Chapter 42 - Is It Accusative or Nominative Case?

The trio decided to rest for a day and contemplate the best way to willingly get two suspects to admit to murder.  Tannehill and Spinoza walked into The Happy Hour the following afternoon at the beginning of Vera's shift, eager to swap theories on the best way to catch a criminal.  Seeing that she hadn't arrived yet, they glanced around for a comfortable booth to commandeer, as their usual one was occupied.  They stood frozen briefly in the no man's land between the counter and the booths, heads moving mechanically to assess other possibilities - that booth had a jagged spring that didn't quite protrude from the seat leather; another one had a table that looked sticky with a spray of spilled salt jutting across its landscape; another hadn't been cleared at all.  They considered sitting at the counter, but the round swivel stools seemed to be placed too close too one another, and they felt that they'd be knocking knees over the duration of their discourse.

"Bill, hey Bill!" A raspy voice croaked behind them from the counter, breaking into the rhythm of their seating despair.  They paid no mind, looking for either Vera or a clean booth.  "Bill!" It insisted with more urgency.  They turned to look toward the voice and saw Flo, The Happy Hour's second-best server, staring directly at Spinoza.

A confused minute passed before he could respond.  "Me?" He mouthed at her.  She nodded enthusiastically with a hint of frustration that, of course she was referring to him.  He adjusted his volume.  "I'm sorry you must have me mixed up with someone else.  My name's not Bill."

Now it was Flo's turn to look confused.  "I says to Vera," she started as though already minutes deep into a particular juicy anecdote, "I says 'Who are those two fellas you been hanging out with lately?'  She says to me 'The one who looks like William Powell and the other one?' I says 'Yeah.'  She says, "Funny enough, that one's name is Bill, which is short for William, and the other is Claude Mulvihill."  She paused and pointed a finger at Spinoza, "So, you must be Bill."

The two men grinned at each other in the realization of Flo's likely mischaracterization of her conversation with Vera.  They also decided that correcting her would be a wasted afternoon for all, so Bill, for the time being, he was.

"Is Vera late?  We wanted to chat with her before her shift got too busy."  Aside from their normal booth near the door, which was currently inhabited by two gentlemen arguing vehemently in Russian, one other booth and a stool at the counter had occupants.  The counter occupant coughed briefly as if to signal that his occupancy was equally as important as his boothmates.

"Vera's not here," Flo stated, confirming their observation with a sober obviousness.  "But a little fella stopped by with a note about an hour ago.  He said to give it to Vera's friends when they stopped by."

Tannehill cocked an eyebrow in interest.  "Do you have the note?"

"I do."  Though Flo answered in the affirmative, she made no move to follow up on remediary actions.

"I think, as you've vividly described in your fascinating conversations, that it's safe to assume that we're the friends of Vera that the gentleman was referring to, correct?"

"Right!" Flo still made no indication of movement.

"Would you mind giving us the letter then, as we are the aforementioned friends?" Tannehill's tone was cloyed to avoid betraying the acidness he wanted to direct toward this daft woman.

Flo reached slowly in a large patch pocket of her uniform, her face initially a blank mask, morphing into one of confusion with a protruding tongue as she rummaged through a pocket so deep its very inward boundaries appeared to defy the laws of physics that its outward boundaries hinted at.  Eventually, she pulled a 3x3 white envelope from its maw and handed it to Tannehill.  He had to tug gently to remove it from her grip.

"Thank you," he responded in the same cloying tone.  She abruptly turned and left with her previous blank stair re-affixed.  While curiosity may have a deadly influence over the cat, it had little pull with Flo.

"Nothing addressed on the outside," Spinoza remarked.  It seemed like a poorly mannered letter if it was meant to be an invitation.  No indication of an RSVP and no fancy calligraphy harkened them to a social event.

Tannehill opened the envelope with a stubby index finger and slid out the thick card stock inside.  Again, nothing on the front of the card to give its intentions away.  He flipped it open:

We have das Mädchen.

Call the number I gave you for next steps.

-O

"Huh," Tannehill clucked his tongue.  He casually handed the card to Spinoza.

"So what now?"

"Why do you think he used the German version of 'girl'?"

Spinoza's eyes bulged in mild disbelief and suspicion of Tannehill's reaction. "That's an unusual first question to ask when you've just learned that a friend of yours has been kidnapped by a pair of double murderers."

Tannehill continued undeterred, "I wonder if he did so to pepper the message with additional menace.  Do you know if das Mädchen is a nominative or accusative case?"

"What is wrong with you?!"

"I guess it doesn't matter.  We know it means girl, so the grammar's not important." He sucked his teeth briefly.  "To answer your question - much that we've discovered over time, but in this particular case, nothing.  We now have leverage on the them.  Before, we could only suppose that they'd committed a crime.  Now they're actually in the middle of that commission.  More importantly, he's telling me to call the number he gave me before."

"And what does that mean?" Spinoza was at a loss.

"Well, the number he gave me before was the number to Brunner's apartment.  Even if they're not keeping Vera there, someone has to be manning the phone.  That means, unless they're all camped across the street observing us, we can ambush or follow at least one of them to get the drop on Vera's location.  But I suspect she'll be at the apartment."

"Why do you suspect that?"

"Because Otto's not smart enough to come up with a better plan."

[Author's Note: This was one of those chapters that I expected was only going to be a few words - a note gets delivered and the men take action. Then I realized setting a scene for it sounded a bit more delightful and got to 860 words.  Then, on editing, I wanted to see if I could get to the usual thousand word mark, and, voilà, we're at 1056 for this chapter.  The running total is 45451 words.  With at least another four chapters planned, and only a scant 4549 words to cover, it looks like my July 2019 goal will be a reality soon.]

Chapter 41 - How Much Do You Charge to Break Fingers?

 "What do I do now?"  Tannehill nonchalantly pulled the string of cheddar connecting his mouth and cheeseburger from its bovine substrate and chewed thoughtfully on his rhetorical statement.  Spinoza, unaware that the question was rhetorical, shrugged.  They'd been meeting for lunch frequently in the weeks since Tannehill's disciplinary hearing and dismissal.  Though he claimed outwardly it was solely due to Tannehill's lack of an income, Spinoza could admit to himself that it was a slipshod attempt at atonement.

"I suppose I could return to engineering.  We're in a state that's seeing enormous growth potential and the opportunities should be plentiful."

"That seems regressive, since you've been out of practice for some time." Spinoza was still unaware that he was an audience to the conversation rather than a participant.

Tannehill's voice grew more distant in thought, "but I am a bit rusty." Belatedly, he realized he was being summoned from his haze by someone else.  "Sorry," he picked up a thick fry and munched on it purposefully, "what did you say?"

"I said that returning to engineering likely isn't your best alternative."

Tannehill continued to crunch down on his fry, caught halfway between his own thoughts and Spinoza's observation.  "Yeah, you're probably right."  He sighed less out of resignation or regret and more out of simple exasperation for his dearth of ideas.  To wit, he had thought of exactly one idea for a career change since his expulsion from the police force - returning to his engineering degree.

"You could be a private investigator.  It wouldn't require a drastic change in your career path."

Tannehill starting chewing again in contemplation.  "I'm not certain that would work out well.  My name's been plastered all over the paper -" Spinoza colored at this statement even though Tannehill was talking distractedly rather than taking aim, " - and I don't think people would appreciate the notoriety."

Spinoza scoffed and jerked back in mild disbelief.  "This is Capital City.  Voters don't trust politicians who are too clean.  They assume the candidates are either hiding something so insidious it can't come to light or they'll be eaten alive once they're in office.  I don't think that kind of citizenry is going to mind your type of publicity.  Besides, as a PI, you're expected to be a bit scummy."

With Spinoza's rousing encouragement ringing in his ears the following days, Tannehill decided to set up shop.  His application for a private investigator's license encompassed nothing more than an affirmative response to a follow-up question about his previous employment:

"So, says here you used to be a former cop."

"Yup, I was previously a detective.  Do you need to check any references?"

"No, we just need the filing fee of $10."

Tannehill fished a crumpled bill out of his pocket, smoothed it, and laid it on the counter, smiling for effect.  He wondered if, had he put down "former chief of police" or "former president of the United States," the interlocution would have been more rigorous.  He decided it wouldn't have.

His next order of business was to find office space.  He decided to stay near his old precinct, as he felt he knew the neighborhood better and would be able to operate with some degree of comfort in getting his business off the ground.  The realtor he talked to offered him a twenty-foot by twenty-foot office in a shared office corridor that had been damaged by water.  The realtor also swore that the water damage was due to a previously busted water main and not the notoriously fickle ocean located a convenient two blocks away.  Traces of salinity on the water damaged walls were slight and the office air smelled more of mildew than seafood, so Tannehill took the realtor at his word and put down a security deposit.

The artist who appeared to complete the signage on the office's frosted window had lenses that hinted at severe myopia.  His conversation with Tannehill about the contents of the signage was mumbled and mostly conducted in a foreign language.

"Tannehill - two 'n's two 'l's," Tannehill spoke slowly, suspicious of his commissioned artist's comprehension skills.  Upon completion, the sign read "CH Tanehilll, Licensed Private Investigator."  Tannehill considered it a win, since the number of letters within his name remained consistent with his own preferred spelling.

Office space rented and PI license in hand, his final order of business was to drum up clients.  Spinoza's guilt played a big part here as well - his position as the lead crime reporter at The Daily Courier allowed him to offer Tannehill two weeks' worth of ad space in the classified section of the paper.  And, Spinoza wasn't entirely immune to the politics of Capital City either.  He was able to weave a few deft references to the up-and-coming PI businesses in the city - specifically near the city's South Docks neighborhood - for matters that the police were simply too overwhelmed or indifferent to handle. 

It took fewer than 24 hours for calls to begin flooding Tannehill's desk.  Many of the calls involved spouses' or lovers' inquests about potential infidelity.  Others about neighbors' suspected misdeeds.  A few requested help for misplaced or presumably stolen items.  Some hinted heavily about help with protection rackets - both in forming them and busting them up.  Spinoza had been correct about the citizenry's tolerance for notoriety.  Many of Tannehill's prospective clients shamelessly referenced his perceived vigilantism and the need for more people who were "willing to clean up the streets."  What his willingness to clean up the streets had to do with a glut of unfaithful paramours, Tannehill hadn't a clue, but he was fine playing the role in order to score a paycheck. 

After Tannehill's first full week of re-employment, Spinoza visited the office with a house warming offering.

"Thanks, but it wasn't necessary," he grasped the outstretched bottle of muddied brown liquid thrust in his direction.

"It's not really a gift, it's simply me trying to diminish my inventory.  Alcohol is still prohibited after all."

"So, it is," Tannehill muttered, turning the bottle over in his hands.  He stopped and squinted at the label.  "Was this produced prior to Prohibition?"

"Indeed it was."

"I didn't even know they made bourbon in Nebraska," he exclaimed, placing the bottle in his bottom drawer next to his former service revolver.  He reached for his coat, then the light.  "I'm hungry.  The usual?"

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1058 words.  I'm hoping to strike a nice coup de grâce and finish the first draft during Nation Novel Writing Month, since it was an exercise for NaNoWriMo that kicked off this whole venture, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  The running total is 44395.]

Chapter 40 - The Four-Fingered Plot

 "So, you were knowing partners with a criminal?"

"Yes," Tannehill slid down into the booth and cocked an elbow to rest on the top of the backrest.  His two companions remained silent in non-response. "What?" He pulled his elbows from the rest.

"You were ok with that?" Vera continued.

"I'm surprised you're that naive.  Policemen have confidential informants and PIs aren't exactly hobnobbing with the cream of society.  If he'd have done something egregious, I would've turned him in."

"Like grand theft?"

"I didn't know that he was in a scheme that ultimately got him killed.  He ran low-level bunko scams, not international crime syndicates.  And, this is Capital City.  If you're part of a robbery ring that's bilking people 6,000 miles away, you're probably more likely to be beatified than arrested.  Plus, his extra-curricular activities led to enough capers that generated business, and, if you've been able to guess from my choice of attire and high-end dining selections, I can't afford to be picky."

"He's got a point," Spinoza chimed in helpfully.

Vera polished off her coffee, "I'm going to get more cream," and pushed purposefully away from the table.  She returned a minute later with cream and a chocolate chip cookie.

Nibbling one of the chocolate chips from its doughy resting place, she forged on.  "So, you suppose that Bellucci met Otto and Brunner through Snell?"

"In a roundabout way, yeah."

"They just show up at the port of entry to Capital City and there's Snell, holding a sign reading 'need help committing a felony, I'm your man!'?"

"Not so much a sign as a sandwich board.  I'm sure he didn't want to get lost in the shuffle."

"Was it scripted in Romanesque or Gothic?"

Tannehill paused when he couldn't retort.  "Look, Brunner's father is a diplomat, so he probably knows other Germans stationed throughout the world.  I'm assuming some of those Germans, especially under the current administration, aren't exactly following the letter of law in the lands of their diplomatic assignments.  I'd even be willing to assume that they'd double-cross their own goose-stepping masters if it meant a big payday."  He took a large swig of his now cooled coffee and continued.  "Snell would likely know the most morally dubious Nazis and would be able to use those connections to arrange the party we've been discussing forthwith."

"So, Bellucci, Snell, Brunner, and Otto are now all connected.  Otto and Brunner want to dump their stolen items, Snell has a safe place to store them, and Bellucci?  Bellucci does what?"

"He's probably the fence.  If he was a rumrunner, he would've had connections to gangs throughout the city and would've met people that can help dispose of items that were obtained via less than honorable means."

"And why the whole Beederman Bellucci conundrum?"

"Depravity."  Spinoza started into his coffee while speaking, stirring a non-existent creamer into a deep, bitter vortex with his spoon.

"It's depraved to assume another identity?" Tannehill asked.

"You said that Bellucci was short and darkly-complected with dark hair correct?"

"Yup."

"And, if you didn't know his name was Bellucci, would it have been much of a stretch for him to actually have been 'Harry Beederman'?"

"No."

"Beederman is a Jewish surname." Spinoza paused, collecting the points around his theory before putting it into further words.  "All of the artifacts we found," he swept his arm across the table in a grand gesture, "are of great import to Jewish heritage.  The dollar value of those items is likely extremely high based on historical value alone.  But add in the sentimental or cultural aspect and the dollar value skyrockets even more."

"So, you think he took on the persona of Harry Beederman to invoke a sense of collective guilt or tug at the heartstrings of Jews in the area in order to up the sale prices," Vera asked, head bowed and scribbling intently on her pad.

"I'd frame it a bit differently.  Given the precarious way in which these objects were vacated from their rightful owners, I'd be willing to bet that Jews in the area would be desperate to keep our history from being ripped away from us.  Harry Beederman would just make that desperation that much more poignant.  Especially if he's panicked that time is of the essence before the artifacts are confiscated and returned to the Germans or dispersed to the highest bidder by the state authorities at the conclusion of any criminal investigation."

"You're right," Tannehill sat up straight in the booth, "that is pretty depraved."

"No more depraved than stealing from an authoritarian group of thugs, who in turn, stole these artifacts from honest citizens and then committed two murders in the further continuance of that crime."

"So, let's pause again to sum up what we've surmised," Tannehill began to count the points on each finger.  "We know that two Germans absconded with treasure earmarked for Nazi coffers and shipped it to the west coast of the USA."

"Why the west coast and not the east coast?  The journey would've been much shorter," Vera asked.

Tannehill stopped briefly, holding on to point one of his index finger.  "I'd wager that they were trying to put some time and distance between themselves and their victims," - Spinoza scoffed at Tannehill's choice of vocabulary for the Nazis - "victims only in the purely technical sense, as their victims would likely resort to extra-legal coercion in order to recover their assets.  In addition, the Nazis, if they knew the treasure was headed for America, would likely look on the east coast first.  It's more heavily populated and, therefore, a better area to dispense of the goods. And, it's a much shorter journey as you pointed out."

Vera and Spinoza nodded in accordance with this theory.  Tannehill extended his middle finger to stand alongside its indexed brethren, "point two - they use their government connections to find Snell.  Snell, likely eager to assist, informs them of a place to store their goods and offers to assist them with finding someone who can offload them."

Vera and Spinoza remained silent in further tacit acknowledgment.  His ring finger appeared, "third, Snell opts not to tell them where the treasure is housed, and, when he's failed to be persuaded of revealing its location, he's killed for that failure - whether it's out of frustration or over-zealous techniques of persuasion."

The house continued to remain silent.  He bent his pinky finger back, "finally, for motives unknown, Bellucci/Beederman takes the fall for Snell's murder.  And, possibly because he's seen as a weak link in the whole scheme, he's murdered as well."  

Vera piped up after completing her final note, "ok, now what?"

"Now, we trade what they want - a storehouse full of stolen goods - for what we want - an acknowledgment that they murdered my partner.  Since this particular crime involves the transportation of goods across international boundaries, the Feds are likely to get involved if we can get anything to stick to them."

"Meaning?" 

Spinoza interjected, "meaning it's not left up to Capital City's finest to further justice, so justice has a better chance of being furthered."

"Can I see the notes you've taken so far?" Tannehill extended his hand toward Vera and her note pad.

She shrugged, "sure," and slid the notepad across the booth to him.

His brow furrowed in frustration and incomprehensibility after staring at the page for 30 seconds, "I can't read a word of this!"  He slid the pad to Spinoza, whose face affected the same countenance.

She shrugged again.  "It's my own shorthand.  I like to call it High Gothic Romanesque." While the two men sat with fixed looks of exasperation glued to their faces, she calmy reclaimed the notepad and exited the booth for a refill on cookies and a glass of milk.

[Author's Note: Today's part of the Whodunit weighs in at 1297 words.  It occurred to me while writing this chapter that, while I had a strong sketch of the crime and its particulars, the details and plan for catching the criminals were a little lacking.  Well, that's what you get when your primary goal is to write 50000 words come hell or high water.  I guess we'll figure it out along with the rest of the gang.  The grand total now stands at 43377 words.]

Chapter 39 - And...?

The next day they reconvened at the same booth, three piping-hot, buttery egg sandwiches and a full pot of coffee distributed equally among them.

Vera had, reluctantly, taken on the role of the scribe when the two men demurred.  Initially, they attempted to justify their laziness through flattery insisting that as a waitress and a student, she'd be best equipped to take quick, copious notes in the clearest hand.

"Aren't you a crime reporter?"

Spinoza mumbled back something in acquiescence that made it sound like it was more of an enthusiastic hobby than a full-time job.

"And aren't you a PI and former police detective?  I'd assume you'd need to take copious notes for both positions?"

Tannehill quietly trailed off about his frequent reliance on his camera and strong memory.

"So, I'm stuck with an amateur voyeur into the macabre and a pervert who goes around photographing or remembering every intimate detail he sees."

They both began to strenuously object in a rising tenor indicating how much note-taking they did during their working hours and how this would just be an extra burden on top of that.

"Aren't we both solving a crime and, ultimately, reporting on the details and outcome of that investigation?"

The tenor stopped.  There was an awkward detente.

She sighed, "fine I'll do it.  For two fellas that know an awful lot about the writing style of people who've been dead for seven centuries, your literacy skills seem to be lacking." The bitterness still rising she added, "I suppose you want egg sandwiches too?"

The men looked sheepishly at one another and then pleadingly at her.

The absurdity of the additional extravagant request and her own hunger made her cave.  15 minutes, and a therapeutic session involving the unnecessary clatter of multiple pots and pans, later they'd reconvened to focus on the investigation.

"So what did you find out after our meeting yesterday?"

Tannehill sipped the scalding coffee carefully and started, "I'm fortunate enough to retain a few friends in the department.  They weren't able to pull anything on Emily Brunner or anyone answering Otto's description, but they did find something on Harry Beederman.  Or rather they didn't find anything when they pulled the rap sheet for that name, but they did find a few hits for the last name Bellucci, and one of them - a Rico Bellucci - had a mugshot that matched our dearly departed friend."

Vera scribbled away, "go on."

"He's a petty criminal.  He assisted with some small-time operations during Prohibition and got picked up a few times for grifting, running numbers, and some penny-anty theft, but nothing to indicate he spearheaded a vast international conspiracy."

"I may have something there," Spinoza blew on his coffee, willing it to cool down.

Vera stopped scribbling, "a vast international conspiracy?"  She took advantage of the break in the conversation to dump cream and a generous spoonfall of sugar into her own coffee.  She stirred it briefly and then gulped down the first swallow.

"Not so much on the conspiracy part, but more so on the international part."

"And...?" Vera could never tell if the histrionics that surrounded these two men were part of an audition for an as yet unrevealed omniscient director or if they were simply trying to keep her interest piqued in the most dramatic fashion possible.

Spinoza sipped his coffee carefully.  "I got in touch with my newspaper friends in Europe and found a similar rap sheet for Otto Hoffman.  Nothing particularly garish, just a lot of petty crimes.  He did serve the role of resident thugs for local Nazi parties when the role occasioned it though, so anything that he could've conceivably served time for was dismissed.  He has gotten himself in a bit more hot water as of late though."

"How did you know to search for Otto Hoffman, if we only knew him as 'Otto'?"  Tannehill took equally delicate sips of his coffee.

Spinoza raised his finger and shook it gently while pursing his lips in a sign of drawn-out exposition.  Vera wondered silently if he was preparing to recite a soliloquy from Hamlet before illustrating his point.

"Well, I asked around about Emily Brunner.  Her father is a mid-level German government bureaucrat - important enough to have connections, but not important enough to warrant any particular name recognition.  Turns out that he had a driver assigned to him for diplomatic duties and that driver was - "

"Let me guess," Vera interrupted, "one Otto Hoffman answering to the description of our resident Otto."

"Yes," Spinoza took another infinitesimal sip.

"And this recent hot water he's found himself in?"

Spinoza paused and Vera sighed, "I was getting to that." 

Sip.

"C'mon Mary Pickford!  Enough with the dramatic pauses.  I've got a life to live here after we're done."

"Turns out," sip, "that he'd been in charge of routing certain government confiscated property to various warehouses around Berlin, and -"

"And that property never made it to its intended location?  Right, got it.  I think we can safely assume that Emily probably knew her father's chauffeur fairly well and was more than happy to participate in a scheme that would increase her personal wealth."

A sip of acknowledgment followed.

Vera scribbled a final note and put her pencil down. "So let's recap.  We have two petty criminals and a low-level diplomat's daughter embarking on some scheme to sell stolen Nazi treasure, which itself appears to be stolen from prominent Jewish households.  We can deduce, based on the information at hand, that two of them knew each other beforehand.  We can't yet deduce how they know," she paused and looked at her pad for confirmation, "Bellucci."

"Or Snell," Tannehill chipped in.

"Or Snell."

Tannehill and Spinoza sipped simultaneously to indicate agreement in her presentation of the facts so far.

She quaffed another gulp of her own sweet concoction, "you two are going to need to start drinking that joe faster if you want to fire up your brain cells and solve this thing anytime before the decade closes." 

Tannehill delicately stuck a pinkie into his cup and tested the temperature.  Determining that it was on the right side of scalding, he slurped loudly and cleared his throat.  "Well, I can imagine that introduction was likely made via Snell.  He may not have been much in the way of a detective, but he did have a comprehensive catalog of every two-bit con artist and small-time crook up and down the entire coast."

Vera began scribbling again as the session continued.

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1084 words.  The running total for the novel is 42080.  I have seven more chapters planned and at a rough average of 1000 words per chapter and a penchant for underestimating my number of chapters, it looks like I'll be able to coast to 50000 words without having to resort to some silly trope like the discovery of Snell's unfinished and unpublished fantasy novella.]

Chapter 38 - The Incredible, Edible Egg

 Justice was swift for Tannehill's career as a policeman, but not necessarily impartial.  Scores of jealous peers, tired of years of watching Tannehill rise in the department without participating in requisite corruption that should be needed to secure status were willing to swear witness to his malevolent deeds the night of the shooting.

Each subsequent witness told a more fantastic story than the last.  By the end of the hearing, a bystander in the room could hardly be faulted if they believed a Tannehill, formed of smoke and fire, appeared on the slick city streets that night, stretching incendiary arms 10 feet wide in order to consume any small child in the vicinity while the police present at the scene shivered cowering from such evil and could do nothing to prevent such insidiousness from occurring.

The enormity of the exaggeration worked in Tannehill's favor.

Without it, the department would've had the opportunity to condemn him as a loose cannon - someone who'd become too entitled with his own sense of power and was callously indifferent to lives of those he swore to serve and protect.  This narrative would've opened him up to prosecution or worse. The department, in turn, would have the opportunity to show that they'd reformed their previously (perceived) corrupt ways and were in the process of weeding out the ne'er do wells among them. 

With it, the department would need to admit that they sanctioned allowing the devil incarnate walk through the city streets on their behalf with a group of agitated policeman following him around and speaking up only when the pinnacle of tragedy demanded it.

Instead, the department issued a statement indicating, that while a decorated war hero, a valuable member of the force, and a generally upstanding citizen, Tannehill had exercised poor judgment the night of the raid and, given the circumstances around the event and the growing chorus of voices within and outside the department expressing displeasure with his behavior, it was untenable to keep him employed as a sworn officer.

Surprisingly, this statement wasn't far from the truth.  Tannehill himself believed he exhibited poor judgment and didn't feel he was fit to perform his duties to maintain law and order within Capital City anymore.  He realized that, even in a city that wasn't rotten to the core, the fact that he was simply fired rather than persecuted was a gift he shouldn't overlook.  

Of course, what went unsaid were the institutional decisions and events that led to both the night in question and his firing that shouldn't have occurred in the first place.  He shouldn't have been taken off desk duty while still suffering from the trauma of the war. The department shouldn't have escalated the war on alcohol to the violent level it reached, and shouldn't have allowed the criminal enterprises to grow so large through its own need to bolster corruption and graft to line the pockets of its leaders.  Spinoza shouldn't have let his own singular focus and jealousy of his friend shade his reporting.  The Volstead Act probably shouldn't have been passed in the first place.  However, like most things in life, the most proximate and simple causes were taken to be the root ones, while the underlying infrastructure continues to elude all of those but the most diligent investigators.  And even the diligent typically remain silent, aware that, in whispering their secrets to others, they are simply Cassandra in the land of the deaf.

Posthumously, Charles Peabody's legend grew past what most 9-year olds or their parents could expect.  His penchant for simple jokes was elevated into a precocious rapier wit.  His mischievous streak became an unquenchable curiosity.  His boundless energy became a budding graceful athleticism.  Contrary to other cases in which the city often elevated the reputation of the most base individuals humanity could produce, Charles was an average, or even an above-average, if misdirected, child.  However, his status after death elevated him to the level of a saint for the anguished city.

In memoriam for such a prodigy with unlimited potential, the city named the new park located in the tony Backbay neighborhood "The Charles Peabody Memorial Park" and installed a bronze statue of his quasi-likeness at the entrance.  The park's intent was to remind all citizens of the sacrifices made in the name of justice and the tragic acts that accompanied those pursuits.  Sadly, the seagull citizens of Capital City didn't comprehend the metaphorical intent and took to shitting on the statue with thoughtless abandon, causing the statue to begin to discolor almost immediately.

As is typical with most sweeping change, the mechanism for movement is completely divorced from the underlying causes that brought the problems to bear.  Tannehill, Peabody and the other innocents gunned down, and even the griping police officers caught up in the corrupt workings of their department with little attention paid to their own self-awareness were all simply tangents to the main forces at play.  

Still, Spinoza's screed against Tannehill and the department began to have effects.  Citizens who previously assumed the department would protect its own at all costs began to believe that, if the department could cast out its most favored son, the city stood a chance at actual justice, however erroneous their assumptions may have been about the department's actual motives.  As a result, though, the department recognized the futility of a law that few wanted on the books and were too shamed by recent events to continue to buy into the naked corruption of associating (explicitly) with bootleggers.  Surprisingly, one of the most violent cities at the outset of Prohibition quickly became one of the most reasonable.  Rather than worry about staunching the flow of illegal liquor, Capital City focused on keeping the violence around turf wars in-check in order to avoid naming another public park after someone other than a local politician.

Spinoza's exultation was short-lived.  He realized that the city and the department enacted reforms for the wrong reasons, and that the benefits of change would be short-lived and narrowly scoped.  While Tannehill wasn't completely blameless, Spinoza realized much of the ire directed at his former friend was a result of events neither of them had much control over and tried to make amends in a style typical of the male of the species and the time - 

Both men met, staring the ground beneath them.

"Sorry to hear about your job," Spinoza mumbled as an opening gambit.

"Yeah, well," Tannehill trailed off in response, sighing.

"Look, I think there are some things I could've done differently," Spinoza countered.

"I think there are all things we could've done differently," Tannehill retorted with a philosophical flourish.

Still staring down at the ground, Spinoza awkwardly swung a rigid right paw to awkwardly connect with Tannehill's shoulder.  "Can I offer you food, by way of condolence?"

Tannehill cocked a subtle eyebrow, "what were you thinking?"

"Egg sandwich."

"Egg sandwich?  Just plain egg?"

"You'd be surprised how good they are."

Tannehill shrugged, "ok, where?"

"There's a new diner near your former precinct.  Named The Happy Hour.  It just opened.  I figure it's worth a shot."

Tannehill shrugged again in acceptance as the two men made their way toward the waterfront, suddenly overcome by hunger.

[Author's Note: Hope I don't get sued!  1204 words today for a total of 40996 in the novel.]

Chapter 37 - In Europe It's Known As Rocket

 "A complete manuscript?"  Tannehill slowly stirred a small bit of cream into his coffee.  A piping hot egg sandwich sat next to it.

Spinoza nodded, "the parchment didn't show any defects, so it had to be made for someone of note."

Tannehill whistled and paused, "Miniscule script or gothic?"

Vera's gaze bounced between the two men, "Am I the only one who hasn't taken a course on ancient dark ages manuscripts?"

"Technically," Spinoza was eyeing Tannehill's egg sandwich, "the dark ages occurred a few centuries prior to the creation of the illuminated manuscripts.  Don't worry, kid," he emphasized the last word, "you're just not familiar with the books because you weren't around when they were created, like we were."  He gestured with his pointer finger between himself and Tannehill, eyes temporarily distracted from the egg sandwich.  "I, for one, remember when Constantine sanctioned Christianity as a state religion and had a feeling that would cause trouble for my people."

Vera's mouth was drawn into a shallow pout, but she remained silent.

Tannehill continued, unphased by the exchange between his companions, "So, you think this is some sort of robbery ring against Jewish households?"

"Not exactly.  I don't think anyone's being robbed of goods, at least in the traditional sense."

"Not in the traditional sense?  What do you mean?"  With this last statement, Tannehill stuffed a quarter of the egg sandwich into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"Given the volume of treasure and the fact that it appears to be predominately - if not exclusively - artifacts originating from Jewish households, I think these are valuables confiscated by the German government."

"The Nazis? I know they're not the friendliest of political parties, but governments enrich themselves through graft, corruption, and, in virtuous cases, taxation.  They don't participate in outright theft."

"You live in Capital City and you can say that with a straight face?"

"Fine," Tannehill amended his statement, "they don't do it at such an egregious rate and in plain view of everyone watching."

"The German government isn't a normal government and who says anyone's actually watching?"

"It's not out of the bounds of reality," Vera chimed in.

"That a modern Western government simply confiscates the property of its citizens without due process?"

"Ah," Vera countered, "but that's just it.  Jews are no longer citizens in Germany."

Tannehill recalled the article he'd read traveling downtown the night of Snell's death.  "Maybe so, but they were just stripped of their citizenship recently.  The accumulated wealth in that room alone - which I can only assume to be a minuscule fraction of what's probably still left back in Germany - indicates that this started long before the laws were enacted."

"This is a government that murdered it's most ardent supporters last summer without trial for no discernible reason." Spinoza's voice was calm but a thread of exasperation was beginning to creep into his tone.

"Ok," Tannehill responded in a placating tone, but one still bordered with skepticism, "if the German government has confiscated these items there's still a more pressing question surrounding them."

"Which is?"

"What are all these artifacts doing in a warehouse storage room 6000 miles from where they were taken?"

The three of them sat in silent contemplation of an answer.  Tannehill took the opportunity to indulge in another bite of his egg sandwich.

"This sandwich is really good," Tannehill's statement was barely comprehensible through a mouthful of bread, egg, and butter.

"We make good egg sandwiches here," Vera responded.

"I've had egg sandwiches here dozens of times and they've never tasted like this."  He picked up the remaining sandwich and inspected it for visual clues to its culinary excellence.

"Most of the sandwiches here are made from fried eggs, so they're either too messy or too over-cooked.  It's tough to do a fried egg right."

"Oh, yeah," Tannehill turned the sandwich to face him, "they're scrambled."

"CH is may know medieval manuscripts, but epicurean he ain't," Spinoza added in defense of his friend's rather obvious statement.

"Ok." Vera said hesitantly, expecting that the fine line between epicurean and not was more nuanced than being able to identify how eggs were prepared.

"Anything else make the sandwich special?"

"It's got more butter than most.  And it's dressed with arugula."

"With what?" Spinoza asked.  Tannehill's look of confusion echoed Spinoza's tone.

"It's like mini-lettuce," Vera deadpanned, a dawning awareness that neither of her companions would likely qualify as epicurean.

Tannehill swallowed his final bite. "How do you know so much about the sandwich?"

"I made it."

Both Spinoza and Tannehill nodded in dawning understanding and appreciation at Vera's declaration.

"What news, ho," Vera quipped, changing the subject, worried that the men would soon begin waxing poetic on the virtues of iceberg lettuce.

"Hmm?"

"You said you had news as well when you arrived at the diner?"

"Oh yeah," Tannehill swallowed a remnant bit of mini-lettuce, "Bertucci's dead."

"Who?"

"Sorry, I mean Bellucci."

"Who?"

"Beederman."

"Who?"

"The john.  Brunner's john."

"Wait, Brunner's a prostitute?  That's new information.  It adds a new complication."

"No, wait.  That's not what I... It's just, well, I don't know what to call him."

"Lover?" She offered.

"It didn't look like love to me.  And I don't think they're married."

"I don't think love and marriage are necessary and sufficient conditions for being together."

"No, that's not what I meant either, I just..."

"Who's Brenner?" Spinoza interjected aware he was two paces behind Vera, who was apparently two paces behind Tannehill in the unfolding of the tale.

"Brunner." Tannehill exhaled.  "Brunner is the woman I caught having sex with Bellucci, Beederman - whatever! - the night Snell was murdered.  She and her goon of a partner," he slowed his speech deliberately unaware if he was annoyed with himself for not communicating clearly before or with his audience for asking too many questions, "Otto.  His name is Otto.  She and her goon of a partner had some connection with Snell and this treasure stash.  Otto admitted to roughing Snell up to find out the stash's location, but swears he didn't kill him."

"And now Otto Beederman is dead?" Spinoza murmured, eager to keep up.

Tannehill exhaled again, "No.  Otto and Beederman are two different people.  Beederman (or Bellucci) is dead.  Apparently strangled himself in his cell even though the laws of physics seem to prove otherwise.  Otto's still lurking around the city.  Probably looking to brain someone else for a good time."

"Looks like any working theory we've got needs a little more work first," Vera picked up Tannehill's empty plate and headed toward the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder and pointed a backward-facing index finger toward Spinoza, "you want an egg sandwich?"

Spinoza nodded vigorously.

"Good.  I'll add extra arugula.  I'll also put on a fresh pot of coffee, because it looks like we may be here a while."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1137 words for a running total of 39792.  It was relatively easy to confuse Beederman/Bellucci/Bertucci's name, since I constantly have to go back to previous chapters in order to remember his name].

Chapter 36 - Alliteration Sells

 CARELESS COP CAVALIERLY GUNS DOWN CURIOUS KID

DATELINE - CAPITAL CITY

In what's become an all too common occurrence within our city environs lately, the Capital City Police Department engaged in a pitched gun battle with suspected bootleggers last night, throwing caution to the wind and leading to the tragic death of 9-year-old Charles "Chuckie" Peabody.

During what was described as a "routine" raid by Superintendent William Buttons, the lead detective on the case, Detective Charles Tannehill, fired indiscriminately at what fellow officers on the raid assumed was an alleycat prior to the commencement of the raid.

"He gave no warning.  He just drew his weapon and fired into the alley with no apparent cause for provocation.  We all could have been killed," remarked Patrolman Liam "Whisky" O'Shaugnessy of the night's events.

"What made it worse is that he tipped off the bootleggers with his little 'William Tell' stunt," Patrolman John Sutton added.  "Some little kid's dead in the gutter, and the city has nothing to show for it. Those punks got away scot-free."

Unbeknownst to Sutton at the time of publication, the two operators of the establishment targeted for the raid were found dead a few blocks away.  Each had a single gunshot wound to the head.  Though identification has not been confirmed, neither operator is known to be one of the major crime figures inhabiting the city.  Though this is pure speculation, there are unconfirmed reports that the executions were carried out by the police department itself in a misguided attempt to frame the suspects for the child's murder and exact a "street justice" for revenge.

"Nah, it was definitely Tannehill who shot [him]," O'Shaugnessy confirmed.  "Laughed about it and said 'good' when told the kid was dead, too," O'Shaugnessy added.  "Guess these Golden Boy types think they can get away with anything if they have the backing of the [police] brass."

When questioned about his own reputation as a department enforcer and his current pending hearing on extortion charges, O'Shaugnessy demurred.  "There are a few dark corners a policeman needs to inhabit in order to keep the city safe," O'Shaughnessy said.  "Regarding the trumped-up extortion charge, my lawyer has advised me to keep quiet in case the penny-ante liar who brought the complaint finds another reason to use another innocent remark I've made out of context."

When reminded that his accuser currently has his jaw wired shut, O'Shaugnessy waived the claim away and continued.  "It takes a real low-life to shoot a kid in cold blood and brag about it afterward.  I guess the College Boy didn't get enough target practice growing up in Chicago and decided to live a Wild West fantasy once he moved out here."

Detective Tannehill is a native of Chicago, IL who joined the Capital City Police Department in 1913.  His ascendancy through the ranks to date has been rapid.  As some members of the force have speculated, this may have been due to a desire to burnish the department's image with a supposedly "honest" man, rather than based on merit.  Most notably he served as department spokesman for major crimes.  As is typical with many men his age, he served in the war.  Though the department notes that he served "with honorable distinction," the veracity of that claim has been called into question by several sources.

Recently, as a high-profile "war hero", Tannehill has taken over the raids in the enforcement of the Volstead Act with mixed results.  This latest raid is another black eye against the department's current policies of enabling politically connected personnel to lead their tactical operations without appropriate training. 

Charles Peabody could often be seen parading through the neighborhood, wearing a bedsheet as a cape, and chatting up the local policemen on the beat.  No question was too insignificant to ask in regard to their procedural duties and any chance he had to handle a piece of police memorabilia - a tin badge, the patrolman's cap, his manacles - resulted in a squeal of delight.  "If there weren't an age barrier for entry into the department, Chuckie probably would've made sergeant by this time," his father, Richard, reminisced, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"It breaks my heart to think that the very dream he was chasing was what killed him.  His ma and I know that the city is a dangerous place, but we always expected he'd be protected if he was in the presence of the 'Boys in Blue' as he and I and liked to call the force.  I guess we were wrong."

"It's a tragedy, certainly," Buttons maintained when being questioned on the next steps in the investigation.  "Unfortunately, this city has faced its share of hard times and is likely to face many more before our war against the criminal under element that's done nothing but laugh in the face of law and order is won.  Though Detective Tannehill acted with poor judgment, I feel that the other patrolmen on the scene may have misinterpreted the lens through which they perceived his actions."

"The department is competitive and Detective Tannehill is highly decorated.  It's not out of the question to assume that jealousy plays a subconscious part when giving their statements.  I have zero doubt at all that any officer on the Capital City police force behaves with anything but the pinnacle of professionalism that's expected of them."

"Rest assured that the department will spare no expense in determining the details behind this tragedy, nor in examining the vigilante justice that ensnared the two assailants whose very existence set this horrible night in motion.  Detective Tannehill will have a full and fair hearing in front of his superiors.  As always the Capital City Police Department is here to protect and serve its fine denizens and ensure that impartial, but swift, justice is served towards those who decide to run afoul of its laws and its law enforcers."

At the time of this posting, no hearing for Detective Tannehill has been scheduled.  Unknown suspects in connection to the deaths of the unnamed assailants remain at large.  Charles Peabody will be laid to rest at Our Lady of Eternal Mercy cemetery on Thursday.

- Phil Spinoza

Lead Crime Reporter

Capital City Daily Courier

[Author's Note: Sibilance sells superbly, but the headline didn't lend itself to multiple S's.  This chapter comes in at 1036 words.  The running total is 38655.]