Into the Suffering City

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Into the Suffering City Page 11

by Bill LeFurgy


  “Let’s start with the info I got from Clara,” he said. “Says her sister talked about some crooked scheme involving Nick Monkton. Probably a blackmail bunco involving one of the guys that Lizzie was . . . fornicating with. She also said Lizzie was scared of Lipp.”

  “Are you inferring that Adolph Lipp had sexual congress with Lizzie?”

  “No, not exactly. Clara was kind of fuzzy about Lipp. Anything’s possible. Let’s just keep it in mind as a theory.”

  “You mean a hypothesis. A theory is a hypothesis that has been tested and found plausible. We have yet to form a hypothesis, much less test one.”

  “Remember that I’m maybe a quarter as smart as you.”

  “I do not mean to condescend.” Her eyes met his again and quickly slid away. “Tell me if you have learned any other useful facts. From that woman or otherwise.” She pulled out a notebook and began writing with a pencil.

  “Plenty. I went to Lizzie’s boardinghouse and didn’t see any sign of forced entry. She knew everybody who came and went. I looked through her stuff and found these things.” He put the chisel and the sheet music for “Oh! The Suffragettes” on the table. “Maybe Lizzie got hit in the head with this chisel. See the blood?”

  She peered at the tool. “You were careless in handling these objects and have compromised any useful fingerprints.”

  Jack drummed his fingers on the table. Sarah was starting to get under his skin. Couldn’t she try to be more sociable?

  “I do not believe this tool was used to strike Lizzie on the head,” she said. “The narrow blade does not match the wound profile. Neither does the handle, as it has a series of grooves that would have imprinted themselves on her flesh. The tip of the blade, however, is consistent with a laceration I observed on Lizzie’s left index finger.”

  “So maybe it slipped and cut her while she was using it to defend herself.”

  “That is possible.” Sarah looked at the sheet music. “Are we to posit that Lizzie was a supporter of women’s suffrage?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” Jack opened the cover, revealing a sheet of writing paper covered with large, childish handwriting. “This is what I find interesting.”

  “A manuscript.”

  “It’s an unsent letter.” He picked up the paper and read it out loud:

  Dearest Bob—Don’t worry none about what happened between us. I am fine. I know you did not mean to hurt me. You were just upset. I know that you are truly sweet. I care for you. But I must stand by my true love. He is a better man than you say, so don’t be angry with him. I know you are a real good boxer (that is how you got your nice hotel). Please don’t hurt Nick.

  “It’s signed ‘Much Love, Lizzie’ and dated last Friday—isn’t that about when you think she got banged on the head?”

  “Yes. This is a critical item of evidence. You will note use of the phrase ‘you did not mean to hurt me.’ That may implicate the addressee in causing Lizzie’s head injury. We must learn the identity of this person.”

  “Think I know who the guy is. I’ll talk with him later today.” Jack sucked on a tooth, wondering if Bob Foster beat women—and maybe killed one. “It’s a reasonable guess that the ‘true love’ is Nick Monkton. Nick was also very cozy with Patterson, I hear.”

  “I have an appointment to speak with Lucas Patterson this afternoon.”

  “Good. Quiz him about Nick.” Jack leaned back and stretched his arms over his head. “We haven’t got much time—things are looking bad for Shaw. A detective pal told me last night that the cops found items of his clothing in Lizzie’s room. They also got a cabbie who picked up a very agitated Shaw near Lizzie’s boardinghouse about one a.m. Monday morning. That means Shaw’s going to get collared after the inquest for sure.”

  “Mr. Shaw withheld those facts from us during our meeting yesterday.” Sarah wrote quickly in her notebook.

  “Yep, sure did. I’m going to see Shaw after we finish. It’s in his interest to come clean. But I can’t force him to play ball.”

  Sarah blinked rapidly, pencil hovering over a page as if she failed to understand his words. An awkward silence fell between them as he wondered what the problem was. Finally, she spoke. “You will see Mr. Shaw and ask him to be completely forthcoming?”

  “Yeah. Like I said. Hey, can I see the crime scene photos again?”

  “Of course.” She quickly produced the prints.

  “That pistol is a Colt Vest Pocket. Real small—even you could use it. Those wiggly, swirly lines are your precious fingerprints, I see. You might want to check in with the city police Bertillon Bureau. They’re the ones that took these photographs—see the stamp? They try to identify crooks using all the modern methods.”

  Her eyes flitted from the photograph, to his chest, and back to the print. “That is an excellent idea, Jack. I will visit with them later this morning.”

  “Just a piece of advice—take it or leave it. The guy who runs the bureau fancies himself a lady-killer. Goes after anyone in a skirt. A little flirting will get him talking.”

  “Are you mocking me?” Sarah’s fingers wiggled in the air over the table.

  “No. What is it with you today?”

  “You claimed to approve of my manifest sincerity. Now you tell me to engage in false flirtation with a stranger. I am confused and wonder if you are being intentionally rude to me.”

  “No need to talk so loud, Sarah. Forget what I said. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’ll just keep my trap shut since I keep putting my foot in it.” Jack slurped down the rest of his coffee, which was now stone cold. The woman might be without guile, but that didn’t mean she made things easy.

  Sarah flipped pages in her notebook. “I gathered some details about Adolph Lipp, Horace Shaw, and Lucas Patterson from someone who knows them socially,” she said. “They have different backgrounds with a common ambition for elective office. Adolph Lipp is known for his opposition to alcohol and the rights of Negroes and immigrants. Horace Shaw is an unscrupulous businessman with corrupt habits. Lucas Patterson is a wealthy progressive reformer with bohemian tendencies.”

  “You’ve been busy,” said Jack. “And I’ll bet you have a plan of attack all mapped out.”

  “If you mean I have prepared a schedule for my day’s activities, that is correct,” she said. “First, I will consult with my mentor at Johns Hopkins. Second, I will attend the coroner’s inquest regarding Lizzie’s death. Third, I will go to the police Bertillon Bureau and make some inquiries. Fourth, I will meet with Lucas Patterson at the Children's Benevolent and Protective Society.”

  “What’s the point in going to that inquest? You said the coroner rigged the results and that Lipp is bent on getting Shaw arrested. If we could have convinced Clara to demand a second autopsy it would be worth showing up. Now it’s pointless. A detective has to use his—or her—time in the smartest way possible.”

  “You raise a credible point. My inclination is to believe that the inquest will be objective, yet there are substantial grounds to doubt that in this instance.” She scribbled in her notebook. “I will cancel my plan to attend the inquest while noting the reason for doing so.”

  “All right,” said Jack as he scratched his neck. “And besides checking in with Shaw, and talking with ‘dear Bob,’ I’m also going to visit the Gayety Theater—that’s where Lizzie was dancing before she died. The manager might know something. Also, I’m going to try to track down Nick. He could be the key to everything.”

  “We must meet again soon to share our findings and determine our next steps.”

  “How about dinner? No romance, cross my heart.” He gave her a toothy smile.

  “No. I need time to myself to compile notes and do background research.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s meet right back here tomorrow morning.”

  Her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. “No. This establishment smells strongly of sauerkraut and onions, which I do not like. Meet me at my residence tomorrow at eight a.m.”

&nbs
p; “Do you live with others?”

  “I do not.”

  Jack shuffled his feet, unsure if he had to state the obvious. “Sure that’s a good idea, me coming to your place?”

  Sarah fixed her gaze over his head. “If you are referring to the propriety of a man visiting a woman alone in her home, I am unconcerned with that consideration at this time. We have agreed that the basis of our interaction does not include romance. You have behaved reasonably, for the most part, and appear to be pursuing our joint investigation in good faith.” She ripped a page from her notebook, scribbled her address, and pushed the paper at him.

  He scratched behind his ear, wondering how she could recoil from his innocent touch yet expect to entertain him alone. Sarah was unusual, but she was obviously a lady. If any society types saw him coming or going from her house, her reputation would suffer terribly. Yet she didn’t seem to care. “Okay by me.” He pulled out change to pay the bill, his hands shaking so badly the coins spilled onto the table.

  “Jack.” She reached out across the table, flexing her fingers. “Do you feel well? A tremor such as your hands display can be indicative of a pending bout of mental distress. There is a medical basis for apprehension.”

  “I feel great. Steady as steel.” As they stood, he had the urge to lightly touch her arm, just to acknowledge appreciation for her attention. He didn’t do it and she marched straight to the front door without a backward glance.

  He followed her with a wobble that faded by the time he opened the door for her. Good. He needed to be on his best game today. Sarah wouldn’t like what he had in mind during his first stop, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t cause him any problems.

  Chapter 9

  Sarah—Tuesday, October 12, 1909, 10:00 a.m.

  Johns Hopkins Hospital sat, along with the medical school, atop Baltimore’s eastern heights flanked by the old Hebrew Hospital on one side and a profusion of row houses on the other and to the rear.

  The spot provided a commanding view of the city center and its northern environs. Steamships with inky smudges above the smokestacks moved slowly across the harbor waters, while the Continental Building and several smaller skyscrapers dominated the downtown skyline. New buildings were under construction, their soaring iron skeletons appearing impossibly flimsy from this distance.

  Directly down Monument Street was the elegant column topped with George Washington’s statue. She loved how meticulous green rectangles of parkland flanked the monument on all four sides.

  Towering alongside the monument was the spire of the United Methodist Church, pleasing with its green-toned brick. Just north stood the eleven-story Belvedere Hotel, resplendent with its pink and white stonework.

  She turned around to look at her favorite structure of all—the main building of Johns Hopkins Hospital. It was built of warm red brick, creamy sandstone molding, and terra-cotta ornamental panels. Two hospital wards flanked the central structure with its steep-sided dome. Although much smaller, the dome reminded her of the Florence cathedral, as both had raised ribs and a cupola balanced on top.

  The visual treat continued as she went up the steps and into the main lobby, where a ten-foot Carrara marble statue of Christ stood in the airy rotunda. Although a religious agnostic, Sarah always found the figure calming, with his arms spread in a gesture she had come to interpret as warm and caring. But she never had interest in rubbing its toes, like many students and even doctors did to encourage good fortune.

  The clerk in the administrative office told her that Dr. Anson had finished his paperwork and left. Her mentor’s forgetfulness was one aspect she did not admire about the man. Still, as she went back down the central staircase circling the rotunda, she was glad to have had the chance to revisit this marvelous space. It was a welcome, if frivolous, bit of pleasure. She crossed the lobby and entered the long corridor that went past the five general wards, the isolating ward, and the colored ward before ending at the Pathological Building.

  As they sat in his office, Dr. Anson apologized for missing their scheduled meeting. “The mayor called,” he said with an uneasy laugh. “It seems the medical examiner had his buttocks bruised by a motorcar, and I’ve been asked to serve as acting today and tomorrow. I didn’t have the stomach to say no—even though I’ve got to develop lecture notes for a new toxicology class. And on top of everything else I cut myself on a cadaver’s fractured rib.” He held up his bandaged left hand. “Please, Sarah, can I ask you to stay close at hand to assist with any necessary autopsies? We can work here instead of that dreadful city morgue.”

  She hesitated. He was offering her a chance to do what she most wanted—apart from analyzing Lizzie’s murder. “If I were not engaged in my own work, Doctor, I would eagerly accept your invitation.”

  “Well.” His body slumped. “A student could assist me. He might miss something important that will have consequences for justice. I’ll watch him as carefully as I am able.” Anson peered at her through his smeary glasses.

  Sarah owed too much to this man to disappoint him. “Dr. Anson, I can assist you today and tomorrow as necessary. I request only temporary use of laboratory space. I also must keep some previously scheduled appointments later this morning and early this afternoon.”

  “That would be wonderful,” he said as his face brightened. “I knew I could count on you. There is a spot in the histology lab where you can sit while on call. Are your appointments connected with this investigation of yours? The one you spoke of yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you keep me informed of your activities? I am concerned—we have the university’s good name to consider.” He pursed his lips as his eyes swam back and forth. “And I will also say that I am worried about you. What you are doing is peculiar. Some might even call it downright disturbed. Think about the impact on your career—there is still time to back away with no harm done.”

  “I acknowledge your concern, Doctor.” She stood abruptly and waited while Anson struggled to his feet. “I will return at two p.m. this afternoon then, as we agreed. Good day.” Sarah walked off, her resolute footsteps echoing down the hall.

  Sarah reviewed what passed for her strategy while walking along the creaking hallway floorboards of the city courthouse as fast as her long skirts would allow. She was proceeding with a novel approach for her next appointment: plunge into action without a detailed blueprint. Her only plan was to deal with the head of the Bertillon Bureau as a man of science. A spiky ball of unease sat in her stomach.

  The frosted glass door of the Baltimore City Police Bertillon Bureau had a typed sheet of paper taped to it.

  ATTENTION PATROLMEN.

  ALL arrestees brought here must NOT be:

  —Unduly intoxicated or otherwise incapable of sitting up straight;

  —Beaten to the extent that their facial features are distorted (broken noses, swollen eyes, etc.);

  —Belligerent, mentally unstable, or otherwise at risk of damaging records or equipment.

  You will be reported. No exceptions!

  —Head Bertillonist, Baltimore City Police

  The paper was torn and wrinkled, as if it had been ripped down and reposted more than once. “Bertillonist” was crossed out and “Ass” was crudely scrawled in its place.

  Sarah opened the door and stepped into a large room with long rows of wooden file drawers. She closed her eyes and savored the smell of fresh ink and old paper. The odor was less refined than that of her books, but it was not unpleasant. She forced her eyes open and approached a well-groomed young man sitting at a desk and sorting file cards. His shiny black hair was parted in a ruler-straight line exactly down the middle of his scalp.

  “I wish to speak with the bureau head.”

  The man looked up with wide eyes that quickly squinched with annoyance. “What business do you have here, miss?” His long, slender fingers twitched, eager to get back to the cards.

  “I want to discuss a recent crime.”

  “The head is a v
ery busy man.” With a smirk, he returned to his solitary labor.

  “I insist. I will not leave until I speak with him.”

  “By ‘him’ I surely hope you are referring to me, miss.” She turned to see a short, plump man with a red rose boutonniere in his jacket and a wolfish grin. His mustache was so thin it was no more than a dark filament over his upper lip.

  “If you are the bureau head, then yes. I wish to—”

  “I live to make young women’s wishes come true.” He stepped closer and she flinched at the overwhelming smell of his Bay Rum cologne, which she hated. The olfactory irritation boosted her discomfort as he introduced himself while pressing her right hand between both of his. Fortunately, she was wearing gloves.

  “I am Dr. Sarah Kennecott,” she said, pulling her hand away. “I attended the autopsy of a recent murder victim by the name of Lizzie Sullivan. I am interested in evidence related to the case.”

  The little man’s smile froze as he stiffened. “Is that so? Well, it’s against our rules to discuss ongoing cases. Now if you would be so kind—”

  “You are a man with whom I have a strong desire to converse. I therefore request your continuing attention.” Jack had suggested she cultivate the man’s interest.

  He stepped toward her with a fulsome smile, offering his arm. “The least I can do is give you a little tour so that you can get an overview of how we operate. How about that?”

  “That would be acceptable.” She ignored his arm and walked over to a case showing an array of knives, pistols, and clubs. A grouping of photographs depicted various murder scenes, each with a body flung into a sad, ungraceful pose of sudden death. Except for the bodies, the scenes were jarringly banal, set in bedrooms, barrooms, streets, and alleys. “Do tell me about this display.”

  “Sarah, my dear, all of that is far too upsetting for a young woman’s eyes. Ah, you are engrossed. All of these exhibits relate to our work on criminal methods. We have an assortment of actual murder weapons and crime scene photographs. Our chief work here is to identify criminals. We use all methods—physiological measurements, narrative description, photographs, and fingerprints.”

 

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