Suspension by Richard E. Crabbe Page A

upturned nose, asserting her rights to his place. Cops could ride the horsecars free, but weren’t supposed to take seats from paying passengers. He got up and stood at the back, one hand gripping the pole supporting the roof. He toted up the things he knew about Terrence Bucklin as the city slowly rolled by. The only angle that seemed at all promising was his father’s story about something not being right about the bridge. That was the obvious place to start. Between that bit of information and his deduction that Terrence knew his killer, it was plain he needed to make Terrence’s coworkers on the bridge his primary focus. He wondered idly just how many there were. Hundreds probably. He’d have to start narrowing that list down some if he was going to get anywhere. He had a feeling that before this was over, he’d know almost as much about the bridge as Sam, if that was possible. He smiled grimly to himself at the notion.
    Tom’s thoughts turned to the Terrence Bucklin he’d seen in the tintype and the corpse he’d seen in the alley.
    â€œSomebody’s gonna have to pay for that,” he said to himself none too softly. A passenger near him took a half step back. It wasn’t wise to be too near a lunatic on a horsecar.

Chapter Four
    The work which is likely to be our most durable
monument, and to convey some knowledge of us to
the remotest posterity, is a work of bare utility; not a
shrine, not a fortress, not a palace, but a bridge.
    â€”MONTGOMERY SCHUYLER
    B rooklyn Heights was quiet this afternoon. It was always quiet. Home to some of the most prominent citizens of both Brooklyn and Manhattan, the Heights represented the very best of suburban living. Solid middle-and upper-class residences marched down dappled, tree-lined streets in sober respectability. Cobbles echoed with the occasional carriage. Children played. Strollers enjoyed the pleasant breezes. Across the river all was push and shove and no apology. The financial center bustled, the docks swarmed, the hungry begged. Here on Brooklyn Heights, where the famous Henry Ward Beecher intoned from his pulpit every Sunday, all was serenity.
    That was one of the things that had drawn Emily and Washington Roebling to the place, that and the view. The view was critical. Nowhere else in either city commanded such a view of the East River. From Staten Island to the south, New Jersey to the east, and Harlem to the north, the panorama of the city and its harbor was spread out before the Heights. Most important of all was the view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Emily and Washington had needed a special house, one with an unobstructed view of the bridge, where quiet was the order of the day. As chief engineer, Washington needed both. Since being disabled with caisson disease years before, he had never again visited the construction site. Instead, he watched from the window of 110 Columbia Heights. It was the last house on the street, closest to the bridge, and both peaceful and ideally situated for the Roeblings’ purposes. Perhaps best was the fact that it was only a ten-minute carriage ride to the site, a ride that Emily took two or three times a day. She was her husband’s eyes and ears at the bridge. She was
his mouthpiece, secretary, plan reader, negotiator, mediator, assistant engineer, technical advisor, and political representative. As far as most of the engineers and assistants, foremen and workers were concerned, she was the chief engineer.
    Emily threw on a light coat before going out this quiet afternoon. Her husband seemed vaguely put out that she was leaving.
    â€œDo you have to go this afternoon, Em?”
    â€œYou know I do, Wash,” she said, ignoring his tone. She knew as well as he that there was no good reason for her not to go. They had all the important work done for the day. “You said yourself you’d need that book in the next day or so. I may as well get it now, because I certainly won’t