Secret of the White Rose (8 page)

He fell silent, uncomfortable with being the center of attention.

“Go on,” Hodges encouraged him.

“The radicals who meet at Roo’s talk a lot about revolution, not to mention women’s rights and free love,” he continued, flushing with embarrassment. “They all worship Emma Goldman and want to write for her new magazine,
Mother Earth
.”

“Magazine?” Hodges scoffed. “You can’t be serious. By God, we’re talking about murder here—”

“And we all know how Emma Goldman’s words have led men to act,” the General cut him off. “After all, she inspired her lover to try assassinating one of the world’s richest business tycoons.”

I knew that he meant Alexander Berkman, who had served fourteen years for attempting to murder Henry Clay Frick. Berkman had been released just this past spring.

Oliver continued to talk. “There’s two men who are clear leaders. They’ve got direct access to Red Emma herself, and the mass of ’em don’t lift a finger without gettin’ say-so from one or t’other. So there’s no way Judge Jackson was murdered by anarchists without these men knowin’ ’bout it.” He looked to Bill Hodges, who stood ready, chalk in hand.

“Jeremy Wesson is one,” Oliver said.

Hodges wrote the name in block capitals on the board. It meant nothing to me, but I saw that Howard Green had begun to sweat profusely.

“I believe this is your cousin, Detective Green,” the General said, then shook his head in mock pity. “Someone oughta do a report sometime about how one half of a family can turn out decent and the other half scum. Happens more often than not, from what I can see.”

“Jeremy’s not—” Howard began to sputter.

The General cut him off. “Don’t even try to tell me he’s not involved in the anarchist movement. All of us know better. We’ve got proof. So instead of trying to defend your family’s honor, I want you to use your family connection to find out what Jeremy knows.”

“I haven’t spoken with Jeremy in over seven years,” Howard finally said, his voice flat.

“Then I’d say it’s the perfect time to renew your acquaintance.” The General’s voice was not unsympathetic, but he was all business. “You’re one of us, now,” he reminded Howard, more gently this time—and the turn of phrase made me wonder whether he had overheard our comments earlier. “Your allegiance is to me. Not to whatever black sheep are in your family—and we all have them,” he finished, looking roundly at the rest of us in the room.

But he would not find any with mine—at least, not anymore. My father had followed my mother to the grave six months ago—and with him, so too lay buried any claim my family had to unrespectable behavior. He could not gamble from the grave, and my sister was a respectable matron in Milwaukee. There was no one else.

“Petrovic,” the General said, “you will assist Detective Green. You look the part of an anarchist if any officer does.”

Petrovic flushed but said nothing. Not every anarchist was a Russian Jew, but clearly the General was more interested in stereotypes than actual facts.

Hodges began writing the second name on the board—and at first, I couldn’t make it out, for his large frame completely blocked the chalkboard from my perspective.

The General’s words alone brought the name home to me. It was one I’d neither heard nor thought of the past two years. I physically winced the moment I heard it, so sharp was the pang of the memory it caused.

Jonathan Strupp.
Hannah’s brother.

“Jonathan?” The name erupted unbidden from my dry mouth.

When I had known him, he had been a serious boy in wire spectacles, always wrapped up in a book. Since he was four years Hannah’s junior, I hadn’t known him well. And I’d not kept in touch with the Strupps … no, not since the early weeks following Hannah’s death. It had been selfish, of course—but I hadn’t been able to bear the look of sad reproach I imagined I saw in her mother’s eyes. “You were there,” she seemed to say, “and yet you didn’t bring her home.” It was true: I’d helped save many lives the day the
Slocum
burned, but not that of my own fiancée. And the injury I still bore—my weak right arm that had never healed from an improperly set fracture—was a constant reminder of that failing.

“I gather he wasn’t a card-carrying anarchist when you knew him?” The General’s lips curved into a sarcastic smile. “People change. He’s in a position of authority now—and if Drayson directed the hit on the judge, then Strupp participated in it.”

He turned to Savino. “I believe you and the Strupp boy were schoolmates. If Ziele has no luck, I’ll ask you to follow up.”

Tom Savino nodded unhappily but asked only, “How many men are we looking for?”

The General drew his hands together. “Gentlemen, I believe we’re on the trail of the largest anarchist conspiracy this city has seen. We will start at the top, with Wesson and Strupp—and work our way down, till we’ve caught all the minions who were helping them.”

I cleared my throat. That was when the enormity of what the General had in mind hit me. This was to be a witch hunt focused on two men, and driven by a belief in guilt by association. He was prepared to arrest numerous men—and to mistreat a family who had already suffered enough—in the name of targeting two men against whom there was absolutely no hard evidence.

“Sir, I grew up among many men who now call themselves anarchists,” I said. “Most of them are all talk and no action.”

“In the beginning, perhaps, Detective,” the General said, fixing me with a stern look. “But Oliver mentioned the magazine
Mother Earth
. It reminds us these vile acts start somewhere. I believe they start with ideas and idle talk.”

“Even if you believe that, General, these men’s families are not at fault—”

He cut me off abruptly. “I don’t care. I’ll use whatever means are at my disposal to apprehend those responsible.” He pounded his fist on the table again, this time leaning in so his wheelchair did not move. “These are not men that we seek. They are scum—vermin of the earth who pollute everything good with their vile words. Then they kill good men—children even—in the name of their godforsaken cause.” He caught his breath, and the words that followed were barely audible. “Men like Drayson don’t deserve the protection this fine nation’s laws would give them.”

“Of course, General,” I said, with as much politeness as I could muster. “But do you have proof—by which I mean hard evidence—that Jeremy Wesson and Jonathan Strupp are actually involved?”

He grew red in the face, and I knew I was walking a fine line between my duty to this investigation and outright insubordination. “I’ve got all the proof I need,” he roared. “These anarchist scum draw support from their own communities—from ordinary citizens in the beer halls and saloons, their libraries and even their churches. They’re all to blame,” he said, pounding his fist, “every last one of them. That’s why I’ve sent spies like Oliver to go undercover into places like Justin Schwab’s Beer Hall and Fritz Bachmann’s Teutonia Hall. A boy like him keeps his ears open.” He gave me a hard look. “I don’t care what connections you have, Detective Ziele. I’ll not have you tell me how to do my job. My leg is lame,” he said, tapping his wheelchair, “but my mind is sharp. I’m in charge of this city for a reason.”

I stiffened. “I mean no disrespect, General. I only want to emphasize that as we search for the anarchists responsible, we shouldn’t ignore standard investigation protocol. After all, it is possible that Judge Jackson has been killed for reasons other than a top-level anarchist conspiracy.” I took a deep breath, and when he did not interrupt me, I continued. “At the crime scene last night, there were indications that the judge’s killer may have had a unique motive.”

“Are you suggesting it wasn’t an anarchist?” Bill Hodges sputtered, aghast. “Drayson’s trial is the biggest thing this city has seen in years.”

“No,” I replied evenly, “but we should consider the possibility that someone—very likely an anarchist, I agree—had a more personal motive for murdering the judge. Many anarchists may have wanted to free Al Drayson. But only one of them was motivated to kill the judge in this particular way.”

I continued, emphasizing the bizarre elements that no doubt the official reports had glossed over. I’d spoken up out of concern for the Strupps, but now, I believed my own words.

The General’s blue eyes were alert behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, and though his words continued to be abrupt, there was now genuine curiosity behind them. “I understand your point. But no one has a more personal and compelling motive than Drayson. Good God, man—his very life is at stake.”

“Yes,” I replied calmly, “but the problem is: Drayson doesn’t value his own life.”

“What do you mean?”

“I interviewed him this morning, sir. I admit, it’s hard for rational men to understand—but I believe he’s prepared to die for his cause. In fact, he
wants
to become a martyr—as he puts it.”

“This city is happy to oblige him,” the General groused. “That doesn’t mean his followers don’t want to save him.”

“They may,” I agreed. “But you’ve seen the crime scene report, General, and I’ve explained my own concerns. You have to admit that your typical bomb-throwing anarchist wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of leaving a Bible or a white rose behind.”

“But our informant has told us that he personally overheard talk by those who would rescue Drayson from jail.” The General looked approvingly at the boy.

“With due respect, sir, I believe you pay your informant by the tip,” I said delicately.

“Why, I oughta—” Oliver bolted out of his chair, but the General silenced him by placing a firm hand on the boy’s arm.

“You may go now, Oliver,” the General said.

Oliver stumbled out of the room, giving me a final, sullen glance.

“Why would an anarchist—or anyone, for that matter—care about a Bible or a rose?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But the judge’s hand was placed on the Bible, as though he were swearing an oath. Maybe his murder was retribution for breaking one?”

“You … you can’t possibly say that Judge Jackson was derelict in his duty in any way.” The General now sputtered in anger. “He was one of the finest judges on the bench. To suggest otherwise is the worst tomfoolery I’ve ever—”

“General, the truth isn’t what’s important here. It’s what the killer
perceived
—in his own, tainted view of the matter.” I watched as the General visibly relaxed. “With your permission, sir, it’s something I’d like to explore further. I believe the crime scene offers leads that are ultimately more promising than anything we may learn from hounding the families of two known anarchist leaders.”

The General drew himself up. “Detective, I promise you we won’t ignore any good leads. But as your commissioner, it’s my decision to focus on the anarchist leadership. I believe they will lead us to the killer responsible for Judge Jackson’s murder—and a whole lot faster than this gibberish about Bibles and white roses.”

He paused for several moments, looking me up and down.

I waited. Was he going to take me off the case?

Finally, he said, “Look into your theories all you want, Detective. But on your own time—and not at the expense of my direct orders.”

“Of course, General.”

“I’ll be watching you,” he said with a stern look as he dismissed me. “Help me solve this case quickly and I’ll see you promoted. But interfere with my commands, and you’ll suffer the consequences.”

He didn’t have to spell it out. At best, I’d find myself on desk duty filing paperwork; at worst, I’d never work as a policeman again. I was walking a fine line, indeed.

The General smiled, and stroking his handlebar mustache, he dismissed us all. “Get to it, gentlemen. Make me proud of what we can accomplish when we set our minds to it. My goal is to arrest those responsible for the judge’s murder within forty-eight hours.”

As I walked out, I tried to steady my nerves.
Focus on the victim,
I told myself. That also reminded me that anything I risked professionally or personally was nothing compared to what the victim had already lost: his very life.

CHAPTER 6

The Dakota, 1 West Seventy-second Street. 3:30
P.M.

“You’ve come in time for fresh-baked blueberry scones, Detective, just served in the music room with afternoon ‘tea.’” Mrs. Mellown made an exaggerated sniff of disapproval as she let me in the door.

Alistair was no doubt having scones with a stiff drink instead of tea—much to the chagrin of the matronly, gray-haired woman who served as housekeeper of Alistair’s eighth-floor apartment at the Dakota building. For over twenty years, she had organized Alistair’s home and attempted to bring general order to his life—albeit with mixed success and much exasperation.

I greeted her warmly, handing over my hat and wool plaid scarf, then my coat. She hung them on the coat rack as I removed my shoes at her request. Though I knew the way, she always insisted on showing me in properly. I followed her down a hallway that would have been the envy of any art collector—for it displayed artifacts, paintings, and tapestries from Alistair’s extensive travels. The plush red and blue Turkish carpets, finely detailed oil portraits, and Chinese silk paintings always made me feel as though I had entered a museum, not someone’s private home.