The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (8 page)

“Your Honour, we cannot revisit this point again.” The District Attorney said.

“Let us have closure, then. Exclude those items seized illegally by police or let them justify their raid on Northern Central offices. Why were they there?”

In the end, all the evidence was deemed admissible by Judge Mansfield. My defence seemed in shambles.

Kennedy celebrated every victory in the press. The day my guilty verdict was handed down, he was on the front pages not me.

I invited Father to dine with Hayes and me at the hotel. My sentence was to be delivered the next morning. Over dessert, Father relaxed with a biscuit in hand.

“Judge Mansfield will be of a mind to send Robert to jail.” Hayes said.

Father chewed a biscuit and weighed his words.

“You are the barrister, Mr. Hayes. What do you recommend?”

“He might be lenient if we can give him a reason. If we show that the outcome of an important case will be jeopardized by sending Robert to prison, he may suspend the sentence.”

Here was the crucial piece of our puzzle. If Father agreed, we would have our lever.

“Can you be certain this will work?”

“We can only be sure that Robert will go to jail if we do not appeal to the public good.”

Any word I uttered would have turned Father against the idea.

“I know of a case that might be suitable.” Father said.

“In New York?”

“Yes. I could assign Robert to work under his brother.”

“Robert must be in charge or the Judge will view him as replaceable.”

It would be no more than I deserved in my father's eyes.

“You ask too much of me, Mr. Hayes.”

Papa craves being asked to do too much. This is what Hayes and I were counting on.

“Fine.” Father said. “Tomorrow, you may advise Judge Mansfield that Robert is investigating the murder of Henry Schulte.”

I sipped black coffee and found that I had something to say after all.

“Thank you, Papa.”

It was the same thing I'd said when he retrieved me from the police wagon. I repaid him with lies on both occasions.

The usual press was assembled at the courthouse. I saved my best suit for last; brilliant black with accents of gold on the collar and cuffs. For the first time, reporters parted to let me pass. No one wanted to ruin the outfit.

Inside, Hayes requested a closed session in Judge Mansfield's chambers. Kennedy insisted on taking part.

Mansfield sat in composed silence waiting for audio equipment to be transferred from the courtroom to his chambers. He had a young face and could have passed for a boy if not for his thinning hair and hunched posture. His body didn't know how to be old.

It was a delicate job, installing the steam capsules and wax discs that registered our testimony. Flute shaped receivers on each table fed our voices through rubber tubes that amplified the sound. A suction pump in the basement sustained a perfect vacuum inside the tubes. These connected to a sealed box the size of a shipping barrel. Inside, the sound was imprinted as a continuous groove cut into wax discs. The sound of discs being engraved could be heard throughout the courtroom.

The quiet in Mansfield's chambers was broken by the scraping discs. We could proceed.

“People v. Pinkerton R. Continuance for sentencing. Mr. Hayes, your petition please.”

“We ask the court to recognize that the public good will suffer if my client is jailed.”

“Do the People have a position?”

Kennedy nodded at the District Attorney. He was impatient to announce to his adoring press that officers were dragging me to jail.

“Mr. Pinkerton has been proved a menace. The People wish to see him treated as such.”

“So noted. Mr. Hayes, how will the public suffer by your client paying for his crimes?”

“If my client goes to jail, a killer goes free.” Hayes said. “It's that simple. Robert Pinkerton is lead detective in the investigation of New York businessman Henry Schulte's murder.”

Kennedy slapped his palm against the table at mention of the case.

“Impossible.” He said.

“This is smoke and mirrors, your Honour.” The District Attorney added.

“Maybe.” Mansfield said. “The State proved that Mr. Pinkerton tampered with records he had no right to access. I am inclined to agree that these crimes do not outweigh the public's interest in catching a murderer.”

The District Attorney rubbed his eyes, stalling for time so he could reason his way out. Judge Mansfield helped him.

“If the People can show that Mr. Pinkerton is a danger, the Court will hear arguments against a suspended sentence.” Mansfield said. “Eight armed officers participated in the arrest. Was the defendant acting violently when you responded to Northern Central?”

There it was. If Kennedy wanted to put me behind bars, he would have to explain.

Kennedy turned angry eyes toward the audio recorder.

“We believed Mr. Pinkerton would respond with violence, yes.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“When he fled from Chicago, he led officers on a perilous . . .”

“I am aware of what happened after his arrest, Mr. Kennedy. We are more interested in what happened before. Why did you respond with such a show of force?”

The chamber was silent except for the scraping of wax discs.

“Mr. Kennedy. Help me to understand.”

“The police are not on trial.”

“Of course not, the trial is over . . .” Judge Mansfield said.

Kennedy stood and turned on his heel. He hurried to open the door leading back to the courtroom. Any detective would have understood his rush. Reporters were listening.

Courtroom audio devices were modified on the black market as soon as they were invented. New models are hard to tune because they register, not voices, but the sound of scraping discs. That noise is imprinted backwards then played in reverse as conversation. Even the best units are delayed by several seconds.

Journalists were known to hide these devices in top hats, briefcases, hollowed-out books, anything. Though we were in Mansfield's chambers, the scraping was still audible in the courtroom. Kennedy threw the doors open just as reporters heard him say,

“The police are not on trial.”

Kennedy emerged and a room full of writers shouted questions at the same time.

The next day, newspapers were filled with speculation about why he had refused to answer for the actions of New York police. It was good sport but less than I'd hoped. Nothing against Kennedy could be proved.

Judge Mansfield had no grounds to refuse Hayes' petition. I was convicted but given a suspended sentence. So long as I led the Schulte investigation, I was free.

*   *   *

Allan Pinkerton, Principal

July, 1861

My first thought was to fire Byron Hayes and have him stripped of his license. Ms. Higgs made me see that doing so would expose the fact that I had been reading Robert's files.

Robert was happy to have created a minor media stir. Northern Central was in the papers for less than a week. Kennedy threatened to bring charges against any reporter who tied him to the embezzled funds.

None dared call his bluff. The scandal evaporated in a matter of days.

We could not expect much cooperation from New York police in our investigation of Henry Schulte's murder. I had to let Robert proceed as he saw fit. If I removed him from the case, or put William back in the lead, Mansfield would revoke the suspended sentence.

Henry Schulte was 72 years old when he died. He owned a business in Manhattan and an estate along the Hudson River. On those shores near his country home, Schulte was killed. He was struck with an axe and the base of the neck, then several more times after he fell into the snow. Details of the case impacted me on a personal level.

I am an immigrant to this country. My prospects for success were dim yet America proved a place where a man's qualities could be made to count. For all her greatness, America failed Henry Schulte. He came to New York to escape tragic memories in Prussia.

Schulte led a charmed life during his youth. He was handsome, first son of a wealthy landowner and a respected military man. Schulte was also engaged to be married. He was happy.

Schulte's fiancée had many admirers. One of these men was a farmhand of meagre means who convinced himself that, if he could win the young woman's heart, his bad luck could be reversed. Love is confusion.

During wartime, Schulte led cavalry teams on reconnaissance missions into the remote wilderness. His fiancée repelled this other man's unwanted advances during his absence. When the fighting stopped, Schulte returned to a hero's welcome.

The farmhand fell to depression. His crop failed. His plot was reclaimed by the landlord, Schulte's father. The foreclosure pushed him over the edge.

Schulte's fiancée was drowned late one night under a bridge. Her body was hidden in the shallows under a pile of stones. By the time it was uncovered, little physical evidence remained.

Schulte was in disbelief. Against the wishes of his family, he insisted on viewing the body. Friends waited at the hospital to bar him from the sight. Schulte was convinced the cover would be pulled back to reveal some other unfortunate woman. His lover's distended corpse brought reality down on him with devastating impact.

No one in town doubted who had committed the crime. Schulte took matters into his own hands. He confronted the farmhand at a crowded saloon. Both men suffered in drunken misery. Their argument came to blows. Schulte drew a pistol and shot the man dead.

His torment turned him into a recluse. He was convinced that everyone meant him harm. Now head of his family's fortune, he retreated to the life of a miser locked in an empty mansion. His paranoia reached such heights that he fled to the anonymity of foreign soil.

Schulte came to America seeking a new beginning. He opened a business transporting goods between north and south, and built his estate on the Hudson River. That is where the promise of the United States failed him. The cruellest twist in Schulte's story is that, like his fiancée's murder, there is little doubt as to the killer's identity.

William Bucholz was his personal assistant. A young man of little accomplishment, his shuffling gait and broken teeth are evidence of the ruffian life he led, first in New York City then in the small town where he met Henry Schulte. Prussian citizenship and an ability to speak Schulte's language are the only qualities that made him fit to work for the loner.

It was Bucholz who pointed police to Schulte's body. He claimed to be a loyal employee but his alibi was false and he was arrested. That was the state of the investigation when Norwalk police contacted our Agency.

William Bucholz was being held for the murder of Henry Schulte. Police faced the choice of either laying charges without any proof or releasing a man they believed to be a killer.

My oldest son, William, was heading the case until this business with Robert's trial. William and I agreed that the best way to proceed would be to watch from a distance. Surveillance is at the heart of all modern detective technique.

A criminal's conscience is heavy. He will ease his burden by sharing it with another. A detective can quickly identify a list of people who the criminal may choose for his confession.

Bucholz pointed us in a promising direction. His alibi for the night of the killing had been Ms. Sadie Waring.

Waring's father owned a farm near Schulte's estate and was the victim's only real friend. Being his friend amounted to little more than not being scowled at as Schulte came and went from the Emerald Tap House, a bawdy tavern he frequented.

As I have said before, I feel pity for Schulte's experience of America. This stranger, Waring, was his best friend.

The daughter Sadie took a shine to William Bucholz. They were seen about town together. She told police, after the murder, that Bucholz believed he was on the verge of being given a piece of property as a reward for good service.

This was a lie but, to a scoundrel, lying is just a way of speaking. He trusted her. It was clear that Bucholz would try to communicate with Sadie.

I tried to convey this insight to Robert. I ought not to have bothered.

To him, the key to the case was finding money stolen from Schulte's home the day he died. Police could not recover it. I explained to Robert that we had not been hired to pursue failed lines of inquiry.

“We will look for the same item.” He said. “We will not look in the same way.”

It came as no surprise when Ms. Higgs showed me the contract Robert issued to rogue operative Ernie Stark. Lives were sure to be lost as soon as Ernie Stark was hired.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

May, 1861

The giant slave who saved me at Harrisburg had a name. He was called Ray.