Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery (6 page)

“Give them time to recover from their
morning after
headaches. I can’t understand why the city fathers decided to declare three days of festivities. Well, I know what motivated them. The saloons were working over time, and lots of money was made, but they don’t have to deal with the aftermath.”

Jackson then opened a file and began to read from it in a clear, precise tone. “This is what happened, as far as we can determine. On Friday, July 2, a pressman and his apprentice who worked for Rashers and Company came back from their dinner break just before seven-thirty. The night porter confirms the time of arrival. The day shift had all left at five-thirty, and the company foreman, a Franklin Griggs, accompanied them when they left for dinner at six-thirty. This left the owner of the company, Joshua Rashers, alone in the shop. When the pressman returned and went to knock on Joshua Rashers’ office door, another employee, Florence Sullivan, came out of the office. She was liberally covered with blood, and she said that Joshua Rashers was dead.”

“Did Mrs. Sullivan explain why she was there, after hours?”

“She told the responding officer that Rashers asked her to come back to work to set the type for an order. And we later found the long-hand copy of an invitation to a party that Mr. and Mrs. Rashers were holding and the printed galley proof of that invitation on the office floor, both covered with blood.”

Nate nodded. He’d taken out a notebook and was writing down the details as fast as he could.

Jackson continued. “When the pressman went into the office, he found Rashers lying on the floor, not breathing. He sent the apprentice to get a police officer, who came within ten minutes. The officer then sent word to headquarters.”

“And has there been a coroner’s ruling yet?” Nate asked.

“The city physician did an autopsy Saturday morning and made the ruling that Rashers died as the result of multiple stab wounds and that the wounds were not self-inflicted. He confirmed that the wounds were consistent with a sharp pointed implement called a bodkin that was found lying next to the body of the deceased.”

“Did Mrs. Sullivan say if she saw anyone else in the shop when she arrived?”

“No, she didn’t. Our problem is that when the first detective came on the scene and pointed out the bodkin on the floor, asking if she recognized it, she just went mute. Hasn’t said a word since.” Jackson sighed.

“Then why did you arrest her? Seems like the evidence is pretty circumstantial. I mean, she is an employee of the firm, and she had a legitimate reason to be there. What’s to say she didn’t come in after the person who had stabbed Rashers had come and gone?”

“Well, between you and me, I would have let her go home and brought her in today after we had time to gather more evidence. But Mrs. Rashers, the victim’s wife, evidently knows District Attorney Dart socially, and he felt he had to accompany her when she came in Saturday morning to identify the body. She convinced him that Mrs. Sullivan was the murderer.”

Nate stopped taking notes and looked up in surprise. “She accused Mrs. Sullivan by name?”

“Yes. Mrs. Rashers said that Mrs. Sullivan had a deadly obsession with her husband and that she had been begging her husband for years to fire her. According to the widow, Rashers finally agreed and was going to use the invitation for the party to bring up the subject with Mrs. Sullivan that Friday night. Tell her that he was going away for an extended trip with his family, and she must find other employment before he returned.”

“What proof did Mrs. Rashers offer for her accusations?”

“Mrs. Rashers asked if we had found a printed copy of an invitation to the bon voyage party, which, as I mentioned, we found on the floor of the office, under Rashers’ body. She said her husband had promised to bring this proof home for her to inspect and that its existence proved that Mrs. Sullivan knew about his plans to go away.  She said that Mrs. Sullivan must have been so upset that she killed him. Mrs. Rashers also said she feared Florence Sullivan wouldn’t be satisfied until she and her children were dead as well.”

“So District Attorney Dart asked you to arrest her?” Nate couldn’t help but think of the Laura Fair case and what he and Annie had speculated about at lunch, and his heart sank.

“You see, we now had a motive and no other suspects.” Jackson gave a wry smile. “And our one suspect isn’t cooperating. If there is something Mrs. Sullivan can tell us that would give us an alternative version of what happened, it sure would help.”

Nate knew that Jackson was a fair man with no desire to railroad the wrong person. District Attorney Dart, however, held an elected office. This meant politics and the pressure that a well-to-do woman like Mrs. Rashers could exert would naturally weigh heavily with him. He needed to talk to Florence Sullivan and get her side of the story, fast. He started to rise, thrusting out his hand to shake Jackson’s, and said, “Thanks, I will see what I can do. I gather that the grand jury will be impanelled tomorrow?”

Jackson gave his hand a firm shake. He then reached down and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper and handed them to Nate, saying, “I had Sergeant Thompson copy out the particulars of what we discovered so far, plus the names and home addresses of the people employed at Rashers, including the two witnesses, and a copy of the coroner’s report.”

“Thanks so much; this will be a great help. I take it that you won’t mind if I interview the people on this list?”

“Not if you agree to let Sergeant Thompson know if you discover something that I should hear about,” Jackson answered, breaking into a sly grin. 

Nate nodded. He wasn’t a fool, and if he wanted a career in criminal law, keeping on the good side of this man was just common sense—and in the best interests of his client.

*****

S
ince the police department and the city jail were both in the basement of the Old City Hall (to distinguish it from the new city hall that had been under construction for over ten years), Nate didn’t have far to go in his quest to see Mrs. Sullivan. In an earlier incarnation, this section of the building holding the courtrooms had been the Jenny Lind Theater, and the high vaulted ceilings, gilded frescos, and murals with classical themes on the walls of the upper floors reflected this former theater’s grandeur. The eastern wing was newer and more utilitarian and held the offices of the county sheriff’s department and court-related clerks.

A later addition on the western side was remodeled from the famous El Dorado Saloon and now housed the Hall of Records. This was where Nate spent much of the last six years, filing routine documents connected with the wills, deeds of property, and commercial activity that dominated his legal practice before he started working with his uncle’s new law partner on criminal cases.

Turning right as he left Jackson’s office, he went down a short corridor to a locked door, where a guard stood next to a small reception area where Nate wrote his name and Mrs. Sullivan’s in the entrance book. He showed that he wasn’t armed and asked if he could first speak with Mrs. Sarah Gross, the widow who was the matron for women prisoners. Once he was ushered through to the jail and started to walk down the long corridor, he couldn’t help but notice the cacophony of groans, drunken singing, and profanity that echoed from the cells on either side of him.

He’d been in this part of the jail before but never when it was so noisy or malodorous. Today, each cell was crammed with over a dozen men. Only a few lucky ones who had claimed the benches along the walls could even sit, much less lie down, and the rest were slumped on the floor or leaning against the cell bars in one stage of inebriation or the other. There were no windows, only a single communal chamber pot and evidence that a number of the occupants had been sick, adding to the already rank smell that came from too many un-washed men in close confines.

Mrs. Sullivan would be held in one of the smaller cells reserved for female prisoners, but they would also be more crowded than usual with women who had imbibed too much. Damn Dart for succumbing to pressure from the victim’s wife
.
Surely they could have sent Mrs. Sullivan home until the police courts were able to process most of those who were here for the minor crime of being drunk and disorderly.

At the end of the corridor, the guard let him into another hallway that held the women, and Nate noticed a distinct improvement in the smell of the place, and the level of sound dropped. No doubt because these cells had sturdy doors with just a grilled window to let the guards look in on their charges––a sop to female privacy. The guard pointed him towards a small office where he found the jail’s matron, Mrs. Gross.

Her plain black dress, with a starched white collar and cuffs, white apron, and a chain with multiple keys hooked to the belt at her waist, reminded him forcibly of the uniform of a housekeeper in a mansion on Nob Hill. However, her height, wide shoulders, faded tan, and large hands suggested that Mrs. Gross had spent her earlier years as a farmer’s wife. Whatever her origins, she looked as if she wouldn’t take nonsense from any man or woman. Nate took off his hat and bowed respectfully, introducing himself and handing her his card.

He said, “Mrs. Gross, I am here to visit Mrs. Florence Sullivan. I have a letter of introduction to her from a friend of hers. Could you please convey this to her and let her know I will wait?”

Mrs. Gross looked down at the card, back up at Nate, and then she said, “I will be glad to do so. I hope you have come to offer her your legal services. She has steadfastly refused to see anyone.”

“Have many people tried to see her?” Nate feared that the reporters from the local newspapers had started to take an interest.

“Not after the first morning when she turned away a lady lawyer who came. Except her husband. He showed up on Saturday, but she refused to see him as well. He’s been back multiple times. I’ve seen this kind of behavior before. Some women, particularly those of education and refinement, are simply too embarrassed to see anyone. It doesn’t matter whether or not they have committed the crime they have been accused of...the shame of the accusation is enough.”

“Yes, I can see that. Well, I hope that this letter will convince her to see me.”

The matron nodded and walked briskly down the hallway, ignoring the cries that her presence elicited from women who had been peering out the grilled openings in the cell doors.

Nate reviewed what he wished to accomplish from his interview with Mrs. Sullivan. First of all, he needed her to sign the standard contract for representation. Then, he wanted her version of what happened Friday night. This was the only way he could properly advise her of the next steps he should take. Best of all would be some ideas on her part of who might have killed Rashers––if, as he hoped, she wasn’t guilty of the crime herself.

As he waited, he speculated on why she wouldn’t see her husband.
I would be frantic if I discovered Annie was here and she wouldn’t see me.
Nate made a note that he needed to interview Mr. Sullivan as soon as possible.

Seeing the matron coming back down the hallway, beckoning to him, he met her halfway.

“Whatever was in the letter worked; Mrs. Sullivan has agreed to see you. I was forced to put two other women in with her over the weekend––the jail was just too full––but this morning most of the women were arraigned and let out on bail. So she is the only one in her cell now, and you will have some privacy. Just knock on the door when you wish to leave. The guard at the end of the hall will let you out.”

She unlocked the door to let him into a small room that was about six feet wide and ten feet deep. Across from the door, a tiny barred window looked out on Dunbar, a noisy and noisome alley that gave direct access to the jail from the back of the building. The window was up near the unexpectedly high ceiling, and Nate wondered if this room had once been a storeroom for the theater, imaging stage sets being stacked here side by side. The only light came from this window and the gas light that shown in from the hallway through grill in the door.

Under the window stood an open washstand, with pitcher and basin on the top and a chamber pot on the bottom shelf. There were two narrow iron bed frames with mattresses to either side of him. The one to his left had another mattress on the floor under it. On the bed to his right sat a woman who had her back turned towards him, her head bowed. Given the size of the room, she was only an arm’s length away.

He waited for a moment, giving her a chance to acknowledge his presence, noting that her black hair was pulled back in a plain bun. The dress she was wearing was a dull plum color, and from the back it didn’t appear to have the different ribbons and puffs of material that he associated with most women’s dresses.

When she didn’t turn around, he said quietly, “Mrs. Sullivan, I want to thank you for seeing me. Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Pitts Stevens are quite concerned, and they wanted to make sure you have adequate representation. My bona fides are that my law degree is from Harvard University, I have been admitted to the California state bar, and I have been a junior partner in my uncle’s law firm for over six years. I have recently been second counsel in a number of criminal defense cases under the lead of Able Cranston, and I...”

“Mr. Dawson, please stop.” Mrs. Sullivan swiveled to face him, her head tilted up so she could see his face. “If Mrs. Stevens and Mrs. Gordon are recommending you, I have no reason to question your qualifications. There just isn’t anything you can do for me.”

Florence Sullivan was in her mid-twenties, and her eyes were large, a clear light blue that verged on grey, and well spaced under dark fierce brows. A long face, straight nose, pursed lips and a small determined chin, completed the impression of a woman of pleasant but unremarkable looks. However, something about her eyes, the tiny frown between her brows, and the slight downturn of her lips added up to a countenance of extraordinary sadness. He suddenly thought that Annie would be drawn to this woman, and she would want him to do all he could to help her.

Nate said, “Mrs. Sullivan, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but may I sit down to make it easier for us to converse?”