care to be alone in a room with Philo’s photos.
When Ransom reviewed such photographic evidence, he sometimes felt the hair on the back of his neck rise in response to the eerie appearance of a strange-looking halo effect around the depicted corpse—as if Philo had somehow caught a fleeting glimpse of the departing souls. Regardless of race, creed, religion, character or gender, Philo’s glow—or
Of course, when called on this phenomena over a pint at Moose Muldoon’s, Philo chalked it up to a reflection—flash of gunpowder in the pan—caught at the moment of squeezing off the shot, “Or just a dirty lens,” he’d add.
Philo exchanged a grunt of salutation with Alastair, a glint of knowledge and bonding in each bloodshot eye. What these two men knew and shared of violent, unholy and unhappy endings culminated in a silent array of artistically rendered death photos. Sober, they seldom spoke beyond the necessary. So, Philo immediately began his normal routine of taking “cuts,” confident that he knew precisely what Ransom must have.
Meanwhile, Ransom saw that Drimmer had gotten himself embroiled in a three-way conversation with O’Malley and Tewes; O’Malley quietly reading Kohler’s letter aloud, his lips moving like a fish gaping for air.
“
“Gotta do it yourself,” replied the sloppily dressed police photographer. “I believe in old adages.”
“Too bad you don’t believe in lye soap.”
“Unless I can afford Field’s best perfume, I’ll keep me stench.” Philo’s assistant stifled a laugh, while Philo laughed from the gut. “You’re one to talk, old man.”
“I want plenty of close-ups of the handprint to the side, Philo—see, right here?”
12
ROBERT W. WALKER
“Yah, yah, why’re you badgering today . . . why? I’m way ahead of you.”
“And, Philo, any blood splatters you see, and close-ups on the neck. Three hundred and eighty degrees. Do you understand?”
“You mean three hundred and sixty degrees, don’t you?”
“Testing, Philo, to see how sharp you are this time of the equinox.”
“Badgering is what it is, and I don’t care for it.”
Ransom whispered, “You ever think of getting off the sauce?”
“You’re one to talk. What about that Chi-nee shit you smoke?”
“Keep it down, Philo.”
Keane returned to work, placing a ruler beside the bloody handprint for scale. Escaping from him came an odd series of sound effects: “
CHAPTER 2
Ransom recalled how an army of stone masons had worked for over a year to build this massive Illinois Central Station, and how the marble had come out of the earth from a quarry near the Indiana state line. By contrast, the more recently completed World’s Columbian Exposition train terminal had been constructed of wood and covered over with staff—a form of stucco. Where the solid gray-stone Illinois Central was built to last, the Expo terminal was intended only as a temporary structure—as with almost all the world’s fair buildings.
Griff returned to stand alongside Ransom, now with Tewes’s note in hand. “Tewes playing musical brains with you fellows? Stuff that damn letter. It’s bloody three-forty a.m., Griff, don’t-cha see?”
“See what?”
“It’s a put-up job. Kohler’s put this Tewes on to spy on us.
He had to’ve called him in; how else would Tewes know to be here?”
“It’s that dirty, is it?”
“Once Philo Keane’s finished, Griff, call in the meat wagon. Get the corpse to Cook County morgue, ’way from all these vultures.”
“Where is Dr. Fenger? Did he send word? An assistant?”
14
ROBERT W. WALKER
“Christian’s facing several operations today.”
Griff nodded. “And his classes are so full.”
“Busiest man in the city,” Alastair replied. “Sure, Kohler will forgive him. After all, he can do his job from his morgue as well as here, so long as we cover the territory.”
“Autopsy, inquest—still, strange he didn’t make an appearance. Not like him.”
“Let’s just say the good doctor is adept and not eager to enter a crossfire between the chief and me.”
“You were warned about Dr. Tewes’s coming onto the case?”
“You’re catching on, Griff.”
“Nothing gets by you, does it, Ransom?”
“This is my city.”
“I’ve heard that. So, Dr. Fenger’s playing it safe?
Wouldn’t have anything to do with that
“Damn fools . . . calling him a ‘Resurrection Man’!”
“Was kinda funny, putting a shovel in his hand beside a picture of a gold-filled coffin.” Griffin’s grin annoyed Alastair.
“The man received a raise! What’s wrong with that?
Christian Fenger deserves all he can get outta this city.”
“Did you cook this up with Dr. Fenger? Just to get the body away from . . .
They both glanced at Tewes, standing with O’Malley.
“How ’bout you, Griff? You think it’s right, what Kohler’s proposing?”
“Right?”
“A guy dies a brutal death, then along comes some bastard calls himself a wizard with magnetic hands. Just wants to turn a buck, pretending to read messages from the dead . . . from the contours of the skull. If it weren’t so sad, it’d be laughable.” “Now that’s an editorial cartoon.”
“That Tewes guy just rubs me the wrong way. Makes my skin literally creep!”
“Me too. Same as you, Rance.”
CITY FOR RANSOM
15
Ransom hesitated at this. Griff had never called him Rance.
Griff pushed on while rocking on the balls of his feet. “All the same, it could be construed as an order, and if so, if you disobey—”
“Something’s just not right about Tewes.”
“All the same”—Griffin held up the note—“this note from Kohler is authentic, Rance.”
“Leave it be, Griff.”
“But Kohler’s just hoping you’ll foul up.”
“It’s all carefully orchestrated.”
“Like I said, a setup. You make a stink over this, it’s all he needs. So why not just let Dr. Tewes go through the motions?”
