The Bodies Left Behind

Carole doing this weekend?”
    “Maybe a movie. Only if her mother comes to babysit. These teenagers? They charge you ten dollars an hour and you have to feed them. I mean, something hot. What do you pay?”
    “Graham and I don’t go out much.”
    “Better that way. Stay home, have dinner. No need to go out. Especially with cable. Best be going.”
    “Say hi to Carole for me.”
    “Will do. And regards to your mom. Wish her well.”
    She watched him go and she stood, looking over the first item on her list.

II
MAY

    SITTING IN A diner in downtown Milwaukee, big, broad Stanley Mankewitz noted his reflection in the glass, intensified because of the dark gray afternoon light. The date was May 1 but the weather had been borrowed from March.
    This was an important date in Mankewitz’s life. International Workers’ Day, picked by worldwide labor movements in the late 1880s to honor common workers. That particular date was selected largely to commemorate the martyrs of the Haymarket Massacre, in which both police and workers were killed in May 1886 in Chicago, following rallies by the Federation of Organized Trade and Labor Unions in support of an eight-hour workday.
    May Day meant two things to Mankewitz. One, it honored working people—which he had been and which he now represented with all his heart—along with their brothers and sisters throughout the world.
    Two, it stood as a testament to the fact that sacrifices sometimes had to be made for the greater good.
    He had above his desk a quotation: the final words of one of the men sentenced to hang for his role in the Haymarket Massacre, August Spies (who, like all the defendants, scholars believed, was probably innocent). Spies had said, “The time will come when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you strangle today.”
    Sacrifices  . . .
    Reflecting now on that momentous day, Mankewitz gazed at his image, observing not his rotund physique, which pestered him occasionally, but his exhausted demeanor. He deduced this from his posture, since he couldn’t see his facial features clearly, though they surely would have added to the overall profile.
    He took a bite of his club sandwich, noted the American instead of the Swiss cheese, which he’d ordered. And too much mayo in the coleslaw. They always do that, he fretted. Why do I eat here?
    The Hobbit detective had been proving scarce lately, which Mankewitz cleverly punned to James Jasons really meant he was proving “scared.”
    Life had turned into a nightmare after the death of Emma Feldman. He’d been “invited” to the Bureau and the state’s attorney’s office. He went with his lawyer, answered some questions, not others, and they left without receiving anything other than a chilly good-bye. His lawyer hadn’t been able to read the signs.
    Then he’d heard that the law firm where the Feldman woman worked was considering a suit against him for wrongful death—and their loss of earnings. His lawyertold him this was bullshit, since there was no legally recognized cause of action for that sort of thing.
    More fucking harassment.
    Mankewitz snapped, “Maybe it’s also bullshit because nobody’s proved I killed her.”
    “Yeah, of course, Stan. That goes without saying.”
    Without saying.
    He looked up from his lopsided sandwich and saw James Jasons approach. The thin man sat down. When the waitress arrived he asked for a Diet Coke.
    “You don’t eat,” Mankewitz said.
    “Depends.”
    Which means what? Mankewitz wondered.
    “I’ve got some updates.”
    “Go on.”
    “First, I called the sheriff up there, Tom Dahl. Well, I called as the friend of the Feldmans—the aggrieved friend. Ari Paskell. I put on the pressure: How come you haven’t found the killers yet? Et cetera.”
    “Okay.”
    “I’m convinced he believed I’m who I said I was.”
    “What’d he say about the case?”
    Jasons blinked. “Well, nothing. But he wouldn’t. I was just making sure he wasn’t suspicious about my trip up there.”
    Mankewitz nodded, trusting the man’s judgment. “What’s up with our girlfriend?”
    Referring to the deputy, Kristen Brynn McKenzie. Right after the events of April 17 and 18, Jasons had looked into who was leading the investigation into the deaths of the Feldmans. There was that prick of an FBIagent, Brindle, and a couple of Milwaukee cops, but it was the small-town woman who was really pushing the case.
    “She’s unstoppable. She’s running with it like a