by Bill LeFurgy
His arm tightened as the car dropped with a hiss. One squeeze from her and the tension in his arm lessened, as it had before. When they reached the lobby, he lugged the bag out the entrance and stood next to the building, making no move toward the waiting cabs. “Your assistance is appreciated, but I insist that you leave me alone. Otherwise I will call for a policeman.”
Jack transferred the bag to his other hand. “Oh, I see. You’re afraid I’m going to steal your bag of gold bars. Don’t worry—I might be a mercenary, but I’m no thief.”
She stamped her foot. “I told you I have books in the bag.”
“Listen, Sarah, I want to talk about how Lizzie died, about getting a second autopsy before the inquest tomorrow. Let me buy you dinner. It’ll help take you mind off those idiots.” He nodded toward the building behind him.
She tried to find the right words amid her clashing thoughts. This man gave no indication of relinquishing her bag. She glanced around and saw no policeman. There were only two options: screaming for help or agreeing to his request. If she called out, he might drop the bag and damage one or more books. And there was no guarantee that anyone would come to her assistance quickly. “Very well. Note I am not prepared to converse at length. And if you make any romantic overtures I shall cry out.”
Jack smiled. “I’ll control myself. I know a restaurant right up the street.”
As they walked toward Monument Square, Sarah felt a prick of pleasure to be among the couples strolling in the gathering dusk. She thought of herself as alone in the world, and most of the time that was fine. It meant she had freedom to do as she pleased without the distraction of having anyone impose any more rules or limits. But loneliness did cause her pain from time to time.
They were about to cross Fayette Street when a hackney carriage came racing toward them, the driver screaming curses over the clattering of hooves. The carriage came to a halt, iron-rimmed wheels skidding and shrieking against the Belgian block paving stones. The horse was white-eyed and snorting with fear. “You miserable piece of crow bait!” A whip cracked against the horse’s back, causing it to rear with a terrified cry.
Jack froze for a second before dropping the bag and grabbing the mare’s bridle. The animal tried to pull away as Jack spoke to it in a soothing voice. It calmed, only to rear again when the driver cracked his whip on the beast. Jack went to the driver and pulled him down from the wagon to the street. The man threw a powerful punch that Jack dodged and countered with a blow to the man’s face. The driver fell, and Jack jumped on him in a frenzy.
Sarah stepped behind Jack and squeezed his shoulder firmly, causing him to stop in mid-swing. “Stop,” she said. “You prefer not to act this way.” The tension lessened in his muscles, and breathing raggedly, he got off the man.
“Crap, pal. You’re cuckoo.” The driver got to his feet unsteadily, hand over his bleeding nose.
“Your horse got scared by a rat or something. You don’t whip a panicked animal, idiot.”
The driver wasted no time getting back into his carriage and trotting away. Sarah stepped back by her books. It was a mistake to be with this man.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” Jack said, taking off his derby and fanning himself. “Sorry. I was in the cavalry and can’t stand to see horses mistreated.” Sarah bounced on her toes, unsure what to do. She hated unpredictability, and it was jarring to see this big man switch from apparent normality to brutishness in moments. She observed him with darting glances. He was still agitated, although less so than before. “Thanks for stopping me. Sorry to drop your bag.” He bent down and carefully put a volume that had slipped halfway out back into the bag.
“Everything okay here, miss?” Two well-dressed young men approached.
Jack stood quickly. “Clear off, clowns, or I’ll chew you both up good.”
“Let the lady answer for herself, chum,” said the taller of the men as he reached into his jacket pocket.
Sarah stared at the sidewalk. “I do not require your assistance,” she said. “This man is no longer dangerously violent.”
“Suit yourself, honey.” The men walked off.
“That’s not exactly a ringing vote of confidence,” said Jack as he lifted the bag. “Maybe I did go kind of buggy. Don’t quite remember.”
“I have worked with the insane and know their habits. You, however, took a rational action to resolve an instance of cruelty. Your rapid escalation of anger was aberrant, although it appeared to stem from an altruistic impulse—”
“All that fancy talk’s wasted on me.” He walked across the intersection while she stayed on the other side of the street.
Jack gestured for her to cross, and after a moment, she did. “I’m not making fun of you, Sarah, but you’re the first woman I’ve ever seen who marches when she walks.” Jack was grinning. “There’s none of that mincing that makes a gal look like she’s stepping on eggshells.”
“I would step more carefully if eggs were in my path.”
“That’s a good one. Here’s our restaurant.” He opened the door for her, and soon they were seated at a small table for two.
The freshly starched tablecloth pleased her greatly, and she ran her fingertips over its crisp whiteness several times while also appreciating the warm, waxy scent of the candles burning in the small candelabra at the center of the table. It was a quiet place, with only a low hum of voices and the faint clink of silver on china. From an initial sensory standpoint, this was acceptable. It was just a matter of getting this encounter over with as quickly as possible.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asked.
“I will have half a glass of red Burgundy. Please insist upon a superior vintage. Inferior years have far too much tannin.”
Soon after, the waiter appeared with a bottle and two glasses. Jack waved away his glass. “I don’t want any. Let the lady see if she likes it.”
The waiter stared at Jack, then turned slowly to Sarah, sighed, and poured a small bit into her glass. She stared at the deep red-purple shimmer for a long moment. Matters of etiquette were essential. They served as a rule-based framework to guide her social behavior. This was unprecedented—she had never judged the fitness of wine with a man at the table. The waiter cleared his throat. There was nothing to do but lift the glass and taste. She was pleased as the velvety liquid slid across her tongue—this was an excellent vintage.
“Well?” asked the waiter.
“The wine is satisfactory.” She set the glass down, and the waiter filled it halfway with another sigh before leaving. “You do not drink wine yet I noticed the smell of whiskey on your person. That is contradictory.”
He laughed. “What’s weird is that I spend a lot of time in saloons as part of my job and don’t drink booze. Been thinking I should carry a flask of tea around with me to dump in a glass so that I fit in with everyone else. What’s your pleasure for eats?”
The menu was rich with foods that she liked, and soon she was enjoying a hot bowl of terrapin soup followed by a filet of sole. Jack refilled her wineglass just as she was taking a bite and unable to say no. A warm glow began to replace the knot of tension in the center of her chest. When she finished the second glass of wine, she felt something close to relaxed.
“Tell me why you think the shot didn’t kill Lizzie Sullivan.” Jack belched, having just dispatched a plate of oysters with crude, lip-smacking energy.
She put her hands over her ears, lowered her head, and stared at the table.
He tapped the edge of her plate with his knife. “Sarah—what’s the matter?”
She uncovered her ears. “Your awful table manners upset me.”
“That so.” He put his knife down. “I’ll sit still, then.”
“I have already told you about the lack of bleeding from the gunshot, which is inconsistent with receiving that type of wound while alive. Since our prior meeting, I went back to the morgue, opened Lizzie’s skull, and discovered a major hemorrhage. The bleeding inside the skull means the
injury happened while she was alive. Based on what I saw, I would say the injury took roughly forty-eight hours to kill her. That means Mr. Shaw could not have murdered her Sunday night or Monday morning.”
Jack toyed with an empty oyster shell. “You opened her skull?”
“That should have been done during the initial autopsy.”
“How did she get hit in the head? Did someone whack her? Maybe she tripped on a carpet?”
“That is as yet undetermined. What matters is that the delayed fatality of the head injury, along with evidence supporting the gunshot as occurring after Lizzie died, should allow Mr. Horace Shaw to present a credible alibi, assuming he was traveling with companions out of town as he claimed.”
“What can be done about getting the official results changed?”
“As I said before, that requires a major effort. A high-level city official would have to request the action. I would think Mr. Shaw would have an interest in pursuing that course. He has refused to take that step.”
“What about a family member of the dead girl—say, a sister?” The waiter plunked down plates piled high with crab, succotash, and boiled potatoes. “If the sister demanded another look would the big shots have to do it?”
“In all probability, yes. Does Lizzie have a sister in the city?”
“Seems to. I’m talking with her tomorrow.”
“She will have to act quickly. Once the body is washed and embalmed, evidence is lost and the courts are less inclined to accept results. You must press her to act.”
“I’ll do my best. She’s a country bumpkin and might not go for having her relation sliced and diced.”
“I never have understood the opposition people have to dissection of the human body. It is no different than cutting into a pig or cow. Humans do, in fact, share remarkable similarities with those animals in terms of musculature and internal organs. Why are so many eager to eat animal flesh while also remaining resistant to autopsy?”
Jack pushed away a plate of rare steak the waiter had just brought.
“If you fail to convince the sister to ask for a second autopsy rest assured that I have obtained pieces of evidence from the body.”
“You cut off pieces of the body? Doctors. Cripes.”
“I accept that you do not like me, but do not accuse me of macabre and unprofessional behavior. I merely removed objects from the body, including fibers from under her fingernails.”
“It’s nothing personal—I just don’t like medical types.” He poked at a small plate of cooked carrots. “I got wounded while in the army over in the Philippines and the sawbones did more harm than good.”
“Tell me what happened to you.”
“I was with two other soldiers in town when this Moro native attacked us. They call it ‘running amok,’ and it’s about a guy getting possessed by a tiger spirit—or just going crazy—to kill people. White devils like us were popular targets. My two buddies got chopped up and I got a Kris knife stuck through my left arm before I shot the guy dead. Then I get hauled to a field hospital where a stumblebum doctor put his foot on my arm and yanks the knife out. I’m screaming in pain and bleeding all over the place but all the guy does is tell me to shut up while he looks at the knife, his dandy new souvenir. Then some other medico staggers over, puts a dirty bandage on me, and offers me the dregs from his whiskey bottle. A bit later my arm gets all red and swollen and the two quacks tell me they need to amputate. No way I’m going for that, so I drag myself back to my unit. After a while I healed up.”
“That is a dreadful story. I must tell you, however, that not all medical—”
“Sure. You’re going to say I just got dealt a lousy hand that one time. Okay, let’s talk about Lizzie.” Jack leaned back, head cocked. “What’s the big deal about that stuff you took from under her fingernails?”
“It is possible that Lizzie received the blow to her head during a struggle. If so, she may have scratched her attacker through an article of clothing. I can examine the fibers under a microscope to identify them. There may be traces of blood on the fibers, which, if true, could mean the killer has scratches on their body. Perhaps I should turn what I have over to the police. Even though I no longer have a connection with the case, I want justice served.”
Jack speared a potato and gobbled it down whole. Sarah turned her head and looked down at the shiny wooden floor. “You just decided to do all that stuff—with the skull and the fingernails—on your own,” said Jack with his mouth full. “I’m starting to see why the Pinkertons let you go.”
She stood. “I want to go home now.”
“If you care about the truth,” said Jack, “please sit down.”
Sarah swayed for a moment and sat. Her place setting was perfectly arranged except for a teaspoon, which the waiter had brushed to one side. She lifted the spoon to put it where it belonged.
“Listen—the cops don’t care about justice. They’ve already decided Shaw did it. He’s getting arrested tomorrow. I’ve got to get him off.”
Sarah smacked the spoon onto the table with a sound like a pistol shot. “No one cares about the truth, least of all you. Your only interest is in collecting money.”
Jack refilled her wineglass as she breathed rapidly, hands clenched. “Right. I get my hands dirty to earn my dough. You’re a do-good idealist with your head in the clouds. Let’s consider the possibility that our interests overlap.”
“Have you no ethics? Lizzie Sullivan’s killer must be caught. If Horace Shaw is guilty of the murder then he must be held accountable, regardless of how much money he is willing to pay you. That is the law.” She took a large gulp of wine as awareness dawned that she was perhaps behaving in an aggressive, confrontational manner.
“Hey, no need to yell. I just—”
“And how dare you patronize me as an idealist. I acted to have the killer of my father and sister arrested and convicted. I have a more personal investment in seeking justice than you can begin to understand.” She almost did not care about the reprimand that was surely coming from Jack in response to her unladylike behavior.
“I’m sorry for not giving you enough credit. Tell me about your father and sister.”
“No.” Sarah was now furious with herself for mentioning what had happened to her family, having never before said anything about it to anyone who did not already know. How had this man gotten her to reveal the most painful episode of her life? She had been so stupid in agreeing to this dinner. She sipped more wine, despite knowing she had already had too much.
“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.” Jack slurped his water. “Let me just say that I lost faith in justice because of what happened to me in the Philippines. Innocent people were killed and nobody got called to account. Probably why I’m a little nuts.” He hung his head for a second before snapping it back up. “And I don’t want to talk about that, either.”
Sarah remembered the altercation in the street. “That event involving the native attacker still lingers in your mind. Tell me more about its impact on you.”
“You just keep on coming, don’t you?”
“Psychological trauma is a topic of great interest to me.” Her brain came alive with all the medical information she had consumed on the subject. Jack, along with the rest of her surroundings, faded away to faint shadows in the background.
“It wasn’t the amok guy. That didn’t bother me much. But something else did. My unit cornered a thousand natives and we got orders to wipe them out. I refused when I saw they were mostly women and children. All of them got killed—I couldn’t stop a damn thing. I haven’t been able to get what I saw, what I heard, out of my head. Satisfied?”
Situations triggered extreme distress for the man—such as riding in an elevator or witnessing the mistreatment of a horse. She recalled writings of Dr. Sigmund Freud about individuals with memories of trauma trapped in their subconscious that caused them recurring episodes of intense emotional pain. Jack must suffer terribly, at the edge of w
hat a human being could bear. She felt the physical sensation of her heart warming as it experienced his pain.
“Sarah.” He tapped the tabletop. “Sarah? You drifted off again.”
She gave a start as her attention returned to the restaurant. “A doctor should have insight into the problem and relieve your suffering.” She stole a quick look at him.
“Yeah, right. You quacks are all the same—you pretend to know stuff but you don’t.” He snorted. “Men got killed over there. Others were crippled and worse. They’re the ones people need to care about. My loony spells don’t deserve any regard.”
“Do you hallucinate? I assume you have troubled thoughts and agitation. You may have an ailment known as soldier’s heart. Some Civil War veterans appeared changed by their military experience, with mixed physical and psychological symptoms. They presented with fatigue, overuse of drugs and alcohol, nervous disorders, intense irritability, and cardiac weakness.”
“I’m not weak. Why are we still talking about this? You’re really on a jag—keep your voice down.”
“We must also consider railroad spine. People of all types who have survived terrible railroad accidents without apparent injury have been found to suffer serious nervous conditions, sleeplessness, and diminished health. Speculation is that concussion of the spine during the accident is the cause, although others—myself included—believe the cause is neurological. Can you give me more details about your experience?”
“Forget it. Why do you care? Nobody else ever has.”
“I am a physician. I aim to understand the specific causes of ill health, both physical and mental. I want to help you.”
“Hah—you sure talk a good game, Doc, I’ll give you that.” He squirmed in his seat for a long while. “You got a cure for ghosts?” he finally asked.
She looked up and saw that he was giving her an intense glare. Her eyes flicked back down to her tidy place setting. “The role of psychological trauma in causing mental distress deserves more study. I wonder about the impact of guilt upon people who survive horrific episodes where others die. You may experience hallucinations as a symptom of your guilt.”