Clockwork Killer (Steampunk Detectives: Book 1)

by Hall, Ian

  And at each town, we hit the saloons, looking for that southern hat, checking on the bedrolls tied to the backs of saddles on the horses tied outside. Sometimes we covered three towns a day, sometimes two. On a timetable, we crisscrossed the state from Eau Clair to the growing town of Green Bay, and then we set off back to Wausau to wait.

  And wait we did.

  Even though the workers at the telegraph office knew we were to be notified immediately, I still walked across the main street twice a day to check.

  I read my journals until they became almost imprinted in my mind, and I yearned for the winter at Harvard. And having time on my hands I wrote to Margaret, although I did in fact have little to report.

  My dearest sister.

  It is the twenty-seventh of September, and I write to you from the town of Wausau, in Wisconsin, although to call the collection of buildings a ‘town’ might require a stretch of one’s imagination.

  With the surrounding towns all notified of our presence here, we have little to do but wait for the Johnny Reb to raise his horrible face once more. We have trolled so many bars without an inkling of success that my heart sinks further after each one. It seems pointless to sit on our hands, but we must, for it is only in speed by which we can race to the newest scene and gather the details when they are fresh in the poor victims’ minds. We must strive to be closer to him when he strikes again, and one day catch him in the act.

  My eyes still burn from that night in April, and yet I will rush headlong into it again to bring the man to justice. I dream nightly of breaking my bonds, and using the man’s sword on him.

  I regret and feel ashamed that I missed this year’s harvest, and hope that you have managed to get it done without me. No matter what happens here in Wisconsin, I plan to winter in Harvard, and visit with you before I leave.

  I ask after Mamma’s health, and hope to see you soon

  I am always, your faithful brother, Francis.

  I posted the letter the very next day, and around five o’clock, as we readied ourselves for dinner, we were interrupted with a loud clattering on the door of our boarding house.

  “I have a message for Paul Chapman!” The telegraph man screamed as he ran to Paul’s side. The other guests had risen to their feet, reflecting our excitement.

  “What does it say man?” Paul asked, his face intent on the man’s answer.

  “Merrill!” the man cried, trying with some difficulty to catch his breath. “He’s struck. In Merrill.”

  “How far?” Paul asked, looking around the room.

  “Twenty miles north,” The telegraph man answered.

  We left the room without another word.

  Paul Chapman, Wausau, Marathon County, Wisconsin

  September 26th 1866

  “How far?” I shouted at the man.

  “Twenty miles north,” the man said, looking at the ticker tape.

  I motioned for Francis to precede me, and made for the door. “Any other details?” I asked, quickly mounting my horse. We had been in Merrill less than two weeks ago and I knew the way well enough. We simply had to follow the Wisconsin River until we hit the town.

  “It’s from the county sheriff,” the man looked up at us. “It just says ‘He’s struck’, that’s all, sorry.”

  “That’s alright, thanks.” I turned to Francis. “We can make Merrill by nightfall if we set a hard gallop. Do you think you’re up to it?”

  “Definitely!” Francis grinned.

  I set a hard pace to begin with. It seemed important to get as much of the distance covered in what daylight remained.

  There was little chance to have any kind of conversation, so I was left with my own thoughts as I spurred the horse faster. Questions rose in my mind. Where? How far would the murder scene be outside the town? How long would it take for us to find someone who knew about it? How long ago had the dreaded crime been committed?

  With a worried look, I glanced west at the setting sun, and again spurred us on. As the direct rays dropped behind the horizon, we fell into the twilight gloom, and slowed slightly. Then to my immediate joy, I recognized a turning of the river. “It’s not far ahead,” I shouted back to Francis, who rode just behind.

  With excitement in getting to the town so quickly, I rode across the bridge and along main street, and was shocked to see people out on the street. “What’s going on here?” I asked, but found myself met with angry faces.

  “Who the hell are you?” a man cried, and drew his pistol, brandishing it in my face.

  “I’m a lawman!” I cried, showing both my hands. “I’m a detective!” I looked around, finding ourselves the subject of what only could be called a mob.

  “Sally Cotter is what’s going on.” A man called his face full of anger. “Some bastard’s only gone and cut her head off!”

  “Where?” Francis roared, bringing his horse close to mine. “Where is Sally Cotter?” He snarled.

  I leant low in the saddle, bringing my head near the man with the gun. “It’s imperative that we get to the scene of the crime as soon as we can.” I said. “We are detectives, and need to examine the scene for clues. We are hard on the heels of this man.”

  To my eternal thanks, he nodded, holstering his pistol, walking away, beckoning me to follow. “This way,” he said, and trailed after him as he made a way through the crowd.

  The Cotter ‘place’ turned out to be a large house on the western edge of town. Lights shone from every window, and the front door stood open, although guarded by a large-set man armed with a shotgun.

  “Hank?” The man said as he approached. “These guys are detectives.” But the man neither flinched nor gave up ground. The man turned to me. “This is Hank Cotter, Sally’s father.”

  “Hank? Mister Cotter?” I asked, trying to catch his eye. “My name’s Paul Chapman, I’m a Pinkerton detective.” Nothing. “I’m investigating a series of murders.” Again, nothing, and I didn’t fancy trying to push past, not with the way he held the shotgun. “How did she die, Hank?” I asked.

  At last he lowered his gaze. “That piece of shit told me that a man had cut her.” I followed his eyes to a body near the porch. The man had been badly beaten, and lay unconscious on the grass. “But I’ll bury my daughter, then I’ll stretch his neck with a rope.”

  Quickly sizing up the scenario, I placed my hand gently on Hank’s arm. “Hank? We’re investigating a series of murders. Four girls. All cut across the neck with a sword. Every victim had a loved one, tied to a chair to witness the deed.”

  Hank frowned as emotions swept across his face. “Then he could have been telling the truth?” His lip quivered for a second as he looked at the still figure. “He told me he’d been hogtied.”

  “That’s how he does it, Mister Cotter,” Francis said softly, stepping forward. “He did it to my sister.”

  “Oh, my,” Tears had begun to fill in Hanks eyes. “I beat him so bad.”

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “Husband,” Hank said, dropping the shotgun to his side. “Married just six weeks.”

  “Hank,” I began. “It’s vitally important for us as detectives to get to see the crime scene as quickly as possible. We need clues to catch this bastard, and time is of the essence.”

  He slowly seemed to get the idea, and with a shuffle, he moved to one side. “Bedroom’s in the back.”

  I inched past the large man, nodding my thanks. The bedroom door had been closed, and when I opened the door, the smell of blood invaded my nostrils.

  In the lights of three high lanterns, a large blanket had been thrown over her body. Underneath Sally Cotter lay naked, bound to the bed with rope. Her throat had been cut so deeply, her head was almost separated from her shoulders, lying at a horrific angle.

  I heard Francis gasp behind me.

  “Get your notebook out.” I said, hoping to break his obvious revulsion, and avoid him recalling his sister’s demise. “Take down every word I say.”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir
,”

  “Neck has been cut with a slicing motion.” I walked round the bed, careful not to step in the spatters of blood on the wooden floor. “Her hair is blonde, and she’s, well she was a good looking girl.” I looked up at the empty doorway, making certain I wasn’t being observed, then placed my fingers gently between her legs. I found some wetness both on her sex and on the bedding below. I rubbed my fingers together. Sticky. I glanced between her legs, seeing the swollen tissue. I lowered my voice. “Victim has been sexually assaulted.” I ducked down, looking across her body at one of the lamps. “The assailant probably masturbated on the body, probably either as he cut her or before.”

  “Before,” Francis said, breaking his own silence. “He masturbates with her, then cuts her throat.” He flipped one of the lenses on his hat through the small gap, and it landed directly over his right eye. With a hand held magnifying glass, he carefully covered every inch of the body. “There’s dried semen on both her body and the bedclothes.” He pointed to a bloodstain high on the pillow. “And that’s where he wiped his sword.”

  I looked closer, and sure enough, the pillowcase had been cut within the stain.

  “It seems Sally had been crying.” Francis said as his magnifying glass passed over her face. “There are traces of salt on her skin.”

  “It might just be sweat.”

  “No,” he replied quite positive. “There’s pooling near her nose.”

  I stood looking on as the young detective went about his business.

  “Smell her face,” Francis said, looking up. “You can still smell the ether.”

  I leant over her once-pretty face and sniffed near her lips. Despite the smell of the decaying blood, I could definitely detect a chemical aroma. “Do you recognize it?”

  “Oh, it’s ether,” Francis nodded. “I’ve used it to kill butterflies.”

  I smelled the ropes on her arms and legs and caught a whiff of something, but couldn’t quite catch it. “Smell the ropes,”

  Francis approached the bed, and gingerly sniffed at the bindings. “Oil,” He said straightaway, his hand moving the magnifying glass for better focus. “It’s like linseed oil.”

  He wrote the details down. A chair lay in pieces nearby. “He’s obviously smashed the chair to break free.” I picked up the ropes, and again caught the same odor of oil. Can you see anything else, Francis?” I watched him gaze over the scene.

  “Three lamps,” he said at last. “He always uses three lamps.”

  “Why?” I asked quickly, hoping to spur him.

  “No shadows.” Francis fired back, and I could see by his expression that his mind raced. “There are no shadows on the body. He’s lighting up his canvas. He thinks of himself as an artist.” I could see him searching his own memories. ““You have both been a lovely audience.”” His voice sounded in dark mockery of the southern gentleman. “That’s what he said. You have both been a lovely audience.” He turned to me in white heat, “He touched Margaret’s cheek.” He said animatedly “I’ll be back for you later, my lovely. I will save the last curtain call for you.”

  The penny dropped. “He’s an actor!” I wailed, then almost clamped my hand over my mouth, remembering where I stood. “It’s not a uniform he’s wearing, it’s a costume!”

  “Or an artist,” Francis countered. “The oil is linseed. He would use that in painting.”

  “He could be both artist and actor.” I could feel a huge emotion burn within me. “And the ether could be a brush cleaner.”

  “We have to get talking to the husband.” Francis said, folding the notebook closed, and pushing the lens back up onto his hat.

  “That could take a wee while,” I ushered Francis out of the room.

  It did take a whole day and a half before the young Thomas Bartley could even talk, his face had been so badly beaten by Sally’s father.

  “So why’s her name not Sally Bartley?” Francis asked as we walked to the house to question him.

  “Whole town’s probably called her Sally Cotter for eighteen years, hard habit to change, just after six weeks of marriage.” I replied.

  “He doesn’t want virgins.” Francis suddenly said, stopping in his tracks.

  “Pardon?”

  “He doesn’t want virgins.”

  “Why not?” I asked, hoping he’d expound on his statement.

  He stood for a moment. “Perhaps the mess would break his performance.” Francis looked at me quizzically. “But he does want them young.”

  “And newly married, so they’ve had a lot of recent sex.”

  “You’re becoming quite the detective, young Francis Smalling!”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied. “But we really are putting the pieces together.”

  There seemed to be more bruising on Thomas Bartley’s face than clear parts, but to be honest, the questioning did little to further the facts of the case until Francis took over at the end.

  “When he’d finished his, eh business, did he say anything? Do anything strange?”

  Thomas looked at Francis for a second. “He bowed.” He said. “He took a sorta theatre bow at the end. I mean I was kicking and squealing into my gag at that point, but he very calmly took a bow.”

  “Thomas, did Sally go to church?”

  He nodded. “Every Sunday with me and Hank. Her mother died in childbirth, maybe twelve, thirteen years ago.”

  “Did she go anywhere else?” Francis pressed. “Like the theatre? To travelling shows?”

  “Nope, she never did go for the dandy shows or the travelling folks. They gave out liquor in the form of their concoctions, Sally and Hank hated the thought of hard liquor.”

  Francis looked quite animated. “Did Sally and Hank go to Prohibition meetings?”

  “Yes they did,” Thomas gave a wry look at both of us. “They even chased through the bar in town from time to time, they were fierce against the liquor.”

  Once we’d bid the bruised and battered Thomas farewell, Francis turned to me, his expression suddenly serious. “I think we may have found how he finds his victims.”

  “Church?”

  “No,” he shook his head firmly. “If a stranger showed up at church, town folks would take notice. I think he attends prohibition marches or rallies. Sister Rebekah often attended meetings in Springfield with Mamma. He could have found her there.”

  We returned to Chicago with far more information than we’d ever had before, and with some small important items. We had gathered some of the rope to hopefully examine under a microscope, and we had an exact drawing of the heel of the man’s boot, which had been imprinted in Sally’s blood at the scene.

  Detectives at Work

  Francis Smalling, Pinkertons National Detective Agency, Chicago, Illinois

  October 6th, 1866

  My dearest sister

  It is the sixth of October, and I write to you from our headquarters in Chicago. The newest murder in our sister’s case occurred in Merrill, Wisconsin, a week ago. I regret to write, the situation was the same as sister Rebekah’s. I stood in the girl’s bedroom less than a day after she had died. She still lay tied to the bed. The smell in the room seemed overpowering, but I took notes as Chapman went over the scene. The girl looked so much like Rebekah, it pained me to just be there. Her neck was almost completely severed, and unlike Rebekah, Sally Cotter had been stripped bare. Her husband of six weeks told us in very graphic terms what happened, and confirmed that the man did indeed desecrate her poor body, forcing her to accept his fingers. Just as in that fateful night, the Johnny Reb did also by hand join in the act of coitus with our sister, and spent himself over poor Rebekah’s body.

  I don’t mind telling you that I lost part of my heart that night in Merrill, standing there in that room, her blood glistening, and her breasts shining in the lamplight. Three lamps, just like our room. We think he uses three lamps to avoid a shadow. There may be a link to some form of professional acting; he thinks it is a performance, and both the
lighting and the need for a witness are crucial parts of the process.

  There is also a possibility that he met Mamma and Rebekah at the Abolitionists meetings in Springfield. Sally Cotter was a fierce prohibitionist, and it’s a lead we’re following with some vigor. If she indeed met her murderer at such a meeting, it is a vital lead.

  Please do not attend such meetings.

  I leave you now, your faithful brother, Francis.

  Chapman started logging clues on a huge blackboard on the south wall of the main office. He encouraged a discussion as he added more clues.

  Southern aspect, coat, sword, hat, accent

  “We need to find whether the uniform is real or a costume from a traveling company. The same goes for his accent, and his theatrical goodbyes.” Chapman spoke in a plain monotone.

  “I need to see both,” I said. “I’m a witness, perhaps I can differentiate between the actors prop and the actual real thing.”

  Rope/oil

  “We need to discover the type of oil impregnated into the rope. We need to identify the type, and find connection from the oil to the rope.”

  The Ether mix

  “You said ether from the start, Francis, it’s the only lead we have into the way he puts his victims under. I’ll leave that part for you to look into.”

  “I’ll get onto it first.”

  Abolitionists

  “We have to find the main players in both areas, maybe even get someone to work alongside with them. We need to find schedule of meetings, we need to be ahead of this guy, not weeks behind him.”

  Artist/Actor

  “We need to find a list of traveling players. We need lists of their itineraries, their schedules, if they have any.”

  Newly married; Blonde non virgins

  “And I’ll be blowed if I can think of any way to do this one.”