By day, Mulberry Street streams with people, wagons, and animals, but this night it is completely dark except for the bright light of the watch house halfway down.
Snuffy slows down, and Walt Whitman grips the rifle tight. “They’ll blame me for the sheriff’s death, you know.”
“But I saw it,” Walt says. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“You don’t understand the people we work for,” Snuffy says. “You don’t know Samuel Clement.” And now he turns around. His face is red and sweaty. “They’ll hang me and be done with it.” The look on Snuffy’s face tells Walt more than his words. He’s terrified.
“I’ll see to it that you’re not blamed for the murder,” Walt says even though he’s not sure he believes it himself.
“You could let me go,” Snuffy says. “I’m a grave robber, not a murderer.”
“You didn’t kill the sheriff, but what about Abraham Stowe? What do you know about his death?”
Snuffy shakes his head. “You know I hate that fucker Clement, the things he does. And now he will do it to me. You watch.”
“What happened to Dr. Stowe?”
Snuffy says nothing. He shuffles to the watch house entrance, opens the door, and goes inside.
Screams and laughter ring out of every corner, and everybody present needs a shave and a change of clothing. In a row of chairs against the back wall sit men in handcuffs, a few of them passed out, a few more of them the belligerent sort that might spontaneously explode. The guard, a tall, broad man, watches over them with his gun raised. He’s the kind who will not hesitate to beat any one of these men senseless, and they all know it.
The guard turns to Walt. “Can I help you?”
“I need to see the deputy.”
“Back there, then,” the guard says. “But you’ll have to wait your turn.” He looks Snuffy up and down. “Who is the asshole with you?”
“Now, why would you go and say that?” Snuffy says. “Maybe he’s the asshole.”
“My money is on you,” the guard says.
“I’d prefer to discuss Mr. Warren with Deputy Petty now,” Walt says. “It can’t wait.”
“Go on, then,” the guard says. “You can approach him. If it’s urgent like you say.”
Walt nudges Snuffy forward, the two of them near the corner desk where Petty is deep in conversation with a man sitting with his back to them. At the sight of Whitman with Snuffy in tow, both men stop talking, and the man turns.
“Walt?” Henry Saunders says. “I was just reporting you missing.”
“That saves me some paperwork, then,” Petty says.
“I’m afraid not,” Walt says. “Sheriff Harris has been shot.”
Petty jumps out of his seat. “Where?”
“Near the Fulton Ferry,” he says. “Someone called Clement shot Harris, and then he sent this man, James Warren, after me, and well, that didn’t quite work out.”
The deputy stands still for a moment, contemplating his move, and then maneuvers around the desk. He knocks Snuffy to the ground with his forearm, puts his knee in Snuffy’s back, and cuffs him.
“They’re too tight,” Snuffy says.
“Better get used to it.” Petty lifts the man to his feet and pushes him toward the back door leading to the jail. “That noose gets pretty tight when the trapdoor opens.” Petty glances behind him at Walt and Henry. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Whitman lets the deputy past him, and the deputy’s voice can be heard in the next room, first commanding Warren to get into the cell and then calling his men to the ready. The sound of boots scuffling on wood, rifles being removed from the wall racks, and then the pack of them burst through the door, past Whitman and Saunders and into the night.
Henry turns to Walt. “How did you get away?”
Walt tells him about the selling of the body, Jack Harris’s surprise appearance, and the shooting. When Walt is finished, Henry embraces him.
“I’m so relieved.” Henry releases Walt, steps back. “You have no idea how worried I was.”
“So what now?” Whitman says. “Is the deputy coming back?”
“I don’t know.” Henry touches Walt’s swollen cheek. “Does it hurt?”
It does, but Walt doesn’t want him to stop. “It hurts some.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“What do you think of the deputy? Can we trust him?”
“I don’t have a read on him yet,” Henry says, “but my sources say he’s a good man not yet corrupted.”
The mustachioed deputy returns, limping as if his left leg is shorter than his right, and sits across the desk from them. “I’ve sent my best men to see if they can find Harris, and they’ll move Warren to the Tombs in the morning. “How about a drink?” Petty stands and retrieves a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard behind his desk and pours three glasses.
“Thank you.” Whitman picks up the glass and drinks. The warmth comes quickly, easing the pain in his head.
“So there was another man?” The deputy takes his chair again.
“Yes,” Walt says, “the one who pulled the trigger.”
“Did you get the name?”
“As I said, it’s Samuel Clement.”
“Clement, eh?” The deputy takes up his pencil and records the name, then puts down the pencil and rubs his forehead. “And you saw him pull the trigger?”
Walt nods.
The deputy takes up his pencil and writes a bit more. “Now tell me: Why were you two at the graveyard?”
The two men look at each other.
“It will come out sooner or later,” Saunders says, looking at Whitman. “I’m the editor of the Aurora newspaper, and we are doing a story on the resurrection men.”
Petty says, “So you decided to stake out the graveyard and see how these people operate?”
Walt nods. “We believe there’s a connection between Abraham Stowe’s death and the resurrection men.”
“Harris told me about you,” Petty says, “and I thought we were past all this nonsense. What happened was surely tragic, but—” He sets his pencil down again and looks first at Saunders, then at Whitman. “Now, I’m only going to say this once. You two are putting your noses where they don’t belong.”
“But, sir—” Walt says.
“No, let me finish. The Stowe investigation was conducted by our best people. They found the same arsenic on Mrs. Stowe as they did in her husband’s body.” He pauses. “And we found a clear motive.”
Whitman puts his elbow on the desk. “You mean Abraham’s affair with the cigar girl?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business.” Petty takes a drink. “Then you go after these body snatchers, and I don’t think I have to tell you what went wrong there. Dangerous bunch with nothing to lose.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re very lucky to be alive, mister.”
“I just hand-delivered one of the men involved in the sheriff’s murder,” Walt says. “You could show some gratitude.”
“Keep your nose out of our business and mind what you write. Folks here get mighty irritated when reporters publish wild accusations to promote their own careers.”
Whitman says, “That sounds like a threat.”
Deputy Petty sits back, leans his elbows on the desk, and puts his hands under his chin. “If what you say is true, then we lost one of our own tonight. A good man, Jack Harris, and I’ll have to tell his wife he’s dead. Imagine that.” He shakes his head and wipes his eyes. “Forgive me.” He reads over the report, makes a few notes, and slides it across the desk. “Read this over and if you have no changes, sign it.”
Walt reads the report, and he worries that Snuffy was right after all. If they can’t get Clement, they may just let Snuffy take the fall for all of them, and he says so to the deputy.
The deputy looks as if he’s going to jump across the desk at Walt.
Henry intervenes. “Thank you, Deputy.”
“Look,” Deputy Petty says, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. What happened tonight is a tragedy, and your testimony will help us arrest the man responsible. For that we thank you, but you’ll understand if I don’t get too excited about a couple of reporters who think we botched a murder investigation.”
Walt can’t help himself. “What if Mrs. Stowe didn’t kill her husband?”
Petty folds his hands and leans over the table. “What if she did?”
The two men stare at each other until Henry taps Walt on the shoulder.
“Sign this so we can leave.”
Walt feels Petty’s eyes on him while he reads the report, which is accurate. Still, he thinks, the deputy is withholding something.
Henry squeezes his shoulder. “Just sign it.”
Walt does and passes the sheet across the desk.
“Thank you,” Petty says. “We’ll be in touch.”
Walt stands. “So will we.”