by Hall, Ian
“Yes, eh, detective?” the man seemed confused by my age.
“The murderer has either spent the last five days in town, or he just returned for this latest crime.” I waved my hand pointing out the nearby buildings. “We can’t discount his returning to strike again. There’s something you can do. We need a man at all roads into the town, and we need to search the town, looking for Johnny Reb.”
“But I don’t have the manpower.”
“Oh sheriff,” I turned to him. “If you don’t raise your posse today, and begin a search of the town, and he strikes tonight, you’ll be out on your ass as sheriff come next election. Maybe before.”
His face paled significantly. “Posse?”
“Yes sheriff. You raise a posse in the town, you get word to every house to be on the lookout for a stranger, a bald man, maybe with a long red wig, red beard. A confederate uniform. An officer’s sword. Anything that will alert the public to the situation. Perhaps by rousing the town, we’ll drive him away, perhaps we’ll save one Decatur woman from this grisly end!”
Paul Chapman, Decatur, Illinois
September 4th 1867
I walked outside after hearing the same crap from Mister Will Burroughs. Well, I shook my head, perhaps it hadn’t been the typical situation. Yes, he’d been a Confederate officer. He made a show. But Will had gotten free from the chair, and the man had been forced to hurry the woman’s departure. So he’d been disturbed, and maybe he’d have gotten his pecker out later.
Will Burroughs had gotten a punch at Johnny Reb’s face, knocking the kerchief free, hence the new evidence.
The sheriff strode around, shouting at his deputies. Francis stood, a bemused yet pleased smile on his face. “What’s up?”
“Oh, I just fired a rocket up his ass.” He turned to me, and grinned wider. “I just told him that perhaps we could flush the man out if he was still in town.”
I looked at the young man questioningly. “You think he’s here? In town?”
Francis nodded. “I think he’s either gotten lazy or he’s looking to go out in a blaze of glory. You know, maybe they’re twin brothers, and after me killing one, the other has decided to end it all, knowing he’ll get caught one night.”
“I don’t think that’s the case, but you never know.”
At that point, Emily tripped from the house, looking quite content with herself.
I couldn’t wait for her delivery. “What did the niece say?”
“She says the killer did all the usual things.” Emily counted on her fingers. “He ‘performed’ for them, he felt up the victim, even touched her own breasts, the niece’s. But he never reached between the victim’s legs, and he never reached inside his own trousers. He also wore gloves all the way through. Thin, white cotton ones, but gloves all the same.”
I considered that for a moment, then turned to Francis. “You took fingerprints from your own sister’s bedroom, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he nodded. I brought them up with a silver solution, then carefully drew them, much larger. I also got prints from the Sally Cotter case; they matched.”
And what about Whiteman’s fingerprints? The man you killed. Did his fingerprints match those you took?”
He seemed to think for a moment. “I didn’t take the corpse’s fingerprints.” He said, looking slightly peeved. “I thought we’d got our man, I didn’t even consider any other possibility.”
“Damn!” I snapped. “That would have given us something definite.”
“Sorry,” Francis offered, but I waved away the apology. “So what if our suspect has gotten wise to the possibility of fingerprints?”
Emily shook her head. “No one knows about fingerprints but us.”
To my chagrin Francis agreed. “It’s so cutting edge, the public are not up with this information.”
“Well, we have to admit the possibility that the killer now reads the same publications that you do. He’s been to your ranch twice Francis, he could have seen your reading material.”
That night, the town hardly slept a wink. I stood on the upper porch of the hotel, looking down on Main Street, and there didn’t seem to be a minute passed when someone wasn’t riding past, either a lamp or a flaming torch in his hand. Fully clothed I retired to lie on the bed sometime after midnight, and morning came with no new report.
I decided to stay one more night in Decatur, and we spent a fair bit of time together, chewing the evidence over again and again, but no one could come up with one single new possibility.
Yes, we had been wrong from the start, we had thought we were chasing the work of one man.
Yes, the man we chased now had ceased the more sexual parts of his previous works.
Yes, his ‘penchant’ for newlyweds had suddenly been forgotten.
Yes, he’d seemed to have found a home in Decatur, Illinois.
That night, the panic of the previous night, and its responding lack of killings, prompted many to think that the killer had indeed fled the area. I was not of that opinion. Like many of the official lawmen, we took to the streets, and patrolled. I walked alone, the kids taking a different route, keeping together.
As I walked the silent dusty roads, the moon slipped from behind some trees, and illuminated the houses in its crisp silver light. Long shadows stretched onto the streets, but I gave thanks for the new advantage. I slipped my pistol from its holster, and spun the barrel, checked the cartridges, then slid it back, the sound of metal and leather very comforting as my boots scuffed the ground.
It seemed ages, but I watched the moon rise, and began to count the hours by its progress. I passed others patrolling, and as we drew near, I always readied myself for the draw, my fingers never far from my holster. Then each face would come near, and I’d recognize it. No Johnny Reb, just a Decatur lawman.
Then to my front I heard a shout. A single shout, cut off in midstream.
I headed off up the street faster than before, trying to keep the sound of my footfalls to a minimum with little success. Having covered a hundred yards, I stopped still, gun drawn, ears cocked, ready.
Nothing.
Then the sound of footsteps, coming closer. Round the corner, right into my path strode a man. But I breathed a sigh of relief; I’d seen him before, and recognized him.
“Hi deputy,” I whispered as he got much closer. “I heard a shout around here. I don’t know exactly where it came from, but don’t go far away.”
The man eyed my gun, and drew likewise. “I’ll circle the block.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
He’d passed from hearing when I heard the sound of a southern drawl. The words were indistinguishable, but the twang sounded clear in the night. I listened for direction, then chose the house.
The one with lights on in every room.
I crisply trotted to the back, where the bedroom would be. There were lights on here too.
That southern drawl.
“… and you should take note of how her breasts rise and fall, how she looks forward to…”
It was all the proof I needed. The window was higher than I could jump, and there seemed nothing in the area to help me reach it. Then I saw a sword raised.
“I place it at her neck, sir…”
Taking a deep breath I ran around the front.
Pushing and turning the handle, I found the door locked, so stepped back and slammed my foot against the wood. It moved considerably, yet did not swing fully open. Bracing myself I kicked again, sending it spinning into the lighted living room before me. I charged to my right, where I knew the bedroom to be, and found the doorway immediately, door ajar.
I kicked it open.
As my first step landed in the room, I’d seen the aftermath so often, the scene before me appeared so familiar.
The lady tied on the bed in her nightgown, her legs tied apart.
I raised my gun.
The man bound and gagged in the chair, naked, his astonished pleading eyes staring at me.
; The southern gentleman, stood with his sword over the poor woman’s neck, his grey hat with yellow cord and wide brim leaving his eyes in darkness below. A yellow neckerchief hid most of his face, but a tell-tale sign of red beard hung from below. His eyes met mine over the bed, and now conscious of my immediate presence, started to exert downward pressure on the blade.
With my gun still about belly height, I fired.
I saw his gut wince from my shot.
His recoil from the bullet seemed small, but I knew I’d hit him. He’d flinched, and his face had reflected pain, a moment of disbelief. To my surprise, his backward motion lifted the sword minutely from the poor woman’s neck.
I raised my gun sights higher, my arm flowing into the room.
Through the white cloud of cordite I fired again.
My second took him in the upper stomach. I saw the rip of grey cloth, and he howled in pain. Yet in the midst of his death dance he held the sword steady over the victim’s throat. Thankfully her eyes had closed tightly, her head lay still, her mouth open in silent fear.
I watched the sword move imperceptibly across her neck.
Smoke from the previous shots clouded before my eyes, but as the gun came level, I sighted along the barrel, one eye instinctively closing.
My third shot took him in the face, a strangely familiar face.
I’d shot him directly on the new yellow neckerchief, pulled high almost to his eyes.
His nose shattered to one side, and blood spurted out against the kerchief as he buckled backwards, the sword thankfully rising as he fell. The back of his head spattered the wall, and as his body staggered, his eyes clouded, unfocused, already dead.
As I watched him slip back against the wall, the bloody neckerchief fell from his face.
I froze.
“No!” I shouted, looking over the sights of my pistol. “No!”
They think it’s All Over
Francis Smalling, Decatur, Illinois
September 4th 1867
“Is that Paul?” I asked, grabbing Emily by the arm, pointing at a man running towards the back of a house. He looked about a hundred yards away, so it was not exactly clear, even in the moonlight.
“I think so,” Emily said. “What’s he up to?”
I started to walk in his direction, but had only gotten a quarter of the way when Paul re-appeared, and took a run at the front door.
I watched as his foot smashed the lock at the second attempt.
I drew my pistol. “Stay back, Emily.” I said over my shoulder, holding my other hand up. “I mean it, stay back!”
Paul dashed inside, and I found myself running towards the house. Lamps inside illuminated a well-decorated living room. I took the three steps to the porch in one leap and ran inside.
A shot rang out, vibrating the walls and deafening inside the house. I turned to the sound, and saw Paul’s dark silhouette in a doorframe, a bedroom beyond. I saw his hand rise slightly.
A second shot.
I saw the flash in the room, my ears ringing with the sound.
Then a third shot, his pistol now extended before him. I knew he’d hit his intended target.
By this time I’d reached his back, my hands propelling him forward into the room.
His reaction was not what I’d expected.
“No!” he roared, as he walked forward. “No!” he shouted again, then turned to me, pushing me back against the doorframe. “Get back, Francis!”
I was instantly puzzled, I looked over his shoulder, looked past his brandished pistol urging my retreat. The Johnny Reb had fallen, and I could instantly see the spreading blood on his face and chest.
I grinned as we fought for traction, he pushing me away, me forcing myself forward, trying to take in as much of the finale as I could.
Then I saw the open, unfocused eyes of the southern gentleman, his body sliding slowly down the wall. His startlingly beautiful eyes.
The eyes I’d seen all my life.
They’d played with me, teased me, cried with me.
Somehow they were my sister’s eyes.
Margaret.
I stopped struggling, my mind trying to make sense of the perversion before me. I know my pistol dropped to the floor.
Dark blood, made almost black by the yellow lighting, stained the wall. Splashes of brain, bone, and then the smear as he continued his incredibly slow progress down the wall to the floor.
His body.
I looked at the eyes again, then his wide-brimmed hat fell forward over his face, and I lost him as he fell to the ground.
I felt myself turned round, pushed along the short corridor to the living room, to be met with the bosom of my wife, her serious concerned face looking from mine to Paul, whose hands insistently propelled me.
“Get him outside.” I heard Paul’s demanding voice.
I suddenly stopped, my resisting feet baulking against my banishment.
Margaret.
I turned felt a rise of bile hit my mouth, where I stymied it’s progress by closing my mouth tightly. Somehow I resisted the temptation to flee along the corridor. I turned again, forcing my way past my partner and looked inside.
On the bed, the terrified victim shook her head violently, screaming into her gag. Her moans were muffled and incomprehensible.
Margaret.
I sighed slightly, shaking my head.
The man, tied onto the chair, the neat rows of rope binding his legs and arms. The figure of Johnny Reb, now slumped on floor, sat with his head rocked to one side, his red-haired wig pulled to one side to reveal… long flowing strawberry blond hair.
I stood, my thought processes stymied.
Margaret had such hair.
Then I looked at her face, or what was left of it, as blood now coursed from beneath the sodden kerchief, down her chin, onto the uniform below.
I stood and looked at my sister, Margaret.
Then the room seemed to swim in a fog of yellow lamps. I felt myself being taken away, sat down.
“Margaret?” I said out loud.
“I know,” it sounded like Emily’s voice, but my eardrums still vibrated from the shooting. I sank my head closer to her warmness, the familiar tweed of her jacket comfortable against my face.
“How did Margaret get here?” I asked, my eyes suddenly finding light again.
“We don’t know anything yet, my love.” Her hands pressed my head closer to her chest. I could feel her breathing coming in sharp jerks, panting against my cheek. “Just stay here right now. Paul will work it all out.”
Paul?
Oh, Paul Chapman, the Pinkerton detective. The man who’d shot my sister.
I jerked upright. “What’s going on?” I gasped, looking around the now crowded room. I felt for my pistol, but I found only an empty holster. “What the hell is going on here?”
Hands pressed at my shoulders, pushing me down on the chair which held me. Strange faces milled around, then the bodies parted and Paul Chapman passed through, walking right towards me.
“I think we’ve worked it all out, Francis,” he began, but I could hardly hear for the blood boiling in my ears. “But there’s grave news for you.”
He paused, obviously uncertain how to continue.
I had no such barrier. “Margaret was the second killer.”
There was no trace of smile, no huzzah as we celebrated the most major breakthrough of the case.
“Yes,” Paul’s voice held no emotion. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
Paul Chapman, Decatur, Illinois
September 4th 1867
I pushed Francis from the room, the smell of cordite still strong in my nostrils. Propelling him into Emily’s arms, I shook my head firmly, and exchanged a look between us that did not bode well for Francis. “The killer is Margaret, his sister.” I felt confident that he hadn’t heard me, he looked in shock; his eyes were unfocused and listless.
“What?” she gasped. “How?”
“We’ll worry about that l
ater.” I nodded as she pulled him away, past the growing number of deputies in the living room. “I’ve got a crime scene to deal with here. Can you take care of him?” I pointed to Francis.
“I think so.”
“Just keep a good eye on him, he’s just lost his second sister, and this night’s only going to get darker for a while.”
“I’ll keep good care of him.”
I chose one of the deputies at random. “No one passes this point, apart from the sheriff.”
The man nodded, then turned to the mob behind him. “Back off, lads, anyone not involved can get themselves outside now.”
I re-entered the bedroom, giving Margaret’s body just a cursory glance as I flipped my jack-knife open. Slipping my fingers beneath the taught rope I pulled the gag from the woman’s mouth, cutting the binding carefully. I soon had her free. “Stay here, I’ll see to your husband.” She looked fearfully at Margaret. “Don’t worry, he’s dead, he won’t bother you again.” I finished cutting her arms and legs free.
Glancing occasionally in the woman’s direction I cut her husband from the chair.
With a blanket from the bed around their shoulders, and clutched tight against their chests, I led the way from the room, handed them to the waiting sheriff, then returned to the room.
First I retrieved Francis’s pistol, and stuffed it into my trousers, then turned to our new enigma.
Crouching over the slumped body, I pulled the wig from her head, and tugged the blood-sodden kerchief from below her face. My bullet had taken most of her nose away, but there seemed no doubt as to her identity.
I’d spent time with this lady. We’d investigated in Jacksonville together as Francis and Emily had done, paired off together. I knew the lady that lay before me.
Margaret Smalling.
I took off one of her gloves, to find a woman’s hand, opened the bloody neck of her uniform, to see the beginning of cleavage.
I stood up, a tear clouding my eye.
“There never was a second man, was there?” I said to her dead eyes, still open and staring. Then I pushed them closed with my hand.