ON THE MORNING of Zebulon Archer’s funeral, an obituary in the Times eulogized the deceased as a model citizen, loved by his wife, trusted and admired by his friends and colleagues. It detailed Archer’s rise from itinerant Southern carpenter to West Coast lumber tycoon and budding seaside developer, a pillar of the business community who had dedicated his life to transforming San Diego from a one-horse town into a dynamic metropolis that would soon challenge San Francisco as the powerhouse of the Pacific. The article went on to say that his tragic death had shaken not only those close to Archer, but the very foundation of local society.
His funeral unfolded in the new Baptist Church at the confluence of Tenth and E streets on the east side of town, an imposing clapboard structure with a towering steeple that could be seen for miles around. The mourners constituted a veritable who’s who of local business, government, and society, including Mayor Hunsaker, Sheriff Coyne, Fabian Kendall, and the aging Alonzo Horton—the father of modern San Diego and mastermind of nearly everything that now surrounded them on the arid flats beside the bay.
Also in attendance were Cradoc Bradshaw and Nick Pinder, although for far different reasons. Nick was busy creating tomorrow’s front page, telling Wendell Smith which mourners to interview after the service and directing Elliot Patterson on the best angles for photographs. Nick clearly relished his pivotal role, knowing that most of the eyes in the congregation were on him rather than the casket. His only regret was that Mrs. Archer—given the appalling condition of her husband’s face and the rather limited cosmetic talent of local undertakers—had opted for a closed coffin. What a photograph that would have made!
Cradoc hovered near the rear of the church, a detached observer. What a load of hypocrites, he thought to himself. There wasn’t a person present—except maybe the widow—that actually regretted Archer’s passing, himself included. In Cradoc’s mind, the world was better off without the likes of Zebulon Archer and his greed and prejudice, bullying and backstabbing. On the other hand, upholding the law was his sworn duty. And whether he liked it or not, that duty included ascertaining the who, what, when, where, how, and why of Archer’s untimely death.
About ten minutes into the funeral, Clive Bennett stumbled through the open doors at the back of the church and snuffed out his cigar in an empty collection tray.
“Class act, Clive,” a voice murmured from the shadows.
Not the least bit mortified, the publisher turned around and smirked at the marshal. “The least of my sins.”
Cradoc had always thought of Clive as a bit of a snake—manipulative, cunning, and at times downright sleazy. But he respected the man for knowing his job and doing it damn well. And although he would have been hard-pressed to admit it out loud, Cradoc was impressed by the way that Clive had transformed Nick from an aimless wastrel into a slick reporter and talented scribe.
“I have a morbid fascination with death,” Clive declared. “But what brings you here, Marshal?”
“Simply paying my last respects.”
“Come now, Cradoc. How long have we known each other? You never do anything that isn’t somehow connected to solving a crime.”
The marshal shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
But he actually did have an ulterior motive. Cradoc had once read a book about a lawman who had fingered the killer at the burial of the deceased. The marshal had been to an awful lot of funerals and it hadn’t yet worked for him. But who knew? Maybe someday he’d get lucky. But shit if he was going to relate any of that to Clive Bennett, who would likely scoff at the notion, or use it as the cornerstone of some trumped-up story that would land Cradoc in hot water with the folks who paid his salary. Better to keep his trap shut and cards close to his chest.
“Enjoy the funeral, Clive,” he said with a wave of his hat, and then he slipped out the back door. Cradoc figured he’d seen enough. Besides, he had a more important place to be.
Wyatt was just riding up in front of the church. Clad in a spiffy pinstriped suit and a brand-new bowler, he was the picture of modern sartorial elegance.
“Aren’t we the dandy,” Cradoc teased.
“It wouldn’t hurt to invest in some threads yourself. Certainly help you with the ladies.”
“I don’t need help with the ladies.”
“Yeah, you gotta beat ‘em off with a stick.”
One of Wyatt’s ongoing obsessions—and there were many—was playing matchmaker to whomever he deemed romantically deficient. First and foremost Marshal Cradoc Bradshaw, who wasn’t so much unlucky with women as disinterested in the female gender. When they’d first met, both had been unattached and perpetually on the prowl. Not a single female between the Mississippi and the Rockies had been immune to their charms and small talk. It would have been nigh impossible to say which lad was the greater ladies’ man back in the day. Yet in recent years, Cradoc had transformed into a wallflower, and Wyatt into a friend determined to save him from “heart failure,” as the legendary lawman called it.
“I didn’t ask you along to nag me,” Cradoc grumbled as he crawled into his saddle.
“Just saying,” Wyatt said innocently.
He wasn’t the type to give up that easy on anything, but especially a cause as worthy as Cradoc. Sooner or later, he would succeed in his romantic endeavor, because the great and mighty Mr. Earp had never known the meaning of the word failure.
Rather than ride along the main road north out of San Diego, they decided to shortcut through Presidio Canyon. About half a mile up the gorge, they skirted around the edge of an earthen dam and reservoir that supplied much of San Diego’s drinking water. Beyond the lake, the trail climbed steeply through sagebrush and cactus onto a broad mesa. Off to the west, they could see Hillcrest, another new subdivision developers were trying to foist upon the tide of migrants.
“Weren’t you thinking of buying some acreage up here?” Cradoc asked.
“Already have. Two small lots. And you should do the same. They’re dirt cheap. Even you can afford them.”
“I’ve already got a home.”
“That’s not the point. We’re talking investment here. The way prices are rising, those lots are already worth more than I plunked down. I’m thinking of building a couple of small houses, renting them out.”
The marshal rolled his eyes “Who’d wanna live way out here?”
“That’s the same thing you said about Coronado and La Jolla. And look what’s happening there. You really should get in on this, Cradoc. Before it’s too late.”
“Like I said, I already got a home.”
“Yeah, but you don’t own it. You don’t even rent. Eventually, they’re gonna develop that stretch of waterfront too, and you’ll be plum out of luck.”
Cradoc had an answer for that, too. “I got money stashed away.”
“You think banks are any better? This may come as a surprise to someone who’s been in law enforcement the better part of a decade, but banks do get robbed on occasion.”
“Not on my watch.”
“You think every criminal on the face of this Earth knows that big, bad Cradoc Bradshaw is guarding San Diego? Someday someone is gonna turn up who doesn’t know—or doesn’t give a shit—who you are or what you’ve done in the past. And they just might decide to rob the bank where you stash your cash. What then, my friend? No home, no money, and no dignity, because you didn’t listen to your old friend Wyatt Earp when he told you to buy land and build a house.”
Cradoc hawked and spat, his way of telling Wyatt to piss off. “Sometimes I think money is the only reason you came to San Diego.”
“Maybe it is,” Wyatt said with a shrug.
There wasn’t a man, woman, or child who didn’t know why Wyatt and Josie had fled Tombstone. After the famous shootout with the Claytons and subsequent violence, Wyatt had become persona non grata in the Arizona Territory. Didn’t matter how spurious the charges might have been. The remaining Claytons had enough allies in local government to ensure a noose around Wyatt’s neck if he should ever set foot back in Arizona.
Mr. and Mrs. Earp could have moved anywhere. They could have gone to Kansas or Texas, where Wyatt had previously labored as a lawman, gambler, and saloon owner. Or maybe up to Frisco, Josie’s hometown. They could have settled down in Colton, the bustling railroad junction near San Bernardino where one of Wyatt’s brothers had got himself elected sheriff. But of all the places on the map, they chose San Diego. Economics had definitely figured into their decision; the grapevine whispered that between his three saloons, Wyatt easily cleared at least a thousand dollars per day. Yet there were lots of places out West where the Earps could have raked in that kind of money. What made San Diego special was the presence of one Cradoc Bradshaw, Wyatt’s old sidekick from Kansas. With Josie around, the two of them couldn’t light the town on fire like their younger days. But there were still plenty of good times to be had. And crimes to be solved. Even though Wyatt no longer wore a badge, the tug of an unsolved crime still pulled at him. Puzzles to be solved. Riddles to be answered. Something to keep the brain alive while you’re shucking cards and pouring booze for the hoi polloi.
Soon, the trail plunged from the mesa into Mission Valley, carved by the San Diego River on its way from the Cuyamaca Mountains to the Pacific Ocean and named after the old Spanish mission that now lay in ruins. Tucked between pastures and wheat fields in the valley bottom, the County Hospital & Poor Farm featured a special operating room for amputations and doctors highly proficient in the draining of abscesses. Those who could not afford medical treatment worked off their debt on the adjoining poor farm, tending to apricots, figs, and peaches that the hospital hawked at no small profit to hotels and restaurants in town. Indigent women deemed unsuitable to work the orchards were pressed into service boiling the fruit into the preserves bottled and sold by the hospital. Upon hearing that the boys were headed out that way, Josie had instructed her husband to purchase two jars of apricot jam.
An Indian kid stationed in front of the administrative building took charge of the horses as Cradoc and Wyatt dismounted. Inside the clapboard structure, a uniformed matron greeted them with a message that Dr. LeFevre would meet them in the morgue. Having been here on numerous occasions, Cradoc did not have to be shown the way. The most direct route was via the North Ward and its gauntlet of coughing, hacking, and desperately wheezing patients. But the marshal preferred a more roundabout—and presumably much less hazardous—route past the staff dining room and around the outside of the sick ward.
The morgue stood at the northernmost end of the hospital grounds, conveniently tucked between the Old Men’s Quarters (where many of the morgue’s occupants originated) and the hospital carpentry shop (where their coffins were manufactured). The windowless room was slap dark as they entered.
“This place got a light?” asked Wyatt, striking a match on the side of his boot.
The match flickered long enough for them to locate a wall switch that activated a single, overhead electric bulb. The room was larger than it looked from afar, the walls covered in white porcelain tiles and the air a good twenty degrees cooler than outside. The concrete floor sloped to a drain in the center of the room. Arrayed around this hole were three wooden tables, only one of them occupied at the present time.
Waiting for LeFevre to arrive, Cradoc found himself studying a diagram of the body’s internal organs on the wall beside the front door. Wyatt, on the other hand—the living embodiment of curiosity got the cat—made a beeline for the sheet-covered corpse.
“Good Lord!” Earp blurted out.
Cradoc turned around to see him peering beneath the sheet. “Goddamn it, Wyatt. Have some respect.”
“She don’t look dead. Come and see.”
Beneath the sheet lay a young female, possibly a teenager, but certainly no older than twenty-one or twenty-two. Red hair. Rosy cheeks. Voluptuous body. Indeed, she did not appear dead. Cradoc figured she looked like a princess in a fairytale—a gorgeous woman trapped in a deep and abiding slumber.
Wyatt (being Wyatt) could not resist the temptation to touch the corpse, not in any sort of carnal way, but out of the innate inquisitiveness that had always been such a part of his being. “No pulse,” he said, fingering her wrist.
“What’d you expect?” asked Cradoc.
“But she don’t look dead!” Wyatt repeated. “Don’t feel it either.”
“That’s because she only recently passed,” said a voice from behind.
Poised just inside the door was a man in a long, white medical coat, his hair and beard nearly as pale as his clothing. Dr. Joe LeFevre was many things to many people—superintendent of the county hospital, official county physician, and the only medical examiner within a hundred miles. However, he was not the coroner, that being an elected position that required far more time in court (answering questions and reading medical reports) than it did in the actual morgue.
“What killed her?” asked Wyatt, still clutching the dead girl’s wrist.
“Rickettsia typhi.”
“My Latin’s a little rusty.”
“Typhus,” LeFevre said simply.
The girl’s hand hit the table like a lead weight, as Wyatt flinched and jumped away.
“Not to worry,” the doctor said. “It’s the endemic variety. Carried by rats and fleas. Quite common, really.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Wyatt, wiping his hand on his pants, not the least bit reassured.
LeFevre had a cardboard file tucked beneath one arm, the autopsy report on Zebulon Archer, which he opened on one of the empty examination tables. He skimmed through the inventory of injuries. “Needless to say, the extent of bodily harm was quite considerable. This includes multiple bone fractures, abrasions, dislocations, contusions, and extensive muscle damage. Both arms broken in several spots, every single rib fractured, both shoulders and ankles dislocated, and massive blunt-force trauma to the skull that resulted in internal bleeding and most likely brain damage. Exactly what one might expect when falling from a great height. But several things make me think that most of these injuries did not occur during the victim’s descent down the cliff.”
Cradoc’s ears perked up. “Like?”
“For one thing, there is little or no damage to the crown of the victim’s skull. In other words, despite falling headfirst, Mr. Archer did not land on his head. And the catastrophic damage to the rest of the upper body is widespread rather than concentrated in a single point of impact. Which leads me to believe the victim’s downward momentum was interrupted—most likely by the rope around his ankles.”
“Then how’d he get all banged up?” asked Wyatt.
“We will perhaps never know for sure,” LeFevre surmised, “but I believe most of the damage resulted from the victim being repeatedly battered against the adjacent cliff by the surf and incoming tide. Flung, so to speak, like a rag doll. Both of the ankles were badly bruised and abraded by the aforementioned rope. But what I find a trifle odd is the fact that neither one of the victim’s ankles is dislocated. And neither is the spine.”
“Why should they be?” asked Cradoc.
“The laws of physics,” LeFevre quickly rejoined. “Archer weighed roughly two hundred and fifty pounds. And two hundred and fifty pounds of anything falling a hundred feet generates an awful lot of energy. That energy is diffused either by coming into contact with something solid—like the ground—or a massive wrenching effect on whatever is holding it back. In this case, that would be a rope. Both of Archer’s ankles should have been yanked right out of their sockets, and I would have expected some sort of spinal dislocation.”
Cradoc couldn’t figure where LeFevre was getting at. “In plain English, Doc.”
“I believe—and this is only a theory—that Mr. Archer was slowly and very gently lowered down the cliff. And only then did most of his injuries occur.”
“Is that what killed him?” the marshal asked. “All that getting knocked around?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” LeFevre declared. “Most of the aforementioned injuries were sustained pre-mortem. The actual cause of death was drowning. Both lungs were saturated with salt residue. I would estimate that Mr. Archer swallowed several gallons of seawater. An impossible feat when one is already dead.”
“So Archer was alive—and possibly conscious—while he was getting bashed against the cliffs?”
“Alive for sure. As for how long the man was conscious, that’s anyone’s guess. But I think it’s a reasonable assumption that Mr. Archer’s demise was neither slow nor pain-free. Certainly not the means by which I hope to meet my maker one day.”
Flipping the autopsy report around on the examination table, the marshal turned to the final page, the doctor’s decision on the manner of death. “Homicide,” Cradoc read out loud.
“Most definitely,” said LeFevre. “As to whether or not it was cold-blooded murder, drunken folly—or assisted suicide, as some suggest—that is not for me to say. But there was another human being involved in this. Of that, I am most confident. The only other assistance I can offer is this—” The doctor removed a small object from the breast pocket of his lab coat and held it aloft. “I found this lodged in the victim’s left ear canal. I’m not sure what it might be, perhaps jetsam or flotsam from the sea.”
But the marshal recognized the item at once—a pottery chard of the same color and texture as the ones he’d discovered beside the Cliff House latrines. Cradoc immediately saw the crime unfold in his mind. Archer smashed over the head by a whiskey jug … dragged along behind a horse … trussed up and lowered into Devil’s Cove … battered against the cliff and eventually overcome by water. Someone had wanted Archer gone, and they had planned for him to die in this precise manner. Not just an ordinary passing, but a torturous and agonizing death of the sort that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.
Following their confab with LeFevre, Cradoc and his sidekick swung by the small hospital shop so Wyatt could purchase the apricot jam for Josie.
“Do you know the new editor over at the Union?” Cradoc asked as they moved back out into the sunshine.
“You already know I know him. You’ve seen him at the Oyster on more than one occasion.”
“Can you introduce me?”
“Am I allowed to enquire as to why?”
Cradoc looked at him with wily eyes. “Don’t see why Nick has to get all the good stories.”
“You low-down dirty dog,” Wyatt sniggered. “You’re gonna leak the autopsy to the Union?”
“Not the whole damn thing. Just the salient points. Like the fact that Archer was most definitely killed by someone else.”
Wyatt shook his head in wonderment. “God strike me down if I ever cross you.”