Mick was standing next to the bed when Beret entered the room, staring down at the corpse, and Beret forced herself to go to his side. The iron bed itself was lopsided and badly chipped. A quilt, the only bright thing in the room, was thrown over the footboard. There was no sheet, just a mattress, grimy and torn. Sadie’s body, dressed only in a shift and black stockings, lay on top of it. “My God, Detective, who could have done such an awful thing?” Beret gasped, forcing herself to look at the remains of the prostitute. Her hand over her nose, she stared in horror at the mangled body. Beret hoped that Lillie had not looked like this, had hoped Lillie had died with more dignity. But murder was never dignified. She breathed deeply to keep the breakfast muffins from rising in her throat, and took in the awful stench.
Mick removed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“I thought I was used to the smell,” Beret said, putting the small square of fabric over her nose and turning away.
“You get used to the smell of poverty maybe, but not of death. You never get used to it,” he told her, and she nodded, understanding.
“Pray God I don’t.” Beret gave the room a final glance, then forced herself once again to look at the body on the bed. She held her arms to her sides to keep from shaking. “This is inhuman. What fiend could have done it?”
The body and the quilt beneath it were covered in blood. Beret studied the quilt for a moment and was oddly touched by it. The spread was handmade, a delicate design quilted with stitches as exquisite as those used on an opera cape. Had Sadie made the comfort herself? Perhaps she had been a fine needlewoman and had tried to support herself with her sewing, but the life of a seamstress was hard, and she wouldn’t have made enough to keep herself. The quilt might have been pieced for her by a mother or grandmother and was a remembrance of another life. Or maybe the quilt had just been discarded by the previous occupant, and Sadie had merely taken it as her own, not knowing whose fingers had made the tiny stitches. Beret frowned at her sentimentality over such a trifle.
The woman’s shift was ripped and bloody from where the killer had stabbed her, sinking the knife into her again and again, just as he had Lillie. The woman’s chest was brutally slashed and stained with blood and gore. Her face was bloody, too, not from wounds, for it did not appear the killer had taken the knife to her face, but from where the blood that flowed from the wounds on her chest had splashed onto it. Her teeth were missing, but whether the killer had smashed them or she had lost them at some other time, perhaps in a fight or just from general poor hygiene, Beret couldn’t tell. If Mick had not told Beret Sadie’s age, she would have thought the dead woman was in her forties or fifties. The body looked like that of a dog she had seen in the street once, a dog that had been crushed by a heavy wagon, then run over by other vehicles. Sadie Hops seemed no more a creature who had once lived than a slab of meat in a butcher shop.
Beret removed her glove and touched the woman’s forehead with her fingers in a gesture of compassion. She was not aware she had done so until she took away her hand and saw the blood on her fingers. Had her sister looked like this when she was found—bloodied, half naked? As Beret wiped the blood on her hand with the detective’s handkerchief, she shook her head at the idea of Lillie’s dying like Sadie.
Mick turned to her. “It’s a ghastly scene, grisly even for those of us who’ve seen murder before. Do you want Officer Thrasher to take you outside?” he asked.
“There’s whiskey over there if you need it,” the officer interjected, pointing to a table. “I’ll bet it’s strong enough to make a man shed his toenails.”
“No. Thank you, Officer.” The idea of a drink of Sadie’s liquor gagged Beret. “I was just wondering. Is this how you found Lillie?”
The young officer glanced at Beret and said, “You mean Lillie Brown, the soiled dove at Miss Hettie’s that got cut?” He all but rubbed his hands together. “Ma’am, a dead whore—”
“Officer!” Mick cut him off. “You will keep your remarks to yourself. Miss Osmundsen is Lillie Brown’s sister. I think you can show some respect for the dead.”
The officer’s eyes grew wide, and his eyes swept Beret from head to foot, wondering perhaps if she were a prostitute, too. He straightened his back when Beret gave him a look of disdain and said, “I didn’t know we allowed civilians at a crime scene.”
Mick’s eyes bored into him. “Miss Osmundsen is an expert in crime, someone who is called a criminologist. Perhaps you’ve heard of such people. She has already provided us with invaluable information.”
“A girl?”
“A lady.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mick turned to look at the body again, but just then, the coroner known as Dr. Death entered the room, glancing around until his eyes lit on Beret, and he frowned. He started to ask a question, but Mick cut him off.
“This is Miss Osmundsen. She is helping the police department,” Mick explained, forestalling any unseemly remarks on the part of the coroner.
If the man was surprised or puzzled by Beret’s presence, he didn’t show it. “Ma’am,” he said, removing his hat, “I’m sorry you have to see such a depraved scene.”
Beret nodded to acknowledge the coroner’s sympathy and said, “Thank you.”
“Miss Osmundsen is a criminologist,” Mick informed him.
“I heard about them. Aren’t they the people that tell you why the criminal done the crime?” the doctor responded, and when Mick didn’t elaborate, added, “Well, I guess it don’t matter why, does it? Dead’s dead. Let’s get to it.” He leaned over the body and studied it. “This one’s nastier than the other’n. Look how her dress is pushed over to the side, no attempt to cover her up like before. And the wounds are different. She’s slashed. The first one, she was punctured. Of course, that could be because he used scissors the first time and a knife on this one.” He indicated the knife lying on the floor. “That’s what he done it with, must be.” Mick let the knife lie, and the three were careful not to step on it.
The doctor took a cloth from his bag and wiped some of the blood off Sadie’s chest. “Looks like just about the same number of wounds, eight, wasn’t it?” He touched the wounds as he counted them. “And look here, she’s got cuts on her hands where she tried to defend herself.” He studied Sadie’s face. “He must have knocked out her teeth. That’s different. You see them around?” He glanced at the floor.
“She didn’t have any. I seen her before. She was plug ugly,” Officer Thrasher volunteered.
Beret bristled at the remark about the dead woman. After a time, most policemen grew inured to the victims, but it was a pity that an officer just starting out was so insensitive.
The doctor examined the body, cutting away the shift so that Sadie lay naked on the bed. Beret turned away, embarrassed for the dead woman that she was subjected to such impersonal study by the coroner as well as by the police officers, who sent furtive glances at the bed. Sadie had been a prostitute, was used to men staring at her body, but somehow, this curious observation was indecent. Had they looked at Lillie like that, staring as the coroner examined her body? Beret wanted to leave the room as a sign of respect while the coroner did his work, but she forced herself to stay, fearful the men would think she was squeamish.
She was squeamish. Her stomach churned as the doctor probed the prostitute’s body, and she put Detective McCauley’s handkerchief to her face, breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell in the room. Inexplicably her eyes watered, and she dabbed at them with the fingertips of her gloves. She wished someone had stood beside Lillie, crying for her. Did anyone care about the dead woman? Did she have friends among the other whores who stood outside, or was she only a curiosity to them, her death a temporary break from the monotony of their lives?
Dr. Death grunted, scribbled notes on a pad of paper. He took one of Sadie’s ears between his fingers and examined the tear where an earring had been ripped out. When he was finished, he drew Mick and Beret aside.
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br /> “Was she raped?” Beret asked.
The coroner gave her an odd look. “She was a whore. How could I tell?”
Before Beret could protest, Mick asked, “You think it’s the same killer?”
“This murder’s worse, and he didn’t cover her up like the last time. Remember how her underclothes was pulled over the parlor house girl even though they’d been ripped by the scissors, like he didn’t want her to be embarrassed? This time, he just let her lie.”
“You think he’s getting more vicious?”
The doctor nodded. “I do.”
“It’s the same killer, then?”
“I don’t see how it couldn’t be. Tell me, Mick, you been around here, what, ten, twelve years? How many murders like this have you seen? None. Most of the girls that get killed—and there aren’t many of them at that—are done in by their pimp or maybe by another girl in a fight. They don’t get murdered in their beds. Most street women die from disease or liquor or by their own hand.” He blew out his breath, which was as foul as that of a corpse. “Yessir, I think you got a real killer on your hands, a madman.”
They had been standing near the door, and although they’d been talking in hushed tones, one of the crib girls outside overheard.
“We got a crazy man slicing up girls,” she screamed at another prostitute. “I got to get out of here.”
“If word spreads, it could just about close down Holladay Street,” the coroner muttered. “If the good ladies of Denver had known that, they might have been behind this.” He chuckled, but when neither Mick nor Beret laughed, he cleared his throat and said, “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I’m just saying that the girls along the row are scared as a parlor dog in a street fight when it comes to murder. They’ll take off for Leadville or Salida or Kansas City when they hear about Sadie Hops. You know as well as I do, Mick, those girls are superstitious as all get out. A single death is one thing, but two deaths, that means another’s coming. Those girls believe everything happens in threes, and they’re afraid they’ll be the third one. The prostitutes that stay will be as jumpity as bunny rabbits. It wouldn’t surprise me if a couple of johns get knifed by scared whores.”
“I’ll leave the problem of a shortage of prostitutes to someone else,” Mick said. “We’ve got a murder to solve, two murders.”
“What other comparisons are there between the murder of the crib girl and…” Beret paused and said pointedly, “The murder of my sister, Lillie?”
The coroner jerked up his head at that and stared at Beret with narrowed eyes. “Your sister? You mean the girl that got killed at Miss Hettie’s?”
“Yes. Lillie Brown, that is, Lillie Osmundsen, was my younger sister.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know.” He thought for a moment. Then he removed his hat and said, “There’s one difference. I guess I don’t know why, if the killer’s aim is to murder common women, he’d go to the trouble of getting into a parlor house where he was likely to get caught, when it’s so easy to stab a crib girl.”
“Maybe the challenge,” Mick said.
“Could be. Or he might have had a reason to kill Lillie, then discovered he liked murdering women and went after another,” Beret said, thinking it over. “My sister’s death could have unleashed a blood lust.” She paused. “You are sure”—she searched for the coroner’s name but did not know it—“the same person killed both women?”
“Nothing’s sure till Mick catches whoever did this. But I’d say the chances are pretty good the same man done both of them.”
Just then, the coroner’s wagon arrived, and Mick and Beret went outside while Dr. Death and his assistant wrapped Sadie’s body in a sheet and prepared to take it away. A crowd had gathered, mostly prostitutes, here and there a man who Beret thought might have been a pimp or a dope dealer or even an early-morning john. Mick looked over the bystanders and asked, “Anybody see or hear anything last night?” When no one answered, Mick said, “You there, Little Bit, your crib’s next door. Didn’t you hear Sadie scream?”
“Not me, Mick. I moved on down the street. You ain’t been down here for a long time or you’d know.”
There were a few snickers at that. Mick ignored them as he searched the crowd. “Pretty Boy,” he called to a man who was dressed like a dandy. “Was Sadie on your string?”
The man raised his chin in disdain. “Now, Mick, you know I don’t take these girls’ money. I’m a gambler, not a mac.”
“Since when?” a girl called.
Pretty Boy pointed his walking stick at her as if it were a gun, then told Mick, “You don’t think I’d keep someone like Sadie anyway, do you? I got standards.”
“You kept her once.”
“That’s when she had teeth.”
“Where were you last night?” Mick asked, taking a step forward.
The man threw up his arms. “At the Arcade. All night. I won a pretty penny off a new fellow.”
Beret mulled over the alibi. Was that new fellow Teddy? And if he wasn’t, where was Teddy when Sadie was killed? Another poker game? Beret shook her head. She might hate Teddy, but she could not believe he was responsible for Sadie’s death. Teddy might have killed Lillie in a fit of rage, but he wasn’t so depraved that he would murder a crib girl just for the excitement of it. Of course, anything was possible. Beret wondered if she should tell the detective about her encounter with her former husband outside the Arcade. Why was she protecting him? Was it because, deep inside, she still cared for him? Beret frowned at the thought. No, of course not.
The coroner and his assistant carried Sadie’s body outside, and the crowd parted to give them a path to the wagon. The onlookers were silent then, except for the sniveling of some of the prostitutes. “Good-bye, Sadie dear,” one called, while another crossed herself. When the wagon started down the street, the crowd broke into knots of people, who watched until the vehicle disappeared. Then they began to drift away.
“That man, Pretty Boy, could he—” Beret began, but Mick shook his head.
“Unlikely. He wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty.”
“I suppose we must go back inside and search the place now.” Beret suddenly felt dirty herself.
“You don’t have to do it, Miss Osmundsen. The officers can help.”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Mr. McCauley. A woman might see something a man would miss.” She turned and led the way back into the crib. But once inside, she stopped, wishing she did not have to proceed. She wasn’t sure about the protocol of examining the room or even if there was one, but that wasn’t the reason. She didn’t want to go through Sadie’s belongings as the police had pawed through Lillie’s.
“We might as well start with the bed,” Mick said. He went to the mattress, still wet with blood, and leaned down.
Beret stooped down on the other side of the bed until she was at eye level with the detective. “You don’t see an earring, do you?” she asked.
“Maybe on the floor.” They both looked under the bed, which was covered with dust and rodent droppings. Beret was still clutching the detective’s handkerchief, and now she put it over her nose, because the chamber pot was on her side of the bed and had not been emptied. She held her breath as long as she could, then stood and gasped. “I don’t see anything.”
“Me, neither.”
Mick ran his hand over the mattress, feeling for anything that might have been caught in the fabric, but found nothing and wiped the blood from his hands on the ticking. He picked up the knife and laid it carefully on the mattress. They began to examine the room then, looking into the pots, opening the drawer in the washstand. Beret found a carte de visite of a little boy, hidden behind the picture of the Virgin Mary, and handed it to the detective. “It could be her brother. Or her son,” Mick said. “Or it could have been left there ten years ago.”
“Was Sadie Hops her real name?”
“Was Lillie Brown your sister’s name?”
“In fact, it was to have been L
illie Brown Osmundsen, only my parents decided against a middle name.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to be.” Beret was not offended as she might have been had another officer made the retort.
Beret went through the clothes on the pegs, felt the pockets and hems for items that might have been secreted there. The two examined the woodwork to see if it had been loosened to provide a hiding place and found four gold coins behind the door frame. “They can go toward her funeral,” Mick said. “The girls are good about pitching in, the boys at the station, too, even the gentlemen of the press sometimes. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a prostitute’s funeral, Miss Osmundsen, but it’s the one time a street girl can be proud of herself—maybe the only time. The girls’ll all turn out for Sadie and sing ‘Going Home’ and cry as if they’ve lost their best friend.”
“They are really crying for themselves.”
“Could be.” He studied her a moment. “You really do know these girls, don’t you?”
Beret shrugged and thought of her sister. “Not so well as I wish I did.”
They finished inspecting the front room. Mick lit the kerosene lamp that had been beside the window and carried it with him into the back room, which was no bigger than a closet. The room was empty, except for a few rags. Beret saw movement, and a rat slid out from under them and disappeared through a hole in the wall. They examined the room quickly, both anxious to be away from it, and found nothing. Then Beret went to the pile of rags, and using Mick’s handkerchief, she picked them up one by one, dropping them onto the floor. One seemed heavier than the others and Beret took it into the front room to examine it. The cloth was folded and stitched shut. She broke the thread and discovered some cheap pieces of jewelry—a gilt brooch, a bracelet with a red stone that Beret knew was not a ruby but glass, two gold hairpins, and a child’s ring with a sapphire in it. The items were tucked inside a piece of paper folded into an envelope, and on the outside was written, “Mrs. Anson Strunk, Fort Madison, Iowa.”
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