Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) (7 page)

"
If we do that after this press release that old hag will believe it was because of her and her damned petition. I’ll never live it down.
"

"
We can spin it to your favor, that out of respect to those who perished on that fateful night you have magnanimously decided to call it the
Titan
.
"

It was clear that he would have more luck reasoning with a statue, but Edward still had another ace up his sleeve. He shuffled through the messages that he had picked up earlier and held out a fax page for his father to see
.
"
Perhaps this will change your mind.
"

"What's this?" grumbled Archibald as he tore the page from his hand. Edward watched with anticipation as his father's gray eyes read the words on the page. He could see defeat drain the fight from the old man.

"You win," whispered Archibald. His trembling fingers opened and the page just floated down to the desk.

"We will issue a correction from our media office. We can spin it to your favor, that out of respect to those who perished on that fateful night…"

"
Yes, yes,
"
Archibald nodded as he wheeled away, stopping to impatiently pull the needle from the record player.

Edward almost felt sorry for him. Almost .

. . .

Denise noticed how out of place the greasy, leather-clad man appeared as he emerged from the elevator. Most people entering this area of the hospital looked either lost or concerned or both. This individual looked like a man on a mission and judging by the camera around his neck, Denise suspected he was a reporter. Her hand reached out to the phone to call security when a page broke over the PA system, "Anesthetist please report to maternity. Anesthetist to maternity, please."

As the voice was speaking through the speaker a terrifying scream erupted from behind Denise. She turned to see ‘Myra’, wrapped in her blanket, screaming, while looking about as if trying to see where the disembodied voice was coming from. Denise dropped the phone and instinctively ran to her patient.
"
Ma’am. You shouldn’t be up. If you need something you can buzz us.
"

The shivering woman looked at Denise as if she didn’t understand a single word. Through chattering teeth the poor woman asked,
"
Am I dead?
"

Denise was about to answer when a flash of light distracted her. She turned to look where the greasy man with the camera had been but he was gone. An uneasy feeling came over Denise. She had to get her patient away from prying eyes and into the protection of her own private room. "Let me take you back to your room.
"

She took ‘Myra’s’ trembling hand and was startled to find how cold it was. Myra opened her mouth to speak but only gibberish chattered out. Denise felt the patient go limp as she was once again losing consciousness. Denise called to a nearby orderly, "Can I have some help over here?
"

_ _ _

Later, while Myra slept, someone sneaked into her room. A gloved hand reached towards her neck.
Nothing there.

From a nearby closet door, a piece of embroidered fabric peeked out from below the knob, too thick to be contained. The gloved hand opened the door to find a shelf above the ornate dress. A small lidless cardboard box sat atop the shelf. The hand froze as voices passing approached the door. The other hand reached for the gun. The voices continued to move away. The gloved hands carefully pulled the box down and tilted it for a better look. The light seeping in from the hall reflected off something metal. The gloved hand held the locket up.
Yes, this is it.

Looking back into the box, there was nothing else except a smelly old book. The box was carefully placed back onto the shelf and the door was closed. The dress pushed the door ajar.

A moment later the stranger was gone.

April 2, 1982

Chapter
VIII

"
How can she be gone?!
"
Captain Sadler demanded of the young nurse who identified herself only as Denise. He was so furious he had almost forgotten he was holding the teddy bear in the hand he was gesturing with. The crewman who had gathered the woman's belongings from sickbay had failed to notice it and had left it there. Sadler took the opportunity of returning it to follow up on the mystery. Now the mystery thickened.

"I came in early for my shift this morning," began Denise
,
"a
nd discovered that some 'benefactor' had her transferred to some private clinic and even settled the bill...in cash."

"Cash?" Sadler didn't like the sound of it. It was likely that whoever had placed her in the middle of the ocean was now trying to cover their tracks. They were not only playing with lives, but had also wasted Military resources.

"I'm sorry, Mr... er... Captain," stammered Denise. "I only found out when I went in to see if she had regained consciousness again."

"
AGAIN?
"
bellowed Sadler
.
"Did anyone question her? Did she say how she got out into the middle of the bloody Atlantic?"

"There wasn't time..."

"Time! Do have any idea how much time...?"

"Captain," interrupted a middle-aged doctor in a rumpled lab coat. "My name is Dr. Rowland. I'll have to ask you to keep your voice down. This is a hospital, not a military base."

"Forgive me," simmered Sadler. "I was just informed that the mysterious woman had regained consciousness. Why did no one think to question her?"

"Because she went into cardiac arrest," replied the doctor. "We thought it better to keep her alive rather than play '20 questions'."

Sadler ignored the sarcasm and took a deep breath. He knew they were only doing their jobs and that whoever released the patient was just following orders. In a calmer voice Sadler asked,
"
Is there any way we can find the location of this clinic?
"

"
I will do my best to find out,
"
replied the doctor.

"
Well when you do…
"
Captain Sadler was suddenly distracted by the image on the television in the waiting lounge. On the screen were the words
"
Argentina Invades Falkland Islands.
"

"
Crap!
"
Sadler now had to get back to his ship; he knew he would soon be deployed to South America, as every available ship in Her Majesty's fleet would be required to defend the Falkland Islands. He turned to the doctor and nurse and with a sharp nod, thanked them both for their time.

With that, Sadler turned with bear in hand and marched to the exit. His involvement in the current investigation had just ended. If there were any casualties directly related to this stunt, it was too late for them.

. . .

In a nearby hotel, a man approached the front desk. The concierge looked up from his paperwork and smiled.

"
Good morning,
"
said the concierge, he recognized the man who checked in yesterday afternoon by his leather jacket, but couldn't remember his name.
"
What can I do for you?
"

The man handed the concierge two 8X10 photographs.
"
Could you fax these two pictures to the number on the back?
"

"
Of course, sir.
"
The concierge flipped over the first and looked at the fax number scribbled in ink.
"
This is an overseas call. Shall I charge this to your room?
"

The man nodded and held up his hotel key. The concierge jotted down the room number on the tag: 319. He would add this to the man's hotel bill.

As he flipped the photo over to place it in the fax machine, the concierge couldn’t help but notice the strikingly beautiful woman in the picture. Though there was a look of confusion on her face it was still gentle. The second was a close up photo of a locket, housing two small photographs. In one was the same woman with a young man, and the other was a young boy in a cute sailor uniform.

Beneath the photo of the locket was a very cryptic hand written message:

No Teddy Bear found in her room!

Chapter
IX

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Dr. Natalie Lindsay wanted to ignore her pager: this was her day off and she wasn’t on call. She tried to pretend she couldn’t hear it as she poured her morning coffee.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Each time it seemed to have a more urgent tone. With reluctance, she picked it up and looked at the display. She immediately recognized the phone number of the clinic where she worked, and cursed modern technology. It was only a year ago that the clinic purchased the new state-of-the-art pagers with numeric display. Gone were the days of having to use a telephone to call in to retrieve messages. Gone were the days of excuses:
Sorry I couldn’t find a phone.
Or,
S
orry I didn’t have a quarter for the payphone.
Natalie sighed. She could still try to fake having misplaced her pager, or say she was in the shower. After all, she did have plans on her day off: she had tickets to see the new play,
Agnes of God
, that had opened earlier in the week at the Music Box Theatre. One of the ladies at the gym told her about the show, and its theme depicting a struggle between psychology and faith intrigued Natalie.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Natalie's pager started up again. She sighed as sh
e looked at her theater tickets
. Her sense of duty as a psychiatrist made her pick up the phone. If they were calling on her day off it had to be important. She’d have to see the show another time.

Natalie soon had a feeling this was going to be an interesting day. She mulled over the facts that Dr. Marcus had given to her over the phone about her mysterious new patient while she rode the subway from her apartment west of Central Park. Vaguely aware that some of the male riders were stealing glances at her legs, she smiled to herself about her morning choices. After fighting with her contact lenses and wrestling to put her uncooperative long blonde hair up, she had changed into her favorite business suit: a tweed jacket and matching skirt. When she first started practicing she purposely dressed in a less feminine fashion, even had shorter hair and frumpy glasses. Though women had been contributing to psychoanalysis for most of the century, the ‘doctor’s club’ still had a ‘men-only’ stigma attached to it. As a career woman in her mid… well, early thirties she didn’t have much time to get out and socialize, which is why she felt a twinge of regret as she gave up an evening at the theatre. Still, she now understood that she didn’t have to deny being a woman in order to be taken seriously as a doctor. Thankfully, not only did subway passengers appreciate it, but her colleagues agreed.

The Clinic, sitting in the Midtown East district overlooking the East River, was unassuming from the outside. The clinic covered various addiction treatments for drugs, alcohol, gambling, eating disorders, and the newly-defined post-traumatic stress disorder.

The building had a doorman, like a private club, which was how it was supposed to appear. Patients were often people of power: politicians, celebrities, all fearing the label of ‘nuts’ when seeking psychiatric help.
Archaic Victorian mentality.
No one had such issues with going to dentists, or optometrists or any other kind of medical specialists.
Why was the mind any different?
It was an organ in the human body prone to fatigue, stress and illness like any other part of the body, yet admitting it was somehow weak was frowned upon. As a result, many who needed treatment were afraid to ask for it.

Natalie stopped by her office and quickly reviewed the
hard copy
notes on her new patient. There wasn't much to go on.
You would think the hospital would have at least given me her medical charts.
When she
had
spoke
n
to Dr. Marcus this morning, he
had
informed her that her task was to ascertain the identity of this 'new guest'. Natalie was getting a reputation for doing so with other cases, most recently with an old man who was convinced he was the Lindbergh's kidnapped baby all grown up. He was, of course, not the son of the famed 1930's aviator, Charles Lindbergh, but someone who had been abandoned by his parents when he was a small child. The emotional scars had never healed and stayed with him his entire life. It was easier for him to believe that he was forcibly 'taken' from loving parents, willing to pay any price to get their child back, than to face the harsh reality that he was not wanted... not loved as a child. It was a heart-wrenching ordeal but Natalie was able to break through and finally helped him to accept the truth.

By contrast, Natalie didn’t have any background information on her new patient at all and they would be making this journey into the unknown together. She was eager to commence, but her excitement faded as she entered the
mysterious woman's
room.
This new
patient was shivering uncontrollably and was deathly pale. Her lips seemed to have a blue hue to them. Natalie became concerned about the patient’s basic health. Without the medical charts, Natalie would have to ascertain the patient's condition during this preliminary interview.

"Hello?
"
Natalie began softly. "My name is Dr. Lindsay. Can you tell me your name?"

The woman made no reply, as if she hadn't heard. Natalie was going to repeat herself but was taken aback by the odd expression on the patient’s face. Her eyes were distracting, piercingly blue.

Those eyes were staring at Natalie as if they had seen a spider crawl up her skirt. Natalie tore herself away from them and looked down to see if there was a run in her stocking. There was nothing out of the ordinary. She looked up at the shivering woman,
"
Is there something wrong?
"

"
Your legs,
"
the patient whispered through clattering teeth.

"
What about them?
"

"
I can see them. It’s hardly appropriate,
"
the woman said as she tried to wrap the blankets tighter around herself.

Yes, this i
s going to be a very interesting day.
Natalie to
ok a moment to adjust the room
’s thermostat and turned back to the woman in as friendly a way as she could muster,
"
Let's start again. I’m Doctor Natalie Lindsay. You were transferred…
"

"What kind of doctor?
"

"I'm a psychiatrist," replied Dr. Lindsay, trying not to let the interruption bother her.

The woman suddenly laughed. It was a sweet laugh. Almost melodic.

"
What’s so funny?
"
asked Natalie.

"
You said you were a psychiatrist.
"

"
I am. I received my PhD in...
"

She started to laugh again. Natalie could not imagine what could possibly be so damn hilarious.

"
What’s so funny about me being a psychiatrist?
"

"
You’re a woman.
"

"
I know. So?
"

"
So,
"
the patient said as she tried to regain her breath.
"
I know of very few women studying psychology and they haven't been allowed to have a PhD.
"

Natalie studied her face to see if she could ascertain if this woman truly believed her statement. It was jarring for Natalie who, just after high school, protested for women’s equality. As their eyes made contact, the woman mumbled that she must be dreaming about short skirted women at medical school, started to laugh again and continued to do so until fatigue took over and she started to drift.

After the woman had fallen asleep, Natalie crept out to the hallway, walked over to her assistant and asked whether they had the new patient’s belongings.

"
Yes. We do,
"
replied her assistant, as she rose from her desk. Moments later she returned with an armload of tapestry and lace. Natalie couldn’t help but touch the fabric. It was a heavy, yet beautiful gown, and the beading seemed to have been stitched by hand.

"
Take it to our patient when she wakes up. Help her dress if she needs it.
"

Her assistant nodded and started down the hall.

"
One other thing!
"
Natalie called out.

Her assistant stopped and turned back towards her.
"
Can you tell me where I can buy a long skirt these days?
"

Chapter
X

Otto Slade was sentenced to be hanged for the murder of Agatha Gilcrest—the problem was, he was innocent. Callum peered out the window, giving his eyes a rest from trying to decipher handwritten notes from eighty years ago.

The grey English countryside sped past his train window, barren trees in the fields reaching up to the sky like skeletal hands. He imagined that the view in the late spring or summer might be pictu
resque, but not so much now with
the snow melting into a muddy mess. It had been the coldest winter in recent history with record-breaking snowfall in January. Callum was glad to see winter was finally retreating. He looked at his wristwatch to find that only two hours had gone by. Another two and a half hours before the train pulled into Glasgow Central station. He was aware that flying would have only taken an hour, but he knew from experience that he wouldn’t get his airfare reimbursed, so he’d decided to make good use of his travel time by piecing together the past.

In 1909 Glasgow, the murder of an elderly rich woman was not a common event, so there was a great deal of public pressure to apprehend the culprit so the good citizens would be able to sleep without locking their doors.

The police seemed to have set their sights on a man that did not match the description the eyewitnesses had given. Otto Slade was arrested and charged with murder: police claimed that he was trying to pawn the stolen brooch. Callum picked up a photocopy of the pawn receipt and read:
One brooch, oval shaped with 7 diamonds.

The brooch that was stolen from Agatha Gilcrest was crescent-mooned shaped with 22 diamonds. These were not the same pieces of jewelry. Yet, this was the damning evidence that convicted Otto Slade — how was this possible?

During the trial, Heather Langlea had changed her testimony and identified Otto Slade as the man she had seen leaving Mrs. Gilcrest’s apartment. Callum looked back at her original statement to his grandfather:
"
He was about 5'6", young, fair haired, wearing a light grey overcoat and a black cap.
"

According to the arresting poli
ce file on Otto Slade, he was 6'
1
"
with black hair. Next to ‘complexion’ he is listed as: ‘Jewish’.
Interesting adjective for skin appearance,
thought Callum.
Still,
he supposed,
prejudice knows no boundaries.
There was no denying Otto Slade did not match the description given on the night of the murder. Did Heather Langlea lie and point her finger at an innocent man in a court of law? If so,
w
hy?

Callum looked through the court transcripts, trying to find Adam McArthur’s statement. He had also given the police a full description of the man seen leaving the scene of the crime, but there was no court statement to be found. Mr. McArthur did not testify. Again, Callum wondered,
w
hy?

The more answers Callum tried to find, the more questions he unearthed. Granted, looking at Slade’s background, he wasn’t exactly an upstanding citizen. He had an ex-wife that he tried to avoid and kept the company of prostitutes and gamblers, but was not a gambler himself. The need for money did not seem to be a concern for Otto Slade.

When the police had issued a warrant for his arrest, Otto Slade was on the
Lusitania
bound for New York. After several months of deliberation, the American Tribunal rejected the British government’s extradition application on the grounds of a lack of evidence: they were prepared to grant Otto Slade political asylum, and he could have remained the rest of his days in America, but instead he decided to return to Scotland to clear his name.
Hardly the actions of a guilty man,
thou
ght Callum.
That decision
cost him his life.

In early 1911, Otto Slade boarded the next boat for Scotland and, instead of clearing his name, he was found guilty as charged by a jury with a nine-to-six vote in favour of convicting him. Callum scowled
.
I
n Scotland, the jury is made up of 15 peers and only a majo
rity is needed for a conviction,
even if the majority is by only one vote. That system is still in place today. Callum preferred the American concept of ‘reasonable doubt’
.