A year after the Goodrich killer was caught, Mary Handley and Chief Campbell left the Brooklyn courthouse together, both happy the case was over. It wasn’t the trial of Kate Stoddard or Lizzie King or whatever she was calling herself. She never had a trial. Under a new law, she had been sentenced to the State Lunatic Asylum at Auburn for the rest of her life. On this day, the particular case that had been tried was one that Mary had brought against the Brooklyn Police Department. They—meaning Jourdan and Briggs—had refused to pay her the fifteen-hundred-dollar bonus she was promised if she caught the Goodrich killer. W. W. Goodrich had weaseled out of paying the thirty-five-hundred-dollar reward he had pledged, using as a loophole the fact that he had stated the killer must be tried and convicted. He was technically right. Briggs and Jourdan weren’t. They simply thought Mary would back down—another gross miscalculation on their part. She got her money.
Mary and Chief Campbell stood on the steps as they watched two very sore losers leave the courthouse and hurry into their carriages.
“If they think they’re upset now, this will seem like a picnic on Monday,” said Chief Campbell. “That’s when I start my job as superintendent of police.”
“My Lord, Chief, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!”
Mary had been concerned about Chief Campbell. Months before, Jourdan and Briggs had fired him, citing his incompetence in the Goodrich case. It was a lie, it was outrageous, but they were the commissioners and it stuck.
An entertaining thought crossed her mind. “Chief, that means you’re their boss. You can…”
“Yes, I can,” he said, and he didn’t just smile. He grinned.
“I wish I could be there for that.”
“Firing them will no doubt ease the pain of being confined to a desk. I’m contemplating hiring a photographer and memorializing the event for all eternity.”
Mary and Chief Campbell laughed, enjoying their victories, then Mary got serious.
“Chief, I can’t thank you enough for testifying on my behalf.”
“You were only asking me to tell the truth,” he said, and then reminded Mary of her lament the year before. “It seems there is some justice left in the world.”
They shook hands and parted. They had formed a friendship that would last, whether they worked together or not.
On her way home Mary tried not to dwell on her disappointment that capturing the Goodrich killer hadn’t resulted in her garnering any other cases. There were positives. Her notoriety had diminished, but there was enough to get her a job in a Brooklyn bookstore where customers liked getting recommendations from the woman who had caught the Goodrich killer. It didn’t pay much, but it was more than the Lowry Hat Factory and she enjoyed such amenities as occasional breaks and access to all that was new in the literary world. She had gotten used to the possibility that Goodrich was her first and last case and that settling for something less than detective work might not be that bad. She had recently started to plan how she could combine the fifteen-hundred-dollar reward money with hard work to accomplish her second choice in life: becoming a doctor. Mary never thought small.
She found two letters waiting for her at home. One of them was from Charles Pemberton, and she eagerly opened it. She hadn’t heard from Charles in a while and was very curious how he was. The letter was long, rambling, and sometimes incoherent, but she was able to glean some information from it. John Pemberton had passed away, but not before selling Coca-Cola to a man named Asa Candler for a mere twenty-three hundred dollars. The family was experiencing serious financial difficulties, and though he didn’t say so, it was clear to Mary that Charles’s morphine habit had returned. He didn’t even make an attempt at hiding his lack of lucidity. Mary wanted to write him back and print in big letters, “GET HELP!” But she’d just be stating the obvious, and it would do no good. Charles was right. It was best they had separated. It wasn’t lost on Mary that her desire for an unconventional mate had resulted in unforeseen complications. Maybe she needed to reexamine that notion.
The second letter was from a woman in Chicago. Three weeks ago, during the worst rainstorm in Chicago history, her husband had gone for a stroll and never returned. The police were treating her as a hysterical woman whose husband had just simply run out on her. She contended her husband would never do that, not because their marriage was so strong but rather because he would never leave their pet dog. He adored the despicable beast beyond any reason, and it was still living with her. If Mary could find a way to get to Chicago, she had a place for her to stay and could afford to pay her four dollars a week.
Mary put the letter down. She understood why the police hadn’t responded to this woman. She sounded seriously off-kilter, just the type a husband might leave without a word. The offer was also a paltry one, and quite possibly not genuine. She could give up her bookstore job and travel all the way to Chicago for nothing. It was definitely not worth it. She had a new career plan, and she was going to follow it.
Mary was thirsty and decided to make herself some lemonade. She filled a glass with water, then took out a couple of lemons and sugar. As she squeezed the lemons into her glass, she admitted that she might be judging the Chicago woman too harshly. The fact that her husband would not leave his wife because he loved his dog seemed a little extreme, but then Mary knew of a man who had run into a burning house to save his cat. The cat was found outside, safe and sound, but the man had perished. It was unusual for the woman to express hatred of her pet. Pets were considered sacred by many, but so were children, and Mary had heard many parents, including her own mother, speak disparagingly about theirs.
Mary decided she would go down to the train station and find out the cost of a ticket to Chicago. Purely to gather information. How can a person make a decision without having all the facts? Not that she would ever consider going. Well, at least it was highly unlikely. Though maybe, just maybe, if the ticket was cheap enough, and if the bookstore owner would give her a leave of absence…He might. He was a nice man and being involved in another case would raise her profile and help business. And if he did, it was just possible she would get the answer to a question that had been nagging at her for some time.
Why did men like this woman’s husband and Senator Conkling take strolls in such inclement weather?