The Empire of Shadows Read online

  The coroner looked at Chowder and said, “Not her, man. It’s no mystery how she died.

  “But I want you to take a look at that skull over there on the shelf,” the doctor said, pointing to a yellowed, dusty skull. When Chowder picked it up the doctor said, “See the hole in that one? See how it’s round and broken at the edges, cracks radiating from the wound?”

  “Uh-huh,” Chowder agreed, paying more attention to the skull than the doctor.

  “Notice, too, how on the inside there are pieces of bone broken away? That is the sort of wound consistent with a bullet.”

  “No argument there, boyo,” Chowder said as he swirled a finger around inside the skull. “What’s this got to do with Bess?”

  “Nothing, detective. I’m onto something else entirely. Just stay with me on this,” the doctor said like a weary headmaster. “The bullet basically blows the bone back into the brain, carrying shards from the edges of the wound away as well.”

  “Now take a look at this.” He pointed to the body of a man lying on a table a few feet away. “Harbor police fished him out this morning,” the coroner said. “Been in the water about a day, day and a half.” He pulled back a sheet to reveal the pasty white body, which had huge, deep, diagonal slashes from torso to mid-thigh.

  “Whoa,” Chowder exclaimed. “Looks like somebody tried to cut him in half!”

  “Not what killed him. That was after he went in the water. Propeller, I think. Probably got run over while he was floating.”

  “Plenty of screw steamers on the river,” Chowder said. “Makes sense. Never seen cuts like that before. Why are you so sure it wasn’t this that killed him?”

  “No water in the lungs. This man was dead before he hit the water. What’s interesting is that he’s got a hole in his head, but it’s not like that one at all,” the coroner said, pointing to the skull in Chowder’s hands.

  “That’s something you don’t pick up swimming,” Chowder mumbled. He put the skull down and turned back toward the body. The coroner had peeled the skin back from a wound in the man’s head and swabbed it clean so the bone showed. “You can really see the difference,” he went on.

  “The edges are smoother,” Chowder noted. “The hole has a kind of regular angle to it, like a triangle. What did this?”

  “Right. Slower impact,” The doctor said, ignoring the question. “Sometimes a bullet will carry away whole sections of bone, shattering the skull like a china bowl. None of that here.”

  “So, you’ve convinced me then, Doc. It wasn’t a bullet; but I’m still not following you. Who is this man?” The coroner didn’t answer him at first. Instead, he said, “This may sound odd, Detective, but I’ve actually seen wounds like this before.”

  Chowder raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said.

  “Yes. And I’m guessing you did, too, though not from the same perspective exactly.”

  “Still not followin’, Doc. I’ve never seen any sort of wound like this ’ere. Unless—maybe…” A light came on behind Chowder’s eyes. “The goddamn war! A bayonet wound. For the love o’ Mike!” Chowder said, scratching his head.

  He remembered Bess telling him about selling the bayonet to Tupper, but couldn’t imagine how that could be connected to the body in front of him. “That would be my guess, detective. A long, pointed steel spike, roughly triangular and quite capable of punching through bone of this thickness.”

  Chowder was nodding but still wore a puzzled frown. “A bayonet wound?”

  “You’re the detective,” the doctor said.

  “Yeah, well I am that, Doc, but bein’ a detective ain’t so much about knowin’ all the answers as askin’ the right questions.”

  “I suppose you have me there,” the coroner agreed as he picked up a scalpel and started to make an incision around the head, starting at the hole. He was cutting with deft, sure strokes that reminded Chowder not of a butcher but an artist.

  “So, my questions are these, Doc. First off, could a man make a hole like that with just the bayonet in his hand? Second, if that’s possible, and I think it is, then would it kill outright or what? Third…” Chowder was ticking off the questions on his fingers one by one. The doctor looked up from his work, raising a curious eyebrow. “Can you tell what angle the blade struck from? This fella wasn’t all that tall, maybe five-seven or so. The angle would help to indicate the height, ya see?” Chowder explained.

  “Fourth. Let’s see, oh, fourth is how long’s he been departed? I’m thinkin’ no more’n two days. A little hard to tell, him bein’ a floater.” The body had obviously been in water, a fact so plain that Chowder hadn’t even commented on it till now. “Not enough decay for much more than that I reckon. You go right ahead and correct me if I’m wrong there.”

  The doctor put down the scalpel. It clattered on the steel table, echoing off the cold tiled walls.

  “The answer to your first question is yes. Not easy, mind, but yes, quite possible. Hard to say if it killed outright. Maybe, maybe not. I’ve seen all kinds of head wounds and they’re usually fatal. Still, there’s a lot about the brain we don’t know, Detective, a lot that we can’t explain. Had one case in here recently where a construction worker took a fall and impaled himself on a crowbar. He walked into this hospital with the thing sticking out one eye. Went right through his head, too. He lived.

  “One thing I can tell you is that there wasn’t much water in the lungs, so I’d say he died very shortly after going into the water,” the doctor said. “As to angle, it’s hard to say until I get a look at the damage to the brain itself. My guess is, and this is judging by the location of the wound in the upper rear area, that it was a slightly downward stroke.”

  “Hmm,” Chowder mused, imagining the height of the attacker.

  “And I’d say he’s been dead about twenty hours or so,” the coroner went on. Chowder started scribbling notes in a little leather-bound book that was worn and curled at the edges. The doctor paused for just an instant, wondering what sorts of things that little book had seen scribbled in its pages over the years. The pencil scratching out hurried words was the only sound.

  The coroner picked up his scalpel and resumed his cutting. A little grin skittered about the corners of his mouth. Chowder noticed and wondered at it. Doctors could be damned strange, he thought to himself.

  “Lastly, this gentleman was fished out of the Hudson just north of Eighty-fifth Street about two hours ago, and, no, unfortunately I have no idea who he is. Nobody seems to know.”

  Nine

  I tried to slay without rancor, and often succeeded.

  —ROBERT PENN WARREN

  They all sat together, Duryea, William, and Frederick pulling up chairs once the introductions were made. Tom and William seemed to take an instant liking to each other, especially after William told him he knew Chief Byrnes. Byrnes had been a great help in recovering some jewelry that had been stolen from his mother’s townhouse back in ’84. Tom chuckled at that.

  “Byrnes has always kept a long string of informants, lists of thieves, forgers, safecrackers, confidence men and the like,” he told Durant. “Sometimes he’d pay for information or the return of stolen goods. Most times he’d know who the thief was by simply examining the scene and questioning witnesses. Of course, from time to time he’d have to resort to other methods,” Tom said with a shrug, thinking of Little Benny Corrigan. “Byrnes almost always got the goods back.”

  “Well, I don’t know how he did it,” William said, “but Jay Gould was right in recommending I see him about the matter. He had Mother’s jewels back within three days. Delivered them himself as well. Remarkable man.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. I collaborated with him on his book a few years back. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Professional Criminals of America. Published in ’eighty-six. Set the standard for the understanding and cataloguing of criminal types and methods,” Tom added.

  Frederick shrugged but tried to sound enthusiastic. “Fascinating,” he ventured. “I re
gret I can’t claim to have read it though. Been busy with my little project here.”

  “And a wonderful project it is,” Mary said. “I can’t begin to imagine the planning and work that must have gone into it. It’s just staggering.”

  Frederick looked pleased at the compliment. “Not much more than forest when I got here. Now my guests want for nothing, not even electricity.” The pride in his voice was amplified by the evening’s drinking.

  “I do have one complaint though,” Mary said when she sensed that Frederick was about to recite the long list of virtues of the Prospect House.

  A frown clouded Frederick’s features. “Name it, madam, and it will be addressed if it’s in my power to do so. I will not have my guests displeased with any aspect of their stay here,” he said, looking at her as if he might jump up and go into action at her slightest word.

  Tom knew where Mary was going and figured he’d let her see it through. She was a lot better than him at these things anyway. He never had been much of a diplomat. It wasn’t a skill that got much exercise in his line of work. He recognized the gift in her, though. She’d always been able to get more with a few words than he could with an hour of bluster.

  “Well, I hesitate to even mention it, Mister Durant.”

  “Frederick. Call me Frederick, Missus Braddock, Fred actually. I’d be honored if you’d call me Fred.”

  “Of course. And you must call me Mary,” she answered with such self-assured charm it made Tom marvel. “It’s that deer of yours,” Mary went on. “He’s quite bad-tempered.”

  “Didn’t I tell you about that damn buck? Scares more guests than he pleases,” Duryea interrupted. Mary smiled at the general. “Exactly, sir. He bit my boy Michael this afternoon.”

  “Your doctor had to put a couple stitches in it,” Tom added. “Beautiful animal, but you should put him in a different enclosure, something where people can’t reach in, especially children,” Tom said in a low, flat tone that didn’t encourage argument.

  “It’s a wild animal, Fred,” William said as if they’d had this discussion before. “I know you don’t want my opinion, but he’d be better off free, or better still, hanging on your wall. This caged existence doesn’t agree with the nature of the beast. He’s not a cow, you know.”

  Fred seemed none too happy with the advice, but he did the gallant thing and said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mary.” He turned to Tom almost as an afterthought. “My sincere apologies to you both,” he continued. “Is your boy all right? Is there anything more I can do? Doctor Whelen is really quite good, I can assure you.”

  Tom and Mary were quick to tell Frederick that Mike had been looked after as well as they could have wished. Frederick seemed pleased, but he wasn’t done.

  “I want to make this up to you both. I hope you won’t mind if I insist on deducting your meals for the duration of your stay,” Frederick said, snapping his fingers for a waiter. “I won’t have you decline,” he said with an upheld hand when he saw Tom about to protest. “Really. I can’t have friends of Hiram’s chewed upon, and I don’t care how long your stay is, nor how much you can eat,” he said with a grin.

  The waiter appeared and Frederick instructed him about the Braddock dining bill. “And be sure about it, Stephens,” he told the man. “I don’t want to hear of it showing up on their bill.”

  The waiter bowed his understanding, mumbling that he’d see to it immediately. Turning back to Tom and Mary, Frederick said, “Now, that’s done” with a broad smile. He seemed to cast about the table for something to say or some other topic to change the mood. His eyes rested on the general.

  “You know, Hiram we’ve gotten sort of sidetracked. You never did explain how our Mister Braddock here has risen from the dead.”

  The general chuckled at that but there was no mirth in it.

  “Can’t tell you that, Fred. I’ll let him tell you that part. I can tell you how I killed him, though.”

  Mary gave the general a puzzled look, then turned to Tom. The corners of his mouth had tightened and hard lines framed his eyes. Tom rarely spoke about the war. When he did, it was in terms so vague that all feeling was lost, bleached out, leaving only colorless cloth behind. The one sense she’d always had was that Tom had seen and done things too terrible to be told. Whatever those things were, he kept them in a dark corner reserved only for nightmares. Those dreams had not ended with the war. All these years later they still were free to invade their bed in the grave-quiet hours of the morning.

  Duryea took a long breath and downed the last of his whiskey. He signaled for another round before he started.

  “It was at Chancellorsville, June of ’sixty-three. Bloody awful confusion, once Hooker lost his nerve and went on the defensive. My regiment, I was a colonel then, got separated from the units to our left and right.” Duryea took a sip of his drink once it arrived. “No place for a battle, the wilderness of Virginia. Broken ground, low underbrush, scrub pine. Can’t see farther than you could throw in most places.”

  Tom grunted agreement into his glass of port.

  “Smoke so damn thick you couldn’t see the man next to you sometimes,” Duryea continued, staring off as if trying to pierce the haze. “Anyway, we got separated. Had to withdraw or be cut off. Your husband, Mary, had somehow gotten separated from his unit, too, and fought along with my men. Had maybe twenty or thirty with him, if I recall,” Duryea said, looking to Tom for confirmation.

  Braddock just nodded. He never had a precise count either, though there were those he could still remember.

  “Anyway, I called for volunteers to hold our left flank while we withdrew. Sergeant Braddock was willing, if I recall, because that was the direction you figured the Twentieth was.”

  Tom nodded. “Thought maybe we could work our way back, sort of slide along a creekbed there and link up,” he said.

  “Right. We could see they’d be coming across a small field bordered by the creek. The sergeant, Tom here, took his men in there, facing at least a regiment. Damned crazy,” Duryea mumbled.

  “Suppose it was,” Tom said with no touch of irony in his voice. “We had the Spencers,” he added, as if that was an excuse.

  Duryea grunted. “Yes, the Spencers. We had come upon a wagon with three crates bound for the cavalry. Horses were dead, so I guess the teamsters just left it or were killed themselves.”

  “Never would have tried it without those guns,” Tom said.

  “Fine rifle,” William pitched in. “Had an infantry model once. Shot well. Better than a musket and three times the rate of fire.”

  “Yup. Liked the cavalry model,” Tom said, warming to the discussion of the Spencer’s attributes.

  “Didn’t have the range of the infantry, but better in a close fight. I’d never handled one till then, though I’d seen a few, they were that new. It didn’t take a genius to see that they could fire a lot faster than an Enfield. Used to call them the ‘horizontal shot-tower.’”

  “Exactly,” Duryea went on. “They deployed to the left flank, and my Zouaves were withdrawing in the best order we could, when I heard the volleys off your way. Saw them coming with my glass—through the smoke. Charging.”

  There was a long silence as Duryea took another sip of his whiskey. A cuckoo clock off in the lobby started to chime and chirp the hours. Dishes rattled somewhere in the kitchen.

  “Smoke blocked out what happened, but I heard those Spencers barking.” Duryea lifted his tumbler to Tom. “And I thanked the Lord for you, Sergeant.”

  Tom shrugged but didn’t say anything. He’d been foolish. He should have died from his foolishness like so many of the men with him. That he hadn’t always left the grainy grit of guilt in the back of his throat. Finally, Duryea broke the silence. “Shouldn’t have let you do it. When I heard the volleys I figured you could not possibly have survived. Inquired after you once the battle was done, but couldn’t get word of you or—anything,” Duryea said in a halting voice. “Took you for dead or at best captured. Saved
our flank, though.”

  Mary had been watching Tom while Duryea talked. She watched his eyes. There was a smoky sadness there, a haze of years and bitter experience.

  “Wounded,” Tom said. He didn’t volunteer anything more except, “Spent the next couple of weeks in a hospital. Nothing real serious.”

  Mary could see there was far more to the story; they all could, but no one asked. Mary didn’t think she’d ever know all Tom could tell about those years. She knew how much it pained him to speak of it. Tom had let her into all the secret places in his life. There were plenty of those—the corruption in the department mostly—but other things, like how he or his men managed to get a confession, or the things he knew went on in Tammany Hall, or even the women before her, everything but this. For this there was a wall, a bitter breastwork so high he could hardly see over it. That barrier had to be assaulted gently or not at all.

  Duryea looked at his watch, exclaiming, “Look at the time! I really must be going, but I want you all to dinner tomorrow,” he added, extending an invitation like a command with, “I won’t hear of anything else.”

  When they had accepted, the general got up a little wearily, took his leave, and ended with a final, “Come over around four. We’ll do some shooting. My boys are crazy for it.”

  “Well, if it’s shooting you want, why don’t you all come here for dinner?” Frederick said. “Our range is a sight larger than yours, Hiram, and our chef has no equal north of Albany.”

  It was agreed and the general shook Tom’s hand, saying, “Bring your pistol, Thomas. You can show them how it’s done in the police, eh?”

  Not nearly enough hours later, Mary rolled over and pried one eye open to squint at the wall clock. Rolling back toward Tom, she nudged him then leaned close to nibble his ear.

  “The fish are jumping,” she whispered. “Do you know what time it is, sleepyhead?”

  Tom rolled away, pulling a pillow over his head.