“You can sort of see the triangle shape of Fifth Avenue and Broadway in the background,” I explained. “The illumination just out of frame—a man named Amos Eno owned the property until his death in 1899, and he used to project images from a magic lantern onto a canvas screen hung from a shorter building. It was used for advertisements, news bulletins, and even election results.”
Calvin didn’t say anything.
I smiled.
He put an arm around my shoulders, drew me close, and asked, “Anything else I should know?”
“The phrase ‘twenty-three skidoo’ likely originated from the Flatiron’s Twenty-Third Street location.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s a windy corner. It was suggested that men would stick around the Flatiron to watch women’s skirts get blown up so they could catch some hot ankle action.”
“Of course.”
“Police would have to chase them away.”
“Perverts.”
“Hence, twenty-three skidoo,” I concluded.
Calvin smiled and lowered his arm.
“What’re we going to do about the—” I paused when a customer walked by us. “M-u-r-d-e-r?” I spelled out.
“Nothing.”
“No, not nothing,” I answered.
“That’s about all that can be done, Seb.”
“I know a thing or two about handling evidence in a homicide,” I pointed out. Not that I was a detective or had a degree in forensics, but my ex-partner, Neil Millett, worked for the Crime Scene Unit of the NYPD. Four years of “tell me about your day” had taught me some. Like for example, there were records kept on homicides, even in the 1800s. And if it was an unsolved crime, that evidence was to remain in police possession until the cold case was a closed case.
“You know a thing or two about most everything,” Calvin replied simply. “Which is why it makes it next to impossible to argue that you’re wrong.”
“This is one of those moments I’m not sure if you’re complimenting me or not.”
“Who’s to say this wasn’t solved a long time ago?”
I stared at the Kinetoscope. Call it one of myhunches, but I suspected that wasn’t the case. Surely the evidence on film would have been used, even then, to catch the murderer. And after the crime was solved, it would have likely been destroyed by the police. Instead, over 120 years later, the footage was shipped to a moonlighting sleuth.
No explanation.
No reason.
No nothing.
“But what if itwasn’tsolved?” I countered.
Calvin crossed his arms again. “The oldest evidence I’ve heard of being held by homicide detectives only went back to 1909. And that was in the ’20s, before complaints of sanitary conditions and limited space were taken into consideration.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hi, I’m Calvin Winter,” he stated, reaching a hand out to shake mine. “I’ve been an officer of the NYPD for ten years.”
“I’m ignoring the sarcasm only because I’m incredibly turned on by you spouting random facts at me,” I answered.
Calvin smirked. “I’ll remember that.”
