by Jim Beard
Valiantine scowled and stood. “I’m going to soak my feet. Then I’m going to bed. You?”
“A drink first, I think.”
Valiantine nodded. Cabot watched him leave the dining room. Then the agent got up from the table and left the room. But he didn’t go into the bar. Instead, he exited the building.
The two Aero-Marshals met again in the dining room for breakfast: fried eggs, smoked sausage, beaten biscuits with butter and sorghum, grits with red-eye gravy, and fried apples with a pot of black coffee. Valiantine paused in spearing together a piece of sausage and a flap of egg white. “That’s the third time you’ve yawned over your food. Bad bed?”
“Late to bed. I visited a brothel last night.”
Valiantine’s face turned red and he began to choke on the food he’d just swallowed. A passing waiter whacked him solidly on the back until the lieutenant waved him off.
He was guzzling coffee to clear his throat when Cabot said, “Actually, I went to three.”
Valiantine spewed coffee back into his cup. Tears ran from his eyes. “Good God, stop!”
Cabot waved a nonchalant gesture with his fork. “Oh, sorry, no, nothing of that nature. Purely professional interest. Bontonne supposed our quarry was retired from the military, and service men are known to visit such businesses. Indeed, if he wanted to remain hard to find, he may have taken up residence at one of the more reputable establishments.”
Valiantine had gotten his breathing back to normal. After a last gasp, he asked, “What did you learn?”
“Not what I hoped, unfortunately. No customers in unfamiliar uniforms, or uniforms that had their insignia removed. But I learned that men with unusual accents had been paying for services the past two weeks.”
“’Unusual accents’?” Valiantine drank more coffee. “The town is full of fresh immigrants. And boat crews from up and down the river are bound to pronounce words differently than the locals.”
“The ladies are very familiar with just the things you mention. But the men they described had a distinctive accent, they said. And all the same sort of accent. One or two of the women asked these customers where they hailed from.”
“And the answer?”
“Vague responses. One telling answer, however, that a wise-eyed lady remembered was ‘the Northern Tier.’”
“That’s not a description you hear often. New England, isn’t it?”
“I think so. But I’ve never heard anyone say ‘the Northern Tier’ in a conversation as the place he calls home. Why not name a town or state?”
Valiantine nodded. “Sounds evasive. Odd.” He frowned at his partner. “How did you know where to go?”
“You know I once worked for the police department. One learns much of life in that job. And, in the case of any new establishments, I simply read the newspaper advertisements—one must know the right phrases to look for.”
“Hmmph. Why didn’t you take me? Or at least tell me where you were going?”
“Sorry. I didn’t know how you would take the suggestion.”
“I’m a military man, Cabot, not a priest. And we agreed for each to keep the other informed.”
While Valiantine spoke, Nick Gardner appeared again, bearing another note. Valiantine read this one. “Assistant Director Gallows this time. Wants to know what we’ve learned.” The lieutenant tucked the paper into his breast pocket. “They’re certainly anxious about our progress.”
Now a waiter handed Cabot a folded note. After reading it, the agent looked up with an energized expression. “Mr. Bibb has news. River men reported seeing lights in the clouds over the river last night. And a fellow ‘wearing a strange outfit’ has been asking odd questions of wharf workers.”
The two picked up their hats and started for the street. Valiantine asked, “Are we going to walk again?”
“It’s not that far.”
Just outside the front door of The Phoenix, a uniformed policeman dashed up to the pair. “Mr. Cabot! Chief Taylor has something for you to see.”
“Headquarters?”
“No, Mr. Cabot. The mortuary.”
Cabot’s eyebrows rose. He turned to Valiantine. “Your feet are in luck. We’ll need a cab.”
Police Chief Taylor stood inside the door of the mortuary. He offered no greeting, only a scowl.
“The details you offered me suggested your investigation delves into the unusual,” he said. “The evidence inside should meet those qualifications.”
The Aero-Marshals followed Taylor along a hallway and down stairs. Through a black door, they entered a chilly room, brightly lit, with a slab at its center.
“Dear God.”
Cabot didn’t hear Valiantine’s ejaculation. He was swallowed by a sense of drowning. All his senses focused on the body lying atop the slab. The head and limbs were torn from the torso, which was slashed deeply enough to expose the broken ribs and the mangled organs within. The parts had been arranged in their proper places on the slab, but the gaps between the pieces remained. The image brought to mind the fate Cabot had escaped in Kansas. His chest tightened against his ability to breathe.
He gulped a deep breath and gathered his wits before Taylor’s scrutiny.
“Recognize him?” the chief asked.
Cabot answered, “No. Any information?”
“Found along the riverside by an old man collecting driftwood. Northeast of the wharf, just after dawn. Spread over an area about twenty square yards. The left foot, you’ll notice, is missing. We think it’s lost in the river.”
While Taylor spoke, Cabot circled the corpse. He’d calmed his mind, evened his breathing, and was studying the body for clues.
“Birds and animals have been at him. How long dead?” Cabot asked.
Cabot and Valiantine had been so mesmerized by the corpse, they’d not noticed the man who now stepped forward from a corner of the room. He was bald, wore spectacles and a large rubberized bib apron decorated with a variety of stains. He smiled, and his bushy eyebrows twitched upward rapidly. The jumping eyebrows combined with the smile gave Cabot the sense the man was trying to help him understand some joke.
“The blood had drained out of the parts,” the aproned man said. “From the body’s condition, I’d say he was killed not last night, but the night before.”
Cabot returned his gaze to the cadaver. “These slashes in the torso, on the limbs... they’re very ragged. Perhaps made with a dull blade? Or claws?”
“No,” the man said. “Neither, I think. Look, it’s like someone with remarkably large hands tore into the flesh with his fingers. See? These could be four fingers, there a thumb. No sign of claw marks anywhere. But what sort of beast so large doesn’t have claws? I’m at a loss, gentlemen, I’m sorry.” The eyebrows twitched upward.
Cabot felt a momentary dizziness. He looked at the ravaged body laid out on the mortuary slab. He heard Yankee Bligh’s voice: The dead are graceless objects. They don’t care about our desires for order and understanding. In return, we drop them here and flop them there as we need until they give up the answers we want. He shook his head and looked around. “Was he wearing anything?”
“These,” Taylor said. He pointed to a stack of fabric. It was dyed a very dark color, not quite black.
“We’ll take those,” Cabot said. “Can you wrap them in a parcel?”
“That’s evidence!” Taylor thundered.
“Indeed, Chief Taylor,” Valiantine said. “It may be evidence in our federal investigation as well. If not, the packet will be returned to your department.”
Cabot realized he’d not looked at his partner since entering the room. He was thankful now the lieutenant had stepped up to interrupt Taylor, as Cabot didn’t want to be the one to thwart his former superior officer. Cabot felt Taylor directed entirely too much enmity toward him already; he didn’t care to feed Taylor’s ill will further.
“May we see the spot the body was found?” Cabot asked.
“Yes,” Taylor acceded. “Randall, the
man who brought you here—he’ll accompany you.”
“We’re done here,” the agent said. “But, Chief Taylor, if it’s possible... you might see if any of the professional ladies at Fanny Evans or Mary Edwards’ establishments recognize the victim’s face.”
The man in the apron spoke up. “We’ll make the head very presentable.” His eyebrows twitched.
Outside the mortuary, the agents paused a few feet from the door. Cabot directed Randall to rouse the cab driver, who had dropped off to sleep, the reins in his hands.
Cabot saw a look of concern in Valiantine’s face. “You’re white as a sheet,” the lieutenant said.
Cabot nodded. “You know the coin investigation in Kansas included murders. You didn’t know the victims weren’t simply killed. They were ripped to pieces.”
“Damn.”
“Yes. The coins, this body... this is our case, lieutenant.” Cabot handed over the brown-paper parcel. “Get another ride, take this to Mr. Bibb. He can tell us, perhaps, what sort of uniform it may be.”
Valiantine nodded. “I’ll have him stitch it together, show it to Bontonne, see if he recognizes it.”
“Good. And ask Richard for any news he’s collected. He’ll trust you, since you met him with me.”
“I’ll meet you back at the hotel.” Valiantine wrinkled his nose. “I’ll at least get away from this stench.”
“About a mile thataway are the stockyards. We’re at the edge of the Butchertown neighborhood. Breakfast probably started its way to our plates at the slaughterhouses a few blocks from here.”
The lieutenant frowned and gestured at the mortuary. “There’s another butcher in town.”
They separated, each to his tasks.
River Road paralleled the Ohio from the downtown wharf to the northeast edge of the county. Away from the business bustle huddled immediately around the wharf, few structures were present along this lane used mainly by freighters.
About four miles from the wharf, Cabot pushed through the fifty yards of tangled brush between the road and the river. Randall pointed out the spots the cadaver’s various parts had been discovered. Cabot circled.
The edge of the tangle stood about ten feet above the level of the river. A narrow game trail snaked along a couple of feet from that edge. Cabot noted an eroded section where a second trail veered off from the main track down the slope to a muddy shelf leading into the current. Boot prints cluttered the slope path—signs of the police who had recovered the body.
Other tracks crowded the shelf by the water. Cabot clambered down, careful to stay out of the river. More boot prints. He scoured eastward and found other tracks. The gait suggested they were left by the man who had found the remains.
The agent continued along the shelf, whose width changed with the vagaries of the river.
He spotted a sign that drove a spike of cold between his shoulder blades. It matched the size and shape of the unusual prints he’d found in Kansas, where he’d discovered Mrs. Smith in a tree.
He slowed his breathing and took a closer look. The heel was partially washed away by the water. The toes pointed toward the bank, only about eight feet high here. Part of another print remained on the slope itself, pointing upward.
Cabot climbed up to the edge, back into the thick brush. He found no more signs he could recognize. Roughly a hundred yards farther to the east started a dense thicket.
The agent made his way to the road and waved Randall over to join him.
“Find anything?” Randall asked.
Instead of answering, Cabot pointed toward the woods. “What’s in there?”
“Not much. Some river rats keep shacks in there. You know the type: like to be left to themselves, maybe they’re a little crazy.”
Cabot nodded. He looked at the sky over the river. “Any rain last night? Night before?”
Randall looked puzzled. “No, not a drop. Bit of a drought this month.”
Cabot smiled at him. “No, you’re right. Not a cloud in the sky.”
In the bar of The Phoenix, Cabot and Valiantine sat at a corner table away from other customers and ate cold cuts of meat and cheese with hard-boiled eggs and coffee. Randall stood near, wearing an expression of discomfort.
The lieutenant waved him to the lunch spread. “Help yourself.”
While the policeman was occupied, Cabot gave his report. Valiantine followed: “Richard Bibb said men saw lights in clouds over the Ohio the night before we arrived.”
“The stranger was killed that night,” Cabot said.
“Yes. But other than the clouds over the river, the night was clear. Then, last night, more clouds and lights—and noises, banging and yelling. A couple of half-drunk fishermen heard this racket overhead. Said their boat was nearly overturned by a large splash near them.”
“What?”
“Under the clouds and lights and furious yelling.” Cabot watched a smile play with Valiantine’s mouth. “More splashing, which the befuddled fools thought headed toward the Kentucky shore.”
“Someone escaped the airship!”
“Someone or something.” Valiantine’s eyes narrowed. “No ghost—from Corn Island or anywhere else—destroyed that man on the mortuary slab.”
Cabot’s scalp tingled. “What else?”
“Bibb quick-stitched the uniform together. I showed it to Bontonne, and he said it matched the one worn by the fellow with the coins.”
“Bontonne needs to see the dead man’s face, see if it’s the coin man. Where’s Randall?” Cabot shook his head. “We’re getting a lot of clues. But I’ve yet to figure what they mean.”
Nick Gardner arrived bearing another note. Cabot scanned it. Valiantine stood to look for Randall while he spoke: “One last thing: Bibb couldn’t identify the uniform’s fabric. Not wool, cotton, linen, or any sort of blend. He’s never seen its like.”
Cabot scowled at the note. “That’s odd. Richard is a remarkable expert in cloth identification. Say, do you know ‘Executive Officer Barnaby Scarborough’?”
The lieutenant shook his head.
“Apparently he is a peer of Gallows and Wellington.” Cabot looked up at Valiantine. “He, too, wants to know what we’ve learned.”
“What’s raised their interest beyond waiting for our usual reports?” Valiantine turned as Randall dashed into the room and stopped at their table. “What is it, man?”
Randall caught his breath. “They’ve found more body parts, sirs.”
“Parts.” Cabot stood. “I thought only a foot was missing from this morning’s corpse.”
Randall’s eyes widened. “More parts, sir. Another victim.”
The body had been found near the Portland Canal. Actually, only a leg had been found. A night guard on his way home from the lock house at dawn stepped on the limb where it lay on the levee path near the spot the coins had reportedly been found.
A forearm and the head were located in the brambles on the land side of the levee.
Cabot stood on the path looking down into the brush. “Any clues on the path have been trampled out by your companions from the department,” he said to Randall. He pointed at the tangle. “But you can see broken shrub and tree limbs in a crooked line from the levee over to the road on the Portland side. Something big tore through to get to the clear space. Probably to escape from the murder site.”
Randall had kept his left fist over his mouth since he’d seen the victim’s remains. “Why would he run through that thicket? The path up here is clear. Easier going.”
“Good question.” Cabot turned to look at the river. “Maybe there was something or someone over here”—his eyes scanned the clear sky—“the killer wanted to get away from.”
Valiantine approached. He’d been questioning the bleary-eyed watchman who’d found the leg. Cabot saw the now-familiar furrow on his partner’s brow.
“Didn’t hear, didn’t see anything,” the lieutenant said.
“The blood was still sticky,” Cabot said. “It couldn’t h
ave happened too long before he found the evidence.”
“Over here!”
A policeman waved from the waterside, thirty yards east of their position. The trio scrambled down the slope to join him.
He stood in the edge of the water. By one booted foot, a partially submerged arm rocked in the current.
Valiantine retrieved the limb. “Two arms. We’ll soon have half a body.”
Cabot noticed a fresh expression of distress taking over Randall’s features.
Valiantine voiced an oath. “The sleeve is dry. It’s been in the water, but it just drained from the cloth like through a sieve. Completely dry, not even damp.”
Cabot examined the ripped fabric. “Mr. Bibb will need to see this.”
Another shout, fifty yards west toward the lock house: “Here! Here!”
Another policeman had waded into the current to snag a body part he’d spotted bobbing in the water. Cabot helped him onto dry land as Valiantine took the recovered limb.
Cabot saw a new look of perplexity on his partner’s face.
“It’s a third arm.”
“You’re telling me a monster is running loose in my city!”
Police Chief Taylor’s words still rang in Cabot’s ears just as they had two hours ago.
Monster. Cabot had avoided using the word. But now Taylor had said it aloud, and it sat more easily in the agent’s thoughts. But easy didn’t mean Cabot was comfortable with the notion of the thing at large, able to rend a human being to lifeless tatters.
They’d recovered parts of three bodies, but only one head. Like the first head, it would be used for possible identification, but Cabot didn’t hope for much.
Richard Bibb had been unable to identify the second fabric type, although, he’d said, it differed from that of the first uniform. Enough scraps had been pulled from the batch of partial cadavers to assemble a suit with a military cut, but it looked very different from the first uniform. Even the color differed—pale gray instead of nearly black.
Again, the look matched the cut of no known military uniform.
Bibb ran a scrap of the cloth through his fingers. “This is very remarkable stuff. Yes, different from the other fabric you brought me.”