“Don’t you get it, Griff? It’s politics.”
“Not everything in the department is about politics.”
Ransom’s laughter filled the train station. “Griff, this is the Chicago PD we’re talking about. Everything in Chicago is about politics, especially the police force.”
“You sure you’re not being a little ahhh . . . overly ahhh suspicious?”
“Doc Fenger asked the same, except he called it ‘unrea-sonably mistrustful.’ Look, Drimmer . . . my friend and colleague . . . if I give in to Tewes, even if there is a note from my superior
“The bloody investigation turns into a circus.”
“I see, a circus.”
“A three-ring one as only Chicago papers can conjure, and as for me? I get the ax for my part in it.”
“And if you should refuse that phrenologist?”
“Ahhh . . . a fine name for a charlatan, isn’t it? So scientific and such a
“Kohler’s already declared you uncooperative. Seems he has it in for you. Like it’s—”
“Personal, yes, but personal is political, Griff. Lotta water’s flowed ’neath the bridge for me and Kohler.”
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ROBERT W. WALKER
“Goes back to Haymarket, doesn’t it?”
He raised one eye to Griff. No secrets in a police department. “Your interrogative technique has improved markedly since working with me, Inspector. But hell, Griff, what in this city doesn’t go back to Haymarket?” “Where you got your leg busted up, isn’t it? But they say a lotta good’s come of it, too. Better labor relations, best labor laws in the country bar none.”
“You’ve been reading old papers?”
“You and the chief see the Haymarket Square bombing quite differently.”
“Aye, he wants it—”
“Buried, I know, while you . . . some might say you’ve obsessed over it since eighty-seven.”
“Call me a student of history. And ’twas eighty-six, son, but enough down memory lane. We’ve plenty on our hands in the here-and-now.”
The flash of explosive gunpowder from Philo’s magic show now went off nearby, the acrid smell of the corpse’s burnt flesh meshing with the sulfur cloud. All of it conjured up unwanted memories of that day at Haymarket.
“This boy’s murder’s connected to the other two, isn’t it, Rance?” whispered Griffin, not wishing anyone else to hear.
Aside from the afflictions in his back and legs from that awful day in 1886, Alastair suffered from bad digestion, nosebleeds, headaches, and a low tolerance for administra-tive boobs who knew less than he did. And for the injustices abounding in Chicago from homelessness and joblessness to the inequities of political pork-barreling. He also had a low tolerance for the ignorance and tranquillity of youth. He secretly bemoaned his own lost youth, and he detested seeing youth wasted. And he worried about Griff’s doing just that.
“Of course, the killings are related.”
Ransom saw Dr. Tewes disappear into the stationmaster’s office, grateful to witness this obvious retreat until realizing that Tewes had gone in search of a telephone. Phones had been installed in many public places. No doubt the good CITY FOR RANSOM
17
doctor of phrenology meant to complain to Nathan Kohler about Ransom’s rank insubordination, and this counterfeit doctor’s inability to get past the inspector of record.
“Brace yourself, Griff, for a visit from the chief.”
“Count on it, I should think. The uniforms are taking odds, and Rance—did I mention that the note is more than a suggestion, but a direct order?”
“No, you didn’t, and let’s keep it that way, shall we, Griff?”
Later Ransom found the wide corner concourse windows overlooking a black sky lit by thousands of lights creating a brilliance across
From the Illinois Central windows, Ransom saw a great deal more of the dark alleyways and shanties and the cut-throat Levee district than the extravagant fair. The two cities stood at odds—Burnham’s idyllic dreamland lit like a many-tiered chandelier seemed to float over the lake. Chicago was a city of beauty and deeply cut cynical currents, its bedrock.
Not even White City could hide the political expedience that formed her core darkness. Like a blinding chandelier, Ransom thought.
White City looked the dream, yes. Truth be told, however, it proved so much gilded illusion: a mirror of man’s highest achievements, yes, that—so well presented—lulled one into Burnham’s faith. One might for a brief moment, while walking the gas-lit stone paths garnished with flowers on either side and the lovely Lake Michigan as promenade, begin to believe in his fellow man, to believe naught a one of them capable of evil or murdering one another. That a man could 18
ROBERT W. WALKER
never again do a harsh act against his fellows. Not even in the wee hours of the night when so much crime took place in the shadows as God slept.
“Not bloody likely in this or the next century, I warrant,”
he muttered to himself. “Lights or no lights, Mr. Edison.”
In the distance stood the spinning lights of Mr. Ferris’s giant wheel that dared take people soaring to a height of 176
feet—gaiety and light and a kind of euphoric madness all framed in a Romanesque window from which Ransom gawked and shook his head and chewed on a tooth-scarred pipe. If he tried hard, he could hear the unclear but separate German, Polish, Ukrainian, and Irish music welling up from the countless beer gardens. Something of a Babel indeed, he thought. In fact, the sound of lakefront revelers penetrated the vaulted waiting room ceiling here, bounced off and re-verberated. By contrast, immediately behind Ransom, Keane’s little photographic explosions created a too familiar, melancholic drama of its own:
Ransom turned from the window to face Dr. Tewes, a smug look creasing the features below the little dapper’s curled mustache. He stood rocking on his heels, flapping Kohler’s letter. “I am a determined man, Inspector.” “Good for you, Dr. Tewes, but I have the dignity of the de-ceased to consider. Your questionable magic is unheard of.
What do you think reporters’ll make of it—your absurd play?” Ransom pushed past the smaller man.
CHAPTER 3
His work required Ransom’s mind, but the old shrapnel wound to his leg, and ailments that’d plagued since the anarchist’s bomb—the cause of his most grueling physical and mental pain—threatened always to break him. Today, seeing this horror perpetrated on a third victim threatened to break his resolve to remain aloof and in charge. More than once, his thoughts wandered to his opium pipe and his bed. It represented what little solace he knew—opium—any way he could get it. But here he stood in Illinois Central, all eyes on him with the damnable Dr. Tewes and his equally damnable “order” from Kohler. The best he might do here would be his rolled cigarette laced with hemp.
Ransom felt a headache coming on now. He’d begun to perspire despite the coolness of the station. “Look,
