The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [102]
“Mr. Lachtmann, you must listen!” I exclaimed. The man needed desperately to lash out and unless I could provide him a reason to do otherwise, there was little to persuade him that Eakins and I would not be suitable candidates for his wrath. If I could not convince him that Eakins was blameless—whether true, untrue, or half true—I was certain neither of us would leave here alive. “Eakins was not responsible for any of Rebecca’s misfortunes. He has been working desperately to try to find her and render assistance. Setting upon him or me will get you no closer to the revenge you seek. You will merely have the satisfaction of watching pain inflicted on two men who were trying only to help.”
“You are denying that he despoiled my daughter?” Lachtmann snapped, still refusing to speak Eakins’ name. The intensity of the man, the homicidal ferocity, was physically oppressive. It robbed me of breath. But, at least he was now addressing himself to me and not my companion.
“Not only am I denying that Eakins was the father of Rebecca’s child, I am also telling you that he had nothing whatever to do with her death. In fact, he cajoled me into helping because he was so worried about her. It was only because of his overriding concern—and that of Miss Benedict—that I agreed to become involved in Rebecca’s disappearance. It was, as it turns out, fortuitous that they asked me, because I have discovered a great deal.”
“And what exactly have you discovered?” I had stopped him, momentarily at least.
“I will be happy to tell you all I know,” I said, “if you will answer one question for me first. Keuhn here has been following Eakins for days, possibly weeks. Has he come up with one scintilla of evidence that Eakins has been anything but a friend to your daughter?”
Lachtmann refused to respond directly to my question. Instead, he said, “Go ahead, Dr. Carroll. Tell me your story.”
I favored Lachtmann with much the same version as I had given to Eakins and Abigail at dinner, with one extra detail. If Turk was the only culprit in his daughter’s death and he was himself dead, Lachtmann had no incentive to let Eakins and me continue on the loose. He would either turn the Pinkerton man on us, or alert the authorities as to where we had been found. Even if I did not land in prison, Johns Hopkins was unlikely to employ a physician who had been apprehended as a grave robber. Lachtmann had to have reason to let us go, so I added that I believed Turk had an accomplice, someone who may have performed the actual operation from which his daughter died.
“It was only to spare Miss Benedict … and by association, you,” I concluded, “that we undertook something as harebrained as digging up the coffin ourselves instead of going to the authorities. We decided that if the police became involved prematurely, Turk’s associate would be alerted and have the opportunity to cover his tracks.” I finally felt sufficiently in control to down some brandy. “Mr. Lachtmann, do I seem to you fool enough to risk my career and my freedom on such an act without good cause?” It would be quite an irony if it was only the height of my own stupidity that saved me.
Again, Lachtmann ignored my question. “Do you have any idea who this accomplice might be?” he asked instead, going to the heart of the matter.
“I’m not sure,” I replied, “but I think I’m close to finding out.”
Lachtmann eyed me for a moment. I felt like a field mouse being perused by a hawk. “You had better,” he said.
There was a knock on the door and Lachtmann bade whoever was there to come in. It was the other Pinkerton agent, Keuhn’s associate, the man I had noticed the day that Abigail and I had visited Eakins on Mount Vernon Street. In hushed, respectful tones, the man told Lachtmann that the arrangements for both matters had been completed.
Lachtmann nodded, wrote some instructions on a piece of paper, handed them to the man, then waited for him to leave. When the door had closed, Lachtmann’s eyes remained fixed on it, as if there were a vision in the oak