It was from the steps of the rebuilt Green Woman Taproom that a discharged city clerk shot and wounded Theodore Roosevelt; and the psychotic city employee who shot at, but failed to hit, Dwight D. Eisenhower, stepped out from the shadows of the Green Woman when he raised his pistol.
The god who had issued from these strings, April Ransom implied, spoke most clearly through the life and death of William Damrosch, originally named Carlos Rosario. As an infant, he had been carried to the foot of the Horatio Street bridge by his mother, who had been summoned there by her murderer.
For weeks after the discovery of the living baby and the dead woman on the frozen riverbank beneath the Green Woman, wrote April, the old legend of the winged man resurfaced, changed now to account for the death of Carmen Rosario: this time the angel was robust and healthy instead of weakened by age, his golden hair flowed in the dark February wind, and he killed instead of being killed.
How did April know that the old legend had returned? On the second Sunday following the discovery of the infant, two churches in Millhaven, Matthias Avenue Methodist and Mt. Horeb Presbyterian, had advertised sermons entitled, respectively, "The Angel of Death, A Scourge to the Sinful" and "The Return of Uriel." An editorial in the Ledger advised residents of Millhaven to remember that crimes of violence have human, not supernatural, origins.
Three weeks after the murder of his mother, the child was released into the first of the series of orphanages and foster homes that would lead him in five years to Heinz Stenmitz, a newly married young butcher who had recently opened a shop beside his house on Muffin Street in the section of Millhaven long known as Pigtown.
At this stage of his life, April wrote, Stenmitz was a striking figure who, with his long blond hair and handsome blond beard, bore a great resemblance to the conventional Christian portrait of Jesus; moreover, he conducted informal church services in his shop on Sundays. Long after, at his trial for child abuse, it was introduced as evidence of the preacher-butcher's good character that he had often sought his parishioners at the train and bus stations and had given special attention to those frightened and confused immigrants from Central and South American countries who were handicapped by an ignorance of English as well as poverty.
April Ransom was quietly making the case that Heinz Stenmitz had murdered William Damrosch's mother. She believed that, on a dark cold night in February, gullible and intoxicated witnesses had seen the butcher's flowing hair and remembered the old stories of the persecuted angel.
I looked up to see that Alan had returned from his nap. His hands were clasped at his waist, his chin was up, and his eyes were bright and curious. "Do you think it's good?"
"It's extraordinary," I said. "I wish she had been able to finish it. I don't know how she ever managed to get even this much together."
"Efficiency. And she was my daughter, after all. She knew how to do research."
"I'd like to be able to read the whole thing," I said.
"Keep it as long as you like," Alan said. "For some reason, I can't seem to make much headway on it."
For a moment I was unable to keep from registering the shock of the understanding Alan had just given me. He could not read his daughter's manuscript, which meant that he could no longer read at all. I turned to the television to hide my dismay. The screen showed a long view of Illinois Avenue. People stood three and four deep along the sidewalks, yelling along with someone chanting through a bullhorn.
"Oh, my God," I said, and looked at my watch. "I have to meet John." I stood up.
"I knew it'd be good," Alan said.
PART TEN
WILLIAM WIRTZMANN
1
In shirtsleeves, Ransom motioned me inside and went into the living room to turn off the television, which showed the same roped-off stretch of Illinois Avenue I had just seen on Alan's set. The books had been pushed to the side of the coffee table, and loose pages of the Blue Rose file lay over the rest of its surface. The green linen jacket was draped over the back of the couch. Just before John reached the television, a slightly breathless Isobel Archer appeared on its screen, holding a microphone and saying, "The stage is set for an event unlike any which has occurred in this city since the early days of the civil rights movement, and which is sure to inspire controversy. As the tensions in Millhaven grow more and more intense, religious and civic leaders demand—"
John bent over to turn the set off. "I thought you'd be back before this." He noticed the thick folder in my hand. "What's that, the other part of the file?"
I placed the folder beside the telephone. "April's manuscript has been at Alan's house all this time."
He lifted the green jacket off the couch and slipped it on. "You must have taken a look at it, then."
"Of course I did," I said, opening the upside-down file to its last pages. I had looked through only something like the first quarter of The Bridge Project, and I wondered what April had written last. A letterhead was darkly visible through the paper on the top of the pile, and, curious, I lifted up the sheet and turned it over. It was a sheet of April's personal stationery, and the letterhead was her name and address. The letter had been dated some three months ago and was addressed to the chief of police, Arden Vass.
John came toward me from the living room, adjusting the linen jacket.
The letter explained that April Ransom had become interested in writing a paper that would touch upon the Blue Rose murders of forty years before and hoped that Chief Vass would give her permission to consult the original police files for the case.
I turned over the next letter, dated two weeks later, expressing the same desire in somewhat stronger terms.
Beneath this was a letter addressed to Sergeant Michael Hogan and dated five days after the second letter to Arden Vass. April wondered if the sergeant might assist her in her research— the chief had not responded to her requests, and if Sergeant Hogan had any interest in this fascinating corner of Millhaven history, Ms. Ransom would be most grateful. Sincerely yours.
Another letter to Michael Hogan followed, regretting what might seem the writer's bad manners, but hoping to make amends for them by her willingness to spend her own time trying to locate a forty-year-old file in whatever storage facility it was kept.
"Hogan knew she was interested in the old Blue Rose case," I said. John was reading the letter over my shoulder. He nodded. "He plays it pretty close to the vest, doesn't he?"
John stepped beside me and turned over the next sheet, also a letter. This was to Paul Fontaine.
Dear Detective Fontaine: I turn to you in something like desperation, after failing to receive replies from Chief Vass and Sergeant Michael Hogan. I am an amateur historian whose latest project concerns the history and origins of the Horatio Street bridge, the Green Woman Taproom, and among other topics, the connections of these sites to the Blue Rose murders that took place in Millhaven in 1950. I would very much like to see the original police file for the Blue Rose case, and have already expressed my absolute willingness to search for this file myself, wherever it may be stored.