by S A Falconi
Donaghue watched her momentarily before answering, “That’s right, ma’am.”
“When I first told Dr. Kraus about my husband, he was certain that he physically abused me. The man has honestly never laid his hands upon me though, physically or sexually.”
Donaghue shifted in his chair from the discomfort of the conversation. “Ma’am, I …”
“It’s the truth, Detective. The man would rather have the physical company of a prostitute than share a bed with me. Most of the time, I have this great big house all to my lonesome.”
“Ma’am,” Donaghue muttered, “I really …”
She ignored his protests though, adding, “Dr. Kraus thinks my condition – that’s how he always refers to it, my condition –” her face scrunched sardonically with her pronunciation of the word, “is caused by my loneliness alone. That’s a rather demeaning way of looking at it if you ask me. My condition has nothing to do with loneliness. Even when my husband is here, especially when he’s here, my neurosis affects me as intensely as ever. No, the loneliness has nothing to do with it; the lack of companionship is the cause. The lack of love, Detective. Affection. Cats and dogs need only the physical presence of someone. Human beings need companionship, affection, and love … You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”
The last thing Donaghue was expecting was for the embers of his romantic past to be stirred up, least of all by some neurotic stranger. And yet, Donaghue felt as though Molly were sitting across the coffee table from him, telling him her true reasons for leaving. In those last years, when Donaghue dedicated more love, affection, and companionship to his job and the liquor bottle than Molly, she likely followed the same path of neurosis as Mrs. Bucke.
The question seemed to slither up Donaghue’s throat, but he bit his tongue when Kraus reentered with a serving tray holding a pot of tea, three cups, and a sugar tin.
“What are we discussing?” Kraus inquired, almost gaily.
“My affliction,” Mrs. Bucke replied. “I was just telling the Detective here how you’ve come to know me so well.”
“Yes,” Kraus answered as he poured the tea and added the sugar to the cups, “I certainly know you better than your dullard of a husband does.”
Mrs. Bucke smiled at the doctor’s insult. “Yes, but you know what’s the pits, Detective Armstrong? I know nothing of Dr. Kraus. Nothing of his past, present, or future. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s married. I’m completely ignorant.”
A grin came to Kraus’ face as he handed a cup of tea to Mrs. Bucke. “And ignorant you shall remain, Ms. Archer – Gosh, Mrs. Bucke. I swear, I’ll never be able to adjust to that.”
She gave an almost flirtatious grin, replying, “You’ll find a way, Dr. Kraus.” Taking the cup, she added, “Now, Detective Armstrong, how is it you came to be acquainted with Dr. Kraus?”
Kraus handed Donaghue his cup before taking a seat near Mrs. Bucke.
“Well, ma’am, this investigation brought us together really.”
“Hmm,” she responded. “How so? And also what brings this investigation to my lonesome abode? Please tell me my dreadful husband is a suspect.” An almost childish grin came to her face at this point, one that struck Donaghue with particular interest. She certainly is eccentric, Donaghue thought.
“Mrs. Bucke,” Kraus interjected, “was there a young woman using your private train car today to travel to Georgetown?”
“My husband’s private car you mean?” she corrected. She sat back and thought about it for a moment. After several seconds, she shook her head, adding, “I’m afraid not. My husband’s ventures, both business and private, have become of little concern to me. If a young woman was using the rail car without my knowing, he clearly felt it wasn’t my concern.”
“So he’s done this before?” Donaghue inquired.
“Ha!” she laughed. “Such things are just part of his everyday existence. For all I know, he’s got a family in every town in which he conducts business. You see, Detective, my husband’s always felt cheated because his wife is as barren as a desert.”
Donaghue responded, “Ma’am?”
“Barren, Pete,” Kraus explained, “Infertile.”
“You see,” Mrs. Bucke proceeded, “I fell horribly ill as an adolescent. An infection of my bladder that found its way to … other regions. My health eventually recovered, but the infection had done its damage.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “The problem, at least in my husband’s eyes, was that I neglected to tell him in the first place. But honestly, Detective, what life does a barren woman have to look forward to? A life in the abbey? A life as a housekeeper? No, I wasn’t about to condemn myself to that.”
Although quite tempted to call attention to the irony of the woman’s situation, the fact that both forks of the road of her life led to dreary loneliness and enmity, Donaghue knew it had absolutely nothing to do with the hunt for the Ripper. What was becoming quite evident, however, was the potential connection that Mr. Bucke had with all of the victims. Several people confirmed the fact that his business took him all over the Front Range, but mainly to Denver. Was he in fact present with that woman as the train made its way to Georgetown? Did he slither away unnoticed at the moment it stopped at the depot?
Donaghue also couldn’t forget the most peculiar characteristic of all the murders – the extracted wombs. Was he driven mad by his wife’s infertility? Surely Kraus would be able to shed more light upon the psyche of such a man as Mr. Bucke, but it was impossible to see how Mr. Bucke fit so perfectly into the remaining emptiness of that puzzle.
“Mrs. Bucke,” Donaghue inquired, “does your husband possess any particular skills with a knife that you know of?”
“My … why on earth would you ask that?”
Donaghue answered, “I’m afraid I can’t go into the details of that, ma’am. It would, however, assist us in our investigation.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied softly. “I guess my idle curiosities are getting the best of me. Save for a few cave-ins here, there isn’t much in the form of entertainment.” She sipped her tea again before adding, “As for my husband’s skills with a knife, he hasn’t been a working man for some time. Last I got close enough to touch him, his hands were quite soft. I do recall his knack for carving a roast though …” With this, she gave a little smile as if she were a little girl entertaining her parents’ friends at a dinner party.
Donaghue forced a polite smile. He needed more information out of Mrs. Bucke, but he couldn’t afford to give any information. One thing Donaghue had discovered early in his career was that investigative inquiry, while many times fruitful, was also dreadfully misleading. Give an eyewitness or a suspect too much information and context, and his or her answer would be molded to fit such a context. The woman wanted to know the reason for the inquiry of her husband’s knife skills and the specific nature of the skill. In effect, she was looking for the answer she thought Donaghue wanted. Mrs. Bucke, because of her particular affliction, sought approval from everyone with whom she came into contact. But it was vital that Donaghue not fall into that snare. The more ignorant this woman was, the better her testimony would be.
“Could you describe your husband, Mrs. Bucke? His physical features I mean.”
Mrs. Bucke leaned forward and placed her tea cup on the coffee table. She said rather excitedly, “You know what I’ve noticed about you, Detective Armstrong? You’ve written none of this down. You don’t even have stationary upon which to take notes.”
Donaghue forced the smile again, answering, “It’s all in my head, ma’am. Besides, if I forget anything, Dr. Kraus has the memory of an elephant.”
She glanced at Dr. Kraus who was leaning back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other, chin protruding out, and eyes closed as if he were sleeping. Slumber was far from what Kraus was doing though. He was etching every single response into his brain, internalizing it as if he were an ancient scribe of the courts.
“He’s funny when he does
that, isn’t he?” she asked.
Kraus’ eyes snapped open. “I’m the least funny man there is … next to Detective Don – Armstrong that is.”
Donaghue quickly shot Kraus a glare at the verbal slip. Mrs. Bucke appeared not to notice though.
“My husband,” she finally answered, “has the physique of a pumpkin. He’s a large gentleman, Detective. He once was quite strong and athletic, but the immobility of his work has made him corpulent.”
“How tall would you say he is?”
Mrs. Bucke shrugged. “Almost six-foot. So he’s a giant pumpkin, but a pumpkin nonetheless.” She paused, reaching for her cup of tea and taking a sip. “Does that help?”
“It does, Mrs. Bucke. Just one last question … do you know where your husband is now?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “As I said, he only tells me the things that concern me.”
Donaghue nodded. “I see. Well,” he placed his tea cup on the coffee table and rose from the chair, “thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Bucke.”
“W-w-wait,” she stuttered, rising from her own chair. “Leaving so soon?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Donaghue responded, extending his hand. “Pleasure meeting you.”
She took his hand in hers and shook it several times. For a woman so delicate, she had quite an impressive grip.
“Dr. Kraus,” she added when she released Donaghue’s hand, “when can I schedule another session with you in Denver?”
He took her hand and shook it. “Anytime, Mrs. Bucke. Just stop by.”
“You sure you can’t stay for supper?” she asked as she followed Donaghue and Kraus to the door.
“Unfortunately not, ma’am. Thanks again for your time.”
Donaghue and Kraus exited the manor and stepped out into growing the darkness. Mrs. Bucke watched her visitors as they found their way to the driveway and snaked back and forth down the face of the mountain. She couldn’t remember the last time someone visited her.
XIII.
Night in the heart of the Rocky Mountains seemed to bring a new connotation to darkness that Kraus had yet learned. As is known, Kraus was more or less an urban man, and as such, his eyes had yet seen the blackness to which the world can succumb when one goes far beyond the municipal confines. As he and Donaghue slowly meandered down the mountain drive, he watched as the heavens assumed an entirely new identity and life.
There was no doubt in Kraus’ mind that Mr. Bucke was the Ripper. His wife’s testimony and description of him fit the profile ever so perfectly. He was a bulky gentleman with not only the means but also the motive. His wife was barren, her only sin being not her condition but her mild deception. And, as she said, who could blame her for such a thing? The power to bare life was one of those life forces that Kraus knew drove a woman’s psyche. Something about a woman’s being was evolutionarily destined for the responsibilities, physical and emotional, of motherhood. Men were oafs when it came to the duties of fatherhood. Kraus’ own father, bless his soul, was more a figment of Kraus’ imagination than anything else. The man was hardly even an acquaintance, a phantom more or less. But woman? Woman had an indescribable connection with her child. Woman would never turn her back on her motherly responsibilities not because it was morally improper, but because it defied her very nature. But Mr. Bucke? His heart was blacker than the pitch used to scald invaders of medieval empires. For months, Kraus listened to Mrs. Bucke describe this neglectful monster to him. He almost couldn’t believe that he didn’t make the connection sooner! After all, was that not the aptitude of the sleuth to realize that two things so distant to the naked eye were in fact intimately connected? All the same though, the realization had finally occurred, and the question was no longer ‘who’ but ‘where’.
When Donaghue and Kraus finally reached the base of the mountain, the last thing they wanted to do was retreat back to the suffocating musk of the Injun’s boarding house. Instead, they proceeded down Main Street towards the life-sustaining organs of the town – the saloons and the brothels.
They entered the first place upon which they came, one of many shanties that would be mistaken for an outhouse in the context of the Denver architecture. All of the establishments here simply bore the names of their owners, stamps that denoted the men who were insane enough to deal with the impropriety of such places. The saloon was cramped and dingy, smelling of an odor that in itself stated the type of man that the establishment served. The place was named Emmett’s. Donaghue sensed that the fat man behind the makeshift bar was the proprietor, for he was the only man who wasn’t drinking, smoking, or playing stud. Several women, that is to say human beings who were not physically equipped as men were, skulked about the congregants as they served them their drinks. Neither the darkness nor the drunkenness could hide the fact that these women were far from the fantasies dancing in the heads of the men. But, nonetheless, Donaghue saw the men one by one take a maid by the hand and lead her out back for some much needed company.
Donaghue couldn’t help but shake his head in disgust, not for his fellow man but for himself. He was once one of those men.
He and Kraus found a small, deserted table in the far back corner and seated themselves.
One of the maids approached and slurred, “What ya want?”
“Your best bourbon,” Kraus replied gleefully. “Tonight deserves a celebration.”
The maid stared blankly at him as if nothing in life was worth celebrating. After several moments, her eyes trolled over to Donaghue. He just shook his head in reply.
When she left, Kraus muttered, “So tell me what you’re thinking. I mean, do you think he’s our guy?”
Donaghue glanced around as he momentarily pondered before answering, “I don’t know. He’s certainly a suspect. I mean, how else could that woman have gotten on that train car?”
Kraus nodded. “Exactly.”
“What can you tell me of this woman? Mrs. Bucke?”
Kraus’ head tilted slightly as he said, “With Anabeth, what you see is exactly what you get. She’s deeply afflicted, Pete … deeply. As you saw, she’s fine one moment and the next she’s on the ground convulsing.”
“What does she do when she’s alone and that happens?”
Kraus shrugged. “Either passes out from exhaustion or falls into a catatonic state for hours on end. She’s a wreck, there’s no doubt about it.”
“I don’t know how we can fully trust her testimony. Given her mental faculties and her overall disdain for her husband, I just don’t see how the information she gave us is credible.”
“But it points us in the right direction,” Kraus interjected. “Certainly we can’t assume everything she says is true, but that doesn’t mean we should discount it entirely either. In my opinion, we need to find out more about Mr. Bucke if not find him ourselves. I mean, how hard could it be to find a mining tycoon out here?”
Donaghue thought about it for a moment. Kraus was right in that learning more about this man would be the right trail to follow. It was the only solid, identifiable lead they had and it needed to be entirely exhausted. But the underlying problem, the problem they’d forgotten in their haste and excitement, was that he and Kraus were still wanted men. The next question that surfaced in Donaghue’s mind wasn’t who the Ripper was, but how long would it be before Abernathe hunted them down?
Donaghue glanced about the saloon again, surveying the area as if Abernathe were lurking in one of the countless shadows.
“What’s wrong?” Kraus asked.
Donaghue returned his attention to his partner. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just vigilant.”
Donaghue looked about the room again before he stood and walked over to the neighboring table. He said something to the three men staring exhaustedly at each other, but Kraus couldn’t ascertain what that was exactly. One of the men, a starved being with leathery skin spoke several times. Donaghue nodded and said something else. The other two men nodded their heads. Donaghue remained with th
e three men for several minutes, listening intently to the mutterings of the starved old man. Finally, Donaghue stood and returned to the table.
“What was that about?” Kraus inquired.
“Thought I’d ask around a bit about Mr. Bucke,” Donaghue answered. “Like you said, it’s awfully hard for a mining tycoon to hide in a town like this.”
Kraus glanced over at the starved man and his two companions. The old man was nothing more than a walking corpse. “What’d you find out?” he asked.
“Well,” Donaghue began, “he’s like any other bigwig … a greedy son of a bitch and a slave driver. But he’s soft, physically at least. The kind of man who’s bark is much fiercer than his bite.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not capable of heinous murder though,” Kraus interjected.
“No, it doesn’t,” Donaghue agreed. “It just means he’s less likely to do it.”
Kraus added, “What else did the old man say?”
Donaghue shrugged and shook his head. “Actually, he had more to say about Mrs. Bucke than Mr. Bucke.”
“Excuse me?” Kraus muttered almost defensively. “Like what?”
“Nothing of particular concern. She supposedly takes in strays – whores mainly. He also rambled on about some poor bastard she’s taken a liking to – Perry Grafton. I guess Mr. Grafton was part of an explosives crew for one of the rail companies and an improperly placed charge exploded in his face and sent his iron tamping rod straight through his head. Blew his eye clear out of the socket.”
Kraus’ head shook with disbelief as he interjected, “What?”
“That’s what I said. I guess this Grafton fella somehow survived the accident, but it entirely altered his temperament. People around town call him the ogre.”
Kraus considered how completely ridiculous the whole story was, particularly considering the fact that it was medically impossible for a man to survive such an atrocity. An iron tamping rod through the head? Such an accident would kill a man instantly. But then an entirely different thought surfaced in Kraus’ mind, a muddled recollection of the eyewitness testimony in Georgetown. Initially, he and Donaghue had shirked the statement for its ridiculous nature. Now though, it very well could’ve been the only shred of truth revealed.