Casan laughed, which seemed even more off-putting for Luthor, as though humor and autopsies had no place together. The doctor seemed within his element, a far cry from the nervous man who had sat in Simon’s sitting room, nervously describing a multitude of murder victims.
“There’s a personal attachment that I’m not used to, is all,” the apothecary continued. “I know into whose chest you’re cutting right now. That makes it all a bit unnerving.”
The cutting stopped, and Luthor stole a glance. The sternal saw was still firmly in place, having not completely severed the sternum, but Casan was watching with genuine concern.
“I wish there was a simpler way for me to conduct this autopsy,” the doctor explained. “If there were a way to merely echo what we already know—that her leg had been severed, leading to severe blood loss and death, most likely, as a result of shock—than I could forego the formal autopsy.” He grasped the saw once more, and Luthor looked away. “Unfortunately, I would also then lose my job, which is instrumental in me maintaining my meager way of life. Therefore,” a long saw stroke filled the room, “I must continue my work. I did offer for you to leave during these formalities, however.”
“You did and it was most kind of you,” Luthor meekly replied. He held up the vial in his hands. “I did find this at the crime scene. I was going to give it directly to Simon, but he seemed a bit out of sorts when we passed on the stairs. Perhaps you could have a look at it when you get a chance?”
“Of course,” Casan said. Removing the saw, he picked up a hammer and chisel.
Luthor immediately regretted his decision to stay.
The next two hours seemed to drag on for Luthor. The sawing eventually gave way to the careful removal of organs, all of which were weighed and annotated before being placed in jars. Luthor allowed a deep sigh of relief when Doctor Casan finally began sewing Veronica shut. After two long hours of the forensic autopsy, the apothecary was having trouble seeing the dark-haired woman as the lady he had met so often, rather than just a corpse on a slab.
“We’re done, finally,” Casan said, sounding as drained as Luthor felt. “I will perform a toxicology test on her blood to identify the agent used, but I still believe we’ll merely be confirming the use of Curare.”
“You have my many thanks,” Luthor said as the doctor walked around the gurney, stripping away his blood-soaked gloves. He walked to Luthor, picked up the vial, and held it up to the light. “What do you suppose this is?”
“Mud would be my assumption,” Luthor replied, “based solely off the location where it was found, though it’s far darker than I would expect from normal mud. Perhaps this will be the one clue that helps solve the string of murders.”
Casan smiled. “One can only hope.” He set down the vial, and his smile faded. “Forgive me, but I must ask a more serious question regarding her remains.”
Luthor glanced over the doctor’s shoulder.
“Is there someone to whom I can release the remains?” Casan asked.
The apothecary let his gaze drift to the door, out of which Simon had retreated a few hours earlier. “Is it possible for you to hold the remains here temporarily as we make proper arrangements?”
The doctor nodded. “Of course, though I can only keep it—her—for a short while.”
“Hopefully a short time will be all we require,” Luthor said, his gaze still on the closed door.
Simon walked into his house, closing the door quickly behind him. Without turning on any of his lights, he paced slowly into the sitting room, reveling in the darkness. The table was still littered with folders of previous victims. Aside from Gloria, they had mostly been faceless names to Simon before now. He had examined their pictures with as much interest as someone examining a caricature drawn by one of the carnival folk at a circus. They seemed unreal, as though the people behind those faces, the women who had died, weren’t real.
Now each face seemed to stare at him accusingly, reminding him of their parents or spouses or children who had been left behind with their murder, as he was now left behind. The eyes of the women’s faces followed him around the room, their mouths pursed in silent whispers, calling him a failure.
Simon bit his lip until he could taste copper in his mouth. His eyes drifted to the liquor cabinet, and an insatiable thirst seemed to wash over him. He quickly turned away, focusing instead on the files. Walking to the table, he lifted the closest report and began reading it anew.
He had told Luthor that her investigation deserved the best. Simon knew that with enough time and determination, he could find what the constabulary had missed. It was here, within the files, concealed amongst Detective Sugden’s crude handwriting, the one clue that would tie the murder scenes together, that would reveal the identity of the murderer. He would find Veronica’s killer, of that he had no doubt.
He dropped the first report on the table and lifted the second. His eyes darted over the files but the words seemed to slide across the page, elusively avoiding the Inquisitor’s gaze. He could feel it again, the headache behind his eyes and the weight in his chest. It was a burden tied around his neck as he stood on the precipice of a proverbial cliff, threatening always to pull him over and drag him down.
Dropping the second report, he grabbed the third and then the fourth. Tears stung his eyes as he tried to find the evidence, the something that he had missed during his first examination of the reports. It was there; it had to be.
Simon felt the welling of anger within him. The answer wasn’t in the reports, at least not that he could see. Sugden’s reports had been incomplete. That had to be the answer because the alternative was that Simon just wasn’t good enough to follow the clues. The only other option was that Simon wasn’t competent enough to find Veronica’s killer.
Lifting the stack of files, Simon roared in anger and threw them against the wall. The folders exploded open, showering the far side of the room in loose-leaf parchments. Black-and-white pictures fluttered end over end as they fell to the floor.
Huffing heavily, Simon turned away from the table and walked to the liquor cabinet. Retrieving a bottle of scotch and a tumbler, he uncorked the bottle with his teeth and, with shaking hands, poured himself a glass near to overflowing. Drinking half in a single long gulp, Simon refilled his glass before retreating to the nearest chair, tumbler in one hand and bottle in the other.
Saint Donovan’s Hospital was a two-story bleached white building that sat on the divide between Solomon’s Way and Eden’s Grove, a district of Callifax best known for its debtor’s prison and Saint Midridge’s Asylum for the Mentally Impaired. Luthor approached the glass-inset front doors, through which he could see only a single receptionist’s desk. Opening the front door, he realized that the room was far more crowded than he had first believed. Rows of chairs lined either wall, most of which were filled with people in some stage of illness or injury. The tiled floor was stained with spots of dried blood. A man in the corner, keeping as much to himself as the crowded room would allow, coughed loudly into a handkerchief that was marred with bright red blood every time he withdrew it from his lips.
The receptionist, a heavyset woman with a dour expression, raised her gaze to the newcomer. “What is your illness?”
Luthor removed his bowler’s cap and held it protectively before him, as though it offered a shield against the myriad of illnesses around him. He knew, instinctively, that the tattoos running the length of his spine protected him from any normal and, to some degree magical, malady, but he still felt uncomfortable around such brazen sickness.
“I’m actually not here to be seen but rather to see someone already admitted,” Luthor offered.
The woman’s expression changed not at all, even as her gaze dropped to a ledger before her. “What is the name of the patient?”
“Mattie, or rather Matilda Hawke.”
The woman ran a portly finger along the page until she found the name. She glanced up once more toward the apothecary. “Are you family?�
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Luthor shrugged. “As close to family as she has in Callifax.”
“I can only admit family to visit an admitted patient. It’s hospital rules.”
“Then I’m her brother,” Luthor bluntly stated.
The woman stared at him impatiently before eventually shrugging. “She’s in room 205, up the stairs behind me.”
“Thank you kindly, madam.” He leaned in closer so that he could speak in a whisper. He pointed toward the man in the corner. “Are you aware that the man there is exhibiting all the signs and symptoms of consumption? It’s highly contagious.”
The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Are you a doctor?”
Luthor realized it was not so much a question as a direct insult to his credibility. Rather than reply, he nodded toward the woman before hurrying toward the stairwell, stealing only the quickest glance at the man suffering obvious respiratory distress.
The second floor seemed far quieter and more reserved than the lobby. Only a few patients were out of their rooms, most in various stages of convalescing. Some walked with the assistance of canes while others were wheeled about in wheelchairs. Mostly, however, the patients were quarantined within their rooms and interacted solely with the doctors and nurses.
Room 205 was easy to find, not so much by the haphazard numbering system employed by the hospital but rather by the uniformed constable standing guard outside its door. As Luthor approached, the constable nodded to him politely.
“Can I help you, sir?” the policeman asked.
“I’m Miss Hawke’s brother,” Luthor lied once more, figuring a consistent lie was better than a mixture of lies and truth. “I hurried here once I was informed of her attack. Is she all right?”
“Forgive me, sir, I wasn’t told to expect any family for the lady.”
Luthor shook his head. “Think nothing of it. I’m as surprised as you are.”
The constable glanced through the small glass window set in the door. “The lady is currently resting. Perhaps you could come back after she’s awoken?”
“I’d rather I see her now, if it’s all the same. I promise not to be a bother or wake her.”
The bobby seemed conflicted as he looked Luthor over. As he glanced over his shoulder toward the room once more, Luthor looked quickly about and then traced a small rune in the air. The constable shook his head as he turned back around.
“I should think paying your respects wouldn’t hurt her none,” the guard replied. “It would probably do her some good to awaken to a friendly face.” The constable politely opened the door. “Do be sure to be quiet while she rests though, sir.”
“Of course,” Luthor replied.
The apothecary stepped inside, and the guard gently closed the door behind him. The room was dark with the curtains drawn. The only light in the room came through the narrow window in the door. It took Luthor’s eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. In the meantime, he merely stood by the door.
“Are you going to come in or are you going to keep standing there wide-eyed?” Mattie asked hoarsely from her place on the hospital bed.
“Mattie? I was told you were asleep.”
“I was,” she replied. He could begin to make out her outline as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “As soon as you entered the room, however, I could smell you. It woke me up right away.”
Convinced he could see well enough, Luthor walked toward her bedside. She raised a hand and he immediately took it, holding it close to his chest. He couldn’t see the details of her face but could feel her wince as she moved about on the bed.
“How are you?” he asked. “No, that’s a stupid question. Of course you’re not all right. You were just beaten by a monster. What I meant to ask was—”
“You’re rambling,” she said. “I’m healing miraculously well, if you would believe my doctor.”
Luthor smiled. “Somehow, I’m not at all surprised.”
“Perhaps not, but they are,” she said, gesturing toward the doorway. “I can’t help but feel they’ll be terribly suspicious when I’m nearly completely healed within a day or two.”
“We will worry about that problem when we come to it.”
Mattie’s eyes widened suddenly, as though the memories of her encounter came rushing back to her in a tidal wave of horror. “Veronica. Oh God, I’m so sorry—”
Luthor quickly placed his finger over her mouth, feeling terrible even as he felt the scab running across her split lip. “No, I won’t let you concern yourself about that now.”
“But she died,” Mattie sobbed, tears welling and leaking from the corners of her eyes, leaving trails down both cheeks. “I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t. I saw the sheet as I awoke, draped over her body.”
Luthor grasped her shoulders, though he dared not squeeze too tightly. “Now is not the time for talk like that, Mattie. You need your rest.”
“I failed her,” she wailed. “Now she’s dead.”
Luthor shook his head. “You didn’t kill her. In fact, you did all you could to save her. Right now, I want you to forget about Miss Dawn and worry, instead, about yourself.”
She took a deep breath. “I should be helping with the investigation, not lying in a hospital,” she defiantly said. “I clawed the beast during our struggle. My hands and nails were coated with whatever passed for its blood. I could have shown you if this accursed hospital hadn’t scrubbed my skin so thoroughly.” She held up her spotless hands. “There’s nothing left for our investigation.”
“The investigation is better left for the constabulary.”
“They know even less than you,” she explained.
Luthor arched a brow. “Have they already spoken to you?”
“As soon as I awoke in the hospital. A detective asked me some preliminary questions. I told the truth to the best of my ability but left out some of the more egregious facts. Luthor, we can’t leave this investigation in their hands. Veronica died and the constabulary will never catch her killer.”
“Don’t worry yourself about the investigation. You need… I need you healthy if you’re to help us, but for right now, leave the investigation to… to Simon and me. I promise you we’re doing all we can to find the killer.”
She reached up and wiped her cheeks. Luthor hated to see her so vulnerable. She was a werewolf; she transformed into a creature that tore men asunder. Yet now, as a woman, she seemed incredibly frail and frightened. As she was, he didn’t have the heart to tell her that Simon seemed too distracted to properly investigate the crime at hand.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said, her stoic self returning.
Luthor took her hand and squeezed it once more. “What can I do for you?”
She looked at him sternly. “Get me out of this hospital. Take me home where I can heal with some semblance of dignity. Here, I have a nurse or a doctor disturbing me every few hours to take my temperature or check for signs of infection. They’ll never find one, but they don’t know that.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Don’t patronize me, Luthor,” she said, her voice strong and confident. “Take me home.”
He nodded, not seeing that he had much choice. As she began drawing back the covers, Luthor realized she was still very much naked beneath the sheet and quickly turned away, blushing. Mattie walked to an armoire nearby and opened the cabinet doors, revealing her outfit from the evening hung within.
“They were kind enough to retrieve my things when they brought me here,” she explained as she hastily dressed. “I don’t know if it didn’t dawn on them to ask why my clothes were so far away from where I had been beaten or if their sense of chivalry forbade such questions, but I’m thankful either way.” After a moment’s pause, where she groaned as she clasped the corset over bruised ribs, she continued. “There. I’m done. You may turn around now.”
The apothecary turned and was surprised by what he saw. Mattie was dressed in fine eveningwear, clearly an outfit chosen not by her but, more li
kely than not, by the recently deceased Miss Dawn. Regardless of the source, she looked stunning. The ensemble nearly offset the dark bruises across the side of her face and now-exposed shoulder and the gashes marring her cheek, brow, and lip.
As he stared, the door opened behind him and the doctor turned on the electric lamp overhead. Luthor squinted at the sudden light, raising his hand to shield his eyes.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the doctor asked as he glanced past Luthor and saw the dressed woman.
“Home,” she replied, “where I can get a full nap without being perpetually interrupted.”
The doctor shook his head as he searched for the words. “You can’t leave. You’re unwell and certainly unfit to be out of a hospital bed.”
Mattie smoothed the front of her corset, which hugged her curves flatteringly. “You told me during your last visit that I’m recovering exceptionally well. ‘Miraculously,’ I believe, is the word you used.”
“Healing quickly is not quite the same as being healthy enough to leave the care of a doctor.”
Mattie shrugged and glanced at Luthor. “Shall we, Mister Strong?”
“You can’t leave!” the doctor said, raising his voice and drawing the attention of the constable stationed beyond the door.
“You can’t stop me,” she replied, brushing past the stunned physician.
They opened the door only to find the uniformed policeman barring their way. The doctor gestured toward the pair. “Constable, I’m ordering you to stop them at once.”
Luthor smiled at the man. “Keeping us here is just more work for you and, unless I’m mistaken, there are far better things you could be doing with your time.”
The constable smiled dreamily as Luthor’s magic continued to course through him. “I’m sure you could heal just as well under the supervision of your… brother.” The guard motioned toward the stairwell. “Shall I call you both a taxi?”
“That would be delightfully helpful,” Luthor replied.
The constable turned down the hall and walked away. Luthor offered Mattie his arm for support as they walked slowly from the room, the redhead flinching with every painful step.
The Golem of Solomon's Way Page 17