Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(17)

Or not.

They’re bolstered by wealth, privilege, and the momentum of history. They wield authority by the force of a habit no one knows how to break.

Anyway, it’s chaos out there on the streets of Birmingham, as far as I can tell.

It was chaos in the police department, that was for damn sure. I arrived at eight o’clock and helped myself to a cup of coffee, after a bright-eyed receptionist suggested I might take one from a sideboard in the spot that functions as a lobby. I stood still, sipped my beverage, and watched people argue, swarm, and come and go with boxes of belongings and sour expressions. Quickly enough, I gathered the gist: People were being removed from their jobs and replaced by a new staff—as a result of the election, no doubt.

And to think, this was the day I chose to seek an interview with the local authorities.

I finished my coffee, and having divined the location of the office I needed, I flashed the receptionist my badge and papers and set off down the hall.

The name on the glass read, “Martin Eagan, Chief of Police,” but it wouldn’t for long.

The chief in question was emptying his desk drawers into a crate, swearing under his breath, and ignoring a telephone that rang and rang and rang. He was an older man, probably a decade older than me—so perhaps his early seventies—but he was the blocky, sturdy sort. A boxer in his younger days, I would’ve wagered. His arms were thick within the sleeves of his suit, which was pressed to perfection with all its buttons gleaming. His hat was perched precisely; he wore it like a crown. His mustache was as fluffy and gray as two kittens tail to tail, but tamed with a touch of wax.

I rapped gently on the doorframe and said, “Chief Eagan?”

“No,” he shot back. “Not anymore.”

“But you’ve been the chief for a while now, isn’t that correct? For the last few years?”

“Since 1917,” he confirmed, never looking up. I liked his voice. It reminded me of some of the Boston lads—quite a few Irish among them, farther east from here. He sounded less like a yokel, and more like my idea of a policeman . . . if I must confess to a certain snobbery in that regard.

I tried another approach. “Sir, I realize I’ve come in the midst of a difficult transition—I assume you’ve been . . . let go, due to the recent elections?”

“I was offered a job as a patrolman, so yes—you might as well say I’ve been let go. Patrolman,” he muttered, each syllable dripping venom. “After all my years of service.”

“The offer was an insult, to be sure. My apologies on all fronts, but I do hope I could beg just a few minutes of your time.” Before he could order me out the door, I added swiftly, “My name is Simon Wolf, and I’m an inspector from the Boston office—I was a friend of Father Coyle’s.”

He stopped packing and looked at me, starting at my shoes and working his way up to my eyes. It took him a few seconds. I’m a big fellow, that’s no secret. Maybe not the tallest gent in a room, but likely the widest—and I, for one, am quite comfortable with that. I fought it when I was young, and now I don’t. Now I buy bigger clothes, and look better wearing them.

“You were a friend of Father Coyle’s?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, keeping that professional deference firmly in place. “I heard about his passing, and wished to come pay my respects—and also, to see if I could lend a hand with the investigation into his murder.”

He wasn’t sure if he believed me or not—I could see it in his eyes. “You can pay your respects at the boneyard at Saint Paul’s, but there’s no investigation, Inspector. We know good and well who killed him. Even if half a dozen people hadn’t watched the bastard do it, he confessed quick enough.”

“He did?”

“Aye, he did. Finished shooting, and walked calm as you like . . . over to the courthouse steps and sat down, waiting for someone to bring him the irons.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Because Edwin Stephenson is a hateful little wretch. Not entirely stupid, though. He knows where his bread gets buttered, and he knows he’s going to walk, instead of hang.”

“Even though . . . everyone knows he did it? What excuse could he possibly have?”

The former chief of police sighed heavily. He planted his hands on the desk, leaned forward, and looked at the crate filled with his belongings. “It’s a long story. No, it’s a short one—Coyle was Catholic, and he did something Edwin didn’t like. Now the murderer will put his hand upon a Bible and call his actions temporary insanity, if you ever heard of anything half so preposterous. His insanity didn’t come temporary, and it wasn’t sudden, either. Maybe . . . maybe you ought to walk along with me. There’s a bit of a story to it, and I need to be gone before Shirley gets here.”

“Is that the new police chief?”

“That’s him, and a filthier bastard you’ll never set eyes on. He’s crooked head to toe; the man must screw his socks on in the morning. If I meet eyes with him, I’m likely to take a swing, so it’s best that I be on my way. You can join me, since you’re not the sort who’s afraid to talk with a papist.”

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps I can help carry something?”

I took one box, he took another, and he slammed the office door behind him. As he passed, many of the patrolmen stopped what they were doing and removed their hats, seeing him off with regret, respect, and (if I read their eyes correctly) no small amount of fear. Whoever this Shirley was, it didn’t look like his presence would be altogether welcome among the uniforms.