Page 33 of Blackmailed (The Browns of Butcher’s Hill #2)

Chapter One

Phillip Brown heard the pounding on the front door and the shouts that followed from where he stood in his bedroom.

“Brown! Brown!”

“What in the devil are you hollering about?” he heard his uncle say.

“I’ve got to speak to Brown immediately! It’s a matter of life and death!”

Phillip came down the steps behind his Uncle Patrick, who was holding his rifle and jawing at the soaked stranger standing on the stoop of the home they shared.

[JQ1] The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, he could see, and it was about the time for him to leave the house to make it promptly to the Wiest Cannery, where he made his living.

“Hendricks? What in the world?” Phillip said when he got close to the door.

“You know him?” Uncle Patrick asked.

“Works with Timothy. Come in.”

Phillip led the man past Uncle Patrick’s bedroom and down the two stone steps into the kitchen.

There was a massive pot simmering on the stove, filling the room with the scent of food and making his stomach growl.

He grabbed an apple from the basket in the large open cupboard on the other side of the room and offered one to his guest.

It was then he noticed the man’s face was pure white, and his hands were shaking. Phillip didn’t believe it was all due to the wet weather. “What is it? Why are you here? Did Timothy send you?”

Hendricks shook his head. “No. I came on my own.”

“What is it, son?” Uncle Patrick asked. “Is Sweitzinger all right?”

The man shook his head again. “No. He’s not.”

Phillip felt a chill. “What has happened? Is he alive?”

“Is who alive?” His sister, Sarah, said from where she stood on the stone steps, her robe wrapped tight around her.

“Go on back to bed,” Phillip said at the same time his uncle said, “Timothy Sweitzinger.”

“Has he been hurt? What has happened?” she said and stepped down into the kitchen.

“He’s going to be in jail, if he isn’t there already,” Hendricks said.

“Jail? Whatever for?”

“For murder, that’s what for. You’ve got to help him, Brown. The captain isn’t going to let us work the case.”

“Murder?” Sarah whispered.

Hendrick glanced at Phillip. “Don’t think it’s for the best to get into the details.”

Phillip turned to Patrick. “Can you get a message to the cannery? I’ve got some time coming to me, and it’s been a quiet week. I’ve got to find out what’s going on.”

Phillip wrote a note, handed it to Patrick, and headed to the front door. “Come on, Hendricks. You can tell me what’s going on, on the way. Where are we going anyway?”

“Only a few streets over,” he said and took off at a trot. “On Wilmington.”

Phillip followed through the downpour and wondered what had brought his best friend to the section of Baltimore near the train tracks.

He had a list of questions in his head, but Hendricks seemed determined to arrive and not waste his breath on answers.

Phillip could see people gathered half a block away.

Hendrick shouldered his way through the crowd, and Phillip stayed close to him, up two steps into a large house that looked as if it had been converted into apartments.

This area had once been a fashionable neighborhood but had become run-down as its residents deteriorated to criminality to support themselves, although from the faces he’d just passed there were still some regular working folks living here.

They climbed a staircase and turned down a hallway.

There was an open door, busted wood at the hinges, ahead on the left, its windows most likely facing the alleyway behind the building.

He could hear Timothy’s voice now and his captain’s response in reply.

He and Hendricks walked through what appeared to be a parlor to the knot of men in the doorway to another room.

Hendricks scattered the men and pulled Phillip forward. He was not prepared for what he saw.

Timothy was shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose pants, but more disturbing, it appeared he was covered in blood—in his hair, on one side of his face, and splattered across his chest. Phillip glanced past Timothy to the bed behind him.

A woman lay there, obviously dead, a knife sticking out of her chest, the sheets and blankets stained red with her blood.

He caught Timothy’s eye and waited for some response, some explanation, but he just shook his head, as if to say he had no excuse or, perhaps, any clue as to how it had happened. Captain Murphy turned and spoke to one of his officers.

The man put his hand on Timothy’s arm. “Don’t want to do this, but I have to. Come with me now.”

“Let him get cleaned up first,” Hendricks said.

“He can clean up at the station,” Murphy replied.

The men stepped back and were silent as Sweitzinger walked through the door into the parlor, an officer holding his arm. He looked directly at Phillip as he walked past. Phillip nodded, ever so slightly, telling his oldest and most loyal friend that he would get to the bottom of the mess he was in.

Captain Murphy swept his eyes over the men in the room. “I’ll be asking Captain Bender from Station Ten to do the investigation into?—”

The squawks in the room cut off his speech.

“Bender? He hates Sweitzinger!”

“Why can’t we do the investigation?”

“Bender won’t be just! You have to know that, Captain!”

Murphy shook his head. “We’re going to have an independent force do the investigation. We will trust Captain Bender to be fair and thorough.”

“I trust he’ll send Sweitzinger to the gallows,” Hendricks said.

“Enough of that kind of talk,” Murphy said. “We’re going to be patient, and I guarantee you, I’ll be watching their investigation. But to do so, I need Bender to share particulars with me, which he won’t do if he thinks one of my men is balling up the works. Do you hear me?”

The men settled down, but Phillip did not. However, he was not willing to anger Murphy. He’d need him at some point if he was to get to the bottom of what had happened in the room behind him. Because Timothy Sweitzinger had not murdered anyone.