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Novelo Rectangle

8 July 1910 My Dear Charlie, I am confident these will be the last words I am able to write. This wretched disease has stolen so much of my strength that I can scarcely hold a pen, as you can see by the trembling hand with which I write this letter. My body is failing, but for the present, my mind is still alert. How much longer I have is uncertain, but it is surely only a matter of time before this bed to which I am bound is given to the next dying soul. While I remain able, I find it imperative to write to you concerning a matter that has haunted me for these last fifty years. That matter, my son, is the murder of a young woman by the name of Muriel Bauer that occurred in the dead of night, while I was still a young officer of the Metropolitan Police Force of New York. Since that night, I have guarded a secret, and if I die, the truth will die with me. Hence, I write this letter, so that you may keep my secret when I am gone. After you read these words, you may believe that I forsook my duties as an officer of the law all those years ago. However true that may be, I have lost no sleep over all that occurred, knowing with a clear conscience that everything I did, I did to protect my younger brother, your Uncle Peter. From the earliest days of our childhood, Pete and I had a certain unspoken agreement. Just as he was apt to wander into trouble, so I, too, was apt to take it upon myself to clean up the various messes in which he so often found himself. Our father, whom you never had the privilege of knowing, was a good man, but far from tender. He was prone to fits of violence, and when the mood so overtook him, there was no escaping his belt. “I’ll make men out of you boys, yet,” he would often say, as he disciplined us. Much of my childhood was spent protecting Peter from his calloused hands. Once during our youth, my father tasked us with organizing the spare room in our modest brownstone house to make space for some distant cousin visiting from Dublin. While sorting through various bins of old, moth-eaten clothing and canvases warm with mountain scenery, we happened upon a case of dusty bottles labeled “Yuengling.” After ensuring our father had not noticed our discovery, Peter used his belt buckle to pry the cap loose from the first bottle. We each took a cautious sip of our plunder. That initial sip was sufficient for me, and I have yet to take another swallow of any form of alcohol. Peter, who was nine years old, had found a new love. As I continued clearing out the room, Peter opened and drained the remaining five bottles. By the time he finished the final bottle, I had gotten the room into fairly good condition. Peter vomited a great deal onto the old rag rug. I managed to hide the bottles beneath a pile of discarded fabric and help Peter into bed before our father could discover his inebriation. He later received only a mild beating for soiling the rug. And so we grew up, Peter, always finding himself in trouble, and I, shielding him from the consequences of his foolish actions.&nbsp; We had little contact with one another for some time after I left home. I went on to the university, followed immediately by rigorous training with the Metropolitan Police Force. Peter, ever the black sheep of our family, kept busy with odd jobs here and there, never fully committing himself to anything. It was not until that bleak February dawn, when the Bauer girl’s body was discovered, that we remembered the closeness of the bond we shared as young boys. Having only begun my career with the force, I had resigned myself to patrolling the neighborhood then referred to as “Little Germany” six nights a week with my lantern and nightstick, from seven in the evening until seven the following morning. After a few months of proven dedication to my post, I would certainly be promoted to the day watch and a more comfortable schedule. In the midnight hours of February 3, 1858, I was making my rounds through the silent, vacant streets, when the sound of two shrill whistle blasts from a nearby officer startled me. I hastened to the source of the whistle, and the scene that I met has been burned into my memory all these years, and it will remain until I die. Officer Harry Byrne, who had joined the force at the same time as me, was in a narrow, unlit alley of the Lower East Side, kneeling over the body of a young woman. The soft, yellow glow of his oil lantern, mixed with the pale gray gleam of the full moon cast a haunting light over the girl, leaving no doubts as to her condition. She had been beaten to death, as evidenced by the sickening disfiguration of her face and the blood pooled beneath her head. A letter from her employer, found on her person, identified her as Muriel Bauer, but this I already knew. Ms. Bauer had been a companion of my brother from his brief spell as a newsboy during his teenage years. The two of them had met one morning, as he traveled his familiar route selling papers, and she convinced him to abandon his post to accompany her to one of the local taverns. And so began a friendship between the two of them that lasted several years. They suited each other well, as neither of them appeared to possess much sense of purpose, outside of one another. Peter introduced Muriel to brandy, and she taught him to play poker. Though she had no family, she seemed to be acquainted with all the riffraff of the neighborhood. After a few years, their relationship evolved into something romantic, and I heard it rumored that they planned to marry and venture to the West together. I was never fond of Muriel. While our family was far from wealthy, we were regarded among our peers with a certain respect, and associating with someone with her reputation did us no favors. However, she and Pete loved each other, and my care for your uncle was greater than my disdain for her. One evening, though, Peter discovered Muriel in the arms of another man. This drove him into a drunken rage, worse even than those of our father during our childhood. They argued. Then, she left. We neither saw her nor heard from her again, until the night of her death. As Officer Byrne and I now stood over her corpse, I knew what must be done. It was customary back then for the officer who first arrived at the scene of a crime to lead the investigation. I informed Byrne of the close relationship between the victim and our family, omitting the details of how things had ultimately fared between her and Peter, and I requested to lead the investigation into the matter of her death. Byrne agreed without question. Until that night, the majority of our duties as officers had consisted of ensuring that street lamps were functioning and removing drunks from the parks. This was a much larger task, and Byrne wanted no part. Truthfully, neither did I, but as I had always done, I had to protect my brother. I knew Peter must be a suspect. There was no way to avoid it, but at least with the investigation under my care, I could cast suspicions in other directions. As I mentioned, Ms. Bauer had on her person a letter from her employer, a Mrs. Edith Stanton. It appeared that she had recently come under the employment of Mrs. Stanton, as a personal assistant. This had become a common profession for young women at the time. As fine jewelry shops and department stores took advantage of the lower costs of real estate in the less desirable areas of the city, well-to-do members of society preferred to have underlings they could send to shop on their behalf. Based upon the information from the girl’s letter and the location in which her body was discovered, it appeared that she had been murdered following a trip to Smith’s Jewelry Store on Mrs. Stanton’s behalf. As Byrne and I searched her remains, I discovered an ornate brooch hidden within a handbag that she had been carrying. It must have been worth at least fifty dollars. This, I slipped into my own pocket without a word. Byrne was oblivious to this, as he examined her wounds, attempting to ascertain the deadly weapon that caused them. When all the physical evidence from the scene of the crime had been collected, and the body had been delivered to the morgue, the first rays of dawn began sneaking up between the buildings to our east. Byrne and I resolved to visit the jewelry store Ms. Bauer had visited the previous evening as soon as it opened for the day. As we entered Smith’s Jewelry store, we were promptly greeted by a jovial attendant who led us to the owner. When given Muriel Bauer’s description, he was able to tell us that Muriel had in fact been at the store the previous night, just before closing at 8:00 PM, and she had purchased a brooch. Not only that but shortly after Muriel entered the store, a man entered as well. He purchased nothing. He did, however, appear to be watching Muriel as she shopped, and he left just as she did. When Byrne asked for a description of this man, my worst fears were realized. The owner gave a physical description that matched my brother Peter to a T.&nbsp; Insofar as Peter’s relationship with Muriel was well-known throughout our neighborhood, I knew I could not avoid having him questioned on the matter of her death. As soon as the papers printed the story of her murder and details of this mysterious follower in the store, suspicion would fall on Peter. I had Byrne sent to Peter’s house to arrest him for questioning, and I patrolled the streets around the scene of the murder, searching for any lead other than your uncle. That evening, Byrne informed me that Peter did not confess when he was questioned. In fact, he did quite a convincing job of appearing shocked and heartbroken over her death. Byrne told me that Peter sobbed when he received the news of Muriel’s murder, and he was inconsolable as he answered his questions. Despite his apparent grief, Peter was arrested, as he had no alibi for the previous evening. He had claimed to have been home alone the entire night, and there was no one to prove him right or wrong. At this point, I had been awake for over 30 hours. I was exhausted, and yet I knew I must carry on for Peter’s sake. As fate would have it, while I walked yet again, along the streets near the scene of the crime, I passed by a young couple walking in the opposite direction. The young husband bore a striking resemblance to my brother Peter. Silently, I turned and followed them four blocks to their home. A few moments later, I knocked on their door. The husband answered, and I asked to come inside. I told him I was investigating a murder, and that he matched a description given of a suspect. He was bewildered, but he allowed me to enter, saying he had nothing to hide. I asked his name, and he said it was James O’Malley. “Well, Mr. O’Malley,” I said, “Just a quick look around, and I’ll be on my way.” I inspected their small abode slowly, with my hands in my pockets. I entered the bedroom and lifted the lid of the sturdy cedar trunk at the foot of the bed. With a grave face, I reached in and feigned the discovery of the brooch that I had concealed in the palm of my hand. O’Malley and his wife, who had been showing me around the home, looked shocked. I informed them that this brooch matched the exact description of the one missing from the murder victim. They both denied ever having seen it. I assured the O’Malleys that all would be sorted out, but that I would need Mr. O’Malley to accompany me to the station for some questioning. He agreed, and we went on our way. From there, the matter was resolved rather quickly. The brooch was identified by the jeweler as the very same sold to Ms. Bauer on the night of her death. Though he denied having anything to do with the woman, the evidence was enough to have him arrested for her murder. O’Malley was sentenced to death by hanging, to be carried out that very afternoon. Peter was released from custody, and at last, I could rest, knowing I had again sorted out one of my brother’s messes. Peter grieved for some time after all of this occurred. I never confessed to him that it was I who saw Ms. Muriel Bauer by chance one night. I learned that she had moved back to the city and had decided to make an honest life for herself. Yet, I knew her true character, and I knew what effect her return would have on my brother. So, I followed her from the jewelry store that cold night ever so cautiously. Concealed by the shadows of the alley, when I was certain that no one was around, I attacked her with my nightstick. She gasped and made a small shriek, but only I heard. Within an instant, she was overcome by my furor, never to make another sound. When I was certain she was dead, I straightened out my uniform, wiped her blood from my nightstick, and continued on my patrol, until I heard the two sharp blasts from Byrne’s whistle. As for the man watching Ms. Bauer in the jewelry store, that was purely a coincidence, and I never learned the identity of this man. As I write these words to you, I feel an awful weight lifted from my shoulders. Not a weight of guilt or remorse, simply the weight that comes from bearing a heavy secret—a secret that is now yours to bear for this family. As I’ve already told you, what I did, I did to protect Pete. I was always able to see the true nature of Muriel Bauer, even when your uncle could not. And so, I will go to my grave (quite soon I’m sure) with peace in my heart, having done what I did for the love of Pete. Be sure to look after your own brother. Your loving father, Charles Doyle

For the Love of Pete

WritingReese

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For the Love of Pete

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Reese Black

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