The Death Instinct

'Their source?'

'Death, Captain,' said Dr Prince. 'Death releases this energy into the air. If a true catastrophe is looming, the disturbance becomes such that a sensitive individual may become highly troubled by it. He may be aware of exactly when and where it will occur. He may see an aura around people who are soon to die. Or he may see images of the disaster beforehand, as I did, and as Mr Middleton did. That is what happened to Edwin Fischer.'

Littlemore nodded. He didn't accept, but he didn't judge. 'Can they ever know more?' he asked. 'Like who's behind it?'

'I've never heard of that. There is evidence that the souls of the murdered, reached in the spirit world, can tell you who killed them, but I know of no cases documenting such foreknowledge in the living. Are you interested in contacting a medium? I have a very gifted one.'

'I'll take a rain check on that, Dr Prince.'

'Would it be helpful to know when the attack was conceived?'

'Could be very helpful,' said Littlemore. 'You think Fischer might know?'

'In cases of deliberate slaying, premonitions almost never come before the murderer has formed the intention to kill. Often the initial premonition will come at that very moment. Ask Mr Fischer when he first had his precognition.'

'Thanks, Dr Prince — I may do that.'

In the Astor Hotel, in mid-October 1920, an increasingly belligerent Director Flynn of the Federal Bureau of Investigation held yet another press conference. Flynn's repeated claims of imminent prosecution had not worked to his advantage. The case had not cracked. No one had been charged. An air of skepticism and defeated expectations had begun to infect several gentlemen of the press.

As Flynn saw it, the fault was not his. It lay rather with the newspapers, for reporting his setbacks. Every time one of his leads came to nothing, the newspapers made a story of it, which wasn't the kind of behavior Flynn expected from loyal Americans. Embarrassing the federal government's efforts to defeat its enemies was a criminal offense. That's why Eugene Debs was in jail. Flynn could have hauled any one of these reporters into custody. He knew what they were saying to each other on the telephone — because his agents were listening in. He felt they owed their continuing and undeserved liberty entirely to his largesse.

'Each and every one of you boys,' said Flynn, 'ought to be on your knees in thanks to me. But I ain't going into that today. Instead I'm going to sell more newspapers for you. We got it all sewed up now. Here's your story: yesterday afternoon, my office received information establishing the identity and whereabouts of the political prisoners, which you goons were too busy writing about mental cases to even realize you didn't know who they were.'

Pencils hung frozen in midair as comprehension sought in vain to work its way through this declaration.

'Don't you remember nothing, you saps?' asked Flynn helpfully. "'Free the political prisoners" — that's what the anarchist circulars said. Well now, just who exactly are these political prisoners? Figure that out, and you bust the whole case wide open.'

'But last time you said Tresca did it, Chief,' said a reporter. 'Then Tresca gives a public speech in Brooklyn, and you don't even bring him in. What gives?'

'Why, I ought to show you what gives,' rejoined Flynn, neck straining at the buttoned collar of his white shirt. 'I never said Tresca did it. All's I said was he was a suspect. Got that?'

'Director Flynn,' said another man, less disheveled than the others, 'my readers want me to tell you that you're a fine American.'

'Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate that. You're a fine American.'

'My readers,' continued Tommy, 'feel a lot safer since you began rounding up the foreigners who are trying to take over this city.'

'Now that's how to be a newspaperman,' said Flynn. 'Listen good, the rest of you. Once we get our hands on the political prisoners, which we already got our hands on, we'll have this whole bombing wrapped up like a Christmas present. That's your story. Signed, sealed, and delivered. You print that.'

On Friday, October 15, Littlemore returned to Police Headquarters on Centre Street to pack up a few things. His men Roederheusen and Stankiewicz stopped in. They carried their hats as if attending a funeral.

'Spanky,' said Littlemore, shaking each by the hand. 'Stanky'

'We're going to miss you, Cap.'

'Knock it off,' said Littlemore. 'Now don't forget. The alley is the key — the alley between the Treasury and Assay Office. Look for people who ran into the street on September sixteenth, or went to their window, and saw a big truck carrying a massive load out of that alleyway onto Pine Street. That's how the bombers made their getaway.'

'Why would the bombers be in a truck?' asked Stankiewicz.

'Carrying a load of what?' asked Roederheusen.

'Can't tell you yet, boys,' said Littlemore. 'But find out what that truck looked like and where it went, and you can break this case. You know where to reach me.'

The officers put on their hats unenthusiastically. 'Say, Cap,' said Roederheusen on his way out, 'you asked me to locate that Mexican guy — Pesqueira? The consulate says he's gone. Left for Washington last week.'

'Not interested anymore, but thanks.' Littlemore strode down the corridor to Commissioner Enright's office, knowing it was likely to be the last time. He rapped at Enright's door and, when a voice from inside gave him permission, entered.

'Captain Littlemore,' said Enright from his desk. 'Not captain much longer, eh?'

'Already got sworn in down in Washington, Mr Enright. Just packing my things.'

The Commissioner nodded. 'I knew your father, Littlemore.'

'Yes, sir.'

'A good man. Imperfect, as we are all are. But a good man.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Your badge, Captain. And your weapon.'

Littlemore placed his badge on Enright's desk. It hurt so much he almost couldn't let' it go. 'The gun's mine,' he said.

'Well, I'm not happy to do the formalities,' said Enright, 'but by the power vested in me as chief of the New York Police Department, I hereby revoke your commission. Mr Littlemore, you're no longer a member of the Force.' Littlemore said nothing. 'Do us proud, my boy,' said Enright.

Chapter Thirteen

After a day at sea, an ocean liner steaming out of New York becomes its own and only point of human reference. No other vessels interrupt the vast waters. Under a cloudless morning sky, Colette and Younger strolled the upper deck, the swell unsteady enough to make her accept his arm. The ship's engines set up a dull, churning roar behind them.

'What did they want with me?' she asked.

'The redheads or the kidnappers?'

'All of them.'

'The more I think about it,' said Younger, 'the more I think the note we got at the hotel — the note from Amelia — was a trap. Bait. We thought Amelia never came back to the hotel the next morning. But perhaps she did, with the kidnappers.'

'Why?'

'Maybe it's their business — kidnapping girls, selling them.'

'Selling them?'

'We have a term for it: white slavery. Perhaps they were going to lure you somewhere; Amelia would prey on your compassion, telling you she needed your help. They expected you to be alone. Instead I was with you. So they changed plans. They followed us to Wall Street. Amelia was caught in the bombing. But her friends kept watch, and when you went back to the hotel, they took you.'

'Why me?'

'Because you're a foreigner. No family in America, no connections. Young and beautiful would be further qualifications.'