The Surprise of a Familiar Face
Alexander Scofield wasn’t the man I expected him to be. I’d expected an idealistic youth. What I found was a man firmly in his middle years. He was as bald as an egg and as lean and drawn as a man in the late stages of consumption. In spite of his slight build, Scofield greeted David and I with a firm, forceful handshake and led us to his office.
We followed Scofield from the grand public lobby of the City Hall building, down two or three flights of stairs, and along a service corridor with no ceiling. Over our heads ran the arteries and veins of the building. Insulated steam pipes ticked and whispered to deliver heat to the massive structure above. At the end of a longish walk, Scofield stopped at a sloppily painted wooden door. He pulled it open and showed us to the room inside.
The office we entered was cramped and plain. The only window opened into the very bottom of a ventilation shaft. The room held no ornaments or personal touches at all. The office was a place of work and nothing more. Scofield perched behind his desk. He sat in a chair which had a back so tall, its size reinforced the man’s spare dimensions. David and I sat opposite in a pair of hard chairs without so much as an ashtray between them.
Scofield opened a paper file on his desk and poured over it like he needed to find his place. I watched him as he turned the typewritten pages. Something about the man bothered me. As he read, he favored his right eye. The tilt of his head raised the left side of his face toward me. The man’s profile was familiar. I was certain I’d seen it before, but I couldn’t remember when or where.
“Well.” The lawyer said sharply as he looked up from the file. “Well, well.” He said again and punctuated his words by straightening his collar. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” He asked.
David started to speak, but I talked over him. The way Scofield straightened his collar triggered my memory. I remembered the profile and the habit the man had of tugging at the edges of his collar like he wanted to make sure it was snug around his throat. I addressed Scofield with the name I remembered him using long ago. “Scobie?” I asked. “Is that you?”
Scofield pursed his thin lips like he was going to whistle. He blew a soundless breath between them instead. “No one has called me that in a great many years.” He said to confirm the nickname was his. “And how are you, Errant Hero of Law and Order?”
I clapped my hands once to celebrate the accuracy of my memory. I pointed at Scofield. “I knew it was you. The last time I saw you, you and randy old Judge Bryant were drinking pink ladies at Mitch’s.”
“Poor Randolph,” Scofield said as if the mention of the judge required that response, “such a sweet and gentle man. I miss him a great deal. People used to say cruel things about him, that he paid young men to socialize with him. That was a vicious lie. Randolph never offered me one cent. I wouldn’t have taken it if he had. I spent time with him because he was a dear.”
I expressed some skepticism at Scofield’s assertion. “I heard he liked to watch.”
“He did!” Scofield proclaimed indignantly, like I’d insulted the judge by mentioning his proclivities. “Watching was the only pleasure left to him, poor man.”
David spoke up to remind us of his presence. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
I tried to jog David’s memory. “Judge Randolph Bryant was a regular at Mitch’s. He was a fat, white-haired guy who always wore an old-fashioned cutaway tuxedo. Scobie here was his favorite pet.”
“Companion.” Scofield corrected me.
David started to remember. He asked a question to confirm his memory was accurate. “Was he the one who smoked cigarettes out of a holder as long as my arm?”
I was about to tell David that he was correct when Scofield cut me off. “How do you know the late judge, Mister Ploughman?” He asked David.
I answered for David by asking Scofield a question. “Do you remember the bartender Charlie brought in back in ’29? He only worked there for a couple weeks. He went out for a customer’s cigarettes one night and got beat up by the decency crusaders.”
Scofield nodded. “A breathtaking young man. A blond Adonis. I was quite taken with him, and so was Randolph.”
“Scobie,” I said and pointed at David, “meet Adonis.”
Scofield squinted his grey eyes at David while his face knotted with the effort of scrutiny. Scofield’s face smoothed as recognition struck him. “My, my,” he said, “it is you, isn’t it? Quite a reunion we have for ourselves. I could only wish it were under better circumstances.”
Scofield’s mention of the ‘circumstances’ reminded the three of us of David’s son, who was in jail under suspicion of murder. The mood in the room was instantly somber. The funeral atmosphere prompted me to seek a distraction. I reached for a cigarette but decided against having one. Scofield appeared to be a non-smoker. I wanted to respect his preference.
Now that I knew who Scofield was, I realized his actions on Larry’s behalf made more sense. “That’s why you wrote the letter.” I said to acknowledge Scofield’s efforts. “You have something in common with Larry.”
Scofield nodded his agreement and straightened his collar again. “You know how difficult it is for people like us to find fair treatment. Young Larry’s present situation is no different. His sexuality is directly related to the gravity of his trouble.”
David asked Scofield to tell us everything he could. “Please, don’t leave anything out. Larry is my son, and I am here to help. I know he thinks I hate him because of what I caught him doing with Ted, but you must believe me when I tell you I could never hate my son, especially for doing something I once did myself.”
Scofield didn’t physically display agreement or disagreement with what David said. He simply lifted the paper file from his desk and held it up like he needed to refer to it to tell his story. He spoke to us over the top of the manilla folder. “The evidence is circumstantial, but somewhat convincing. Lawrence and Theodore were sharing a furnished room in a large house at 2nd Street and Oregon Avenue. To use a familiar landmark as a point of reference, the rooming house is only a few blocks from where the Madam had her Kingdom of Keystone.
“Lawrence was employed as a laborer for Newlin Excavation. Newlin has been clearing land two blocks south of Oregon and several blocks to the west. They’re building new homes there, immediately adjacent to the right-of-way for the new Delaware River bridge. Theodore was employed by H&H Auto Repair at 5th Street and Porter. That’s a block up and six over from their rooming house.
“According to the woman who manages the rooming house, the boys were always current on the rent, but in the weeks up to the murder they’d been arguing. Their disagreements were starting to disturb the other residents.”
David shook his head at Scofield’s story. I paused the proceedings to ask him why. “That doesn’t sound like my Larry.” David explained. “He’s not one to mince words. Larry would much sooner use his fists to make his point than he would his voice.”
I waited to see what Scofield would make of David’s statement. In my experience, people’s habits didn’t change, not often anyway. I assumed Scofield’s experience would be similar to mine. He didn’t reveal what he thought, or if he thought about it at all. Scofield went on with his review of the case like David hadn’t spoken.
“On Friday night, February 6th, the boys attended the illegal street races on Delaware Avenue, between Porter Street and Packer Avenue. It’s a four-block course near the waterfront which runs south to north through the vacant lots and the warehouses. The end of Oregon Avenue, immediately beyond the salt works, bisects the midpoint of the racing. The boys were known to attend the races and were seen there, both together and separately, on that evening.
“The next morning, the body of Theodore was found in an ownerless property which is being used as a dumping ground. The lot was two blocks south of Oregon Avenue, at Bigler between 2nd and 3rd. The boys would have had to pass the lot on their way home from the races. The police theorize that the boys had an argument on the way home and their disagreement came to blows. They say that Lawrence battered Theodore until the latter lost consciousness. Lawrence then dragged Theodore into the disused property and continued to batter him until he succumbed to internal injuries.
“The police further assert that when Lawrence realized what he’d done, he pitilessly left Theodore’s body in the lot and went home to bed. The next morning, a scavenger who was ransacking the dump for scrap metal, discovered the body and alerted the police. The detectives identified Theodore from his driver’s license which remained in his untouched wallet. They questioned the matron of the rooming house and the other residents, then promptly arrested Lawrence and charged him with the crime.”
“That’s all they’ve got?” I asked when Scofield finished speaking. “That’s a damn thin case as far as I can see. All they’ve proven is opportunity. They’ve got no eyewitnesses, no convincing motive, nothing. I can’t believe the DA is willing to go to trial with that little bit of nothing.”
Scofield shrugged both verbally and physically. “The police do not care that the evidence is thin. Neither does the city prosecutor. For both, this case is nothing more than arithmetic. They have one dead body with no local family and no social ties. They have one suspect with the same circumstances. One victim, plus one suspect, equals one easy conviction.”
Scofield wrung his left hand over the right and the right over the left like he was dry washing them. He held his hands up, palms toward David and me. “It’s that simple.” Scofield said.
As he said it, I knew he was right. The cops had a dead body on their hands, and they needed someone to blame for it. Larry was that someone. He had a history of violence. He was known to have argued with the deceased. He’d been seen with the deceased right before his death. For the cops and the courts, the conclusion that Larry killed Ted was as simple as simple could be.
I asked a question I already knew the answer to. “What are Larry’s chances if this goes to trial?”
“Slim.” Scofield admitted. “I’ve interviewed Lawrence. I believe he is innocent. I wouldn’t have written to you, Mister Ploughman, if I didn’t. I’ll mount the best defense I can, but as I said, it’s likely no one will care. To be blunt, the fact that Lawrence and Theodore were, at one time, homosexual lovers is also against them. For many judges and just as many juries, it’s better to have the queers locked up than it is to let them run around loose.”
David offered what resources he could. “I have money and a letter of credit against my farm. I’ll spend whatever it takes. Will that help?”
Scofield shook his bald head. “Save it for the appeal. If this case goes to trial and we lose, you’ll need a good lawyer for the appeal. You’ll have to hire someone with a reputation. That will be costly.”
“What about me?” I asked. “Will you give me a letter to investigate on your behalf?”
Scofield didn’t see what help I could offer. “You’re not an investigator anymore. You’re a restaurateur. You don’t have time to get your license reinstated.”
I produced my investigator’s license from my wallet and passed it over for Scofield to see. “I never let my license lapse. I’ll want to talk to Larry first, but if I think he’s innocent like you do, I’ll try to prove it.”
Scofield slapped his paper file shut and stood from his chair with eager energy. “Come with me.” He said. “I’ll take you to my secretary. I’ll dictate the letter straight away and I’ll have her transcribe all the pertinent details of the file for you. The court date has been set for Tuesday the 24th of this month. You’ve got two weeks. If you find something, telephone me here or at home anytime of the day or night.”
David and I followed Scofield from his office, along another service corridor, up two flights of stairs, and into another office. There we found a secretary, a jaded spinster in her late middle age. Scofield dictated the letter as he promised. He also gave the secretary several sheets from the file to copy for me. She set about her task with stoic efficiency. David sat to wait for her to finish.
Scofield drew me into the corridor for a private word. In his hands he held the paper file with some items which he hadn’t given to the secretary. The items turned out to be photos. He held them out to me. “I did not want to show these to Mister Ploughman. He is what I would term a ‘regular person.’ He has not been exposed to the ugly side of life as you and I have, Errant Hero. I do not think Mister Ploughman is prepared to view these photographs. They are…off-putting.”
I accepted the photos and examined the black and white images. The pictures were of a body, presumably Ted’s. He was sprawled on uneven ground, surrounded by refuse. His upper body was wedged against the remains of a wooden icebox. The front of the icebox was smashed in. I assumed the wood had been destroyed so a scavenger of scrap metal could remove the galvanized liner. The front of Ted was smashed in as well. His flannel jacket and button-down shirt were both open to expose his torso. His pants had been pulled down to his knees. The entire front of his body was a mess of blood and gore. His head and face were an unrecognizable, pulpy mess.
Scofield commented on the photos in a low, confidential tone. “This is why I wrote the letter on behalf of young Lawrence. Having met him, I cannot believe he could be guilty of the vicious act of brutality it took to reduce this boy to the state he was discovered in. The coroner’s report says that Theodore was already dead when much of what you see was done to him.”
Scofield took the stack of photos from me and flipped them until he came to the one he wanted. The image was of a turned and carved table leg. The leg was as long and thin as an ax handle except where it had once been attached to the table. The ‘table end’ of the leg was a substantial cube of hardwood. Much of the cube was darkened with blood and flesh.
“A weapon of opportunity.” Scofield explained. “Taken from a discarded piece of furniture and used to crush Theodore’s skull and to reduce his ribcage to splinters. His pelvic region was similarly battered, his genitals unrecognizable.”
I took the photos back from Scofield and flipped to the image of Ted’s body. I held the photo close to my face so I could see as much detail as possible. Scofield was right. The beating which Ted took was vicious. Whoever killed the young man had hated him.
In my years on the police force and during my time as a private detective, I’d seen the corpses of people who had been beaten to death. I remembered the rapist my old boss, Captain Herbert Marshall, had killed with his fists. All of the dead who resulted from those beatings were largely intact. They were bruised and battered, but their features were recognizable. That was true for all except one which I remembered. That one being the exception.
Most people who beat another person to death, stop the beating when their victim dies. The idea that whoever murdered Ted kept beating him long after he was dead was both disturbing and telling.
I asked Scofield for his opinion. “You’ve been around, Scobie. What do your instincts tell you about this murder?” Scofield started to speak, but he stifled himself when we both heard an approaching sound.
Footsteps moved along the corridor. Their sound preceded a carelessly dressed man as he rounded the far corner of the hall and moved toward us. The man had messy thinning hair and the suit he wore looked like he’d slept in it. He read the newspaper as he walked.
Scofield held the open folder up to me and jerked his chin toward it. I deposited the photos inside and Scofield closed the file upon them. He tucked the folder under his arm and held it as the walking man drew even with us.
The man stopped and spoke without looking up. “Lunch today, Alex?” He asked.
“Not today, Joseph. Thank you for asking.” Scofield replied deferentially.
The man whose name was Joseph turned a page of his newspaper. “As you say, Alex. Perhaps tomorrow.”
The man resumed his stroll along the corridor until he rounded the far corner.
“Who the fuck was that?” I asked when the man’s steps faded out of hearing.
Scofield answered through an amused smirk. “That was Joseph Clarke, the mayor. Every day he takes a walk at lunchtime. He’ll walk around like that until he finds someone to take him out and pay for his meal. He’s a cheapskate.”
I shook my head in disgust. “Politicians.” I muttered dismissively. I pointed at the folder under Scofield’s arm. “Back to that. Tell me what you think.”
Scofield shrugged his bony shoulders. “At first, I was tempted to suspect that this young man was the victim of organized crime. The savagery of the murder would fit their modus operandi. That said, when the mafia kills like this, they do so to prevent the identification of their victim. In this case, we know the identity of the victim from his wallet. The fact that the wallet was left, tells me this was the work of an amateur.”
Scofield shrugged a second time to indicate his lack of insight into the reasons for the murder. “The limit of my knowledge is that Lawrence Ploughman did not commit this atrocity. Lawrence has a temper, and he is more than strong enough, but his nature is too mild. Theodore’s murderer is a monster masquerading in the skin of a man. I know that because not only did the monster beat Theodore to death, but they continued their attack after he was deceased.
“I also know the monster in question is a sadist. The medical examiner found the handle of a rattan carpet beater in Theodore’s rectum. The handle was inserted, and the rest of the carpet beater was broken away and removed. This was done after death and before the beating with the furniture leg. Theodore was sodomized, then beaten. The man who did those things in that order is a truly disturbed individual.”
Scofield’s description of the details of the murder unsettled me. I reached in my pocket for a cigarette and lit up. The smoke tasted good after I’d been without tobacco for the entire duration of the meeting with Scofield. The lawyer wrinkled his nose at the smoke, but he didn’t object to it.
I let the cigarette soothe my nerves and thought about what I’d heard. I doubted that anyone who was raised by gentle David would be capable of the acts Scofield described. I didn’t have any idea how I was going to find the monster who committed the act, but I was going to try my best.
“Was he raped?” I asked about Ted.
Scofield inclined his head toward me in a gesture which I took to be appreciation for my question. “You have not lost your touch Errant Hero.” He said with a grin. “I had thought of that possibility as well. A test was made for sperm inside Theodore’s anus, but none was present. You know as well as I do that proves nothing. He may well have been raped. He may have been brutalized before death and the injuries covered by the beating. We don’t know.”
“Were there any fingerprints?” I asked in the hope there was more evidence than Scofield had mentioned.
“No such luck.” Scofield replied. “The murderer wore gloves. According to the medical examiner, they were likely heavy leather gloves. I doubt he wore them to hide his fingerprints. I suspect more practical concerns. The weather was quite cold that night.”
Scofield checked his folder and added a footnote to the list of facts he’d shared. “The medical examiner did discover a rather large amount of carbon monoxide in Theodore’s blood. He said the levels were high enough that they could have caused lethargy or even incapacity in the slight youth. The police dismissed this conclusion as no one whom they interviewed remembered anyone who passed out at the races. They concluded that Theodore breathed too much automobile exhaust during the contests. Perhaps they are correct.”
I rolled that piece of information around in my head and decided it was neither here nor there. I didn’t know enough about the races, the men involved, or about monoxide poisoning to agree with or disagree with the cops or the examiner. I set the fact aside and offered my hand to Scofield. I shook his bony, thin hand to thank him for his trust and his candor. “Thanks, Scobie. This meeting helped. It was also nice to see someone from the old days.”
“I feel the same, Errant Hero.” Scofield teased me again with the title Mitch had bestowed upon me. “The hours I spent in the Madam’s kingdom were some of the finest hours of my life. Often, I wish I could travel back to the time when I was a beautiful youth and very much the companion of dear old Randolph. I would happily trade my current position for that which I had at the time, as the favored clerk and companion of the judge.
“My fellow clerks and I were quite the harem. Randolph always managed to collect the most attractive men, or at least the most attractive of a certain type. He had a penchant for sinewy youth. He also liked his clerks to have a certain exhibitionist daring about them. Back then, I had a body to die for and took great pleasure in showing it off. Randolph took similar pleasure in my exhibitions. I loved that I could let the dear man enjoy himself through me. The eccentric Madam truly gathered some of the most breathtaking men I have ever encountered, and every one of them a beautiful soul. I miss them all.”
Scofield cocked his head as a question appeared on his face. “Tell me, do you ever hear anything from Charles, whom you mentioned earlier? He was perhaps the most statuesque of all the men at Madam Mitchell’s. Such a masculine creature. I admired him, as did the judge, though he never accepted my invitation to do more.”
I drew on my cigarette and breathed the smoke out. The story of Charlie’s fate wasn’t as violent as that of Theodore’s, but it was just as sad. “He’s gone.” I admitted as the image of Charlie from the dream I’d had flashed like a specter in my head. “Booze got him. February of ‘47. I saw him, a few years before it happened. I always think I should have…I don’t know, something, but I didn’t. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Poor Charles.” Scofield sighed in a voice which sounded like the end of a prayer. “The finest among us are always gone from our midst too soon.”
In contrast to Charlie, this time my mind called up the memory of Peter, a delicate flower and the first man I was infatuated with. I held onto his image and agreed with Scofield. “Very true.”
Since there was nothing more to say, Scofield and I took our leave of each other. I went back into the secretary’s office to wait for her to finish with the copy of the file. She completed her task in short order and protected the results of her work in a manilla folder which she handed to me. David and I thanked her and left. Our next destination was Moyamensing Prison.
