Constance choked on her breath again.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It may not be your husband. The man had multiple papers on him, all waterlogged, to be sure, and coming apart in soggy pieces. Our department has been drying and piecing them together as best we can. Some parts are missing. One appears to be an identification of a B. . . . something Hals . . . the rest illegible. There are other papers, as well, and it has been a bit difficult to reassemble everything. Part of one seems to indicate this address. Our investigation matches Benton Halstead with this address. Have you been in contact with your husband in the past few days?”
“No. Actually, I have not. He travels for a living. I assume, given your investigation, you know that already.”
“Yes, ma’am. By what means and where does he travel?”
“By the Illinois Central. Between New Orleans and Chicago. He is in the timber business—a timber broker, actually. I guess that’s the timber business, though he doesn’t raise timber.” She was stumbling on her thoughts.
“How long has he been gone this last time, Mrs. Halstead?”
“Something over a week., Officer Dean. I expected him home any day now.”
“And has that concerned you?”
“No. Well, not much. Until yesterday, probably. His schedule is quite unpredictable. He’s often overdue, though sometimes he’s unexpectedly early. This has been a bit longer than usual. But I never count on his being home when he says he will. His work is far too unpredictable for that. I’d make myself crazy if I fretted over when he would and would not be home.” She knew she sounded blasé, unconcerned that this might, indeed, be Benton.
“Well, ma’am, since there does seem to be a possibility this could be your husband, we must ask you to accompany us. Do you need to arrange for your children?” asked Officer Dean.
“No, they are in the care of my trusted housekeeper.”
“Do you need someone to come to be with you, ma’am?” Officer Pulgrum asked. “This could be quite difficult on you.”
“No. There is no one.” There was that indifference again. How must she present herself? They had her. “But you will bring me home, I trust.”
As Constance struggled to rise from the chair, both men extended a hand to help her. She ignored them, toed a packet of cast-off clothing for the orphanage away from the front door, and led the way out to the street.
“I’ll bring the wagon around for you, Mrs. Halstead. Officer Dean will wait with you here in the shade.”
“I assure you, sir, that I am utterly capable of walking around the corner. But tell me, exactly what do you mean by your ‘wagon’? Are you putting me in a transport for prisoners?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. We use a regular civilian carriage for such purposes. I apologize for alarming you.”
“Thank you, Officer Pulgrum. Shall we go, sir?”
Constance set off at a brisk pace, clearly surprising the officers. She was aware how she often failed to meet the expectations for a lady of her social status. But a woman of any status might display anxiety in a wide range of manner when fetched by the police to help identify a body, one quite possibly her husband’s.
Let them perceive me however they like, she thought as she mounted the carriage, again refusing their help. In the long run, it is unlikely to matter.
CHAPTER 13
The ride to the station house was silent, except for the resonance of ordinary life along the cobbled street and the steady clip-clop of the horses. Constance sat stiffly, clenching her handkerchief in her immaculate hands. How many times have I ignored his absences? Now he is dead. I could tell them so and not have to see his damaged body.
At the station house, the officers hitched the carriage beneath the shade of a low side portico. She hesitated before accepting the assistance of Pulgrum’s outstretched hand. Officer Dean held open the heavy door with its barred windows. Again, Constance hesitated. Then looking straight ahead, she lifted her skirts, mounted the steps, and entered the gloom of the bureau entry. Only then did she look around, her determination flagging. From behind the massive oak desk, an intake officer nodded and raised his knobby hand to the two officers.
“This way, ma’am.” Pulgrum stepped aside and motioned her through a second door into a small, poorly lit office. Dean followed and pulled back a starkly plain, rigidly constructed chair, indicating for her to sit. Sweat trickled from Constance’s temples; whether it was from the enclosed heat or the tension of the moment was unclear. She dabbed at it with her handkerchief.
“Mrs. Halstead, we know this to be a terribly stressful moment. And we must prepare you that in this particular instance, it will be an exceptionally difficult one.” Officer Pulgrum was grim. “Identification of the dead is one of the most unpleasant experiences a human being can be called upon to do, even at its least traumatic. Even if this man is not your husband, this will be a terrible drain upon you. I am hoping to steady you for what you are about to experience, even if this man is a complete stranger to you.”
Constance knew this would be no stranger. Her head throbbed as if it might split.
“If, in truth, Mrs. Halstead, the body is that of your husband, I must warn you that the body in question has sustained a considerable amount of damage. It appears that death occurred some days ago in a plunge from a trestle on the Illinois Central. The impact with the water at some velocity, combined with the warming temperature, and some facial damage from . . . Well, ma’am, I regret the need to ask your assistance with this identification regardless of the actual identity.”
Constance stared at Officer Pulgrum’s rough hands as he tapped the eraser of a yellow pencil, its point still showing the knife strokes of its last sharpening. In the growing silence, she stared at the pristine order of the papers on the desktop.
Officer Dean eased toward the door, rested his hand on the doorknob.
“Do you feel ready, ma’am?” Officer Dean leaned toward her.
Constance nodded and stood but held a tight grip on the arm of the chair.
“Mrs. Halstead,” said Pulgrum, “just one more moment, if you please.” He motioned her to sit again. “Perhaps there might be another way. Not so difficult for you. Let me ask . . . Did your husband have any identifying marks? I’m thinking specific scars or marks, any old cuts or injuries that might help identify him? If there is one unique enough, there might be no need to put you through a viewing of the body. Or depending on where such a mark might be located, you might only have to see that one mark, if it’s present. Are you aware of any such identifying anomaly?”
Constance dabbed at her damp brow and cheek. The close air of the office had become stifling to her. There were, of course, the old skinned knees that any boy would have had; the left thumbnail, which sat a bit crooked at the inside edge from a mishap with a saw blade early in his career. These would hardly be specific enough to serve as definitive identification. Nor would his one eyebrow that tended to rest lower than the other, but then she shuddered at the vague allusions to massive facial destruction. Constance rose again, as it seemed inevitable that she had to witness the ruins of Benton’s handsome face, must have this forever branded into her memory.
As Dean held open the door for her, Constance had a sudden thought, a memory of a distinguishing mark that might identify her husband. She held up her hand.
“There is something,” she said. “Something particular. I don’t believe this could be confused.” She looked from one to the other. “My husband has a birthmark, very small, a round deep red mark on the bottom of his right foot. As if he had just stepped on a lit cigarette.”
The two officers looked at one another.