“Perfect.”
Luthor followed the man from the morgue and up the stairs. Sugden still stood in the doorway of his office, watching the two men pass with a look of great disdain on his face. Luthor tried to avoid making eye contact, instead following the doctor—who seemed all the more oblivious—out of the station.
The two men weaved through the slow moving automobile traffic and entered a pub across the street. It was quickly approaching lunch, and Luthor’s stomach growled at the smell of cooking stew filling the room. Patrons were filtering in and tables were quickly filling as working men and women prepared for a hearty lunch before returning to their various jobs. Casan and Luthor chose a table away from the door, a private affair near the back wall. Though there were plenty of people within the pub, they could talk freely without being overheard. As Simon had told Luthor many times before, a busy room allowed the greatest chances of anonymity.
A waitress came by, offering drinks. Casan glanced at Luthor, inviting the apothecary to order first. A part of Luthor wanted a pint, something hearty that would burn as it went down his throat, but circumstances being what they were, it seemed in bad taste to order alcohol.
“Just a water, if you please.”
Casan nodded appreciatively. “The same, and thank you.”
“Will you both be eating?” the waitress asked.
“Is that stew I smell?” Luthor asked.
“It is.”
“I’ll have a bowl.”
“Make it two,” Casan added.
The waitress nodded before departing. The smiles on their faces lingered even as they turned back toward one another.
“You seemed rather uncomfortable at the police station,” the doctor noted. “I hope nothing’s the matter.”
“Very observant,” Luthor noted. “Yet another reason I need you to accept my proposal.”
“One issue at a time.”
“The detective and I seem to have had a recent falling out,” Luthor said as vaguely as possible.
Casan chuckled. “The poor detective has been having issues with any number of people recently.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.” The doctor sighed. “I’ve been under intense scrutiny since Miss Dawn’s untimely demise. It seems that Simon’s inadvertent comments at the crime scene led the detective to believe, rightfully, that I provided the coroner’s reports to you both.”
Luthor was taken aback. “Forgive us, Doctor, we never meant to get you into trouble.”
Casan waved his hand. “Think nothing of it. I don’t blame him; he was under an inordinate amount of stress at the time and could hardly be expected to self-censor.”
“I find the detective to be insufferable at times.”
“Don’t hate the detective too much. He’s suffered great loss in his life, as well. His son was killed, a murder that was never truly solved. That loss has shaped the man he’s become and made him bitter, all the more so with every passing day that he can’t find our most recent murderer.”
The waitress returned, placing a pair of water glasses between them and interrupting their conversation. From a tray, she produced a couple of shallow bowls of thick stew. The aroma was intoxicating, and Luthor’s stomach growled in response. As the waitress departed, the apothecary took a bite of the stew and sat back appreciatively.
Doctor Casan, likewise, took a bite, though it was small and he chewed and swallowed it quickly. “Speaking of the Inquisitor, how is Simon?”
Luthor finished his bite quickly and wiped his mouth on his napkin. “He climbed into a bottle and made his bed. I shan’t think we’ll see him again any time soon.”
Casan nodded and took a sip of water. “Losing someone you love can be hard on a man. Everyone copes with loss differently.”
“You speak as a man of experience.”
The doctor set down his glass and dabbed the corners of his mouth. “My father was a man of some considerable wealth. He was mortified when his only son chose a profession as pedestrian as a doctor. When I was attending university, my mother passed away quite unexpectedly. At the time, my father was alone, having lost his wife and me, their only child, miles away from home attending school. As a result of his loneliness, my father turned to drink. Eventually, he sank into a depression from which he never truly recovered.”
Luthor nodded but remained quiet for a moment, feeling the gesture of silence would be appreciated. “Is your father still alive?”
Casan shook his head. “He was admitted to Saint Midridge’s, here in Callifax, but never regained his faculties enough to be released. When he passed some years back, his wealth was divided first amongst his investors and, after those vultures had picked my inheritance to the bones, I was really only left with a pair of useless antique chairs and an empty warehouse here in Solomon’s Way, the contents inside having already been sold off to pay his outstanding debts.”
“That’s a terrible ending to his story. He sounded like he was a remarkable man.”
“He was, once. He deteriorated over time until dementia set upon him. I visited from time to time, but he never recognized me. His eyes were hollow and vacant, as though only enough of his mind remained to keep him breathing and his heart beating in his chest. Eventually, those parts of his mind went as well.”
Casan laughed awkwardly and stirred his stew. “What a dreadful topic during lunch. The moral of that story is that, as a result of my lack of inheritance, I now find myself in a morgue, working in the basement of a police station in Solomon’s Way. More importantly, I know the pain of having someone drown their sorrows in a bottle and how important it is to ensure their mental stability.”
“All the more reason for you to join us,” Luthor insisted. “Simon is in no condition to conduct a proper investigation, as you yourself can attest. We need someone with a keen mind and sharp powers of observation. Miss Hawke and I will, of course, assist in every way we can, but we lack your seemingly limitless capabilities.”
“You flatter me.”
“Only because you’re deserving. Though I would be loathed to admit this in Simon’s presence, you are the only man I’ve met that might rival his intellectual faculties.”
Casan shrugged. “How can I say no to such a glowing recommendation?”
“Clearly, you can’t.”
“Very well, then, Luthor, what would you have me do?”
Luthor smiled. “You and I are going to solve a murder.”
Luthor did his best to explain all the evidence he and Simon had collected prior to Veronica’s untimely death, to include the footprint in the rubbish and their estimation that the owner of said footprint stood at least nine-feet tall. As they talked, the sky outside grew dark as storm clouds gathered overhead. The pub filled with the patter of rain striking the glass windows. Luthor and Youke quickly paid their bills and walked toward the door, disgruntled yet excited. Though neither man wanted to walk in the rain—nor, admittedly, was either man dressed for the weather—they were both eager to begin the investigation anew.
Luthor turned up his collar and placed his bowler low on his head with the hopes of keeping out the rain, which had turned from a simple drizzle to an outright downpour, pelting the awning and pooling along the sidewalk. Stepping through the door, ensuring they remained in the narrow protective overhang of the awning, both men scanned the road, hoping a taxi would happen by. After some minutes of genuine indecision between the two men of whether it was worth walking through the drenching rain, a taxi happened by, one that they were lucky enough to flag down.
Even the insignificant walk from the awning to the waiting taxi left them both drenched. Such was the Callifax weather—beautiful one moment before a sudden storm cloud appeared as though by magic overhead. Luthor envied Mattie as the two men sat in the back of the car; she may lack the refinement reserved for those who were brought up within the city, but she would have had no problem shaking herself like a dog to rid herself of the accumulated water. Instead, th
e two dignified men sat beside one another, dripping stoically during the drive to Luthor’s townhouse.
The rain had lessened considerably by the time they arrived, returning once more to a light drizzle. Luthor paid the fare as they exited and hurried up the walkway to the front stairs. Reaching the safety of the front landing, Luthor lowered his collar once more and reached into his pocket to retrieve the key. His gaze drifted to the house next door, where the curtains were drawn and still no light seeped from the dark windows. A part of him longed to knock on Simon’s door once more, regardless of the abrupt ending to their last conversation. They were about to delve into the heart of the investigation, an arena in which Simon was champion. Luthor could most certainly use the Inquisitor’s expertise, but was sure it wouldn’t be freely given today or any day soon. Begrudgingly, he turned back toward his own door and unlocked it.
The interior was warm and well lit, a stark contrast to the gloomy exterior, where dark storm clouds had blotted out the sun, their dark edges bleeding into the black smoke billowing from smokestacks throughout the city. The rain had left them wet, and the bitter wind that accompanied the storm passed through their clothes and struck them in their very bones. Luthor stripped off his damp jacket and hat, hanging them on pegs beside the door before inviting the doctor to do the same. As they were warming themselves in the foyer, Mattie rounded the corner from the sitting room.
“I thought I heard someone come in,” she said with a smile that turned up only one corner of her mouth. The other was still scabbed and healing, along with the matching bruise that marred the side of her face.
Luthor smiled, knowing damn well that she had heard, smelled, and very likely identified them individually long before rounding the corner. “Mattie, may I formally introduce you to Doctor Youke Casan? He’ll be assisting in the investigation in Simon’s stead.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” Mattie replied, offering a sorry excuse for a curtsey. The unmanageable ringlets of her hair bounced as she stood.
Casan furrowed his brow as he examined her, his eyes barely leaving the exposed marks on her face. “Miss Matilda Hawke?”
“One and the same,” Luthor replied.
The doctor reached out toward Mattie’s cheek, but she quickly pulled away, out of his reach. Casan withdrew his hand immediately and blushed. “Forgive me, madam, I meant no disrespect. My medical curiosity got the better of me, and I forgot my manners. You are the woman that was attacked just yesterday in Solomon’s Way?”
“I am,” she guardedly said.
“Your wounds are healing incredibly quickly, lest the report I received overstated your injuries,” he said. “From that report, I would have believed you’d be bedridden for weeks as a result of the attack.”
“My physician had an inflated sense of self,” she said. “I’m sure he exaggerated greatly in his report, so that he might impress upon his colleagues the depths of his surgical skills, saving the life of such a grievously wounded woman.”
She ended her sentence with a dramatic flare and, for a moment, Luthor even believed she might have been that very fragile woman. The reality of her situation weighed upon him almost immediately, however, and he was eager to draw the doctor’s attention away from her injuries.
“If we may,” he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of writing some basic notes about the case, as I’ve observed them. I would greatly appreciate any level of insight you might provide us, Doctor Casan.”
The doctor nodded but gestured toward Mattie. “If it’s all the same, in such an intimate setting, I’d much prefer you called me by my given name. Calling me ‘doctor’ or merely by my surname seems so impersonal.”
“Of course,” Mattie said. “Youke, was it?”
“Indeed.” He stretched out his hand again, though this time to take Mattie’s rather than probe at her wounds. Taking her hand, he brought it to his lips.
“If you’d both follow me into the study,” Luthor interjected, “we shall begin.”
They took their seats around the central table. The warm fire roared beside them, popping intermittently as the wood blazed a cherry red. The heat soaked through Luthor’s remaining damp clothing, and he felt goose flesh rising on his arms. He shook off what remained of the chill before retrieving his notebook.
“Based solely from the coroner’s reports—for which we thank you greatly—and the crime scene reports lent to us by Detective Sugden, I’ve taken the liberty of identifying what I believe to be key characteristics of our killer. Once refined, I think this may be a thorough template that we might utilize to identify his location.”
“I’m intrigued,” Youke replied. “Do go on.”
Glancing between his notebook and the two people seated around the table, Luthor began. “What do we know? The killer appears to be a man in the medical field, or at least someone proficient with a blade, enough that they could perform a swift and delicate removal of a limb.”
“Excuse me, but why a man?” Mattie asked.
Luthor frowned, not expecting an interruption so quickly in his presentation. “Meaning no disrespect, but the women were overpowered physically before the fatal injuries were inflicted. While I have met some very sturdy women, present company included, this would insinuate a man.”
He paused for a moment, expecting an argument but when Mattie offered none, he continued. “I lean toward a member of the medical community because of the use of drugs to subdue the victims.”
“I can agree with that assessment,” Youke replied.
“Inquisitor Whitlock also seemed keen on the idea that the killer was a resident of Solomon’s Way,” Mattie added. “Not only did all the attacks occur within the district but if something went sour with a victim, he—or she—would need to be able to escape quickly, which is easier to do within a district with which you’re familiar.”
“Logical,” the doctor added. “Have you considered the differing methodologies for the murders, the unlikely transition between the rending of the limbs in the beginning to a more affluent method involving a blade, as we’ve seen recently?”
“I did,” Luthor said, adjusting his glasses as he read further down his page. “Coupled with the oversized footprint found at the crime scene, I think it likely that we’re dealing with one of two scenarios. The first of which, I wondered if we might be dealing with a copycat, someone seeking notoriety while riding the coattails of a more proficient killer?”
Casan shook his head. “The methods are vastly different, admittedly, but the theft of the limbs is a detail we intentionally left out of the papers. Were it not for the murders of your acquaintances, it’s highly unlikely any of you would have become aware of that specific detail. In fact, aside from those of us in this very room, only the detective, constabulary, and Inquisitor Whitlock know those pertinent and gruesome facts.”
“Then perhaps we’re truly dealing with just a single killer, one who’s adopted an evolving style that has grown along with his confidence?”
Again, Youke shook his head. “People, killers in particular, don’t change, at least not to such vast degrees that one might go from using such brute strength to, instead, incorporating surgical precision in his,” he glanced toward Mattie, “or her attacks. Besides, a single killer theory is unsupported if we are looking for someone in the medical field. By your own admission, the killer is beastly, standing nearly nine feet tall. A nine-foot-tall surgeon would surely attract unwanted attention, enough that we would easily identify our killer.”
Luthor leaned back in the sofa, setting his notebook aside. He had exhausted his list of clues and was now eager to see the directions in which the inquisitive mind of the doctor would take. “I had only two scenarios, both of which you’ve now refuted. Do you have a third?”
Casan smiled as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I do. We’ve already mentioned that a nine-foot physician is impractical, but there is a level of medical expertise. We also know—and forgive me for bringing
up such painful and recent wounds—that a tall assailant is present during the course of the crimes. I’m insinuating that there are, in fact, two killers working in tandem, one the public face and one the disfigured, shadowy figure.”
“A similar thought to the one Simon shared during the early stages of the investigations,” Mattie said.
Luthor nodded. “Indeed, but I remain fixated on this towering brute. I imagine him with a hunched back and limbs of uneven sizes, hobbling through the streets on his vile missions. Yet we queried the inhabitants of Solomon’s Way and found no one who recognized so giant or disfigured a person. How would you hide someone like that? Even the night wouldn’t conceal their movements so perfectly.”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve considered this predicament and think I have a solution. When you came by the morgue earlier, you brought a sample of mud with you, in which was imprinted a similarly oversized footprint, correct?”
“I did.”
“Sadly, as you well know, I haven’t had a chance yet to examine the mud or make any determinations, but it’s not the mud itself that struck me but rather where you’d found it.”
Luthor arched an eyebrow. “In the alleyway?”
“More precisely, near a manhole cover, one that, unless I’m mistaken, leads into a labyrinth of sewer tunnels that run beneath the city.”
Luthor’s eyes widened, not in surprise but at his own ignorance for not making the connection sooner. “The sewers would be a perfect means for moving beneath the city without drawing unwanted attention. The public face could very easily move freely throughout the city—”
“While the beast roams its underbelly,” Casan concluded.
“A brilliant deduction,” Luthor complimented. “You truly are the right man for the job.”
The doctor shrugged. “In the absence of someone more proficient, you mean?”
“On the contrary. You’re a man of reserved sophistication, Doctor.”
“Perhaps, but my deductive reasoning hasn’t gotten us any closer to an identity for either of the mysterious killers.”
The Golem of Solomon's Way Page 20