The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (26 page)

“You’re here for answers, Sheriff,” Queen said with a quick smile. He hoped it didn’t appear patronizing, but Anderson either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “I’ll answer them as best as I can, even though I’m busy with the work that goes with a new detective force.”

Anderson smiled wearily. “Understandable, Lieutenant. Tell me what happened, and show me my granddaughter.”

Queen considered asking Cahill to leave, but decided to let him stay. This would avoid any appearance of secrecy, lest it get back to Colonel Ames. There was no reason the kid couldn’t watch, though it went against Queen’s perpetual instinct to go it alone. Cahill already knew the sheriff had lost his granddaughter to a terrible accident, and his soft demeanor and open sympathy might help blunt the edge for the old man. Queen himself, while feeling equally for the sheriff, had a harder time expressing himself so freely. Having a second officer here might make the situation more comforting for him. It also might be a good lesson on how to handle situations like this delicately, as long as Cahill stayed in the dark about the true nature of her death.

Queen had more than his fair share of experience leading some poor sucker through the motions and out the door. His fears about butting heads with a wily old sheriff had already started to ease once he had fully absorbed his whimsical appearance.

“First, my sincerest apologies for your loss,” Queen said. No truth was bent with this statement. He felt tremendously for Maisy’s family. “While I don’t have any children, I do have sisters, and can’t imagine the heartache you must be suffering from at this moment.”

Anderson sat quiet. “Thank you, Detective Queen,” he finally said, his dry lips barely visible under the mustache. “You were the one who found her body?”

“Yes, it was me,” Queen replied.

In the next ten minutes Queen told Anderson the case’s relevant facts, starting with where Maisy had been found—that fact couldn’t be changed, because too many witnesses had seen the body. Then he assured the old man that her death was nothing more than an unfortunate accident, the result of too much careless celebratory behavior. He left out the details of the fence and the fall, and Dander, of course played no part in the story. Although when he mentioned where she was found, between Eighth and Ninth Streets near the Church of the Redeemer, he saw Anderson bristle. He’s obviously familiar with Hell’s Half-Acre, Queen thought.

When Queen finished his story, there was silence. Anderson sat back, his elbows tense on the chair’s arms, looking down into nothing. Queen gestured to Cahill for a glass of water, and Cahill scuttled out, deep concern furrowing his young face. Minutes passed as Anderson stayed lost in thought. Cahill came and went with the water. Queen was a man of action, never satisfied to just sit and wait, but he felt guilt after he’d concluded his tale. That, along with the deep, forlorn grooves in Anderson’s weathered face and sad eyes that seemed dead with grief, made him decide to give the sheriff his time.

Finally, Anderson stirred, shaking and raising his head. He gave Queen a hard fierce stare, eyes blazing. Queen felt himself blanching slightly at the change in Anderson’s countenance.

“Take me to see her, please, Detective.” The words came out tight and terse. Queen only nodded. Let’s get this over with, he thought.

He’s lying to me, Anderson deduced, as he adjusted the Colts in their holsters. Anderson had met enough liars in his life to know this Queen fellow was hiding something. There weren’t any of the usual telltale signs of dishonesty. Queen hadn’t averted his eyes, or touched his face while spinning his story. The detective was firm, direct, and sympathetic at the most appropriate times, in fact so polished that Anderson’s suspicions rose with each sweep of Queen’s hand, each rise or fall of inflection in his voice. He had received a short and to-the-point explanation of what had happened to his granddaughter, completely and utterly poppycock. Too damn perfect. His friend Martin Baum had warned him about Queen’s reputation for bad behavior, but he hadn’t been prepared for how skilled he was in the art of deception.

They said nothing to each other as Anderson followed. Walking with gritted teeth, Queen cleared a path through the large assembly room, wanting nothing more than to be done with the prying sheriff. Patrolmen moved out of Queen’s way when they saw him approach, and Anderson wondered whether that was out of respect or fear. Baum had warned him about Detective Queen’s double-handedness, and he was definitely on guard. Anderson put on his slouch hat as they stepped onto the busy sidewalk.

“The morgue is a few blocks away.” Queen said. Anderson’s legs were longer than Queen’s and in two broad steps matched his pace. “Once you’ve identified the body as your granddaughter’s, we can make arrangements for transportation to Bemidji for the funeral. Normally the Police Department doesn’t get involved with matters like this, but under the circumstances, we’d be happy to assist you.”

Assist me in getting out of Minneapolis as quickly as possible is more like it, Anderson thought. And why special circumstances for me, as opposed to any other investigation this serious?

“I’ll take that into consideration, Detective,” Anderson said.

Queen was hailing a cab when Cahill ran up behind them.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to come. I haven’t been to the morgue yet.” His face turned red with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful, Mr. Anderson. I hope neither of you mind if I tag behind.”

“I don’t mind,” Anderson said, noticing Queen shake his head in chagrin.

They took the cab for four blocks without conversation, getting out in front of a plain, two-story brick building at 815 South Fourth Street.

“The County Morgue,” Queen explained as he paid the driver. “I called ahead and Superintendent Walsh agreed to meet us. He’s been eager to confirm identification.”

Keeper Walsh was, as promised, there to greet them when they arrived. He was a dignified, good-looking middle-aged man with a brown mustache and an athlete’s build. Walsh immediately took Anderson’s hand, putting his other hand on Anderson’s elbow, and locked eyes with him.

“I am so very sorry for your loss, Mr. Anderson. Words cannot describe. Your granddaughter Maisy was a lovely young woman.”

Anderson winced slightly, taken aback at the mention of her name, but also felt gratitude for the genuine sympathy. “Thank you.”

“I wish I had been present when she was found. Mr. Queen might have told you I was out of town.” He looked to Queen, who nodded confirmation. “Our one and only family holiday. New Year’s is typically a quiet time for my line of work. Except for the occasional suicide.” Walsh solemnly held his hands behind his back as they walked into what appeared to be a reception room. “I’m sorry the coroner isn’t here, but that position is in flux at the moment. In with the old, and out with the new. My time is short here, as well.”

“My regrets on that,” Queen said. “We’ve worked together on many cases.”

“I think a new change of scenery will do me well,” Walsh replied. “I’ve seen some horrible things. It wears you down after a while.”

“We shared the witness stand at the Hayward trial,” Queen said. “Remember that? You were called up six times.”

“Miss Ging was in the most unfortunate physical state when she arrived,” Walsh said with a sigh. “Coroner Spring was here then. When we examined the body, I found her left eye gouged out. I picked up the eyeball, and the bullet that had caused her death fell out of her head. When we looked further, we found that the bullet had entered the back of her head. Dirty work.”

Anderson stood, silent and uncomfortable, and Walsh seemed to sense he probably had said too much. His cheeks grew pink and he hung his head slightly.

“My apologies, sir. This isn’t the time to reminisce, especially on this particular topic.”

From the reception room they entered what appeared to be a poor man’s courtroom. Six chairs lined a side wall, a judge’s desk stood elevated at one end, along with a witness chair and a small gallery.

“This is the inquest room. Whenever there is the slightest question as to the reason for death, witnesses are called before a jury of six, and a determination is made. Typically, though, it reaffirms whatever judgment the coroner has already decided,” Walsh said. “We’ll continue to the back, where the bodies are kept.”

The bodies were kept in a dead room, Anderson knew, but Walsh was being considerate enough not to say the words. He wasn’t, however, yet finished with the matter of the inquest. As a sheriff in a small western town, he’d been accustomed to these duties being conducted by local mortuaries. Rarely were official inquests done—in his own personal experience—but it was interesting that Queen hadn’t mentioned any inquest. In a major metropolis like Minneapolis, he thought, inquests were probably automatic. This would need to be settled.

“What was the outcome of the inquest for my granddaughter?” he asked Keeper Walsh.

Walsh looked questioningly at Queen. “Have you discussed this with Mr. Anderson?”

Anderson turned to Queen for his answer. Cahill, standing behind Queen, looked away, to examine some chipped paint on the wall. Queen gave Anderson a reassuring smile, and put his hand comfortingly on the sheriff’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should visit your granddaughter now, and review this later, at my office. I’m sure Mr. Walsh is busy.”

“You seem to enjoy reminiscing about old times,” Anderson said. “Why not a brief discussion about the inquest? When was it held?”

Queen paused for a moment. “There wasn’t one,” he finally said.

Anderson stared at him hard. “And why not?”

“There wasn’t an inquest because the case was cut and dried. It was an accident. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Walsh, but when there is no doubt as to the nature of the death, an inquest is not requested.”

“How do you know for certain?” Anderson asked. The questions he had held back in his grief were bubbling to the surface now, giving way to indignation over being lied to. Something strange was going on here, and he wanted to know what it was.

“There are scads of saloons in that part of Minneapolis,” Queen replied. “When the clock struck midnight, guns went off like wildfire. Stray bullets flew everywhere. It was a grim, grievous accident. There were no witnesses.”

“So did you visit the saloons and question the owners? Find out which patrons went out and fired their weapons? Did you try to match the bullet to a gun? Did you do anything to find witnesses?” Anderson’s eyes were cold. “A famous detective like you, one would assume, would get the answers quickly.”

“I did,” Queen returned. “Rounds were made and questions were asked. Nothing surfaced that added to the case.”

“Another question, detective. One that has been bothering me since I got your telegram. Perhaps I should have asked you, back in the privacy of your office, but the moment passed. I won’t let it pass again.” He pulled on his long mustache, smoothing it out and curling it up. “How did you identify her as Maisy Anderson? Who told you that name?”

“A young boy who had befriended her told me her first name. The sheriff in Minot gave me the last.”

“This boy you speak of. What was the nature of their friendship? Can you tell me what she had been doing? How she had made her living? Was she under some kind of duress?”

Queen’s eyes grew dark and serious. “The boy who might answer these questions more fully, sheriff, is currently missing. He said they were passing acquaintances. I had a limited time to question him, and now he’s disappeared.”

Cahill cleared his throat. “Sheriff Anderson, on behalf of Police Superintendent Ames, the department wants to officially offer its condolences. Rest assured, sir, if Detective Queen says it was an accident, it was.” His eyes narrowed a little as he glanced at Queen. “He is not a man to cut corners.”

I believe that, Anderson thought. He isn’t a man to cut corners. He is thorough and calculating, but not a careless man.

“After we finish here, Detective Cahill, I want you to take me to the site of her death. I want to see where it happened. As you may know,” he met both Queen’s and Walsh’s eyes, “my granddaughter disappeared two years ago. Perhaps seeing the surroundings she moved in might help put some of the pieces together for me.”

“I don’t really know anything about it, sir,” Cahill said.

“Don’t you think, though,” Queen said, a look of deep concern on his face, “that perhaps after a funeral, you might want to rest? Our hands are currently tied with police business and a new administration, but once the dust settles I will personally try to answer those final questions for you. If she was in trouble, I will try to find the people who might have forced her into that position.”

“That would be fine, Detective Queen,” Anderson said. “I’d rather know sooner, though.” He turned to Walsh. “Do you have her clothes and other belongings?”

Walsh nodded. “Yes, we have her things in a locker. She was wearing a silk gown and a boy’s jacket. I don’t know under what circumstances she lived her life, of course.” he blushed again, hesitating. “The dress was quite revealing. I feel uncomfortable mentioning this to you, sir.”

Anderson felt his heart sink. That wasn’t like his Maisy at all, and confirmed his worst fears. She was never the type of girl who dressed immodestly. Yes, she was high-spirited, but always careful to protect her reputation. The neighborhood she was discovered in, he knew, was called Hell’s Half-Acre. He was well aware of its unsavory character, having toured it with Martin Baum the last time he was in Minneapolis searching for her. It was a wretched, stinking, frightening block, and his stomach twisted like a wrench as the pieces came together.