Secret of the White Rose (31 page)

But he hadn’t served as a lead prosecutor himself. In fact, it looked as though he hadn’t even sought the role—and I wondered why. It wasn’t typical of Alistair to embrace a supporting part.

Then again, looking at a newspaper sketch artist’s illustration that depicted Alistair’s younger self at twenty-five, I realized how odd it was to observe Alistair through the lens of so many years. If I didn’t truly know the present-day Alistair, then how could I pretend to know his much younger self?

Out of nowhere, Jeremy’s voice startled me. “Here you are, Detective. It’s the opinion of the appeals court on the matter.”

I’d not expected him back so quickly—and yet, a quick check of my pocket watch showed me that he had been gone nearly an hour. It was a reminder of how easily one could lose track of time down here.

Jeremy practically beamed with pride when he handed me a file in a tattered brown file folder.
“Appeal in the Matter of People versus Sanders.”

“Thank you. But what about the original trial?” I asked. That was the trial Alistair and the others would have worked on—and thus what interested me most.

“It’s the oddest thing, sir. The transcript is entirely missing. Several people have looked for it over the years, according to the records keeper’s log sheet. But it’s been missing since the mid-1880s. I’m afraid the appellate court opinion will have to do, sir.”

So Alistair hadn’t lied, exactly—but I couldn’t help wondering whether he’d had anything to do with the trial transcript’s disappearance. I wouldn’t put it past him.

I glanced at the multiple stacks of boxes around us. “I’ll want to see the case notes surrounding it. Does the appeal tell us when the case was originally tried?”

“November 1878, sir. I’ll locate the box while you review the case.”

I muttered my thanks and read.

The People of the State of New York, Respondent,

V

Leroy A. Sanders

Court of Appeals of New York

Argued June 17, 1879

Decided October 15, 1879

Opinion of the Court

Laskey, J.

In various forms the indictment herein charges the defendant with the crime of murder in the first degree. The substance of the charge is that defendant killed one Sally Adams, age ten, by strangulation and other violence done upon her body. The legal question, which it is our duty to consider upon this appeal, cannot be intelligently discussed without a clear understanding of all the complicated facts and circumstances upon which the prosecution seeks to sustain the judgment of conviction against the defendant.

I skipped through several more paragraphs of legal language until I finally reached a concise summary of the case. The facts were that Leroy Sanders, a carpenter, had done work on the Adams family home in Fordham. Shortly after his project for the family was completed, their youngest child, Sally, had disappeared. After a week, her battered, violated body had been discovered in an outhouse a half mile away. Suspicion had fallen upon Leroy Sanders almost immediately, but it was the testimony of his own partner that had convicted him. Harry Blotsky had testified that Leroy gave undue attention to the girl, and that he had seen him take the girl and walk with her some distance from the house. The appeal challenged the trial judge’s decision that had admitted Blotsky’s evidence at the last minute; the appeal was denied and the conviction sustained.

“These two boxes should do it, sir,” Jeremy said, struggling under their weight. “Would you like me to help you look for anything in particular?”

“Thanks,” I said, motioning for him to put them on the floor. I eased myself into a sitting position between the two stacks of bookcases. “I’ll start with this box, and you with the other. Please look for anything that strikes you as unusual.”

“In what way?” A puzzled look crossed his face. “I’m not sure I’d recognize anything unusual about a criminal case.”

“Just use your common sense,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. “The legal background is less important than what the attorneys working on the case discussed.”

For the next hour at least, we read and reviewed dozens of notes about the case—many of them written in Alistair’s precise hand, now so familiar to me. As before, he had orchestrated the legal strategy that Hugo and Angus had presented in court as co-counsel. Alistair and Allan Hartt had served as research counsel—a role they evidently preferred. Both had an instinctive eye for what evidence was most compelling. But I saw nothing untoward. In fact, according to all evidence in the box, Leroy Sanders’s eventual conviction had been entirely justified.

It was Jeremy who brought up the only aspect of the case that might be considered odd.

“Look at the date when Leroy’s partner, Harry Blotsky, surfaced to testify against him: December 1878. The trial was just wrapping up, and they needed the judge’s special permission to allow him to testify so late in the proceedings.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, it seems he had changed his testimony from when the police first interviewed him. That’s always a problem for the prosecution. But attorneys Jackson and Porter presented good reasons as to why the witness’s testimony changed, and so the judge permitted it.”

“What did they argue?”

He flipped back through the pages in his hand. “Based on Alistair Sinclair’s research, they claimed that Harry had been so intimidated by Leroy that he didn’t feel safe telling the truth. Until he was assured that the truth would keep Leroy behind bars for life.”

“That makes sense, doesn’t it?” I thought it did. It was the reason why my own precinct sometimes had difficulty gathering the evidence that would convict our most violent offenders: no one wanted to risk testifying against them.

“Perfect sense,” Jeremy said—but he didn’t sound as though he believed it.

I considered the question again. Leroy was accused and convicted of violating and killing a child. As awful as that was, there was no suggestion anywhere in his file that he posed a threat to other adults. Alistair himself had written a memo concluding that Leroy had a high potential for recidivism—in other words, for repeating his crime. But in Alistair’s own words, the threat Leroy posed was to minors. And in the sketch artist’s rendering, Leroy was a slight man. Harry Blotsky towered over him. Would Harry truly have been afraid of Leroy?

I continued to puzzle over that oddity as I thanked Jeremy for his help.

The records keeper gave us both a satisfied look as I signed out of his registry. “I’ll bet you boys haven’t heard the good news, since you’ve been stuck in the archives all morning.”

“What news?” I set the pen back into its inkwell.

“They captured Drayson. Found him hiding out in the basement of some opium den in Chinatown. Now we’ll have justice and order in this city again,” the records keeper said with a vigorous nod. “The anarchists will pay for what they’ve done.”

Drayson and Jonathan Strupp and the other anarchists would certainly get their due. The commissioner would see to that. But I couldn’t help wonder: Would it come at the expense of the truth?

There was no doubt that the murder of Judge Jackson lay at the center of a hotbed of anarchist conspiracies and political malcontent, but I was now convinced that the murders of Judge Porter and Professor Hartt were connected, as well. Their murders extended this matter far into the past, touching on hidden secrets and issues so deeply personal that vengeance must be sought in blood. And if I didn’t find him soon, not only did I fear that Alistair’s blood would be the next to spill—I somehow knew that we would never uncover the truth.

CHAPTER 25

The New York Times Building, Times Square. 3
P.M.

“Hop to it, boys. We got thirty minutes till press time—and we don’t want to get scooped by the
Tribune
like last week.” Ira Salzburg, the stout managing editor of the
New York Times,
swaggered across the room as he barked instructions. Dressed in his trademark yellow and green suit, he stopped to check on first one reporter, then another, before retreating into his office and closing the glass door. There were nearly fifty reporters in the room, punching keys furiously on Hammond typewriters along long rows of tables. But not one reporter looked up.

I had come to see Frank Riley, the crime beat reporter who had been instrumental in helping me to solve a series of murders in the theater district last spring. He’d impressed me then with his tenaciousness as a crime beat reporter—and if anyone had the determination to look for the story that Commissioner Bingham was determined to quash, it was Frank.

I’d just left Mulvaney at precinct headquarters and he’d confirmed what I knew all along: the commissioner planned to charge Drayson and other anarchist leaders, including Jonathan, with the murders of Judge Jackson, Judge Porter, and the guards who were victims at the Tombs bombing. The commissioner’s edict had been to gather proof by any means necessary. And I knew what that meant: scapegoating an anarchist conspiracy would be more important than uncovering the truth.

I soon spotted Frank, a wiry man with dark hair slicked back, working at the first typewriter on the left. No one even gave me a second glance as I made my way toward him.

“Got a minute, Frank?” I asked, my voice quiet.

He looked up, and his expression of annoyance turned to surprise the moment he recognized me. “Your timing’s bad, Ziele. Things are crazy here. We’re printing a special edition. I’ve got half an hour to pull together my piece on Drayson and the Tombs bombing.”

“I don’t have much time, either—and I need your help. If I’m right, you’ll be typing up a whole different story.” I nodded toward his typewriter.

He shoved his chair back. “That important? Then let’s find a quieter place to talk.”

“How about the archive room?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Guys around here call it the newspaper morgue. Follow me.”

He led me out of the City Room to shouts of protest from other reporters. “Helluva time to grab a smoke, Frank,” and, “Tryin’ to get fired, Frank?”

Flashing a grin, he quashed their remarks, saying, “You fellas worry about your own job.”

He led me to the stairwell, where we descended six flights. The morgue itself was a cavernous room, dimly lit, and filled floor to ceiling with file cabinets and bookcases.

“We got everything here. Photographs. News clippings. Everything we’ve done since 1851, with major story clippings from the competition, too.” He gave me a hard stare. “Want to tell me what’s up?”

“There’s a second story here—one that’s far more complicated than just the anarchist conspiracy.” I briefed him on the major evidence I’d found, omitting Alistair’s name for now.

When I finished, Frank only shrugged. “Sounds interesting. But the commissioner won’t be interested in hearing about a more complex plot.”

“Politicians like things simple. I realize that.”

He gave me a curious look. “Then why are you so keen to figure out the truth? It will make no difference to you.”

I thought of Alistair and, more importantly, of Isabella, but I said only, “Because Allan Hartt deserves justice. His murder—because it
was
murder—should be formally connected to the others. He’s as deserving of justice as Judge Jackson or Judge Porter. There is a deeper motive at work, one that I do not yet understand, but I am confident it connects the murders of these three men.”

“So what’s here in the morgue that will help?”

“Any old write-ups you have of
People
versus
Sanders.
The trial began in November 1878 and continued until a verdict was reached in January 1879. It was appealed in June of the same year.”

Frank raised another eyebrow as he ran his hand over slicked-back hair. “Forgive me for saying so, but if you’re trying to tell me a modern-day anarchist conspiracy is connected with a thirty-year-old trial, I’m not sure you’re thinking straight.”

“You may be right. I won’t know until I find those files.”

He inclined his head. “I’ll pull them for you. And if there’s anything in them that leads to a story…”

I nodded. “You’ll be the first to know.”

“You always did keep your promises, Ziele. That’s why I’ll help you. But be quick, ’cause I gotta get back to work.”

Frank Riley had kept his word before, too; it was the main reason I had sought his help. Unfortunately, at this point in the investigation, men I could trust were in decidedly short supply.

*   *   *

Two hours later, I stepped into Artuso’s, an Italian coffee and pastry shop where glass shelves filled with cannoli and colorful cookies competed for customers’ attention with a selection of Italian coffees in hand-painted ceramic canisters. But the crown jewel of the shop was an espresso machine imported from Italy—a shiny silver device that whistled and chugged as the steam pressure forced the hot water through finely ground coffee. I ordered a double espresso and cannoli from the gruff man behind the counter, then settled at a table by the window. Outside, the crowds converged onto Longacre Square—or rather, Times Square as it had been renamed in honor of its major tenant, the
New York Times
. Salzburg’s reporters had made their deadline, and I watched as newsboys sold papers like hotcakes to passersby.