by Eric Flint
“Sorry, Captain,” Gotthilf said. He turned to Byron. “The coroner wants to see us ‘as soon as it’s convenient.’”
Byron looked to Reilly. “This will keep. Just get back with me later,” said the captain.
As Byron started to stand up, Reilly spoke again. “Oh, yeah—the mayor did go with me to a meeting of the senior pastors in town. They’re all in agreement that any of them will be willing to help you with background for these murders. Just remember who they are, and deal gently with them. We’ve got enough heat coming our way right now.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “Go, go.”
Moments later the two detectives hustled out the front door of the station and headed for the nearest cart, since their regular driver appeared to be elsewhere. “City morgue,” Byron snapped as they jumped in. The lurch as the driver urged his pony into motion dropped Gotthilf into his seat with a thump.
The morgue was some distance from the station, in a street that was mostly warehouses. No one wanted to live near the morgue, it seemed.
When the cart pulled to a stop, the two of them jumped down. Byron headed for the door. Gotthilf took two steps, then turned back to the driver. “Wait for us.”
The driver touched a finger to the brim of his hat and reached down and set the wheel brake before he settled back in his seat.
For all that Byron’s legs were longer than his, Gotthilf had caught up with his partner by the time he’d taken two steps inside the morgue. His nose twitched. There was a faint smell of decay. Given the purpose of the place, and the fact it was August, he supposed that shouldn’t have surprised him. Still, the building was almost brand new, and it had only been in use by the newly appointed coroner for a few weeks. He’d hoped it would be longer before it took on the air of its purpose, so to speak.
One of the assistants opened the door into the morgue itself and the two detectives entered to find Dr. Schlegel waiting on them.
“Tell me you found something we can use, Doc,” Byron said.
“I just find the facts,” the coroner said, wiping his hands on a towel. “It is your job to find their application.”
“Right. So what have you got?”
“First of all, a name. According to Frau Maria Züchner, who claims to be her mother and came here yesterday afternoon after the rumors made their rounds, yesterday’s victim was one Anna Seyfart. Age, twenty-three. Occupation, assistant to Frau Anna Schneider, who is—”
“Probably the most in-demand seamstress in Magdeburg for the leading families,” Gotthilf interjected. He shrugged when the two men looked at him. “My mother patronizes her almost exclusively. You learn these things around my mother and sister. Anything else?”
“Ah, right,” Dr. Schlegel said. “Unmarried, but not a virgin. As to the autopsy…” Gotthilf watched as the doctor laid two folders side by side on top of a freshly scrubbed exam table.
“I cannot absolutely verify that the two women were killed by the same person,” Dr. Schlegel began, “even after discussing the cases with Dr. Nichols and reading the up-time reference books. They were both killed by strangulation, yah, but look here.” He pointed at one picture, then another. “It was not manual strangulation. Some type of cord or ligature was used on each of them.”
“Damn,” Byron muttered. “No chance of matching hands to the marks, then.”
Gotthilf nodded, remembering an earlier case they had solved, where the murderer of a wealthy factor named Paulus Bünemann was eventually identified because of a distinctive lack of a fingermark.
“I’d say not,” the coroner replied. “The ligature that killed Margrethe Döhren was thin, and was placed near the base of the neck, below the larynx. But the ligature that killed Fräulein Seyfart was thicker, and was placed across the larynx. It may have been the same murderer, using different tools, but the second attack was made with more force. The ligature marks cut deeper, and the larynx itself was partially crushed.”
Gotthilf felt of his own throat.
The doctor noticed that movement, and smiled. “Indeed, Sergeant Hoch, from what I have learned it would take a significant amount of force to do that.”
“So we may have two killers, then?” Gotthilf asked. “The second stronger than the first?”
“Possibly,” Dr. Schlegel responded. “But look at this.”
More pictures were pulled out of the folders.
“The two women were posed in exactly the same manner. No differences at all.”
Still more pictures were pulled out to display.
“And the eyes were removed from both of them in exactly the same manner, with the same cuts, and I would swear with the same tool. Look at these,” the coroner pulled yet more photographs out, displaying the naked eye-sockets. “See here and here,” he pointed from one photo to the other, “see how the tissues are cut in exactly the same manner?”
Gotthilf bent over the pictures. The photographs were grisly, yes, but lacked the immediacy of having the tissue in front of him, so he was able to view them with perhaps a bit more objectivity than he otherwise would have.
“See, this line here? This slice across this muscle?” The doctor’s probe traced the line on one picture, then moved to the other. “Compare it to this one.”
Gotthilf was no doctor, but he could see a definite similarity between the two mutilations. After a long moment of study, he straightened. “Anything else?” he asked.
“I don’t know what tool was used, but it was very sharp. And the use of it was very precise.”
“How so?” Byron asked.
“Precise enough to be a skilled surgeon, even by up-time standards,” Dr. Schlegel said. “Precise enough that the eyeballs were removed without cutting or puncturing them. There was no trace of vitreous humor in the orbits of either woman, which would have been impossible to totally clean out if an eye had been penetrated. I am impressed by the skill, and appalled by the use to which it is being put.”
“Great, we’ve got a Ripper on our hands,” Byron muttered. Gotthilf barely heard him, so he didn’t think Dr. Schlegel had. He stored that statement for later discussion.
“So, we may or may not have multiple killers, but after the murders have been done, it’s one person,” Gotthilf said.
Byron nodded. “I’d bet that way. And I still think it’s only one killer.”
“But the differences?” Gotthilf objected. “Why weren’t the methods exactly the same?”
“Because it’s not the actual death that he’s obsessive about,” Byron said. “It’s what happens afterwards.” Gotthilf watched his partner tap his finger against his lips, then cross his arms. “Was Fräulein Döhren raped or otherwise sexually assaulted?”
The coroner shook his head. “No. She was not a virgin, but there was no evidence of recent sexual activity of any kind.”
“So they had that in common, as well,” the up-timer mused.
“You think that’s a factor in this?” Gotthilf asked.
“I don’t know,” Byron replied. “But obsessions that lead to murder almost always involve sex one way or another.”
It was late in the day when they returned to the police station. They had gone over every bit of the forensics data with the coroner and viewed the body of Anna Seyfart themselves. Again, nothing presented itself that hadn’t already been seen; no new revelation or interpretation of the evidence jumped out at them. Gotthilf was grinding his teeth when they climbed down from the wagon and stepped into the station house.
“Captain wants to see you both, soonest,” the desk sergeant said as they entered. They turned as one and headed up the stairs to Captain Reilly’s office.
“Not good,” Byron muttered.
“What’s it about?” Gotthilf asked.
“Dunno,” Byron shrugged. “Probably got something to do with these murders.”
Which was the only thing Gotthilf could think of, as well. But why?
That question was answered as soon as they entered the captain’s office.
&
nbsp; “Where do we stand on the murder/mutilations case?” Reilly asked as soon as they stepped into his office. He did not invite them to sit down.
“Same place we did this morning,” Byron replied. “According to the autopsies, we may be looking at two killers or one, but the post-murder obsessiveness is definitely one person. I’m betting we’ve got one killer who obsesses over the after-death stuff but not the exact manner of death.”
“So, what, we’ve got our own Jack the Ripper here?”
Byron flashed Gotthilf one of those I’ll explain it all later looks, then said, “Maybe, maybe not. There are some parallels, but so far he’s not a copycat killer.”
“That’s not good enough,” the captain said. “I’ve had a steady stream of visitors in my office today, beginning with one Frau Schneider, apparently the dressmaker in town, then followed by what seemed like most of her clientele, all of whom demanded that the murderer be caught now, or else. The afternoon was capped off by a visit from Mayor Gericke, who indicated his concern about this case, and wondered why we hadn’t caught the murderer yet. After all, it’s been over a week since the first woman was found dead, strangled and eyeless.”
Gotthilf clenched his teeth. There wasn’t anything to say to that diatribe that wouldn’t sound like self-justification. He stole a glance at Byron, who was playing statue again.
Reilly’s stiffness relaxed all of a sudden. He waved a hand. “Sit down, guys, sit down.”
After they did so, the captain continued, “I’m sorry, you probably don’t deserve that, but we are starting to catch heat over this, and if we don’t find the killer soon, we’re going to be neck-deep in political mud. Brief me, so if the mayor comes back I can say something besides ‘We’re trying.’”
Byron pointed a finger at Gotthilf, who pulled out his notebook.
“Two women: one twenty-two, the other twenty-four; both unmarried; both living in the western section of Greater Magdeburg; both working in Old Magdeburg or at least having frequent business there. Neither was well off, although Fräulein Seyfart had a better job and obviously better connections than Fräulein Döhren. According to their families, neither woman had suitors, or even male friends. Both often walked to and from Old Magdeburg via the bridge and gate in the northwest corner of the Altstadt. We have no witnesses that placed them anywhere on the evenings of the nights in question. We know when they left their places of business or service, and we know when they were found the next morning. Other than that, nothing.”
“You’re certain they were mutilated in the same manner?”
“Dead certain,” Byron said, “no pun intended. The photos from the autopsies are clear.”
“And you think they were killed by the same man.” That was not a question.
“I’d bet every dollar I have on it,” Byron replied.
“Then you’re missing something. If we have a serial killer, one twisted and obsessed enough to mutilate his victims in exactly the same manner, then the victims have something in common. Find it, and it will lead you to him.”
* * *
“Here,” Byron shoved a large up-time book at Gotthilf, who barely caught it. The up-timer’s finger pointed to a column of text with a heading of “Jack the Ripper.” Gotthilf sat down at his desk and started puzzling through the up-time English and printing. When he was done he looked up at his partner.
“This is what you think we are dealing with? This insanity?”
“Insanity, yes,” Byron said. “Not exactly like the Ripper, though. Like I told the captain, there are some real differences between what we’ve seen and what happened in London in 1888. But similar, oh yeah.”
“It says they never captured or tried this Jack the Ripper.”
“Yeah,” Byron muttered. “Lots of crazy theories as to who he was, but no one had ever absolutely proved any of them before the Ring fell.”
Gotthilf closed the book and handed it back to Byron, who stuck it in his desk drawer. “We will do better than that, Byron. We have to.”
“So what do we have?” Byron looked at the two case folders that lay on the table.
Gotthilf flipped them open and pulled out the autopsy stats on both women. “Physically, Fräulein Döhren was five feet three inches tall and one hundred forty-five pounds, Fräulein Seyfart was five feet two inches and,” he flipped a page, “one hundred thirty-eight pounds.”
“So, both women were short and stocky in build.” Gotthilf, no towering giant himself, directed a stern look at his partner. “Well,” Byron amended his statement, “stocky, anyway.”
“Right. Hair,” Gotthilf looked back and forth, “Seyfart was ‘dark blonde,’ Döhren was ‘light brown.’”
“Pull the close-up photos out again,” Byron said. Gotthilf laid them out on the table. “Hmmf. Round-faced, both of them.”
“Yah,” Gotthilf replied. “So they wouldn’t be mistaken for sisters, but similar size, shape, and appearance.”
“Yep.” Byron stared at the two pictures. “I could see one of them being mistaken for the other, especially if the light was not good, but…”
“Why kill them both?”
Byron tapped a finger on Seyfart’s autopsy stat sheet. “Why does Döhren’s sheet show her eye color but this one doesn’t show Seyfart’s eye color?” A moment later, he snorted. “Stupid! No eyes to see.”
“We got Döhren’s from the missing person report her sister turned in,” Gotthilf replied. “It looks like Dr. Schlegel didn’t think to ask Seyfart’s mother about her eye color when the body was identified.”
“We need to pin that down tomorrow.”
“Yah.”
“Hmm. Döhren was blue-eyed.”
Gotthilf looked at his partner. “Is that significant?”
“Dunno. If Seyfart’s eyes weren’t blue, then probably no significance. If they were blue,” he shrugged, “then maybe. Hard to tell without more evidence.”
Gotthilf laid out two additional lists and started comparing them. “Personal belongings: clothing, shoes, a few dollars apiece, a stub of a pencil in Döhren’s pocket, a bit of ribbon in Seyfart’s. Nothing remarkable there, or unique. Hmm…”
After a moment, Byron said, “What?”
“Sorry,” Gotthilf looked up. “I was just trying to think if this was important…both of them had a rosary in a pocket.”
“Rosary?” Byron looked surprised. “I thought that was just a Catholic thing.”
“No,” Gotthilf replied. “Many Lutherans still use them. My mother and sister both carry them.”
“So what do you think?”
Gotthilf shrugged. “To quote my partner, dunno.”
* * *
“So,” Byron said the next morning, “have you been able to catch up with the sister and mother yet?”
In between other tasks on other cases, Gotthilf had managed to do additional interviews with Esther Frey and Maria Züchner about their sister and daughter, respectively.
“Yah,” he replied. “Fräulein Seyfart’s eyes were indeed blue.”
Byron grunted. “Okay, so that makes them just that much more similar in physical description. Anything else?”
Gotthilf paused as he stepped over a steaming pile of horse manure in Canal Street. “Where’s the CoC when you need them?” he muttered, which evoked a laugh from his partner. The Committees of Correspondence were fanatical about cleanliness and civic hygiene, and the sight of a small hill of fresh manure this close to the canal waterway would ordinarily be guaranteed to send local CoC members into a frenzy. However, it appeared that none were in the immediate vicinity, which meant that the equine perpetrator of the crime was able to escape, along with his driver accomplice.
“A few things,” Gotthilf said, pulling out his notebook. “Both of them described the victims’ eyes as a dark blue. Döhren’s sister said her eyes were ‘piercing,’ and Seyfart’s mother used the words ‘sharp’ and ‘penetrating.’”
Byron grunted again. “Okay. Flag that as distinctiv
e.”
“Does it mean anything?”
“Not yet. But it’s the first really strong element we’ve found. What else?”
Gotthilf looked down his notes. “They were both friendly and outgoing women.”
“Any boyfriends?”
“No. Both Frey and Züchner were adamant about that. And I’d say a bit disappointed, too, especially the mother.”
“Understandable. Next?”
“Both women were strong church-goers, more than Sunday, anyway.”
“Ah. Make a note of that, too.”
Gotthilf nodded, then asked, “Why?”
“Because this kind of murder, there has to be some kind of passion behind it,” Byron said. “It may be sexual—probably is—but this wouldn’t be the first time in history that an atrocity has been committed for a religious reason.”
Gotthilf didn’t like that thought at all, but he tucked the thought away for later mulling over. “So what do we do now?”
“Do you know what churches they attended?”
Back to the notes. “Ah, Döhren attended St. Ulrich’s, and Seyfart…” his finger ran down the page, “also attended St. Ulrich’s.”
Byron stopped in his tracks. “They both attended the same church?”
“Yah.”
“Damn.” Byron slammed a fist into his other hand. “Captain knew what he was talking about. We should have already found this.”
Gotthilf started putting facts together. “Oh, you mean it’s a connection.”
“Yep. Similar appearance with distinctive eyes, similar temperaments, and now attending the same church? Oh, yeah, have we got connection.”
Just as Gotthilf was about to ask what they would do now, the office messenger walked by and dropped an envelope on Gotthilf’s desk. He took one look at it and yelled, “Martin!”
The messenger reversed his path and came back to where Gotthilf stood. “Yes, Sergeant?”
Gotthilf pointed at the very familiar looking envelope. “Do you know where that came from?”
Martin shrugged. “Morning mail drop, I think.”
Gotthilf waved him on and looked at Byron, who echoed Martin’s shrug. “Take it down to the fingerprint guys, and see if they can develop any. Envelope paper is pretty coarse, and all they’ve got is the powder, so I’m not expecting much there. Depending on what’s on the inside, maybe, maybe not.”