tugging at his foot and then heard a loud thud. He peeked with one eye to see his son sprawled out on the floor, an unpolished brown oxford-tie shoe clutched triumphantly in the boy’s stubby fingers.
It was midafternoon when Lean hopped down from the carriage. A crowd had assembled outside the police station, on the Myrtle Street side of the City Hall building. As he weaved and pushed his way through to the steps, he saw two reporters smoking by the doors.
“Hey, Archie,” called out Dizzy Bragdon, a short, wiry man with glasses that didn’t hide a lazy eye, “how about some details on the murder? Is it true he slashed her throat?”
“No, it was—” Lean had to stop himself short, wary of revealing any details that might panic or inflame the public. “I got nothing for you right now.”
“So it was an Indian, right? He tomahawk her?” said the second reporter.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“We all saw the writing down there with Marshal Swett this morning. Fellow from the
Advertiser
recognized it as Indian.”
“Is it true she was scalped?” Dizzy asked.
“What? No—that’s ridiculous. Don’t print that.”
“Hey, come on, Arch, give us something. One of Farrell’s girls, right? Killer take care of business before he done her?”
Lean walked on. Inside was a bit quieter, though there was still a buzz of conversation. He noticed an unusual number of uniformed patrolmen and double the regular number of complainants and unsavory types being questioned or escorted in or out of the building. Lean stopped at the front desk. “Anything promising?”
“They’re coming out of the woodwork. Swearing up and down about every crazy rumor out there,” said Officer Bushey, a stocky veteran whose mustache covered most of his lower face. “Mayor’s been asking for you.”
Lean made his way upstairs to Ingraham’s office. Behind his polished mahogany desk, the mayor glanced up from his morning paper.
“You’re a right mess.” He motioned toward Lean’s face and tossed him a handkerchief.
Lean had been rattled awake forty-five minutes earlier and was still wearing the same, now crumpled, four-button brown-check cutaway suit from last night. As he’d fumbled about for his shoes and hat, his wife had managed to stuff a handkerchief with a hard-boiled egg and a handful of warmed-over rashers into his coat pocket. Lean had devoured the offering in just a few bites on the ride to Myrtle Street.
“This whole messis about to spill over. Tell me you’ve got something.” The mayor’s eyebrows shot up, and his bulbous head wobbled in anticipation. Lean sat down and rattled off every bit of evidence that he and Grey had uncovered.
“That bit about a first murder seems something of a leap.”
Lean nodded. “Grey’s a sharp man. Very sharp. But I’m not convinced about that either.”
“Sounds a bit of a distraction to me. An attempt to divert our attention. I knew involving that bloody half-breed was a mistake. The killer’s an Indian, and that doesn’t suit him very well, now, does it?”
“I think he may know something more than he’s letting on,” Lean said.
“He’s protecting his own. To be expected, of course.”
“They’re going to need more protection than that. Once the afternoon extras hit the stands and word gets out that an Indian killed a white woman, even if she was a whore, the streets won’t be safe for any of them.”
The mayor grimaced. “The last thing we need is angry mobs roaming the streets. We need to find this lunatic quickly. He’s Indian—what else do we know?”
“He’s dark-haired. Short—five foot two, give or take, yet unusually strong. He’s familiar with the area near the Portland Company. Probably had a room nearby for the past week at least, based on his knowledge of the night watchman’s schedule.”
Mayor Ingraham pulled open a desk drawer and withdrew a tumbler and a bottle of whiskey. Lean watched him pour a hefty dram and drain
It was midafternoon when Lean hopped down from the carriage. A crowd had assembled outside the police station, on the Myrtle Street side of the City Hall building. As he weaved and pushed his way through to the steps, he saw two reporters smoking by the doors.
“Hey, Archie,” called out Dizzy Bragdon, a short, wiry man with glasses that didn’t hide a lazy eye, “how about some details on the murder? Is it true he slashed her throat?”
“No, it was—” Lean had to stop himself short, wary of revealing any details that might panic or inflame the public. “I got nothing for you right now.”
“So it was an Indian, right? He tomahawk her?” said the second reporter.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“We all saw the writing down there with Marshal Swett this morning. Fellow from the
Advertiser
recognized it as Indian.”
“Is it true she was scalped?” Dizzy asked.
“What? No—that’s ridiculous. Don’t print that.”
“Hey, come on, Arch, give us something. One of Farrell’s girls, right? Killer take care of business before he done her?”
Lean walked on. Inside was a bit quieter, though there was still a buzz of conversation. He noticed an unusual number of uniformed patrolmen and double the regular number of complainants and unsavory types being questioned or escorted in or out of the building. Lean stopped at the front desk. “Anything promising?”
“They’re coming out of the woodwork. Swearing up and down about every crazy rumor out there,” said Officer Bushey, a stocky veteran whose mustache covered most of his lower face. “Mayor’s been asking for you.”
Lean made his way upstairs to Ingraham’s office. Behind his polished mahogany desk, the mayor glanced up from his morning paper.
“You’re a right mess.” He motioned toward Lean’s face and tossed him a handkerchief.
Lean had been rattled awake forty-five minutes earlier and was still wearing the same, now crumpled, four-button brown-check cutaway suit from last night. As he’d fumbled about for his shoes and hat, his wife had managed to stuff a handkerchief with a hard-boiled egg and a handful of warmed-over rashers into his coat pocket. Lean had devoured the offering in just a few bites on the ride to Myrtle Street.
“This whole messis about to spill over. Tell me you’ve got something.” The mayor’s eyebrows shot up, and his bulbous head wobbled in anticipation. Lean sat down and rattled off every bit of evidence that he and Grey had uncovered.
“That bit about a first murder seems something of a leap.”
Lean nodded. “Grey’s a sharp man. Very sharp. But I’m not convinced about that either.”
“Sounds a bit of a distraction to me. An attempt to divert our attention. I knew involving that bloody half-breed was a mistake. The killer’s an Indian, and that doesn’t suit him very well, now, does it?”
“I think he may know something more than he’s letting on,” Lean said.
“He’s protecting his own. To be expected, of course.”
“They’re going to need more protection than that. Once the afternoon extras hit the stands and word gets out that an Indian killed a white woman, even if she was a whore, the streets won’t be safe for any of them.”
The mayor grimaced. “The last thing we need is angry mobs roaming the streets. We need to find this lunatic quickly. He’s Indian—what else do we know?”
“He’s dark-haired. Short—five foot two, give or take, yet unusually strong. He’s familiar with the area near the Portland Company. Probably had a room nearby for the past week at least, based on his knowledge of the night watchman’s schedule.”
Mayor Ingraham pulled open a desk drawer and withdrew a tumbler and a bottle of whiskey. Lean watched him pour a hefty dram and drain
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