Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter (Book 1): Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter

by Verstraete, C. A.

  Emma shook her head. “Not yet. I haven’t had a chance. I hope to do it next if I can. With everything going on…”

  Nothing more needed to be said, of course. Lizzie went back to the list. “Wait, here’s one thing. Bottles, Samuel S. The other warehouse we were at…” She paused and tried to remember. “Yes, Samuel Smith. He was listed as the owner of that dreadful place. We’ll have to look through the rest of the papers, see who else he’s connected to. Father bought a lot of bottles, I see. I can’t imagine why.”

  “He must have used these bottles for something particular at his business,” Emma stated.

  But what? Lizzie wondered. An image of all the papers and boxes in that abandoned warehouse, especially one box with the word BOTT on it—for bottles, she realized—flit through her mind. The thought gnawed at her. She shrugged and pushed it away to figure out later. “I suppose.”

  Emma’s departure left her with plenty of time to sit and think about her case, not that she wanted to do more of that. She shifted through the stack of papers half-heartedly, noting page after page of mundane supplies. The actions made her feel more discouraged and disheartened, not the kinds of sentiments that would help her get through this ordeal, she knew.

  To her surprise, the jangle of keys announced another visitor. She stood and waited for the matron to open the cell door, her eyes widening in surprise to see John again so soon. He nodded to the matron. “Thank you. I should be done in about ten minutes.”

  Once the matron disappeared down the hall, Lizzie let all caution go and rushed to give him a hug. “I miss you.”

  To her chagrin, he gave her arm an almost brotherly squeeze and stepped away. What was going on? Her shock at his unexpected coldness left her almost breathless, but she forgot that as his next bit of news unnerved her even more.

  He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Liz, I don’t have much time. I wanted to let you know what’s been happening before the matron returns. I suppose you have heard what seems like more disturbing sounds at night?”

  She agreed and whispered back, “Yes, I do try to get used to it, but it does seem like there are more of them out there wandering around. I can usually hear them somewhere outside my window.”

  He shook his head and raked a hand through his hair. “We’ve observed a new pattern in the last week. Remember I said we think someone is keeping these monsters confined and letting them out?”

  At her nod, he continued, “Our crews are seeing triple the number of creatures out on the streets during the day. We’ve doubled patrols, but the danger is spreading. A woman downtown just missed being attacked when one of the creatures lurched out of an alleyway. Two of the Society members intervened before it could do any harm. We told the woman we were police and the man was sick. A fortunate turn is she didn’t get a good look at him.”

  “That is alarming.” Lizzie gasped, fearing for Emma’s safety. She wrung her hands, her worry levels rising. “Have they harmed anyone?”

  John shrugged and went on. “We can’t be sure. Police have been checking on several recent incidents of missing persons, but they can’t say with certainty what happened. You may not view it as such, and I regret saying this, but the press is too busy with your trial to bother with much else.”

  Lizzie gave him a sour look. “Yes, how ironic.”

  He shrugged. “All I can say is any reports have mostly been ignored. The police did issue warnings about being alert, isolated attacks, and being aware of suspicious, ill persons roaming about. They were buried in the back section of the papers.”

  His face grew grave as he tapped on the bars for the matron’s return. “I wanted you to know how bad it’s getting out there.” He lowered his voice. “I heard other rumors that someone is planning some kind of action, what exactly, we aren’t sure. In the last few days, I’ve seen indications the police are closing ranks. They’re ignoring our requests for more help. I think we’re being shut out. Things will only get more difficult. I’m not sure how much longer we can hold out.”

  The sadness and genuine alarm on his face made Lizzie forget her own worries for a moment. She reached out and squeezed his arm. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry, John, I really am. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is,” he whispered, as the sound of footsteps announced the matron’s return. “Keep digging in those papers. There has to be a clue in there somewhere as to who else is involved in this.”

  After he left, Lizzie ignored her sadness and tried to tamp down the anxiousness she felt at things getting worse. She paced up and back across the cell, going over the whole scenario in her mind, pondering Father’s role in everything. He was at the center of all this. Of that she felt even more certain.

  Determined to find something of value that would help them, Lizzie fanned out a handful of the papers taken from the Smith office-warehouse. Maybe there’s something in here we overlooked, or I haven’t found yet, she thought. First page, she found the same supplies ordered and signed by SS, with AB, for what she surmised to be Andrew Borden on the next line.

  She set the paper aside, pleased if not happy that she had found something that potentially linked the two of them. A small AR Typewriting marked the bottom of the page. It could be the Adelaide she had spotted earlier, now with a last name initial perhaps? Maybe this could lead to further identification, too. That paper got set aside as well. The next two sheets offered more supply lists and little else. And so it went with the next few pages after that.

  Soon, the tedium got to her. Tired of sorting and reading, she piled everything together in a neat stack and lay back, new paranoia setting in as she stared at her grim surroundings. Add to that the feeling of dejection as she went over John’s apparent attempt to distance himself from her personally. At least that’s what it had felt like to her.

  A wave of melancholy flooded over her. Tears pricked the back of her eyelids as the awful truth filled her—if she were found guilty, she would either hang, or spend the rest of her life in a dirty hole like this. That is unless the creatures shuffling and moaning outside here, too, didn’t get her first. She buried her head in the pillow and began to cry.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Counting from left to right with the face downwards, the wounds were as follows: 1. Was a glancing scalp wound two inches in length by one and 1/2 inches in width, situated 3 inches above left ear hole, cut from above downwards and did not penetrate the skull.

  2. Was exactly on top of the skull one-inch long, penetrating into but not through the skull.

  3. Was parallel to No. 2, one and 1/2 inches long, and penetrating through the skull.

  —Autopsy of Abby D. Borden by W.A. Dolan,

  Medical Examiner, August 11, 1892

  T

  he days went by in a blur, the routine ever the same. First it was the din from the few inmates in her vicinity waking followed by the clang of metal as the matron brought in the food trays filled with unappetizing dishes. Then came the odd, low moans outside her window each night. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Emma continued bringing in her most welcome basket of cookies as a treat each day.

  As the weeks and months passed, Lizzie had stopped looking at the prison breakfast tray for sustenance, knowing it would be no different than the previous day’s offering—cold, watery slop that passed for oatmeal. She dug out a couple oatmeal cookies instead and munched on those as she readied herself for another day in court.

  Her morning toilette finished, she dressed, the gaunt figure in the small square of mirror on the wall barely recognizable. The months in confinement had clearly taken their toll, leaving her a shadow of her former robust self. Each passing hour she remained behind bars, her fate unknown, made it harder and harder for her to remain positive and keep up her hopes.

  Taking a deep breath, Lizzie fortified herself with a whispered prayer as she followed the matron down the familiar path from her cell, down the long jail hallway, and out to the carriage for the ride to the cou
rthouse. She walked into the always overcrowded courtroom, head high, not daring to meet the eyes of anyone assembled except Emma, who dipped her head slightly in a nod of encouragement.

  As Lizzie made her way to the defendant’s table she spotted an unexpected figure from the corner of her eye. Turning slightly, she took another peek, wobbling a bit in shock to find Mayor Coughlin sitting among the stoic group of police officials. He glared at her, his eyes hard and unforgiving, his face condemning. She quickly turned away and stumbled to her seat, rather unnerved. Her attorney Mr. Jennings caught the exchange and squeezed her hand as she sat down. She sincerely appreciated all his efforts and concern.

  She had an inkling of how the mayor felt about her—even if she had no real understanding why—from their earlier encounter. But he’d stayed away from most of the proceedings up until now. She grew more uneasy about the upcoming verdict and testimonies. She wondered why the mayor felt he needed to make a personal appearance.

  Her fears came to light early when she saw the tissue paper covering the mounds on the table. Her stomach clenched as Dr. William A. Dolan, the medical examiner who’d performed the autopsies on Father and Mrs. Borden, walked to the stand to testify.

  Dressed in a well-cut dark suit, the serious-looking man wiped off his silver spectacles as he accepted the plaster skull cast from Mr. William H. Moody, one of the members of her defense team. Lizzie averted her eyes, focusing on her hands folded in her lap instead, as Mr. Moody earnestly began his questioning.

  “How many wounds did you find on Mr. Borden’s head?” Mr. Moody asked.

  Dr. Dolan explained the portions of the skull cast he had marked in blue. “Ten on the fleshy part,” he answered.

  “What was the general condition of the skull regarding it being crushed?” Mr. Moody questioned again.

  “The bone was crushed in about one-and-a-half inches in front of the ear, to probably one-and-a-half inches behind the ear,” Dr. Dolan answered.

  She grimaced and felt the blood rush from her face as Mr. Moody set the cast skull on the rail in front of the stenographer’s table with a clunk.

  “Now, Doctor, please explain the rest of the wounds,” Mr. Moody said.

  “The next wound was two-and-a-half inches above the eyebrow…”

  The skull hit the wooden rail. Lizzie heard the axe fall again.

  Images suddenly flashed in her mind—Father coming at her, mouth wide and biting, his eyes white, unseeing, yet seeing…

  Lizzie clenched her hands tighter. She began to breathe harder, her heart pounding in fear.

  The doctor’s voice droned on as the horrible memories unfurled in rapid succession in her mind—Mrs. Borden’s twisted, gray face…

  Clunk.

  Father, his face white, his breath fetid and stinking of death and decay and horror, standing over her…

  Clunk.

  An angry, disheveled Father, his face crazed, grabbing and clawing at her…

  Clunk.

  The clammy, horrible feeling of Father’s cold, dead hands touching her…

  Clunk.

  As Mr. Moody moved in closer for more questioning, he brushed against the tissue covering the other evidence on the table. Lizzie’s eyes widened as the sounds of the paper shifting and moving magnified ten-fold.

  She watched in an almost slow motion kind of horror as the tissue slowly slid downward, unveiling the terribly mangled mounds it had previously hidden from curious eyes. The paper slipped to the floor revealing the actual broken, crushed skulls of her father and Mrs. Borden. The black, eyeless sockets stared at her as if in accusation.

  With a whimper, Lizzie grabbed for the arm of the person sitting next to her. She plunged into a swirling pool of blood and biting teeth and darkness. Then she felt and heard nothing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Q. Do you still say that the relations between your stepmother and your sister Lizzie were cordial?

  A. The last two or three years they were very.

  Q. Notwithstanding that she never used the term “Mother”?

  A. Yes, sir.

  —Testimony of Emma Borden, witness for the defense,

  Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 16, 1893

  L

  izzie opened her eyes and stared into the kind face of Mr. Jennings, who helped her up and into her seat. Low murmurs buzzed around her like a swarm of bees.

  He leaned down, offered her a glass of water, and whispered, “Are you all right, Liz? Do you need a break, or should we go on?”

  She took another drink and breathed deep before answering. “Yes, I-I feel fine. I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

  “Very well.” He stood to his feet. “Your honor, the defendant says she is fine. The defense is ready to continue.”

  The lead counsel, Mr. George Robinson, a stout, mustached man of fine principle as well as a former governor of the state, took over most of the questioning, his manner precise and direct. More witnesses went to and from the witness stand like people getting on and off a merry-go- round. Lizzie brightened visibly and felt better when Emma took her turn as a witness for the defense. Emma smiled encouragingly on the way back to her seat.

  Lizzie almost dozed off several times between the testimonies of some of the other witnesses, but bolted upright when an older woman suddenly caused a commotion after being asked to explain her comment further

  “Why, I am talkin’ about those there men who said they seen somebody runnin’ down the street that mornin’ with a giant cleaver under his arm,” she said, her voice strong. “I’m wonderin’ why nobody said anythin’ about that yet. It was all over the papers.”

  Lizzie’s heart lurched. Could the woman be talking about the Society? Had someone seen one of the members going after the undead? She took a quick peek at John who sat two rows behind her, a scowl on his face. He saw her and shook his head, letting her know that he saw no big problem or threat against the Society’s work, at least by this.

  He still looks rather unhappy, she thought, unable to stop wondering if maybe it was her he was reacting to instead. She turned to the front as the district attorney voiced his opinion.

  “I object,” Mr. Hosea M. Knowlton barked. “This has not been proven to be true by our investigations, and has been determined to be nothing but outright lies propagated by the newspapers to sell editions!”

  “Counsel, approach please,” the judge requested.

  As the attorneys began an animated discussion in front of the judge’s bench, Lizzie turned to look at John again only to find him intently listening to the whispers of a most attractive woman seated next to him. Inwardly, Lizzie fumed, unable to stop the sudden stab of jealousy at the two of them talking together. His companion’s neatly coifed hair and lovely features, along with the fashionable cut of her soft mauve gown, only made Lizzie feel worse. She stared at the drab charcoal of her plain gown, feeling ugly and much older than her years.

  Finally, the judge banged his gavel and ordered everyone back to their seats. “Members of the jury will please disregard the witness’s last statement. Madam, you are dismissed. Gentlemen, call your next witness.”

  And so the trial continued.

  Except for one quick glance at the twelve men seated in the jury box, a few who seemed to look at her sympathetically, Lizzie tuned the rest out. A dark cloud descended over her. She was numb and tired— utterly bone tired. Nothing anyone said now would change the outcome, her suspicion being that most of the jurymen had already made up their minds. Anything said from this moment on would either confirm their beliefs, or hopefully persuade them to change their minds if they truly thought her guilty.

  Her thoughts had been so turned inward that she started when the judge gave his order. “The jury may be excused now to deliberate.”

  Her fate was cast.

  Mr. Jennings offered an encouraging smile and patted her hand as they rose for the judge’s exit. They sat back down and waited, the ticking courtroom clock sounding louder and louder by the m
inute. The air felt heavy as the minutes passed. Lizzie crossed and re-crossed her ankles, her fingers fidgeting with the silk tassels on her reticule.

  She nervously took small sips of water. Seconds went by, then minutes. She gazed at the big black hands of the clock and began measuring the time in a quarter hour, a half hour, and then an hour.

  Finally, one-and-a-half hours after the jury had retired, the members filed back in, their faces stern and emotionless. The clerk rose. “Miss Lizzie Borden, please stand.”

  She did, her heart slamming against her ribcage in fear. She could feel every eye in the room on her.

  “Hold up your right hand,” the clerk directed. “Look at the foreman. Foreman, look at the prisoner. Have you found a verdict?”

  Her heart pounded in tandem with the passing of each second on the clock.

  The foreman rose. “We have.” He passed a paper to the court official who gazed at it and handed it back.

  “What is your verdict?”

  She dared not breathe.

  The foreman looked at her, his gaze sure and steady. “We find the defendant, Miss Lizzie Borden… not guilty.”

  The courtroom broke into a pandemonium of yells and cries. Lizzie sank into her chair and leaned against the rail in front of her. Her face in her hands, she wept for the first time in public, letting out tears of joy and relief. I’m free. I’m truly free!

  Finally, she composed herself. Wiping her face, she rose to convey her most heartfelt thanks to the diligent, hard-working members of her legal team. She looked behind her, wondering if John would come over to publicly offer his well wishes. To her disappointment, he nodded and mouthed his congratulations from a distance. He then headed to the door, his hand held familiarly against his lovely companion’s back.

  Lizzie felt betrayed and hurt, but let it go for the moment in the rush of good wishes and congratulations offered by a swell of supporters unknown to her until now. As Emma enveloped her in a hug, Lizzie fought back a new wave of tears and buried her head in her sister’s arms. “Take me home,” she told her. “I want to go home.”