Caleb Carr - The Angel Of Darkness

No one in the hearing room had made a sound as the girl stepped down. The members of the jury, the Doctor said, had looked just the same as the crowd outside the court house had when they’d gotten the news about the indictment: as if they’d all been hit with one enormous brick. Mr. Picton had wrapped up his business pretty quickly after that, and the jury’s assent to an indictment on two counts of first-degree murder and one of attempted murder had been very quick.

It wasn’t the kind of story what would make anybody overjoyed or triumphant; and to be sure, all of us in the surrey-having seen what the day had done to little Clara-felt a deep sense of regret and sadness as we clattered back to Mr. Picton’s house. But underneath said emotions of the moment, for all of us, was something what maybe went even deeper: what you might call an unspoken feeling that we were, as a group, finally on something what my dice-throwing pals downtown would’ve called “a roll.” Our investigation, it appeared, had been transformed into a sort of quiet locomotive-and that locomotive was bearing down unstoppably, it seemed, on the woman who’d been committing so much mayhem for so many years. Evidence and testimony-hard won by hard work-were the ropes we were using to strap the golden-eyed killer onto the tracks. True, our responsibilities to Clara, to the Westons, to little Ana, and to our own safety were considerable-but our responsibility to keeping our engine running was the most important of all. And on that Friday evening, we appeared to have a full head of steam, and the way ahead looked good and clear.

That was before Marcus came back from Chicago.

The Doctor’d been right in supposing that the general state of what he called “moral confusion” what took hold of Ballston Spa during the days after the indictment of Libby Hatch would make our work easier. It wasn’t that we were suddenly looked on any kindlier by the townsfolk; it was just that they were too busy trying to make sense of the affair-and its long, horrible history-to pay us much mind. The fact that people like Sheriff Dunning had been so convinced of Libby’s guilt by what they’d heard during the grand jury hearing made it impossible for those vexed citizens to just write the upcoming trial off as the work of ungodly troublemakers from New York City; and it was hard for even them what hung on most stubbornly to the tale of the mysterious Negro to get around the fact that an eight-year-old girl who’d suffered years of physical pain and spiritual torment had stood up before a panel of adults and stated flat out that it’d been her own mother who’d in fact been the agent of it all.

Libby Hatch-or, as she was labeled in the grand jury indictment, Mrs. Elspeth Hunter-was arrested at Number 39 Bethune Street in New York on Tuesday afternoon. Sheriff Dunning had gotten in touch with the New York City police on Friday, and had been referred to the Bureau of Detectives. Together with officers of the Ninth Precinct, the bureau had put Mrs. Hunter under surveillance right away, and reported that she didn’t seem to be making any moves toward beating it out of town. (During the time they were watching her, the city cops apparently didn’t experience any interference from the Dusters, which we took as a further demonstration that Libby didn’t intend to avoid capture.) Sheriff Dunning directed the Ninth’s detectives not to make any moves toward actually arresting the woman before his arrival, unless it suddenly started to look like she was going to bolt; then, on Monday, he took the train down to the city with two of his deputies.

This slightly leisurely way of going about capturing a murderess had those of us on the Doctor’s team a little confused; but Mr. Picton explained that the longer we delayed Libby Hatch’s arrival in Ballston Spa, the longer we could take advantage of the eerie, spooked calm what’d descended on the town. So when he saw Sheriff Dunning and his boys off at the train depot, he didn’t urge them to go about their business too hastily, an instruction what Dunning took to mean that he and his deputies were free to enjoy a night in the big city before returning home with their prisoner. They were met at Grand Central Terminal by a couple of the detectives from the bureau, who proceeded to take them down to the Ninth Precinct’s station house on Charles Street. (Being unaware that any New York City detectives had been involved in Mr. Picton’s investigation, Sheriff Dunning spared himself the cold reception he almost definitely would’ve received if he’d dropped the Isaacsons’ names.) Together the lawmen decided to wait until Tuesday morning to actually clap the irons on Mrs. Hunter; and we were left to imagine what the sheriff and his deputies got up to that night, since it would’ve been tough to come up with anybody better suited to showing them a good time in the big city than the men of the Ninth. The fact that Dunning waited until Tuesday afternoon to pinch Mrs. Hunter seemed proof positive that he and his boys had taken full advantage of the cultural “resources” of New York. But as things worked out, a hangover wouldn’t have been much of a disadvantage to them on Tuesday: when they arrived at Bethune Street, they found Mrs. Hunter packed and ready to go-almost, Sheriff Dunning told Mr. Picton when he called from Grand Central Terminal before boarding the train north, like she was anxious for the trial to begin. Dunning went on to report that, barring delays, he and his deputies would be arriving with their prisoner at midnight.

All through that Tuesday, the citizens of Ballston Spa had continued to stew over what Mr. Moore, true to form, insisted on calling the “moral implications” of the case. They had no choice but to stick with that activity on into the evening, as everyone began to anticipate Libby’s return in irons; in fact, it was starting to feel like brooding would keep the town occupied indefinitely, or at least until somebody came up with an explanation for the killings what would let their society (which, if it hadn’t actually produced Libby Hatch, had certainly believed her lies) off the hook. Of course, if they’d known that one of the only men in the entire country who was capable of coming up with such an explanation was at that point packing his bags in Chicago and getting ready to journey to their town, their mood might’ve been considerably different.

But, fortunately for us, the only person who was as yet aware of the movements of Mr. Clarence Darrow was Marcus; and late on Tuesday afternoon, he returned from Chicago in advance of the mysterious Midwestern lawyer. After exchanging warm greetings with the rest of our group at the depot, Marcus handed me his suitcase (which El Niño immediately grabbed, refusing to allow me to carry it), and then we all started walking up Bath Street toward the court house. We’d been ordered to bring the detective sergeant to said building just as soon as his train got in, being as even though Mr. Picton had many pressing matters to attend to in his office (the trial was slated to open on the following Tuesday, August 3rd), he said there was nothing more important than learning about the background and tactics of the hired legal gun who was being brought in from so far away to face him. I figured that Marcus could’ve done with a hot bath and a good meal, after his long journey, but orders were orders. Besides, the discoveries that Marcus had made about Mr. Darrow were such that he himself was very anxious to share them with the rest of us. Because of this, the Doctor had cut his day with Clara Hatch short (he was still working with her as hard as ever) and joined us at the train station, ready to give Marcus his own version of the third degree: a version what included a box of the Doctor’s best custom-rolled smokes instead of bright lights, and a flask of Mr. Picton’s excellent whiskey in place of brass knuckles.