Into the Suffering City

by Bill LeFurgy

  The only thing of interest on his desk and bookshelves was a copy of Eugen Bleuler’s 1908 paper. Many passages were underlined in the text, along with penciled notations reading “fit this symptom to SK.” The only place left to check was a small safe with a combination lock. She recalled that the man was terribly absent-minded, which meant he probably kept the combination in written form somewhere nearby. She found it in the first place she looked: under a plaster bust of Rudolf Virchow, the father of microscopic pathology.

  The safe held a small amount of cash, lecture notes, and a stack of photographic prints. Sarah was shocked to find the prints depicted naked young women tied up while a short man wearing a hooded mask wielded a riding crop, walking stick, or some other object. Welts were visible on the women’s bodies. No faces were shown, although the masked man’s form did bear a strong resemblance to Dr. Anson.

  Sarah debated what to do. If she gave the photographs to the police, Anson could deny owning them, or perhaps claim the images were related to a medical study. It would also be clear to the police that she had conducted an illegal break-in. The only option was to return the prints and close the safe.

  Dr. Anson had allegedly been seen with Lizzie, and he had purportedly offered to examine her. Did such an examination involve striking her head? Is that how Lizzie received her head injury? Did Nick learn about it, and try to blackmail Anson? If so, her mentor would have a motive to murder Nick and perhaps to shoot Lizzie.

  That scenario would also explain why Anson wanted to keep Sarah close over the last couple of days. And why he was trying to make her appear mad—he needed to discredit her before she finished the investigation.

  If all this was true, she had just one course of action: prove him a murderer before he had her locked away.

  Chapter 22

  Jack—Friday, October 15, 1909, 7:00 a.m.

  Wailing, soul-wrenching, and terrible. The keening cut through Jack’s drowsy brain like a freshly stropped razor.

  From his half-open eye, he saw a middle-aged woman sobbing at the next bedside. “He can’t be dead!” she shouted in a thick brogue. “You fixed him! All you doctors! He can’t be dead!” Grief is grief, but Jack always thought the Irish had a way of pouring it out that made them sound like the unhappiest people in the world.

  Two nurses were nearby. One put her hand on the crying woman’s arm. “Mrs. O’Dowd, please try to be quiet. The other patients need their rest.” The other nurse bent over the body in the bed.

  “Tell me my husband ain’t dead!” Mrs. O’Dowd was in no mood to worry about anyone else.

  The second nurse pulled a sheet over the body and turned to the woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Dowd.” The woman bawled even louder as the nurses escorted her out of the ward.

  Jack looked away. This joint was an efficient death house for the modern age—instead of picking up dead bodies off the street, the authorities arranged for the doomed to get hauled to this central place before croaking.

  The ward looked deceptively healthy. It was thirty feet by eighty feet of bright whiteness, and a row of sun-lit windows reached from the floor to the top of the eighteen-foot ceiling. Electrical lights enclosed in white globes hung from above like ever-vigilant eyeballs. Two rows of beds filled the room from one end to the other. Each of the beds was identical, with white metal frames and white linens. Clusters of nurses and visitors stood over patients.

  A young doctor approached. “Hey Doc,” called Jack, “where’re my clothes? You can have your bed back.”

  “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.” The doctor lifted the sheet off the departed Mr. O’Dowd.

  “Your guy?” Jack asked.

  “He had an accident unloading tobacco hogsheads on the docks—got a compound fracture of the femur. We operated and reset the bone, and he was doing well.” The doctor spoke in a cool, confident tone, yet there was a hint of unease about him. He was like someone walking around in a new pair of shoes that looked good but pinched. “An infection killed him. There was nothing we could do.”

  “Definitely not your fault, then. No way, no how.”

  “I’ve saved dozens of patients, my friend. My father’s a doctor, and he told me there used to be signs in hospitals warning patients to ‘Prepare to meet your God.’ You don’t see any of those signs around here now. People come to this hospital to meet their healer, not their Maker.”

  This guy was as earnest and know-it-all as Sarah. What was it these doctors believed in that gave them such certainty? “Unless God has other plans, like for your patient here,” said Jack.

  The doctor looked a little more uneasy and a lot more irritated as he yanked the sheet back over the stiff. “Mister, we’ve cut infections dramatically in the past few years. But infection is always possible, and once it occurs deep in a patient’s body, no human intervention can save them.”

  “Ever think about putting those signs back, just as a reminder that things can still go wrong?”

  “Judging from those bandages, it appears that a doctor saved your life. Think about that—it might help reduce your uninformed cynicism.”

  “Yeah, you medico types are one hundred percent right all the time.” The doctor stepped away, and the nice nurse took his place.

  “I like thankful patients,” she said.

  “Any patient who doesn’t die in this dump should be thankful.”

  “Your condition clearly is improving. How about another shot of morphine?” She had the needle in hand.

  “No thanks. Feel calm as a clam.”

  She gave him a bright smile that faded as she looked up. “Oh, look who’s coming. Your chum.”

  Jack heard a familiar set of purposeful footsteps approaching.

  “Good morning, Dr. Kennecott,” said the nurse. “Our patient is doing well. He doesn’t even want morphine.”

  Sarah ignored the nurse as she lifted Jack’s chart from a hook on the bed over his head. While focusing on the chart, her palm went to his forehead. Her touch was warm and made his skin tingle. For a second, Jack thought Sarah was going to be friendly, but she was her typical self. “No sign of fever,” she said as she scribbled on the chart and banged it back on its hook. “Are fresh bandages available?”

  “Yes, Doctor,” said the nurse. “They are in a sterile wrapper on the bedside table. I was just about to change them.”

  “My hands are clean, and I am more familiar with the wound. You may go.”

  Jack cringed. It seemed as if Sarah was speaking even more brusquely than usual.

  “Yes, Doctor,” said the nurse, who then walked away.

  “Heard you went to the Academy Hotel last night,” he said.

  “I met with Clara Sullivan. I—”

  “Sarah, Clara’s capable of anything. She could have hurt you.” Jack tried to sound scolding, but it was difficult to manage with her yanking off the gauze stuck around his eye.

  “Given the urgency of the situation, I judged the risk worth taking. What I found—”

  “You’re a respectable lady. You just can’t go rushing unescorted into police stations and hotels to order rough people around. Especially at night. Someone’s going to knock you on your sweet little—it’s dangerous.”

  “This may sting.” Sarah dabbed disinfectant over his eye and on the big gash next to it. Jack drew in a sharp breath as he waited for the fiery hurt to fade. Without any show of sympathy, she deftly replaced the gauze over his eye and the side of his face and secured them with a large eye patch. “I am not as helpless as you think. My intervention was necessary for our investigation.”

  Jack was all too aware of that. And the fact that she had saved his life. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Be quiet and listen to what I have to say.” Sarah sat in a chair next to his bed. “My primary reason for visiting Clara Sullivan was to obtain her fingerprints and a sample of fibers from her cashmere dress. I did so successfully. Neither matched evidence from Lizzie’s murder.”

  “Okay, so she—”
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  “Do not interrupt. Clara Sullivan admitted to deceiving you with the Bible so as to distract the police. She likely still has the original and plans to exchange it for a substantial amount of money before leaving town later today. She showed me her ticket on this afternoon’s twelve thirty-five westbound St. Louis Express.”

  “Okay. Sounds like she’s getting out of town for real this time.”

  “I also found fingerprint evidence pointing to Nick Monkton as the person who shot Lizzie’s body,” said Sarah.

  “Yeah, heard Nick confessed to that before he got croaked.” Jack sat up. “Do you know more about Nick’s death?”

  “I identified finger marks matching those of Lucas Patterson on one of the glasses you retrieved at the stable with Nick’s body. One hypothesis is that Patterson flew into a murderous rage at the stable when Nick revealed he had lost the Bible.”

  “Maybe. But Patterson cared a whole lot about Nick. Now, it could be that Nick demanded a payoff for shooting Lizzie to frame Shaw. But that’s no reason for Patterson to kill the guy. And why would Patterson just happen to have knockout drops to use after losing his temper? They’re not exactly the kind of weapon a guy turns to in the heat of anger.”

  “We must also consider Adolph Lipp’s interest in the Bible,” said Sarah. “And why Clara Sullivan expects to collect a large sum of money for the object.”

  Jack ran his hand over his stubbly chin. “It figures that Lipp is hot to get the Bible. He needs it to sink Shaw—the man’s prejudiced connections would drop him like a hot turnip and he’d land in jail and probably get hung. But Lipp hasn’t got money, so it’s got to be Shaw. The only question is where Clara will collect the cash.”

  “Clara Sullivan told me that she needed ‘one more visit with the guttersnipes’ before she could leave town. What does that term refer to?”

  “Guttersnipes are street urchins.”

  “Such as those with whom Lucas Patterson works.”

  “She’s not selling to Shaw.” Jack sat up. “She wants to get the biggest payout possible, and Patterson’s got the most money along with a burning desire for reform. Clara goes to him and demands a big price for the Bible. So big that it took a couple of days for him to pull the cash together, which explains why she had to hang around. Still—what does that have to do with our murders? Unless you still want to pin them on Clara.”

  “I have more information about who might have killed Lizzie.”

  Jack shuddered as he sat up on the bed. “You’ve been one busy gal while I’ve been laid up in this joint.”

  “The description of the man seen speaking with Nick and Lizzie at the Gayety Theater matches my mentor, Dr. Frederick Anson. I found a disturbing cache of photographs in his safe last night. The images depict a masked man beating naked young women with various instruments. It is possible Dr. Anson hired Lizzie for this purpose and delivered a fatal blow during their session.”

  Jack gave a low whistle. “You’re a safecracker on top of all your other talents. Sarah, you are one amazing woman.”

  “Perhaps we should call the police.” Sarah was now rocking with her arms wrapped tightly around her body. “They could obtain a search warrant, find the photographs, and compel Dr. Anson to confess.”

  “Forget it. Things never go that smoothly with the cops, especially when a well-known guy like your doctor friend is involved. Besides, Lipp’s mixed up in this some way himself, which means we truly can’t trust the cops. But there is something I can do.” Jack swung his legs onto the floor.

  “You are in no condition to leave this bed.”

  “Have to. You said Clara’s cashing in on the Bible and got a ticket out of town a little past noon. Knowing her, she’s got everything planned to the minute. It’s almost nine o’clock now. If I hurry, I can trail her to the meet-up with Patterson.”

  “What good will that do?” Sarah rocked so hard in her chair that it was slowly moving across the floor with little squeaks.

  “Maybe nothing. But it’s the last chance to learn what she knows before she’s gone for good. Where are my clothes?”

  “You propose confronting two people, neither of whom have an incentive to reveal anything incriminating. One or both of these people may also be murderers and inclined to use extreme violence. Your plan is illogical and reckless.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Knowing her, she probably did.

  She stared off into space for a moment, then reached under the bed and pulled out a box containing new clothes, his old derby, and the Colt. “I instructed the nurse to get you a new suit of clothing, as your previous articles were beyond repair. I also demanded the police return your firearm.” She lifted the pistol with both hands and clutched it tightly. “I will only relinquish this weapon if you agree to take me with you.”

  “Okay, come on. I’ll need that darn gun.”

  Chapter 23

  Sarah—Friday, October 15, 1909, 9:30 a.m.

  The black medical bag bounced on the seat between them as the taxicab crossed one set of rail tracks after another.

  Sarah was not in the habit of carrying the bag, but she worried about Jack’s injuries. She forced herself to ponder the case evidence instead, wondering why the details refused to fit into a logical whole. Dr. Anson had a sexual perversion that might link him to Lizzie’s head injury. Nick framed Horace Shaw for Lizzie’s murder. Lucas Patterson might have murdered Nick. Clara Sullivan had a family Bible with an explosive secret. What did all of this add up to?

  “Hope the rain holds off,” said Jack. “I’m ready to see the sun.”

  Sarah’s attention snapped back to the present. For the first time, she noticed the morning was dull and gray. Patches of mist hovered over the ground. There was a chill dampness in the air that made her wish she had worn something over her walking suit jacket. It was difficult for her to switch her routine as the seasons changed—she sweated under an overcoat well into summer and shivered without one sometimes as late as Christmas. “I prefer to consider the facts of our investigation rather than speculate on the weather, which is out of our control.”

  “Sometimes people talk about the weather to take a break from the hard stuff. It’s called small talk.”

  “I do not appreciate idle conversation.” Sarah spoke with force, thinking of all the occasions during which she stood silent amidst mindless chatter. “I am speaking in general terms. I did not intend to single you out for criticism.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re right—I should know you better by now.”

  Her heart raced as she considered his remark. Apart from her father, no man had ever tried to understand her, much less blamed himself for not doing so. She came out of her reverie when Jack told the hansom driver to stop half a block down from the Academy Hotel. From West Franklin Street, they had a clear view of the front entrance.

  Jack checked his watch. “It’s nine forty-five a.m. I hope she’s still there.”

  “I called the Academy Hotel after requesting our taxicab. The clerk told me that Miss Nora Helmer—that is Clara Sullivan’s pseudonym—is planning to check out at ten a.m.”

  “You’re good, Sarah.”

  She blinked rapidly. “Do you truly regard me as capable at detectiving?”

  “You bet. You’re a natural. And with all that autopsy and science stuff—cripes, you put me to shame.”

  “I am aware of my limitations. I lack your intuitive talent. And your ability to easily interact with people.”

  “Everybody’s friend. That’s me.” Jack had a hand over his bandage.

  “Is your injury causing you pain?”

  “Missing my coffee. That’s all.”

  “Remove your hat.”

  “Why?”

  “I wish to check for fever. Getting out of bed so quickly after surgery puts you at risk.” Sarah extended her hand partway toward him.

  “Sarah, your thumb is bleeding. ‘Physician, heal thyself.’” He gave her a weak smile. “Sorry. New bad habit
of mine, spouting the Bible out loud.”

  She glanced at her thumbnail and saw that blood was dripping from the well-chewed cuticle. “How terrible.” Casting about in her medical bag, she found a piece of gauze and pressed it to the finger. “I cannot say your biblical reference is unwarranted. I, too, have bad habits.”

  Jack removed his hat, and she placed her uninjured hand on his forehead. He was slightly clammy with no sign of fever.

  “Let me see your thumb,” he said.

  Looking down at the battered digit, she saw that the gauze had come loose and more blood had oozed out of the cuticle. Reflexively, she jerked her hand away.

  “Come on. I won’t bite it. That’s your job.”

  Slowly, she extended her right hand. Jack held it gently in a calloused palm as he dabbed at the end of her thumb gently with the gauze. Her entire arm shivered with an odd combination of fear and pleasure. Motion off to the side, in the direction of the hotel, drew her attention away from his touch.

  “Jack. Clara Sullivan is departing.”

  A parade of bellmen lugged trunks, hatboxes, and smaller cases out to a four-wheel hackney carriage under Clara’s unsmiling direction. She wore a green traveling suit trimmed in dark blue silk. Her huge hat was wrapped in pink chiffon and decorated with a profusion of silk peaches, complete with leaves.

  “She looks like a darn tree,” said Jack.

  “I do not like figures of speech.” Sarah pulled her hand away. “If I did, I would use a less flattering construction to describe that woman.”

  “There’s sweet fruit on her surface, but everything underneath’s rotten.”

  “That is more agreeable.”

  Jack told the driver to follow Clara’s carriage at a distance. As they bounced their way along, Sarah’s anxiety spiked. She had no idea how Jack was going to resolve this matter. If Clara Sullivan was meeting Lucas Patterson, it meant accosting two potential killers. Killers who had no intention of peacefully yielding to moral authority. She wanted to question Jack about his strategy but decided to keep quiet. Any plan conceived by a one-eyed man who was near death a day ago would not sound convincing in any case.