring her. As she was rationalizing his behavior, another policeman emerged from the darkness and slammed her against the wall as he passed her.

“Excuse me,” he said as he headed for the stairs. But there wasn’t the slightest hint of apology in his voice. This was no accident, and Mary was realizing that Billy’s slight probably wasn’t either when she was grabbed from behind, a man’s arm tightly around her throat. It was Officer Russell.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were an intruder.”

He squeezed a little tighter, then he, too, shoved her against the wall and took off. Mary had had enough. She was about to go after Officer Russell when a door opened across from her, pouring light into the hallway. She instantly turned and assumed her jujitsu stance, ready to take on all comers. It was Sean.

“A bit tense on our first day, sis?” he said, holding up his hands to show he meant no harm. “You need to calm down.”

“Not until I know why I’m being bullied,” she demanded, standing her ground.

Sean turned serious. “So it’s started. You know I can’t protect you, Mary.”

“Protect me from what? Tell me. What kind of dilberry is this?”

“Dilberry, is it?” he said, his emotion rising. “We’ve worked like dogs, hoping one day to finally be promoted, and you get the big case just because you’re a woman.”

“So that’s why,” she replied, unable to resist a dose of sarcasm. “You boys are feeling neglected and passed over. Experiencing life from the other side, are you?” Mary leaned in toward him. “Better be careful, Sean. You may grow breasts.”

She marched off into the darkness. It was another perfect exit, but as she’d learned back at McGinty’s Tavern when she left Charles, perfect exits didn’t always produce perfect results. She turned and headed back toward Sean.

“By the way, where exactly is the evidence room?”

Officer Hayworth cursed his fate. He had coveted the position in the evidence room for five years. While active on the streets, he had been seriously wounded twice, and he definitely didn’t want to tempt fate a third time. When Officer Gleason retired, he lobbied hard for the job and had been thrilled to get it. At this point in his career, he’d rather file murder weapons than face them, and he looked forward to whiling away the rest of his working days in a tranquil place with plenty of time to read and take an occasional nap. Fate was not through fooling with him though, forcing him to face a new enemy—the plumbing. It rebelled, turning his personal utopia into a dripping hell. He was forever trying to keep the evidence dry and mopping the floor. If he had wanted to do custodial work, he would’ve followed in his father’s footsteps. His father was always miserable, and now he was, too.

Officer Hayworth handed Mary Handley a large envelope wrapped in a towel. Mary looked at it askance, and he decided to make a preemptive move.

“It’s as dry as it’s gonna be. The pipes have been broken for over a month now, and my complaints fall on deaf ears. ‘Budget cuts,’ they say. ‘Budget cuts’ is all I hear.”

He looked right at Mary, daring her to say something, and then returned to mopping the floors, periodically muttering complaints.

Mary spied a small table and chair nearby that were dry enough. She wiped some surface moisture off the chair with the towel, then emptied the contents of the envelope onto the table. They were all personal items: a wallet, a key chain, some change, and a date book. The gun was missing, but she was sure it was safely in the coroner’s hands, so when he dug the bullets out of Charles Goodrich he could match the size, caliber, and markings to it. The science of making a match like that was not exact, but Mary was sure it didn’t matter. It was simple. The gun placed in Charles Goodrich’s hand was the murder weapon, or the murderer wouldn’t have placed it there.

The wallet was empty, so Mary needed to concentrate on what was missing. Although there was no money, she immediately dismissed robbery as a motive. W. W. Goodrich had told Chief Campbell that, as far as he knew, no valuables had been taken from Goodrich’s brownstone. If someone broke into your house, Mary reasoned, they would take more than what was in your wallet. She would check the brownstone herself later, but robbery seemed unlikely. Also, most men kept important papers in their wallets. Charles Goodrich could have been killed for something he was carrying, but it was more likely that he had everything important filed away. He was a bookkeeper, and a bent for organization usually went hand-in-hand with that profession.

Mary then opened the date book and noticed something odd.

“Pardon me, Officer Hayworth,” she said, trying to be as polite as possible, “but none of the pages before the day of the murder are here. Did I overlook something?”

“Whatever you see is how it came in,” he said defensively. “I don’t alter evidence, I don’t lose it. I file it, I protect it, and I mop.” And he returned to mopping, muttering a little louder than before.

Mary rapidly thumbed through the date book. Besides a few water stains, most of it was extremely neat and orderly. Beyond the day of the murder, nothing seemed to be of any significance. There was a doctor’s appointment and several dates when rent was due on the properties he owned. On the day of the murder, there were three entries:

Mary studied these entries for a while and then closed the book. It occurred to her that she knew someone who might be able to shed some light on what she’d just read.

Mary arrived at her tenement on Elizabeth Street late afternoon. She had been delayed at the police station by Chief Campbell, who had asked her to sit for newspaper interviews and pose for photographers with him and several local politicians. It was not his idea but rather a directive from Commissioners Jourdan and Briggs, who were conveniently absent.

Kate was not in her room. She normally would not have been home at this time, but Mary assumed that, after what Kate had been through, she would have stayed home from work. Mary immediately headed to the Lowry Hat Factory and got there just after the shifts had changed. She could see Kate up the street at the corner.

“Kate,” she called. “Kate.” But Kate didn’t respond and she started to cross the street. Mary had to catch up with her, and hurrying in women’s fashions was no easy task. She lifted her skirt to give her some freedom of movement, and taking short steps, she felt very much like a mouse as she scurried across the street.

“Kate!” she cried out. This time Kate immediately turned toward her.

“What, Mary, what do you want?” She reacted impatiently, as if she’d known Mary was there all along.

Mary didn’t take offense. Her friend was in pain.

“Why didn’t you stay home from work? You need time to grieve, Kate. I’m sure even the Widow Lowry would understand.”

“But would our landlord understand when the rent is due or the grocer when I go to buy food?”

Mary shrugged. “You could always share burnt French toast with me.”

Mary’s comment seemed to cut the tension, giving Kate a slight smile. “What’s the matter? Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?”

Mary also smiled. She put her arm in Kate’s, and they started walking.

“The truth is,” Kate said, “I couldn’t bear staring at the four walls in my room knowing that was where I was going to be for the rest of my life.”

“That’s not true, Kate…”

“I’ve done some soul searching, Mary. It’s time for me to face reality. Charlie and I were not everything I made us out to be, but I’ll never get any closer to love.”

It upset Mary to see Kate in such a deep state of melancholy.

“Kate, what happened was absolutely dreadful and impossible to comprehend. But you’re still young and pretty. In time—”

“It’s late,” Kate said as she broke from Mary and quickened her pace. “I need to get my mail from Haddonfield, since it seems they’re the only family I’m ever going to have.”

Mary saw that Kate was in no mood to be soothed. She needed to embrace her sadness before she could let it go. But Mary also had a job to do. Once again, she lifted her skirt and scurried to keep up with Kate. She was slightly winded when she spoke.

“On the day Charlie died, he met with Nikola Tesla and a man named Roscoe.”

Kate stared ahead of her as she walked. When she spoke, her words were controlled and lacking in emotion. Mary knew she was trying her best not to fall apart.

“I met Roscoe. Dark-haired, a Spaniard. Charlie did some business with him.”

“Roscoe may have been the last person to see him alive.”

“Roscoe?” Kate responded, a far-off look on her face.

“Yes, Roscoe,” Mary said emphatically, trying to get Kate to focus. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“I don’t even know his last name,” Kate replied, shrugging helplessly.

Mary knew the next question could be upsetting, but she had to ask it.

“Kate, where were you that night?”

Kate stopped short and recoiled. “You think I killed my Charlie?” With that one question, Kate went from hurt to betrayal to outrage.

“I’m sorry,” Mary said, jumping in quickly. “It’s my job. I have to ask.”

“You want to know?!” Kate said, her pain and anger weighing on every word. “I was at home, all by myself, like a fool, planning our wedding!”

Fighting back tears, Kate picked up her pace again. Mary started to follow, then stopped. She had gotten most of the information she needed, and Kate was in no state to give out any more. She would speak with her another time. Mary had read about Nikola Tesla and his recent splash in the scientific world as a brilliant young mind. She would arrange a meeting with him. But Roscoe intrigued her more. She didn’t know how or why, but her instinct told her that he was the key to Charles Goodrich’s murder.