Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1) Page 3

  “What a match!” he said. “When you lost that first fall I was afraid you couldn’t come back. It was amazing.”

  “Thanks,” Muldoon said as he walked to the bar where he’d left his gear. Over aching muscles, he drew on his jacket, hooked the belt about his waist, and stowed his equipment.

  The bartender handed him ten dollars, his share of the bout’s take, and set aside two dollars for the loser. Army made his way to Muldoon’s side and offered his hand.

  “Fine job,” he said in a Deep South patois. “They said you were good, but I didn’t know how so. You are good. You need something, you come here. You ask for George Army.”

  They shook hands. Muldoon turned to leave, but a thought came to him. “Army,” he said. “Have you seen a man… ” He paused. “A man with crimson eyes?”

  The man didn’t respond at first, then shook his head. “No. No sir, I never seen anyone like that.”

  “Okay,” he said, then turned to Kelly. “Come on. We need to get out of here.” He placed the flat policeman’s hat on his head and hooked elbows with the younger man. McAllister leaned heavily against him. He looked back at Army as the wrestler pushed his way through the crowd, heading for the back room. Had he seen something in the man’s eyes? A hint of recognition when he’d mentioned the crimson-eyed man? Maybe even fear?

  He turned his mind from the African champ. “I’ve got to tell you something Kelly,” he said. “You’ve got a great big problem, and it’s not gonna go away too easily.”

  Muldoon glanced about warily, looking for policemen in the crowd, but there were none he could see. He continued quietly, “Well, you know now, this is the way it is. Karl Schneider found himself a one-way trip to the coal cellar. And he isn’t ever coming out again, if you know what I mean.”

  “He’s dead?” McAllister asked. “Who could have killed a big mug like him?”

  “Here’s the thing, now,” Muldoon answered. “They think you did.”

  “Me?”

  “I’m sorry, Kelly. But I’m gonna have to take you in.”

  “Take me in? Take me in?” he repeated as if dumbfounded. Suddenly he began struggling, trying hard to pull away from Muldoon.

  “No, I’m not going to let you run. If you do, there’s others that’ll come after you. And they’re not on your side. They won’t treat you so well… you might even end up dead.”

  “They’ll never find me, William! I’ll hide out. Nobody knows the Points better than me.”

  “They’ll find you. There’s plenty of folks who’d turn in their own brother for a coin, let alone you.”

  “But they’ll hang me, that’s certain. I don’t wanna swing!” Kelly turned to face Muldoon, pleading with him. “I’ve got to get away.”

  “I’m not going to let you hang. I’ll find out who really killed Schneider. But you have to come with me now. It’s the only way you’ll be safe. With those ribs, a bit of rough handling could do you in.”

  Kelly loosened his grip on Muldoon’s arm. “Okay,” he said, deflated. “I’ll come with you. But you’ve got to take care of Ma for me. She’s gonna be worried.”

  “I know.” Muldoon half-carried the younger man until he was able to catch a cab. They climbed into the buggy and settled heavily into the seat. The cabbie flicked his whip and the horse trotted slowly toward police headquarters. Even its leisurely pace seemed too quick for his friend. He helped Kelly from the buggy, and paid the cabbie. The young man stood beside him—head hung down and shoulders drooped. Then he held out his wrists, and Muldoon lightly secured them with his come-along, the leather-covered wire held Kelly’s hands together. Grasping the ends, he led his prisoner into the building.

  “Well done, Muldoon!” Captain Hayle said. He was just leaving for the day, and had paused at the door. The entrance hall behind him filled with policemen.

  “McAllister’s not so big,” one patrolman said as he stood on the steps to see over the crowd.

  “That’s just an illusion,” said another. “If he weren’t standing next to Muldoon, he’d look his true size.”

  Quiet voices expressed their disbelief. Many of the cops didn’t think Kelly McAllister could be the murderer, and they argued with those who did. Captain Hayle seemed to ignore their remarks.

  “It looks like he gave you a struggle,” Hayle said motioning toward Muldoon’s filthy pants.

  “Aye, sir. But I saved the jacket.”

  Twitters from the crowd brought a slight pink to the Captain’s face. “Take your prisoner in and book him. He’ll be spending his nights in the Tombs.”

  Blood seemed to drain from Kelly’s already pale face. “Why do they call it the Tombs?” he whispered to Muldoon as he began shivering.

  Muldoon nodded at the Captain and walked past. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low murmur. “It’s not because it’s filled with dead folk. The prison’s just called the Tombs because it was built after a picture of an Egyptian mausoleum somebody saw in a book once.”

  Knowing that fact probably wouldn’t make Kelly feel any better. He’d been accused of a murder he hadn’t committed. Muldoon knew that now… with certainty. He couldn’t possibly have killed Schneider in his current condition. And with the weight of police headquarters against him, it would be an uphill climb getting him out again.

  CHAPTER 5

  He

  paused in the doorway. It always took Muldoon a moment before he entered the catacombs of death. The city morgue had a smell about it he couldn’t really define. Just the smell of death, he supposed, mixed with the chemical scent of formaldehyde. The floors were swept clean down here, like the dead really cared about cleanliness. A derisive snort escaped his lips. The morgue was the cleanest spot in the city, he thought. But he still couldn’t get used to the smell.

  He shoved through the door. It had taken him all day to get here, when he’d planned on coming first thing.

  “Hello, Danny,” he greeted the desk clerk. “You’re working late.”

  Young Danny O’Leary straightened abruptly, hiding a dime novel under the counter, a bright scene of cowboys on horses splashed across the cover. “Hello, Sergeant Muldoon. It’s been a busy day. You here about the big guy? Real big one came in during the night. Doc’s got him out right now.”

  The clerk almost skipped alongside Muldoon as he strode past the desk and into the inner recesses of the cellar morgue. He nearly smiled at the eleven-year-old’s energy, the corner of his mouth turned up slightly, lifting the right side of his bushy red mustache. The boy gazed eagerly at Muldoon, hanging onto his every word and action.

  “Yeah, it’s my case,” he lied.

  “They didn’t assign this one to a detective?” Danny asked. “They kept you on it? How come? I’d have thought Detective Benson or Graham would’ve come this morning.”

  “You know, Danny-boy, I’d have thought so, too, but sometimes a sergeant can figure things out that the best detectives in the ward can’t see for nothing. And I suppose it’s got something to do with his being a wrestler. Maybe the Captain figures I have more connections. You think I do, Danny?”

  The youth laughed aloud, a high little boy’s giggle. “Aye, that I do,” he said. “I’d say you know all the right folks. You being the champ and all.”

  The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious. Muldoon reached around the boy’s shoulders squeezing playfully, tousling his hair with his other hand. He slid his arm down around Danny’s neck, holding him in a light headlock. Danny giggled again and pushed free.

  “You coming in?” Muldoon asked as they stepped into the far room.

  Danny jerked away, backing nervously through the door. “Uh, no, I… I got some work to do in the front. Wash the floor… or something.” The boy’s big eyes opened wider, spooked, as he whispered, just loud enough for Muldoon to hear, “This one’s different, nothing natural could have killed him.”

  The boy scrambled quickly from the room, imaginary shadows of ghouls and beasties chasing him out, mixing in with the
gray corners of the dimly lit hall. He couldn’t blame Danny. He wouldn’t be in here if he didn’t have to be, either. He pitied the boy when his duties brought him into this back room full of dead flesh. An image flickered into his mind, of severed arms and legs piled high, of battlefield doctors sawing, while other soldiers held screaming men down. With an effort, he pushed the thought aside, and turned about, ready to see what tales Schneider’s body had to tell.

  Muldoon stifled a shiver, whether from the chill of the room or the sight of yet another dead body, he wasn’t sure. Death is a hard taskmaster, one he’d never truly got used to. It wasn’t like death was new to him. He’d fought in the war, where dying was arbitrary… the man next to you, the one behind… yet the reaper left you standing. Now, as a policeman in New York, he saw the violent results of gang clashes and crime on a daily basis. He nodded in greeting and stepped toward the tall, dark-haired man leaning over the body on its slab. An oil lamp sputtered above him, casting dark shadows about the room.

  “Hello, Doc,” Muldoon said.

  Bob Gamble, the coroner, glanced up from the rigid body, smiling with welcome. “Hello, Muldoon, I thought it would be you.”

  “So?” asked Muldoon, his light brogue stark next to the doctor’s cultured English. “Have you learned anything I didn’t already know?”

  “Besides the lack of hair?” The doctor smiled broadly and leaned back on his heels. “The man was strangled.”

  The doctor pointed, tracing a dark bruise against the pallid flesh. “Look here,” he continued. “You can see where the perpetrator held him. I’d say he was attacked from behind. This is the mark of an arm, not hands around his throat. You can see the way his elbow hooked around the neck, pulling back, pressing into the flesh. And here on the left arm, you can see where fingers dug into his forearm, pinning the arm down. Now, this had to be one strong fellow. He couldn’t have easily killed a man the size of Karl Schneider.”

  “Just one man… ” said Muldoon. How the hell could one man, alone, strangle a good wrestler? It would be a tough enough job for Muldoon, and he was the best wrestler in town. “Right handed?”

  “It’s probable. Right arm around the neck, the weaker, left hand leaving the finger marks.”

  Muldoon studied the cadaver, noting its complete lack of hair. He passed his hand over the scalp, where the stubble was just beginning to show. Even after death, Gamble had told him, hair and fingernails seemed to grow. Schneider hadn’t shaved himself, he felt certain, but every last strand had been sheared clean. Why? He couldn’t even begin to guess. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but Gamble simply shrugged.

  “So, how did he do it?” asked Muldoon. “Came up behind him real quick, grabbed him in a headlock, and… is his neck broken?”

  “No. That’s the first thing I checked. There’s no break.”

  “What is it, then? He had to have passed out quickly, before he had a chance to react. Is his windpipe crushed?”

  “I think so, yes. That’s what I’m about to check now.” The doctor slipped his knife easily through the skin of the throat, baring the broken trachea. Science, Gamble had told him the first time Muldoon had come down here. Science can reveal the darkest secrets, simply by opening the dead. “He’s got a thick neck. It took a tremendously strong arm to do this.”

  Muldoon nodded. “Alcohol?” he asked suddenly.

  “Not much,” answered the doctor. “There wasn’t a smell of it, and none in his stomach. Just the remains of his dinner—pork, peas, carrots. I’d say a meat pie.”

  One arm across his waist, Muldoon rested his right elbow on the other fist, raising his hand to his face. He stroked his mustache with his index and thumb. “So, it was fast,” he said at last. “From behind. And he didn’t fight. He might have known his killer… but he was moved, so we can’t tell. I don’t think he died where we found him. He was brought there.”

  The coroner nodded in agreement. “That’s about the gist of it. Oh, there’s a little stab wound. There, in his rib.” He pointed, and Muldoon picked up the dead man’s left arm. A tight purple mark marred the flesh.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” Muldoon said, but he knew it was the length of the blade, not the width that counted. “How deep?”

  “Not very.”

  “Hmmm.” The small instrument’s use hadn’t played a significant part in the man’s demise, except perhaps, to prompt him toward it. It also meant that more than one man might have been present. One wielding the knife, the other strangling the victim.

  As he dropped the arm, he noticed a ragged purple line at the wrist. He turned over the hand, studying a scrape on the inside of the wrist. Not a scrape, really, it seemed more like carefully removed skin. He looked questioningly at the coroner.

  “That happened after he was dead,” said the doctor. “I don’t know why, I can’t tell from what’s left.”

  “Looks like he was skinned. I wonder what was there. Maybe a tattoo or a scar. Something the killer doesn’t want anyone else to see.”

  “What do you think of the bruising?”

  “Nothing,” Muldoon replied. “The old stuff’s from wrestling. The purple star? It’s a bruise. Maybe meant to confuse us… maybe cause fear. Or send a message.”

  Muldoon grunted his thanks and passed back through the corridor and outer room. As he expected, Danny straightened quickly and dropped his book below the counter. He nodded to the youth. “See you, Danny-boy. Don’t strain your eyes with all that heavy working, now.” He knew the book would quickly reappear, its flashy red cover vivid in the drab gray room. He thought of the crimson-eyed man. Was it he who sent a message?

  ✶ ✶ ✶

  Depression

  dogged him as Muldoon headed home. His head pounded from the strain of taking his foster brother into custody, and he ached for a drink. The soldiers in his head crowded in on him, pacing him, staring at him… accusing him. As he passed a dark alley, a hand reached out and grabbed his forearm. He spun about and raised his hands defensively, but dropped them again as he recognized Detective Graham.

  “McAllister was my catch.” The Detective curled his lip into a snarl. “I sent my men to arrest him.”

  “Apparently, they weren’t able to find him,” Muldoon said. “He spent the afternoon sitting in a saloon, sipping cool drinks. Shouldn’t have been too hard to spot him.”

  “You know they were supposed to pick him up. You beat them to him.”

  “And you think I’m supposed to do your work for you? Sending your man after me? I lost him in Mulberry Bend. It wasn’t too hard. He couldn’t even follow me through one alley and a ramshackle tenement. And now McAllister’s safe in the Tombs where you can’t touch him.”

  “Who says I want to harm him?” Graham narrowed his eyes. “He murdered a man, and now he has to pay. It’s not me that wants him dead… it’s the law.”

  “Says you! I say he did no such thing. And I’m going to prove it. The last thing that’s gonna happen is the hanging of Kelly McAllister.”

  “That’s right, Muldoon. He’ll be swinging. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “How will you do that? You have no proof. Just speculation.”

  “Whoa!” Graham said. “Big words there. Especially for a mug from the Points.”

  “I live in the Bowery,” corrected Muldoon. “And I didn’t come out of the city. I’m from Belfast… New York, not Ireland.”

  “Isn’t that a Mick town?”

  “Sure, it is.”

  “Irishmen,” Graham spat on the sidewalk. “You Micks, where were you when the country needed help? Whining and crying like little children, complaining you didn’t have a few hundred dollars to buy off the draft. You should have been proud to go to war. No, you got off the boat, claiming America as your new country. What do you Irish want? A new Ireland? Well, you can’t have it. This is America.”

  “I fought in that war,” Muldoon said, low and dangerous. “I’m proud of that. A lot of other Irishmen did, too, and died.
What about you? Did you fight?”

  He already knew the answer. Graham hadn’t volunteered, and he hadn’t been drafted. He wasn’t Irish, so his number hadn’t been called. Only Irishmen were called up when the draft started. What a foolish thing, he thought, to implement the new draft in New York City, something never done before in this country. And then not just anywhere, but smack in the middle of the Irish slums. Maybe if they’d included everyone in the draft equally, it would have been all right, but they hadn’t. It was only for the Irish. The gangs fought each other most of the time, but just this once, they fought together… against those who tried to take away the one thing they had—their freedom.

  Muldoon snorted. “Don’t talk about war when you didn’t have the guts to go.”

  Graham stood still and glared at him. “And one more thing,” the detective said after a long pause. “Clean up your pants. You look like you’ve been wrestling in the street. I don’t want to see you like this again.”

  Muldoon laughed aloud as Detective Graham stalked away.

  He walked slowly toward his rooms on Elizabeth Street and thought about the war. They called it the “Civil War” now. He had volunteered for the 6th New York Infantry. Nobody had to ask him, he’d just gone.

  Graham didn’t know what he was talking about when he spoke about the Irish with such contempt. They’d stood up under pressure, and proved good enough for their adopted country. Of course, he was second generation Irish. It was as much his country as Graham’s, or any Nativist English. He sighed as he trudged the long route from the morgue. He was past ready to end the day.

  As he turned up the steps to his rooming house in Elizabeth Street, Muldoon clenched his jaw. Damn Detective Graham, he thought. He doesn’t have the least idea what real death is like… what real sacrifice is. He rubbed his forehead, just above the eyes. This was going to be one hell of a headache. He was bone tired. Hadn’t slept well. The dreams plagued him. He wanted a drink so badly, he could taste it.