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.]

Chapter 35 - Do You Think The Chandelier is AC or DC?

 Vera peered into the room at vague, static shapes filling the square space.  The room looked to be the same size as the other storage areas, but, even in the dim light, it was apparent that it had been cared for, unlike the rat hotel or the haphazard haberdashery.  

She peered further into the darkness before a cascade of light appeared above her.  A small crystal chandler illuminated the space, revealing a cache of treasure that would impress even Aladdin or Long John Silver.  Spinoza's hand crept around the wall to her left, affixed to a light switch.

Small shelves interspersed at regular intervals throughout the room held sundry glittering objects mingled with large cardboard boxes.  Even larger cardboard boxes stood as intermediaries between the shelves, containing even greater mysteries.

Spinoza whistled, "What a haul, huh? That chandelier isn't some cheap knock off.  It looks like it's something from pre-Edisonian times that's been wired for electricity.  Pretty deft touch by Snell to use it as the light fixture in here.  Gives the place some atmosphere."

On the shelves against the left wall, there was a greater inventory of crystal goblets - some lined in gold - alongside a stack of silver platters.  In the far corner, a thick stack of rolled carpeting occupied the niche between the shelves on the left and the shelves pressed against the back wall.

Spinoza walked over to the corner with Vera in pursuit.  He grabbed the first carpet, unrolled it slightly, and rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.  "Silk.  These are real Turkish rugs."

Vera's eyes were wide, less in the recognition of the value of the items in the room than with Spinoza's ability to quickly estimate their value and sourcing.  "How do you know all of this?"

"I spent a few years in Europe after the war and took the opportunity to get more acquainted with the history of the continent."

They moved to the next corner of the storage area and observed a stack of paintings, some still housed in ornate frames, some rolled casually up in piled groupings, nestled between another set of shelves.

"What about these paintings?  Do you know anything about them?"

"Not too much.  Given the nature of their subject matter, their verisimilitude, and the attention to detail," he pointed to a dark shadow on one painting illuminated by the overhead chandelier, "I'd say they're likely paintings from Dutch masters.  See how even in the darkest spots on the painting, you can still make out a clear delineation of shapes? That was typical of Dutch renaissance style."

Vera peered closer, paused, moved her head for further adjustment, and then nodded in appreciation.

Finally, they turned toward the wall on the storage room's right.  There, on every shelf, were menorahs piled on top of one another.  Some were simple silver structures.  Others were embossed with ornate designs.  Still others were solid gold, while a select group was decorated with jewels.  

Spinoza grunted in growing comprehension of the room's purpose.  He pulled a box from the shelf housing the menorahs and opened it, unsurprised by its contents.  He lifted a garment from the box and, as with the carpet, rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.

"What is it?"

"It's called a tallit.  It's a Jewish prayer shawl.  This one's silk.  I expect the others folded up in these boxes are likely silk as well.  Or wool. Something higher end and well-made at any rate."  He paused and folded the shawl carefully before placing it back in the box.  "Let's check a few more boxes."

They moved back to the center wall and pulled one of the lower boxes from the shelf.  The weight of the box caused it to land with a muted thud on the floor.  Spinoza lifted one of the flaps back and stuck a hand inside.  A brief look of perplexity on his face caused temporary panic in Vera, who was still suspecting a literal rat at every turn.  Her fear abated as he calmly lifted the other flap, revealing the box's contents.

"Books?"

"I don't think they're just any books."  He lifted the top volume from its resting place and the two of them examined it.  It was bound in embossed leather with a golden clasp holding its pages secure.  Spinoza popped the clasp and the book sprung open slightly, but perceptibly with a small sigh and a creak.  He carefully turned page after page.

"Can you read Latin?" Vera asked, expecting after the other talents he'd revealed in the last couple of minutes that answer would be a resounding 'yes.'

"Nothing past the basic roots.  Can you?"

She shook her head but continued to stare, transfixed by the colors and gold leafing reflecting light from every page.  "It's beautiful."

They perused more pages, the light seemingly emanating from the manuscript rather than from the chandelier above them.  The images composed of vibrant primary colors.  "Do you think it was illustrated by monks?"

He shrugged, "most likely.  Monks were typically the literate ones for the time period.  But that's not what's most interesting about this edition."

She glanced at him, perplexed.

"All of the stories - they're Old Testament.  Not a picture of Jesus to be had in the book."

"Is that unusual?  Maybe it was a prelude to another edition containing scenes from the New Testament."

Spinoza shook his head slowly.  "During a time when an entire continent was adamant against professing - and waging war on behalf of - its faith?  Doubtful."  He paused in thought.  "There are instances of Jewish manuscripts that were often produced by Christian miniaturists.  Europe wasn't openly hostile to Judaism for every moment of the last millennium.  Just most of them."

Vera stared at Spinoza in astonishment.  "How..."

"This is actually pretty standard art history stuff, and I took a few classes in college.  I audited a few more when I was in Europe."

"So, why do you think the manuscript landed here?"

"Well, I've got a theory," he pointed to another shelf of boxed merchandise, "but let's open a few more just to be sure."

Vera scrambled to the next available box and eagerly pried it open, pulling out a thick sheaf of identical documents labeled in what looked like gothic font with government seals affixed to them.  

"German treasury bonds," Spinoza responded before Vera could formulate the question.  "Keep digging."

She did as asked and immediately pulled out another batch of documents nearly identical to one another, but this time with familiar lettering and the faces of Jackson, Grant, and Franklin rubber-banded together.  She looked straight at Spinoza.  "What's your theory?  Some sort of local burglary ring?"

"No," Spinoza shook his head mournfully.  "All of these artifacts are Jewish or likely to show up in wealthy European residences.  I think this is plunder from looted Jewish households in Germany.  Our friends are probably here to sell it to interested bidders."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1153 words for a running total of 37619.  I highly recommend Khan Academy's course on art history.  It helps provide details for describing luxurious scenes.]

Chapter 34 - Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been a Prostitute?

"Have you ever been a waitress before?"

"No."

"Have you ever been a maid?"

"No."

"Have you ever been a homemaker?"

"Do I look old enough to have a husband and kids?"

Happy shrugged as though the question were perfectly reasonable and continued the interview.  "So, why should I hire you over all of the other girls that have wandered in here?"  

Vera glanced at the woman who introduced herself as Flo earlier and thought that if Flo was a "girl," the best she could hope for was the status of newborn babe if not simply a fetus.  She kept her tone steady and unperturbed.  "I can play an instrument."

"Is that code for something?  I'm not into prostitution here." 

"Where are you into prostitution?"

After a brief look of confusion and then shock, the man attempted a smile, but with jowls that permanently pulled his face down, the best he could muster was a friendly sneer.  The name Happy was obviously an ironic moniker.  

"Are you a prostitute?" he blurted out, casting aside all aspersions of subtlety. This last line wasn't fashioned as a proposition but as a matter-of-fact statement to emphasize that the Happy Hour diner wasn't a place that condoned prostitution as a side business.

"No.  I play the trumpet."  Catching herself to put aside any mistaken double entendres, she added, "the actual trumpet."

"And why would that make you a good waitress?"

"At the very least, I could entertain the clientele."

Happy's jowls sagged a bit more in reluctance. "Are you sure..."

"Yup.  Still sure I'm not a prostitute.  You don't interact with many women do you?" She caught sight of Flo wandering distractedly in the distance.

"I'm still not certain that I should take a chance on someone with no experience."

"Well, combining the time I spent waiting for you to sit for this interview and the time that we've actually been conducting this interview, I've seen one customer enter in the past 30 minutes.  And he's obviously a regular."

"How do you know he's a regular?" Happy scowled skeptically.

"He's been sitting at the counter for 10 minutes, reading the paper, with no expectation of being served anytime soon."

"Well, it's past lunch rush," Happy blustered indignantly.

"It's 1 PM now.  Does everyone in this diner eat on East Coast time or am I missing what the concept of the word 'rush' means in this context?"

Happy, insulted by Vera's perception that his business plan hadn't yet met his expectations, continued.  "Do you have any other skills?"

"I'm good at math."

"Why would I need a waitress who's good at math?"

"So she doesn't short change you or the customers, for starters."

Happy's jowls sagged slightly less. "What else can you do?"

"I'm good at managing my time."

"Why does that matter?"

Vera sighed.  "It means I'm reliable when showing up for a shift.  It means that I can be flexible in scheduling when called upon.  It means that I'm taking this opportunity to better myself by attending college while also working what I expect will be a full-time job."

"Oh," Happy responded in a tone that some straddled the line between cheerful and morose.  "What will you be studying?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm not sure I want a girl who isn't decisive."

"I'm going into engineering," she fired back.

Happy raised an eyebrow at this remark.

"What?  Now I'm sure I'm being too impulsive in deciding so quickly, right?"

Happy's jowls sagged again.

"Look.  There's really not a lot that you have to lose in giving me an opportunity.  You're not quite at the pinnacle of your fiduciary prowess yet, so it's not like I'm going to lose you any business if I'm initially slow on the uptake."  She glanced at Flo, who'd discovered lint somewhere in her hair and was now inspecting it thoroughly. "And I don't think the barrier to becoming a waitress here is particularly high."

Happy raised a finger, ready to issue an objection, but Vera cut him off.  "I'm happy assisting with management duties as well.  I can help you schedule the staff."  She looked toward Flo again who had the particular treasure from her coiffure pinned against the counter being slowly pulled apart.  "Hell, I can even help with the books and cook if needed."

"It's unbecoming of a lady to use that type of language."

"I'm not a lady.  I'm a prostitute."

"A-ha!" Happy's face lit up in the act of discovery as he prepared to launch into a speech he'd apparently been preparing the entire interview about the dangers of loose morales.

Vera sunk her face into her hands before meeting his gaze again evenly.  "I'm kidding."  The look of disappointment on Happy's face almost made her regret that she didn't let him give his speech before letting him off the hook.

"So, extra-curricular nightlife excursions aside, do I get the job?"

Happy munched on his lower lip, eyes cast downward. 

Vera glanced around at the diner.  Flo sat on a stool at the counter, staring at the wall.  The lone customer had fallen asleep amid his crumpled newspaper.  Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard a lone crow caw.  "Well?"

"Ok," his tone had the timbre of a defeated parent giving into their child's whim for the latest toy spotted in a department store.  "But you need to be able to pull your weight."

Vera looked over at Flo, who had now also fallen asleep.  "Great!  I can help with recipes."

"Yeah?" his eyes shot suddenly upward.  "Do you know a good meatloaf recipe?  Mine has too much flour in it."

"I'm sure we can change it up a bit.  Maybe replace it with something exotic.  Like breadcrumbs.  Speaking of exotic, maybe we can add the occasional Continental dish for spice, like ratatouille or tuna niçoise.  We're in a big city.  People tend to be more cosmopolitan."  The customer at the counter let out a bellowing snore.

"Are you French?"

"No, I'm not French.  I grew up on a farm with access to a library nearby.  They had a few recipe books for French foods and I had access to produce, so I gave it a whirl."

"Do you have a recipe for spaghetti and meatballs?"

Vera put a finger to her lips in mock pensiveness.  "I'm sure I can dream something up."

"Good.  I don't want to start with anything too exotic.  And we have a pretty large Italian population in the city now, so I want them to feel at home."

Vera didn't have the heart to tell him that spaghetti and meatballs was invented in America.  Though, she suspected many of the "Italians" Happy was referring to were likely born here, so they wouldn't quibble too much at the distinction, as long as the food was decent.

Instead, she added, "Ok.  Also, I've got a great recipe for the best egg sandwich you've ever tasted."

[Author's Note:  If I do wind up short of my 50K word goal, I think my best option is to turn Vera loose to chew the scenery.  I hadn't intended to flush out her backstory more than the original piece, but she's not someone who shies away from further character exposition.  Today: 1156 words.  Total: 36466]