Into the Suffering City

by Bill LeFurgy

  The two men were waiting for him behind a wagon parked in a dark stretch. One guy clubbed Jack on the knee from behind, tumbling him into a row of empty ash cans. The men lifted him up, one on each side.

  “Knucks has a message for you, pally.”

  “I’m not late. I got until Saturday to make a payment.” He spoke through teeth clenched tight with pain.

  A blow to the gut knocked the wind out of him. They dropped him to the street and each gave him a hard kick in the side. A guy bent down and stuck the point of a blade into Jack’s cheek. “Situation’s changed. Knucks needs your nine hundred plus two hundred vig paid in full by Saturday. Terms ain’t negotiable. Got it?”

  Jack grunted and heard the men’s footsteps fading until it was still again. He laid curled up on the sidewalk, blood trickling down his cheek and into his mouth. After struggling to his feet, he pressed a handkerchief to the wound and limped away.

  This was rich. Leave it to him to fall in with a loan shark who wanted cash in full rather than the usual weekly payments. Knucks must be so desperate for cash himself that he had no time to milk the debt. Which meant that Jack either paid off everything in four days or he was a dead man.

  Chapter 11

  Sarah—Tuesday, October 12, 1909, 2:30 p.m.

  Fortunately, Dr. Anson had not noticed her tardiness and no bodies lay in wait for Sarah’s attention at Hopkins Hospital.

  She finally had time to analyze evidence. A search of the pathology library turned up an illustrated volume describing the characteristics of plant and animal fibers, and it was a simple matter of putting the material from Lizzie’s nails under a microscope and comparing them to the printed examples.

  Despite the blood stains, it was clear the fibers were cashmere from a pinkish-colored fabric. Cashmere was an expensive material often used for ladies’ garments, including shawls, skirts, and dresses. Lizzie was a burlesque dancer—an occupation presumably involving cheap wool or cotton costumes. Her personal clothing also was likely not of luxury quality.

  Could the assailant have been a woman? While men were known to wear cashmere, it was more common in women’s clothing. A man would also be expected to batter a woman during a struggle. Lizzie’s body, however, showed no damage apart from a minor-appearing head injury, a finger laceration, and the gunshot wound.

  Sarah retrieved the photograph of the pistol. It was a handgun that Jack had referred to as a vest pocket model—small enough to fit in a woman’s hand. Female murderers were rare, yet Jane Toppan of Boston confessed to thirty-one killings in 1902. More recently, Belle Gunness killed over two dozen men, women, and children in Indiana. There was also Sarah’s own experience with her stepmother. No doubt women were more than capable of homicide.

  Sarah next turned to the piece of paper found in Lizzie’s mouth. Using fine forceps, she carefully opened it into a flat two-by-three-inch sheet of cut newsprint. The ink was still readable. On one side was a list of ocean vessels docking in Baltimore Harbor. The other side had part of a news story dated April 3, 1907. The headline was “Foster Triumphant in Battle Again—Bob a Victor in Romance—Second Love Engagement with Dusky Beauty Promises Ecstasy with a Knockout Punch.”

  This clipping was odd. Had Lizzie placed it in her mouth to identify who hit her on the head? Or had her assailant put it there for some mad purpose—perhaps to indicate a romantic interest, either fulfilled or not? The name “Bob” jumped out. Lizzie had addressed her draft letter to someone named Bob.

  She set aside the clipping and quickly read the book on fingerprinting. The science was basic; the key was that no two people had identical prints. Once finger marks were left on glass, metal, or another smooth surface, a light brushing with fine metallic powder could reveal them. Then it was a matter of matching the skin pattern of arches, loops, and whorls to prints of specific individuals.

  It was possible—maybe probable—that the gun in the police photograph showed the prints of the person who last fired the weapon. Obtaining comparison prints from suspects would help identify the shooter. The frustration of the Bertillon Bureau chief was understandable—if the police didn’t fingerprint people, there was no way to apply the technique to the prints on the pistol. Sarah considered the suspects while gently squirming in her seat.

  There was Horace Shaw. And the men Shaw had suggested: Adolph Lipp and Lucas Patterson. Plus Lizzie’s exploitive partner, Nick Monkton, as well as the cryptic “Bob.” Who else? Clara Sullivan—the woman who had found the body—had refused to press for a second autopsy and had inserted herself into their investigation. The woman who was so friendly with Jack.

  “Dr. Kennecott?” The Scots burr announced the man before she jerked her head up to see his smiling face. “My good friend Anson told me you were down here waiting.”

  “I am not merely waiting, Dr. Norbert Macdonald. I am reviewing evidence in connection with a criminal investigation.”

  “Aye—I heard you were working on something like that.” The professor of psychiatry pulled up a stool to sit near her. “Please tell me what you have found. And, if you would be so kind, please stop your rocking. Makes it hard to look you in the eye.”

  Sarah had little interest in recapitulating the case and wished that Dr. Macdonald would leave her alone. Still, she knew it was socially unacceptable to rebuff his attention again so soon. If she was obligated to interact with the man, perhaps she could draw some useful insight from him. She forced herself still. “I am working to investigate the murder of a young woman. It is a curious case where a head injury caused death two days later. Someone then shot her corpse.”

  “Is that the murder of the showgirl? It’s in the papers. They say a gunshot killed her. You seem to have a different view. And I hear you are working with a mysterious private detective.”

  “There is nothing mysterious about the detective. He and I are gathering evidence. We are the only people committed to uncovering the truth in this case. The authorities most certainly are not.”

  “I see.” Macdonald nodded gently. “And who is this detective?” He looked around the room. “Is he with us now?”

  “His name is Jack Harden. Your question about his location is illogical, as he clearly is not present in this space. He is following investigative leads elsewhere in the city.” She flicked her gaze to Macdonald’s face and saw he was looking at her closely with his warm brown eyes.

  He was the type of man described as elegant and handsome, and his calm, deliberate manner put her more at ease than most people. At ease enough to venture a question another would regard as impertinent. “Doctor, could you offer an idea as to the personality of an individual who would shoot a corpse?”

  “What a strange question.” He pulled his head back. “I don’t want to encourage any odd thinking, but I will say that certain disturbed individuals will mutilate corpses.”

  “Why?”

  Macdonald shifted uneasily in his seat. “Some children use bizarre cruelty as a tool for asserting control within the family and, when they are grown, to control others.”

  “One may then may defile a corpse—even that of a sibling—if the act serves some selfish purpose.”

  “A sibling?” Macdonald sat his hat on the lab bench and leaned in closer. “You are weaving a strange story here. Is there an episode from your past that you want to talk about?”

  “No. I am only considering evidence associated with my investigation.”

  “Do you have any facts that are not available to the police?”

  “Everything I currently am evaluating was available to the authorities. They chose not to consider it, either through incompetence or willful neglect.”

  Macdonald glanced back at the two students working at the other end of the laboratory before leaning in even closer. “Let me repeat what I am hearing from you.” He spoke in a near whisper. “You believe the authorities are conspiring to hide the truth. That belief fuels a compulsion to undertake a mission that only you, with your special knowledge, can pe
rform. You have a supposed helper—this fellow Jack. Do you understand what all of this sounds like, lass?”

  “You misconstrue what I have said.” Her chest was now uncomfortably tight and her lower back ached with greater discomfort than usual. “Jack is real. I do not understand why you doubt that.”

  “Sarah, please lower you voice.” He had never before used her first name. “Others should not overhear our conversation. Dr. Anson is worried and asked me to check on you. He’s concerned about your state of mind. And now, after our talk, I too wonder about your mental soundness. You appear to be in the grip of a delusion. And you have added a rather florid twist with this Jack character. Let me guess—you see him as unlike other men in that he looks past your quirks to appreciate your specialness. This is textbook behavior caused by your unusually neurotic female sexuality.”

  “Jack is an actual person.” Sarah sat completely still, her body numb and her mind swimming against a riptide of panic.

  “There may indeed be an actual man, aye. If so, he serves your need for a fantasy to protect your fragile psyche.” Macdonald spoke in a calm, steady murmur. “Therapy will help us learn more. Perhaps it is only a bout of hysteria, which is common among fragile young women of the upper class. I must warn you, however, of a more serious possibility. I worked closely with Dr. Eugen Bleuler in Zurich. He identified schizophrenia, a mental condition involving a break with reality. Sufferers undertake strange quests and come to believe in imaginary facts, people, and paranoid conspiracies.”

  She forced herself to speak. “Do you regard me as insane?”

  Macdonald smiled and reached to pat her arm. She dodged his touch, but his smile remained. “No, not necessarily. You need analysis starting as soon as possible. That must be your sole focus now. Fortunately, I have the next two weeks open. We’ll get started right away—I’ll speak to Anson. He’ll understand and release you from duty.”

  “Leave me now, Doctor. I no longer wish to hear your voice in my ears.”

  “Sarah, your entire body is trembling. I insist we—”

  She held up her hand. “Leave. Immediately.” Her loud voice caused one of the students to approach them with a demand for quiet.

  Macdonald stood and apologized to the fellow before bending down and speaking softly into her ear. “My dear, think carefully about what I have said. The sooner we start, the better for you.” He picked up his hat and left the laboratory.

  She had no sensation in her hands or her face. It was happening again—people thought she was mad. After some time, her thoughts began to settle, and she glanced at the clock. It was after 6:00 p.m. and past time for her to return home.

  Sarah stepped into her entry hall, closed the front door, and felt some of the tension racking her body lift. Home—the familiar, solitary domain where she was safe from the world.

  Her father had the house custom built and installed all the modern conveniences, including electricity, telephone, and central furnace. He also filled it with fine artworks and furnishings. Just after her father died, her stepmother had a chandelier dripping with garish red crystal installed in the main entry hall. The only change Sarah made after moving back was to have the chandelier removed.

  She mounted the grand staircase and went to her dressing room, where she undid her high-button shoes and stripped off her jacket, skirt, shirtwaist, petticoat, and corset cover. Unpeeling her stockings, she noticed they had holes and runs everywhere, as usual. Sarah’s body thanked her as she undid the front laces of her new “long line” corset, which extended awkwardly down the thighs and up the bust. The only good thing about the garment was that it was an improvement over the old swan-bill corset that used steel boning and tight lacing to bend the body into a contorted S profile. Just the thought of it made her back throb even more.

  Unpinning her hair, she thought about what Macdonald had said. It was devastating. He was a renowned expert in mental disorders, and his opinion carried great weight.

  She knew that she was different, that other people regarded her as odd. But was she slipping into madness? Macdonald had originally shown interest in how her mind worked, but now he believed she had invented an imaginary detective to help her with a deluded investigation. Why? Perhaps the why did not matter. As a well-educated, assertive woman, she was familiar with negative male attention. She had to avoid giving the man any further reason for thinking she was insane.

  She slipped out of her drawers and undervest and put on the outfit she always, without exception, wore at home—a flannel nightdress, soft dressing gown, and ankle-high slippers. Then it was down to the library to nibble on the cheese, bread, and fruit her housekeeper had laid out for dinner.

  This was the room where she spent her time, reading, writing, and thinking—the one place she felt comfortable, where pleasant childhood memories blended with her adult life. Everything was in exactly the right spot. The wooden bookcases glowed with reassuring oaken warmth; the table had the perfect waxed sheen; the air smelled wonderfully of leather bindings and fine paper pages; even the nymphs carved into the marble fireplace were like old friends.

  Sarah ran her hand over the books she’d lined up on the writing table and stopped at Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. As a child, the Knave’s trial for stealing tarts had fascinated her with its utter absurdity. The more she learned about the world of adults, however, the more piercingly allegorical the story became. While Alice found the trial nonsensical, the other characters behaved as if she were the mad one. Yet Alice had the advantage of knowing that the queen and her followers were merely a pack of cards. And Alice always ended up safe at home, living again in a world she understood.

  She set her mind to analyze evidence about the case. Some pieces of the puzzle were in place. According to Jack, there were no signs of a break-in at Lizzie’s room, indicating that she knew the last person to see her alive. There were the cashmere fibers under her nails, pointing to a struggle, possibly with a woman who might have been Clara Sullivan. Lizzie’s body showed no sign of major trauma apart from the head injury and the bullet wound.

  Why would someone shoot a corpse? Sarah considered Macdonald’s psychosexual analysis before rejecting it as extreme. Perhaps the shooter merely wanted to ensure Lizzie was truly deceased. On the other hand, the limited bleeding from the gunshot indicated not only that she was dead, but also that she had likely died a while beforehand. Whoever shot Lizzie had done so knowing she was dead. The shooter would have had time to carefully consider their action, which indicated some specific—and practical—motivation. Such as falsely implicating Shaw. Or something else.

  So many unanswered questions. Additional evidence—such as fingerprints to compare with those on the pistol—was needed. If she could get prints from the suspects, she could do the analysis herself. That would mean getting close to each person and acquiring an object they had touched. How to do that?

  With a start, an idea occurred to her about how to get fingerprints for at least some of the men in question. She called Margaret Bonifant and was quickly put through.

  “Margaret, I must go to the Daughters of the Confederacy Oyster Banquet on Thursday.”

  “That is marvelous, dear. It will be just the diversion you need.”

  “I must obtain fingerprinted objects from the men we discussed.”

  Except for the slight crackle of static, the line went quiet. “You are still doing that investigation of yours. I was hoping you had come to your senses.”

  “I need evidence.”

  “If that gets you out and about socially—”

  “I need a glass held by each man.”

  “I will help you under one condition. And do not try to talk me out of it because I insist. You must have the proper appearance. Meet me at my dressmaker at nine a.m. tomorrow morning.”

  “That is acceptable to me. However, Dr. Anson is the acting medical examiner and requests that I assist him tomorrow.”

  “The good doctor is seeking a donation from me for hi
s department,” said Margaret with a fluttery laugh. “I’ll call him. He’ll be glad to give you as much time as you need tomorrow morning.”

  “Very well.”

  “I’m so glad that you are going to the banquet, Sarah. It will be good for you to be around people.”

  As Sarah hung up the receiver, the full impact of what she had done hit her. Until that moment, she had focused on the narrow objective of obtaining and analyzing evidence. Yet getting the necessary finger marks would involve a fraught process of finding a gown, getting dressed, having her hair fussed with, and applying cosmetics. The preparatory work would take hours. And then the hard part—overcoming her awful nervousness about the event itself.

  She stood and ran upstairs to Grace’s bedroom, which was unchanged since her death.

  Grace had always showered her with love and kindness and never mentioned her sister’s quirks. The girls were inseparable, even when Grace played with her friends, whom she insisted never tease or torment her sister. Grace was endlessly patient in explaining social cues and expectations, often using two of her dolls to demonstrate. That helped Sarah enormously, and while still dependent on Grace’s support for most social situations, she was eventually able to go to school on her own. Even after she turned sixteen, Sarah loved talking with the dolls—it was a rare chance to feel calm in a social situation. It became a cherished bedtime ritual, with the sisters taking turns brushing the dolls’ hair while talking with them about the events of the day. She continued the ritual after Grace’s death.

  Now, Sarah was especially eager to sit with the dolls—to cry, shout, and talk freely about the big challenges facing her. How to complete the investigation despite hindrance from powerful men. How to cope with her severe anxiety about attending the oyster banquet. What to make of her relationship with Jack.