Suspension Read online

  “It wasn’t you who killed him, Captain. You just finished the job started by his big mouth. He was dead already. Just didn’t know it.” A couple of them nodded agreement.

  “Reckon it’s true,” Earl said. “Don’t like one of us goin’ down, but when I think on it, he did kinda have it comin’.” He looked around the table for agreement, then went on. “Watkins coulda paid that price weeks ago fer blabbin’ to Bucklin. You just done what you had to, Cap’n, and you could have done it sooner, ’ceptin’ you not wantin’ to put down one of yer own.”

  One by one they voiced their support. Each was sad to lose a comrade, but they had lost so many over the years that one more didn’t hit them the way it might other men. They would stick by the captain till the end. Let the bodies pile where they may. At the last, when they drank to their success, they’d toast the dead. They’d drink in silent remembrance to those who fell by the side of their long, long road. The captain had his absolution.

  The conversation turned to Matt and Earl next to report on their treatment by Braddock. They were all encouraged to hear how little the detective seemed to know. It appeared too that the death of Watkins came none too soon. It was noted how quick the police were to appear on the scene. A sleeping man, as Watkins appeared to be, might have ridden back and forth across the river for hours before being discovered. The police had been watching the ferry, they decided. It had been a closer thing than they would ever know.

  The captain, taking control as usual, turned to Sullivan and with an encouraging smile said, “Now, Patrick, can you move on with the plans as you outlined them to us a few days ago? You’ve had time to work out some of the details, right?”

  Sullivan stood. “Pretty much, sir.” He didn’t feel much like talking, not after just hearing that the captain shot one of their own. He felt like death. The doubts he’d talked about with Lincoln seemed to have mushroomed in the last few minutes. He couldn’t stow them in the back of his mind any longer. Looking at Justice, he could see the same in his eyes. Still, he went on outlining his plan.

  They’d done this before, on a smaller scale with the many bridges they blew during the war and the three train wrecks they’d engineered after. The methods were similar. The scale and complexity of this job was altogether different though.

  “As you know,” he began, “we’re going to blow just enough so it will tear itself apart. Thanks to Bart we have the plans, and he and I have gone over them carefully for the last two weeks.”

  Bart rolled out some plans on the big table and they all craned to get a good look. It was a work of art really, an incredibly precise scale drawing of the bridge as seen from the side. All the major components were shown: caissons, towers, anchorages, approaches, roadway, main cables, suspenders, and stays.

  “Now, gentlemen, here’s how I see us bringing down the Eighth Wonder of the World,” Pat said.

  He could have a flair for the dramatic when he got warmed up, the captain thought, smiling.

  Sullivan recapped the basics of the plan, which they had decided on some time before. He wanted to be certain everybody was following.

  “The trick is to make the span unstable. The stiffness of the roadway is the key. That’s why Roebling put this bracing in.” Jacobs did the pointing for Pat. Even if by some miracle the bridge held together and didn’t drop into the river, the carnage from the explosions would be devastating. Hundreds would die, certainly. Sullivan had a mental image of it as he spoke. He could hear the explosions like dull thunder, the sharp metallic twang as the stays snapped and whipped down on the crowded roadway.

  “You see, by cutting the stays here and here,” Pat said absently, lost in his vision of destruction, “and the suspenders from just two of the main cables, we can drop one side of the roadway.”

  Within twenty minutes Sullivan had laid it out for them, at least the parts he’d worked on. The vision had faded. Timing was as critical as placement of the charges, he told them. “First the suspenders, trusses, and beams, then the stays, say about five seconds apart.” Ideally that’s how it should work, but there would be problems coordinating that. They went over the obstacles for a minute till the captain finally said to move on. He wasn’t at all sure they’d be able to time it that closely. The last thing Pat touched on was the number of charges and his estimate of how long it would take to set them—not more than an hour and a half. Charges would be placed on a total of twenty-six suspenders where they connected with the support beams, thirteen charges each for the upstream main cable suspenders. Additional charges would be placed to cut the stays and the trusses over the tracks. They needed to work at saving time, and preparation was the key. Sullivan had ideas for practice drills, some of which could be carried out on the bridge itself. They didn’t anticipate any police patrols on the bridge, but there would be police at each end, and traffic to watch out for even at three in the morning. They needed to expect the unexpected.

  “Very good, men,” the captain said when Pat and Bart had finished. “One other thing we should work on is the running of the detonator wire.” The detonator wire and the positioning of the portable dynamo they’d need to generate their charge were real sticking points. So far they had only sketched out plans in this area. “It occurs to me that the wiring for the lamps will be commencing soon. Suppose we were to have Earl and Matt assigned to the crew. Might be possible to run our wire along with the wiring for the lamps.”

  “The wires to the charges on the stays will have to be run along with the explosives. Those charges will be up on the towers. Nothing to be done about that,” Pat pointed out. “But if we could get our wire out to midspan beforehand, it would save a bunch of time and risk. I been working on how we might do that, but truth be told, I don’t like what I’ve come up with. I do like the sound of your idea, though.”

  Thaddeus agreed but looked off as if calculating odds. “If we can get our wire to midspan under their noses it would be sublime,” he said, relishing the thought.

  The meeting broke up shortly after that, with a plan for Bart to get Matt and Earl assigned to the lighting crew immediately.

  “Anything to add?” Thaddeus asked, looking around the room.

  Earl spoke up in his laconic drawl. “Yeah, Cap’n. I don’t think Roebling’s gonna like it much.”

  When Tom got to his desk for the dog watch at 6:00 A.M., the first thing he noticed was the telegram. It lay in the top of his in box, small, white, and harmless. Like most people, Tom figured that unexpected telegrams were not good news. He picked it up as if it might bite. It was from the desk sergeant at the Thirteenth. It read: boy in custody on thievery charge stop claims to know you stop holding him for arraignment at Essex Market Police Court at noon stop boy claims to be Michael Bucklin stop advise stop Tom read it again. After their last meeting, he would have bet he’d never see the boy again. It sounded like he was in trouble, though, and Tom didn’t think Mike’s grandparents needed any more of that. He went to the telegrapher’s office in the basement.

  The telegraph office was in rooms 1 and 2 of the basement of Police Headquarters. From there, headquarters was in touch with every station house, hospital, railway station, including the Els and fire house, in the city. Wallace Wylie was on duty when Tom went in.

  “Morning, Wally.”

  Wylie looked up from his desk. His head had been very nearly touching it.

  “Shouldn’t you be heading home? Where’s Brennan?” Tom asked.

  “Not in, I’m covering.”

  “Ain’t life grand? How’ve you been, Wally? Haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  “Oh, fine, Tom, fine,” Wally said through a yawn. “Nothing new. Kids are growing like weeds. Wife’s getting big with our third.” Tom almost envied him. “That’s great. Nice to hear some things are normal. Got a message for the Thirteenth.” Tom held out a slip of paper.

  “You’ve been busy lately, Tom,” Wally said as he started to finger the telegraph key. “I hear things even down here in the c
atacombs.”

  “I bet you do.” Tom knew that Wylie was probably the best-informed man in the building. “Things have been interesting. What was that old Chinese curse? Something like: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ Last couple of weeks, I’m thinking maybe things have been a little too interesting. Anyway, I gotta run. Thanks for the help.”

  Tom ran into Chowder on the way upstairs.

  “So, I hear you got Dolan and Heidelberg assigned to you now,” Chowder said. “What’s up? You into something big?”

  “Bucklin case. Looks like it may lead to other things.” Chowder just raised his eyebrows. “Like the East River Bridge.” Tom answered his unasked question.

  Chowder whistled. “You wouldn’t be shovelin’ shit on my shoes, now, would you, Thomas? What’s the bridge go to do with that Bucklin case?”

  “Pretty strong whiff of something like fraud or conspiracy. Byrnes smells a big case, wants to keep his hand in. You know how that goes.” Chowder understood completely.

  “I don’t give a damn,” Tom said honestly. “Let him grab the headlines, if it comes to that. At least I got some extra help and I’m still in charge of the show.”

  Chowder slapped him on the shoulder. “Could be a big career move for you, boy-o. Keep you out from under Coffin’s thumb. How’s it look? Any suspects?”

  Tom turned suddenly glum. “That’s sort of a problem. My main suspect turned up with a .32 caliber headache yesterday.”

  “The fella on the ferry? Heard about that,” Chowder said, putting the pieces together. “The plot thickens, eh, Tommy?”

  “Got Byrnes’s attention,” Braddock said in an obvious understatement.

  Chowder gave an exaggerated nod of his big head. “Now I got it, laddie. Crystal clear, it is. Well, listen, I got to get movin’. You be careful, y’hear? Sounds like that could be an unhealthy case.”

  “Sure thing. We gotta have a beer sometime, catch up, you know?”

  Chowder looked pleased. “Right-o, Tommy. Let’s do it soon.”

  By the time Tom got back to his desk and filed his reports for the prior day, it was seven-thirty. He talked to Pat Dolan and Charlie Heidelberg just long enough to arrange to meet at eleven to talk over the case and decide where they would start. Then he went out the back way on Mott, heading for the El. In ten minutes he was chugging uptown behind a particularly smoky engine. He thought about Mike as the El swayed and rattled. The boy must have been arrested yesterday. The telegram had been put on his desk late, so he’d been in custody now for probably about eighteen hours. His grandparents must be worried sick. They’d be getting frantic in another couple of hours, if they weren’t already.

  It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before Tom was standing at the front desk at the Thirteenth.

  “Morning. You Sergeant Thompson?”

  “Nope,” the desk sergeant said without looking up.

  Tom waited. That seemed to be all the man had to say. “All right, then. I got this telegraph from him. You got a kid by the name of Bucklin in custody. I’d like to see him.”

  “And who might you be?”

  Tom didn’t answer. He waited until the sergeant finally lifted an inquiring eye from his desk, then pulled open his jacket. He kept his shield pinned to his vest, so it couldn’t be easily seen. Most detectives did.

  “Sergeant Detective Thomas Braddock, Central Detective Bureau,” Tom said distinctly. “And you are?”

  “Sergeant Roodman. What’s your business with the prisoner?” the sergeant asked, his demeanor only slightly improved by the sight of Tom’s badge. Braddock asked for the arresting officer and Roodman replied, “He’s off duty, in reserve. I’ll check if he’s in the building.” That was the first civil thing Roodman had said so far. There might be hope for him yet, Tom thought.

  “Thanks. Where are you holding Bucklin?”

  The sergeant handed Tom a key ring and said, “Basement holding cells. Third one on the left.”

  Mike was asleep when Tom found him. It was cool and damp in the basement. A threadbare blanket in a dirty shade of gray was pulled up to his chin. His feet stuck out the other end. Tom opened the cell door. The rusted iron hinges screeched and groaned as the door swung open. Mike jumped awake, sitting upright on the small cot.

  Tom looked at him closely. “Hey, Mike, how’re you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess. You scared me. I thought it was Harlan the cop, come to ask me questions again. I don’t like him much,” Mike said in a small voice.

  Tom gave him a careful look, squinting slightly in the gloom. “Got a nasty bump on the head there. Anybody take a look at that?” Tom sat on the cot. Looking at the boy close, he didn’t like what he saw.

  “I washed up a little,” Mike said, nodding at the pitcher and basin.

  “Come on. We’re going to get you cleaned up a bit. Can’t have your grandma and gramps see you like this, right?” Tom noticed how Mike winced when he got up. He didn’t say anything. When they got to the front desk, Tom asked where the bathroom was as he tossed the keys to Roodman. Braddock was washing the swollen cut on Mike’s head when Harlan Connolly came in.

  “This how they treat little thieves down at the Detective Bureau?” Connolly asked loudly. Tom turned at the sound of Connolly’s voice. He smiled broadly for the patrolman.

  “Patrolman Connolly, I presume.” Tom extended his hand. “I’m Detective Braddock. Thanks for the telegraph. I owe you for that.”

  Harlan took Tom’s hand. Tom couldn’t help but notice how Mike sort of sidled around behind him when the cop came in.

  “Yeah, sure. This kid said he knew you … so.” Harlan tried to pull his hand away but Tom held on, pumping it as if he’d met an old friend.

  “I want to thank you, Harlan, for the good treatment you’ve given the young Master Bucklin here.”

  Connolly was getting just a little red in the face. His knuckles were white in Tom’s grip. “Yeah … well, the kid did take a nasty spill but he bounced back. You know how the little street Arabs are: tough little buggers.”

  Tom’s grip tightened. “I’d take it as a personal favor if you were to release this boy to me, Harlan. I’d really appreciate it.”

  Connolly actually seemed to be pulling now to free his hand from the vise it was in.

  Tom just smiled his warmest, most sincere smile. Mike watched, fascinated.

  “Sure, sure, Braddock. You can have ’im. Just held him as a courtesy to you … you know … anyway … that is, once we heard you had an interest.”

  “Ah, that’s real nice of you, Harlan. Can’t thank you enough.”

  Connolly was a lovely shade of crimson now, his fingertips squirming like maggots in Tom’s fist.

  “Could you do me a favor, Harlan?” Tom asked as if he’d just thought of it. “Would you mind sort of keeping a special watch out for my little friend here? Keep an eye out for him, so to speak? The streets are rough on kids, and it would be grand to know he’s got someone keeping a lookout.”

  Connolly was almost hopping now, shifting from one foot to the other. Little beads of sweat were popping out on his forehead.

  “Was gonna suggest it meself, Detective. Be … happy to keep an eye on the tyke. No problem.”

  “Ah, that’s just grand, then. You have no idea what a comfort this’ll be to his grandma and me too for that matter. Thanks a lot.” Tom gave the hand a final crushing squeeze, grinding bone beneath his fingers.

  A small strangled yelp escaped from the cop. He tried to cover it with a cough. He gave a vengeful look at Mike, once Tom released his hand. No sooner had he done that than Tom laid a heavy hand on Connolly’s shoulder.

  “Now, I don’t want you to think that Bucklin here is getting off scot-free.” Tom clamped his hand on the muscle at the side of Connolly’s neck. He squeezed hard. “No, he’s going to pay, I can assure you. So don’t worry about him getting what he deserves. I’ll see to that.”

  Connolly twisted in Tom’s grip but couldn’t shake off the ha
nd without losing the remains of his dignity in front of the kid.

  “That’s good, Braddock. Don’t want the kids goin’ bad on us from bein’ too lenient,” Connolly said through gritted teeth.

  “No, sir, no, we don’t, Harlan. So remember,” Tom said. “I’d appreciate it if you kept a special watch. Make sure nothing happens to him. Sort of like a guardian angel. Can you do that for me?”

  Mikey couldn’t see the tips of Tom’s fingers they were buried so far in Connolly’s neck.

  “Sure, Tom, sure. You can count on me,” Harlan choked out.

  Braddock released the cop, all the while thanking him and patting him on the back.

  Tom and Mike were walking down Delancey a few minutes later. Mike’s hands were in his pockets, fingering the little pile of dimes and nickels that rested there along with the little key to his secret box. The coins seemed even more valuable now, and his fingers caressed them one by one. He and Tom walked in silence for quite a way. Mike limped a little. The bruises on the backs of his legs had lost their sting, but a heavy ache had taken up residence where the sting had been. Tom saw out of the corner of his eye that the boy was having trouble keeping up. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to him. He just walked beside him, figuring it would come on its own.

  Mike’s head was so full of stuff he thought it’d bust. He was mostly relieved at being free and out of that cold, buggy cell. He worried though at what Braddock might do to him and what his grandma surely would. He was going to be punished that was certain. But he was overjoyed at having his money back, and it was so fantastic to see Harlan the cop, the ogre of the neighborhood, get run over by Braddock that he could hardly contain his glee. All of that tumbled and swam in his head like a stream tripping over boulders in its path. He couldn’t think what to say first to a man like Braddock. The stream of his thoughts kept bouncing off boulders. So he walked beside Tom, all running and tripping inside, but still as a millpond on the surface.