Into the Suffering City

by Bill LeFurgy

  “A remarkable fantasy.”

  “Lizzie lay unconscious,” Sarah said. “And instead of seeking help, you first recorded what happened in your notebook. The key to effective self-analysis is keeping an immediate and scrupulously honest record of one’s behavior, is it not? Then you went to ask Dr. Anson for his assistance with Lizzie. When you returned, she was gone. Along with your notebook. It was her way of revoking consent to participate in your research.”

  Macdonald slowly stroked his beard.

  “Nick Monkton then got in touch with you two days later, saying Lizzie had died and that he had your notebook—which now amounted to a confession of murder. He demanded money in return for the notebook and instructed you to meet him Tuesday at a stable in Fells Point. You went there with alcohol, which Nick believed to be a gesture of goodwill—not suspecting that you put chloral hydrate in his drink. Once Nick was unconscious, you shot him, wrote a fraudulent suicide note, reclaimed your notebook, and removed all traces of your visit. It was clever of you to leave the glass remaining from an earlier visitor.”

  “They told me you were smart. Strange but smart.” Macdonald smiled broadly. “Poor dear, it is your brain that will be your undoing.”

  He stood and brushed the wrinkles from his trousers. “I merely have to file with the court for your involuntary commitment to the asylum. Anson will concur. Soon—what is the popular phrase?—the men in the white coats will come for you. That will make your story nothing more than the ravings of a hysterical woman lashing out at colleagues because of her own professional failure. And even if the police did pay any attention to your claims, there is no evidence of my involvement in those deaths.”

  “You overlook a piece of physical evidence that is conclusive. Your fingerprints on the suicide note, which is in my possession. That was a serious flaw in your method. If you had worn gloves no one could ever associate you with the murder.”

  She was conjecturing that the unidentified prints on the note were Macdonald’s. This was a guess—what Jack would call a bluff, since even if the prints did belong to Macdonald there was no assurance the police would consider them. And there was little chance that the police could gain access to a doctor’s private notebook even if they tried. If Macdonald chose to laugh at her he could get away with his crimes.

  Macdonald did not laugh. Instead, he strolled over to his desk. “Impressive—you are a female Sherlock Holmes who has unmasked the killer. Yes, it’s true—I caused Lizzie’s death and shot that criminal Nick. Not that anyone else will ever know.”

  He picked up a letter opener shaped like a dagger. “Some schizophrenics are known to have violent, unprovoked rages—such as you did when you attacked me with this weapon. Look what you did to me.” He ripped his shirt open to reveal three deep scratches down his neck. “During our struggle the blade accidentally plunged into you. So very tragic.” Macdonald stepped toward her.

  Then there was Jack, yanking Macdonald away. A second man—Detective O’Toole—smashed the doctor in the head with a large revolver. Macdonald fell to the floor as the detective kept raining blows on him.

  “Stop this brutality! Stop!” Sarah shouted.

  “Keep that frail under control, Harden.” The detective gave the doctor a final kick in the face before handcuffing him and hauling him to his feet.

  “Detective,” said Sarah, “you will find an autobiographical account of the man’s malfeasance in this volume.” She handed over Macdonald’s notebook.

  “Snake,” said Jack, “she’s saying you got the goods on the guy on those pages.”

  O’Toole shrugged, took the notebook, and frog-marched the doctor away.

  “Sorry we were a little late coming in. The guy seemed harmless right up until the end. You okay?”

  “Everything resolved satisfactorily,” said Sarah. Her heart was pounding furiously. “I am pleased that we have revealed the truth about Lizzie.”

  “Yeah. Too bad Lizzie had to die for us to understand what a rare kid she was.”

  “Jack, I have a request.”

  “Sure. Name it.”

  “Embrace me.” She extended her arms stiffly. He stood rooted to the floor, causing her an awful moment wondering if he was going to reject her with some cruel remark. Then he took her lightly in his arms. She pressed her body tightly against him and buried her face in his shirtfront. His leather-in-the-sun smell was strong and intoxicating. A desire flowed through her: Let me stay here forever and ever. She squeezed her arms as hard as she could around him, causing a cry that forced her to pull away.

  “I forgot about your injured ribs. Please accept my apology.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, patting his side.

  “I have not been in a man’s arms voluntarily since my father died. He used to comfort me in that manner.”

  “What about me? Did I manage the trick?”

  “I am quite well, thank you.” She jammed her thumb in her mouth and furiously chomped on its nail. How stupid she had been to give in to that impulse, which would drive him away. And she had been so pleased with the relationship she had established with this man. Now yet another social blunder had ruined everything.

  “Now I have a request,” said Jack. “You can tell me to jump in the lake—I mean, you can say no and I won’t mind.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides, baffled at what he might want. “What is your request?”

  “I want to kiss you. On the cheek.”

  She stood motionless for long time before slowly, very slowly, offering her cheek. Jack gently brushed her face with his lips. Bright patches of light swam in her vision and for a moment she thought she would faint. She was desperate to be alone, to escape this confounding man, to get herself under control.

  “Hey,” said Jack, “here’s something that’ll give you a thrill.” He reached into his pocket and offered her a roll of cash. “This is half what Shaw gave me.”

  “Leave me now.” She blinked at the money.

  “Take it. We’re partners.”

  She snatched the roll. “Go.”

  “Let’s meet Monday morning. Your place?”

  “No!”

  Jack flinched. “Jeez, you don’t have to yell. Where then?”

  She had not cried in front of anyone but the dolls for many years, but found herself alarmingly close at this moment. “Lunchroom.”

  “But the smell—” He looked at her carefully. “All right. See you there at nine a.m.” He left quickly and closed the door behind him.

  Sarah sat in Macdonald’s big armchair and sobbed until her nose dripped onto her skirt. There was a neat pile of folded handkerchiefs on the table, and she used one to clean her face. Then she took several deep breaths with her head between her knees. Mind aswirl, she wanted nothing more than to go home and pour her heart out to the dolls.

  But more tears could wait. She still had one difficult—and dangerous—task left.

  Chapter 28

  Jack—Monday, October 18, 1909, 9:00 a.m.

  “Tell me exactly what happened. Keep it simple and don’t worry—I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  Jack leaned forward in his chair at the Monumental Lunchroom and gestured for the waitress to sit down. She refused but twirled her finger to get him talking.

  Jack checked that nobody was nearby and motioned her close. “It all started when a sleazy con man named Nick found a family Bible that had notes about how Commissioner Lipp and himself had the same great-granny. According to the law, that meant Lipp is colored—which is a problem, since the guy preaches white supremacy and is running for mayor. Nick tries to blackmail Lipp, who hasn’t got the money.

  “Nick then offers to sell the Bible to his rich boyfriend Lucas Patterson, who’s also running for mayor. Things really get interesting when Nick finds his girlfriend Lizzie dead after sex with Horace Shaw—the third man in the mayor’s race. There’re two pieces of good news for Nick here: one, Shaw left his pistol behind; two, Nick finds a Scottish doctor’s note
book that describes how he gave Lizzie the knock on her head two days earlier that ended up killing her. The bad news is Nick gave Lizzie the Bible to hide and he doesn’t know where she put it. Change of plan—Nick decides to blackmail the doctor. He also shoots Lizzie’s corpse with Shaw’s pistol, figuring the guy will get arrested and knocked out of the race, which will help Patterson and get him to cough up money.”

  “You ain’t nearly smart enough to solve that kind of case, boy. Don’t be fibbing now.”

  “You’re darn right. Wouldn’t have had a chance if it weren’t for a special woman—who I’m going to be meeting here in a bit.”

  “How about that. Been hoping a nice gal would settle you down.”

  “Not so fast.” Jack grinned. “Anyway, Nick’s scheme fell apart pretty quick. Lipp gets Snake Eyes O’Toole to go after Nick and find the Bible. Nick goes into hiding and demands cash from Patterson and the doctor. Patterson goes to see him but gets fed up and tells the guy to get lost. The doctor goes later, drugs Nick, and kills him in a way that looks like suicide. He also fetches back his notebook.”

  “What’s the connection between Lizzie and that Scottish doctor guy?” The waitress had a puzzled look on her face.

  “Get this: Lizzie had some condition where she saw colors when she heard words. The doctor is interested in that same condition. When a pal tells him about Lizzie, she gets invited to the doctor’s office. The doc decides he wants sex, Lizzie says no, they struggle, and she hits her head. He writes it all down and goes to get help, but she wakes up and runs off with the notebook.

  “It gets better. Lizzie has a sister, Clara, who’s a highbrow actress. She finds Lizzie dead, checks a special hiding place, finds the Bible, and knows she can sell it for a barrel of coin to rich man Patterson, which she does. Then Sarah and I convince Patterson to give us the Bible, which we use to get Shaw cleared.”

  “Heard you got a ton of money for that.”

  “I did okay. It was Sarah who figured out that the Scottish doctor whacked Lizzie on the head and also killed Nick. Then she led the cops to him. A real swell lady.”

  “And plenty smart.” The waitress cocked her head. “You sound like you want to marry her.”

  “You said she’s smart, so why the heck would she want that?”

  “Hon, can’t argue with that.” She cracked a rare smile and ambled off.

  Sarah appeared at his table a few minutes later, exactly on time. She looked the same as always—wan face, droopy hair, out-of-date hat as well as a dowdy jacket and skirt. Her shirtwaist buttons were misaligned, with the uppermost buttonhole peeking over her collar like a tiny, sleepy eye. He stood and held her chair. “Sarah, you look lovely this morning.”

  “Dispense with the idle and disingenuous talk.” She dropped into her seat.

  “Just as blunt as ever. What can I get you?”

  “Tea. I assume it is indifferent, at best, yet I will sample it.”

  Jack motion to the waitress, who gave him a big burlesque wink. “How was the rest of your weekend?” He returned to his greasy plate of bacon, eggs, and fried potatoes.

  “I will provide a summary. After you departed, I confronted Dr. Anson about referring Lizzie to Dr. Macdonald and then conspiring to cover up her death. He was unpleasant and even somewhat aggressive. I informed him that Dr. Macdonald was in custody and that the police had his detailed notes. Dr. Anson then apologized to me and attempted to reestablish our previous relationship. I spurned his overtures and departed.”

  “You’re the bravest woman I ever met. Suppose he’d tried to brain you? You should have had me come along.”

  “He was my mentor.” Sarah lifted the bulky cup and sniffed its contents carefully before taking a small sip. “And, until recently, he was the only living man with whom I felt a degree of trust. I felt it necessary to express my grave disappointment to him directly. And alone.”

  “Is that ‘until recently’ a roundabout way of saying you like me?” Jack began the question as a tease, but found himself oddly giddy waiting for her reply.

  A tremor ran through her body, causing some tea to spill over the side of her cup. “That is a most forward and rude question. Are you making a joke at my expense?” Her cheeks were bright crimson.

  “Sorry. Poor choice of words on my part.” He was pretty sure he had stirred a reaction that was hard for her to manage, so hard that she was close to bolting. She wanted to keep her feelings about him in the private place where she kept all her other emotions. His own feelings were plenty strong, and he was glad to keep them in check—for now, anyway. “Tell me more about what you did after we caught Macdonald.”

  Sarah set down the cup and straightened the silverware on either side of it. “After finishing my conversation with Dr. Anson, I visited the medical school dean and provided a full report concerning his two errant faculty members. He vowed to fire them.” She took another sip of tea. “The dean also offered me a junior faculty position in the Pathology Department.”

  “Good for you. That’s right up your alley.”

  “I refused the offer. I no longer wish to have my autonomy curtailed through employment in a male-dominated institution.”

  “Yeah? Well, what do you plan to do?”

  “I will work as a detective.” She was staring into her cup with one eyebrow twitching every so often.

  “Really. All by yourself?”

  “I am accustomed to working alone. I prefer it.”

  “Seems to me that we make a pretty good team. Why don’t we work together?” She looked at him and quickly dropped her eyes back to the cup. “For a little while, I mean. No commitment.”

  “I shall consider your offer.” She glanced up him again. “I see your hands are still shaking. Your color is better. There is no sign of blood on your bandages. Are you in significant physical pain?”

  “Nope.”

  “How is your nervous condition? Do you still have intrusive memories of your traumatic experience? Have you had any recent seizures or fits of aggression? What of your hallucinations?”

  Jack grimaced and put a finger to his lips. “Please keep it down. People around here think I’m peculiar, but it’s not a good idea to shout about it.”

  “You should now be well aware of what some consider peculiar behavior on my part, as well.”

  “Maybe that’s why we get on so well. We’re both odd ducks.” He laughed. “I haven’t gone nuts lately. Can’t make any promises about the future. I’m jumpy as anything, and my ghosts still haunt me. I expect they always will.”

  “You must talk to me at length about your trauma. I will provide whatever help I can to ease your suffering.”

  “Well, a doctor who really wants to help people, you don’t say.”

  “But I just did say that.”

  “Yeah, okay, you did.” Jack smiled but she didn’t notice, as she had pulled out a book, opened it, and jammed her nose deep inside the pages. “You want to read. I do, too—there’s a great summary of the World Series in the paper.”

  She kept the book pressed against her face while inhaling deeply for several seconds before lowering it. “I have brought The Principles of Psychology, by William James, with me. I am uncomfortable with the author’s interest in spiritualism and mystical experience, but feel it best to further acquaint myself with the man’s ideas.”

  They sat in comfortable silence reading for about forty-five minutes until a well-dressed older man approached their table. “Excuse me, sir, miss. My wife is missing, and I’m sick with worry. I’ve got it on good authority that the two of you are the best detectives in Baltimore, and I sure could use your help.”

  “Best in the city, how about that.” Jack looked at Sarah. “What do you say?”

  Sarah blinked rapidly while gazing at the man’s shirtfront. “Please sit down, sir, and describe the circumstances of your case. It is possible that it might benefit from the joint efforts of Jack and myself.”

  Author’s Note

  Sar
ah and the Autism Spectrum

  I have tried to present Sarah Kennecott as a person on the autism spectrum. She could not, of course, have been diagnosed as such in 1909 because the concept didn’t exist. Still, I am confident people like Sarah—not identical in all ways, but similar—lived during that time.

  The American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders identified Autism Spectrum Disorder in 2013. This is the latest of many (often, in hindsight, ludicrously inept) attempts by the medical profession to categorize a particular set of physical and mental traits. What follows is a non-exhaustive list of such traits.

  Children and adults with autism have difficulty with verbal and non-verbal communication. For example, they may not understand or appropriately use:

  Eye contact

  Facial expressions

  Tone of voice

  Expressions not meant to be taken literally

  Additional social challenges can include difficulty with:

  Recognizing emotions in others

  Expressing one’s own emotions

  Seeking emotional comfort

  Understanding social cues

  Feeling overwhelmed in social situations

  Gauging personal space (appropriate distance between people)

  Repetitive body movements (e.g. rocking, flapping, spinning, running back and forth)

  Many clinicians and advocates hail use of the term “spectrum” because an autistic person is like any other—they are a unique individual with their own way of being in the world. As Dr. Stephen Shore has noted, “If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.” Those with autism range from people who are fully disabled to those who are highly functional and have great success in life.