by S A Falconi
As they progressed down 8th Street, citizens lined the walkways in much the same fashion as they did the train depot. This was perhaps the biggest news since Doc Holliday getting away with attempting to murder Billy Allen. Bystanders weren’t the least bit suspicious when Donaghue requested the location of Dorset’s, although they surely must’ve wondered why someone wouldn’t be entirely engrossed by the current situation. Dorset’s was at the heart of Leadville’s prominent red light district – 14th and Osborne.
Within ten minutes, Donaghue and Kraus were standing before Dorset’s, a prominent three-story building separated from the rest. The right alley was clearly where the victim was discovered that morning for law enforcement swarmed about the area. As was typical, bystanders formed a perimeter around the scene in an attempt to catch a glimpse of something they could later mention to their acquaintances in gossip. Some tried to give officers testimony that was likely more false than true. Most of the officers just tried to keep the bystanders at bay, prevent them from tainting the crime scene more than it already was.
Donaghue and Kraus watched the comedy unfurl for several minutes until finally bypassing the swarm of civilians and entering the neighboring establishment.
Dorset’s did little to hide the fact that it served the sexual desires of men. Although there was a small bar in the far corner, it appeared more as an afterthought than anything else. A rickety piano stood in the neighboring corner, surrounded by six circular tables used for drinking and stud. Several women skulked about the room as they prepped the place for later business. None were in particularly genial moods.
“Excuse me,” Donaghue began.
“We’re closed,” one of the women scoffed as she thundered by. She was the largest of all the women and carried herself more like a lumberjack than a harlot.
“We’re not here for …” Kraus retorted, “attention.”
The woman stopped and glared at Donaghue and Kraus. She fired, “What business do men have in a whore house besides sex?”
The question was so abrupt it nearly shoved Kraus backward. Donaghue was habituated to such brusque dialogue though.
“The business that got your colleague slaughtered,” Donaghue grumbled firmly. “I’m Detective Armstrong and this is Doctor Pennleton of the Pueblo County Sheriff’s Department. We’re assisting with the Denver Police Department’s investigation of the East Side Ripper murders.”
The woman stared flatly at Donaghue but didn’t respond for several moments as if trying to determine if he was being truthful or not. Finally, she responded, “Catherine was a friend. Follow me.”
Donaghue and Kraus followed the robust woman over to the corner where the piano stood. The air was stagnant with the musk of old beer and whiskey. She took a seat at the table nearest the instrument and motioned for them to sit across from her.
“Name’s Ms. Ella,” she moaned. “Ella Jeppson. I run this place for Ms. Mattie. Been runnin’ it for over ten years now.”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
Ella motioned across the room. “One of the other girls heard a scream from the alley. Normally, screams are a dime a dozen here, but she said that scream had fear drenched all over it. She knew something was wrong. Our bouncer lives on the third floor and she retrieved him. He said he found her …” at this point, emotion began to surface on Ella’s hardened exterior “… Catherine was lying in the alley, legs spread, choking on her own blood. He wouldn’t let me come out and see. Said it was …” Ella paused, stifling the tears that were now fully formed in her eyes. With a sigh, she continued, “Said it was too gruesome for the likes of me to be seein’.”
Donaghue and Kraus waited as Ella took a minute to regain her composure.
When she was calmed, Donaghue said, “Leadville law enforcement tells us that a possible suspect was seen – do you know anything about that?”
Ella’s head shook. “I didn’t see him, but Seve – our bouncer – did.”
“Where is he now?” Kraus muttered. “Seve.”
“Wait a minute,” Ella replied, standing. “I’ll find him for you.”
Ella shuffled between Kraus and the piano and plodded across the main floor to the staircase in the center of the back wall.
“What are you thinking?” Donaghue inquired of Kraus when Ella was out of earshot.
“Certainly sounds like our Ripper … but there’s only one way of being certain.”
Donaghue nodded. “The womb …”
“The womb.”
“There’s no way we’ll be able to see the body though,” Donaghue added, shaking his head. “And even if we could ask one of the officers, that’s not something they’re gonna find until the coroner gets her.”
“And if we go asking about it,” Kraus interjected, “guess who suddenly becomes suspect number one – us.”
Donaghue agreed. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten that he wasn’t a legitimate lawman anymore. He was a vigilante, a wayward sleuth that people would prefer be the Ripper instead of the savior. As for the man with one eye, the mysterious immortal man, it was now quite clear that he somehow fit into the entire ordeal.
Donaghue and Kraus turned at the sound of heavy footsteps on the staircase. Descending was Ella and a barrel-chested Mexican that was a bull of a man. As they plodded across the room, the floor shook with each step he took. Up close, it was clear this man was a force not to be reckoned with. His lower arms were covered with what initially appeared as tattoos. But the designs did not consist of ink, nor were they voluntarily worn. They were scars, jagged reminders of a past that the brutish Mexican likely wished to forget altogether.
Donaghue and Kraus stood to introduce themselves.
“Detective Armstrong,” Donaghue responded as he extended his hand.
Seve’s pinpoint eyes just glanced down at the hand. Donaghue slowly returned his own hand to his pocket.
He added, “Mind if we ask you a couple of questions?”
The bouncer stared blankly at the two before tilting his head forward in approval.
“First, just tell us what you saw this morning.”
The details of Seve’s story remained consistent with Ella’s narrative. At the time of discovery, Catherine was still alive, although barely. Her positioning was peculiar, similar to Molly’s when she was first discovered weeks before.
“What of this one-eyed man you saw?” Donaghue inquired.
“Ugly,” Seve grumbled. “Monster. Standin’ ‘cross da street jus’ watchin’ me an’ her. Didn’ run for help when I yelled at ‘im either. Jus’ stood there like a man watchin’ one o’ the dog fights. Like he was waitin’ to see ‘ow long it took her to die. An’ that eye o’ his, Lord Chris’, el ojo del diablo.”
“The eye of the devil,” Donaghue muttered.
“Yes,” Seve answered, “the eye o’ the devil.”
“Where’d this man go?”
“When I realize tha’ he was the one tha’ pro’ly kill her, I ran after ‘im.” Seve paused and shook his head. “Too fas’ fo’ me though. He ran down Osborne Street fo’ se’ral blocks an’ turned righ’ down 7th Street. By the time I got there, he was gone.”
“Did you recognize him from anywhere?” Donaghue inquired. “Seen him here before? Alone or with someone?”
Seve shook his head. “We git men f’om all ov’a out here. Bu’ you don’ fo’git a man like tha’.”
Donaghue and Kraus considered the information momentarily. It seemed the next move was to go down 7th Street and see if anyone happened to notice this man.
“Thank you for your time,” Donaghue finally uttered.
As Donaghue and Kraus attempted to walk away, the brutish Mexican grabbed Donaghue by the upper arm.
“You fin’ this man,” he muttered, “you bring ‘im to me.”
Donaghue placed his hand over the Mexican’s paw. “Can’t do that, Seve. But we’ll hunt him down, I assure you.”
Seve nodded and released his grip.
When Donaghue and Kraus stepped outside, the crowd of bystanders was still pulsing with curiosity. Law enforcement did their best to keep the citizens at bay, but terror and chaos was quickly taking hold of the populace.
They crossed Osborne Street and headed in the direction that Seve claimed the man with one eye fled. Kraus’ eyes scanned every inch of the gravel walkway for clues, while Donaghue searched the surrounding buildings, alleys, and corridors for somebody who might’ve seen something. Each found nothing unusual though – just a bunch of people terrified out of their wits.
They reached 7th Street and continued on the alleged route. They’d left the neighborhood sequestered for the brothels and were now in a legitimate part of town. Small trade shops with second-story flats lined both sides of the streets. But nothing stood out as unusual as they made their way down the walkway. One of the buildings, a clockmaker’s shop, had a grand bay window overlooking the street. Donaghue noticed a frail old man sitting at a workbench perpendicular to the window. The man’s head was cast down and his face was hidden by a device covered with various monocles and magnifiers. But the man was in a perfect position, if a ruckus had drawn his attention, to see 7th Street and the walkway clearly.
Donaghue stopped and was about to open the entry when he turned to Kraus.
“Go in and ask this old man if he saw anything this morning.”
“Me?” Kraus inquired. “Why not both of us?”
“I ask questions like a cop. You … you ask questions like a nosy citizen.”
Kraus shrugged. “So?”
“So, I’d bet that this old man said he saw nothing if and when the investigators asked.”
“Right, because he didn’t see anything.”
Donaghue shook his head. “No. How old do you suppose that man is?”
Kraus looked at the man closely before answering, “Sixties I guess?”
“I don’t know about you, but I can barely sleep more than four or five hours and I’m twenty years younger than that old man. If I had to guess, he’s been awake since three o’clock this morning. If a monstrous one-eyed man came running by here, I guarantee he saw him.”
“What should I ask?”
“Don’t ask outright. All you gotta do is pretend to be interested in some services. If he believes you’re a normal citizen, he’ll start gossiping like all the rest.”
Donaghue went back so as to be out of sight while Kraus opened the entry and entered the clockmaker’s shop.
“Good morning, sir,” the old man greeted, his head still cast downward as he focused on his work. “How may I be of assistance?”
“Well,” Kraus answered, reaching into his pocket and producing his pocket watch, “my time piece is in need of a cleaning. It’s an heirloom given to me by my grandfather though, so I don’t want just any hand tinkering with it.” He approached the old man’s work bench and placed the watch on the small elevated counter. “Everyone in town says you’re the best in Leadville.”
A grin came to the old man’s face as he lifted his head to look at his customer. “I’m the best because I’m the only one in town,” he remarked coyly. The old man with his peculiar monocular device enshrouding his head looked as though he could be a bizarre scientist in one of those gothic novels that were so popular in England. “Even if there were others though,” he added, “they wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Kraus chuckled.
“Name’s Theodor Hamilton.”
“Pleasure, sir. Charlie Kraus.”
“Oh,” the clock maker muttered with a gay expression, “a good German name, huh?”
“Yes, sir. Not the Imperialist my forefathers were though.”
Theodor smiled at the comment. “I believe that’s why we all left Europe, son. Everyone wants to control the continent. Now, let’s take a look at that watch of yours.” The old man pinched the time piece in his fingers and inspected it. “This is a work of fine craftsmanship, Chuck. From Germany?”
“Yes, sir,” Kraus answered, “both my parents hailed from Bavaria.”
“I see,” Theodor muttered, popping the backing off the watch deftly and inspecting the innards.
Kraus watched the old man momentarily before slowly pacing throughout the shop. Theodor had clocks adorning every inch of the walls, clocks from every corner of the earth it seemed. The shop was more a museum than anything else, a capsule in which all the world’s time pieces could be seen and compared together. Several monumental grandfather clocks stood authoritatively in the far corner – the precious gems of the entire collection. Despite initial opinion, this man was likely a worldly man, acquiring each time piece during his illustrious travels. How did such a gentleman find himself in such a stained populace as this, Kraus wondered? Theodor Hamilton was more the type of man that Kraus saw in the upper castes of Philadelphia, not the bowels of a dying boomtown.
After several minutes of quiet, Kraus finally said, “The town seems to be bustling today.”
“Indeed,” the old man muttered, his attention fixated on the relic time piece. “I’m afraid this crime has got people scared out of their wits.”
“Yes, I read about it in The Chronicle. Tragic really. His fifth victim they say.”
“Mhmm,” the old man uttered.
Kraus waited several moments for the old man to comment further, but he said nothing.
Kraus added, “It wasn’t too far from here was it? Where they found the poor woman?”
“I believe that’s correct. Dorset’s if I’m not mistaken. Suppose that’d make her a working woman don’t you?” Theodor asked, glancing up and peering at Kraus through one of his monocles.
Kraus shook his head. “I don’t have a particular fondness for the brothels.”
“Nor I,” the old man replied with a grin. “Body doesn’t work like it used to you know.”
Kraus chuckled at this, surprised by the old man’s candor. “You know,” Kraus added, “I wonder if what the paper’s say is true … about the man with one eye I mean? You see, I’ve come to be quite distrustful of the newspapers these days.”
“The Chronicle’s not like big city papers,” Theodor answered. “Reynolds and the rest of those boys are honest reporters. If they write something, it’s safe to say it’s true.”
“But a one-eyed man?” Kraus probed. “It seems like malarkey.”
“It isn’t,” the old man retorted. “I saw that monster this morning. Tore down this very walkway. You don’t forget men like that.”
“Really?” Kraus answered. “Have you notified law enforcement?”
The old man looked up. His once genial expression was now quite grave. “I said The Chronicle was honest, not law enforcement.”
He returned the back of Kraus’ watch to its rightful place. He dipped the tip of a rag in a nearby cylinder before rubbing the rag on the watch. The silver gleamed in the daylight. When he was finished, he held the watch out for Kraus to retrieve. Kraus approached and extended his hand, but the old man withdrew the watch.
Eyeing Kraus suspiciously, the old man remarked, “You didn’t come in here to get your watch tuned up did you?”
Kraus didn’t answer for several moments as he considered his next move. Finally, he answered, “She was a friend, sir. You said yourself, law enforcement can’t be trusted to catch her killer.”
The old man continued to glare at Kraus, weighing and judging his honesty. After a while though, his expression lost its skepticism and he said, “The monster ran into the inn just down the street. The Silver Inn.” He held the watch out for Kraus to take.
Kraus took the watch, smiled, and replied, “Thank you, sir.”
As Kraus proceeded out of the shop, the old man added, “You be careful now, son. You’re not dealing with a mortal man.”
Kraus nodded and left the shop. He glanced about and saw Donaghue waiting across 7th Street. Kraus crossed and joined him.
“Well?” Donaghue probed.
Kraus grinned. “You were right. The old man de
finitely saw him. Said he went into the Silver Inn just down the street.”
Donaghue and Kraus looked and saw a modest building of brick with a prominent wood sign on the roof identifying the establishment. They hurried down the walkway, excitement and anxiety beginning to overcome them. What if they confront him, Donaghue wondered? This man was incredibly dangerous and Kraus was unarmed. Donaghue would have to take this monster down himself. And if the Ripper happened to surprise them, disarm Donaghue, he could very well add the two vigilante sleuths to his list of victims.
Upon entering the inn, it was obvious that this was not the town’s premier lodging. The lobby was a dank, narrow room bordered by a small hole in the wall that served as the reception area. A young man whose appearance seemed to fit the backwoods of Alabama was standing behind the reception counter, his pot marked grin denoting his impoverished origin.
“Welcome,” the boy greeted. “Help you gentlemen?”
“Yes,” Kraus replied, approaching the counter, “we’re looking for an associate of ours but we can’t recall where he’s staying.”
The boy flipped a large ledger open. “What’s his name?”
“Grafton,” Kraus answered, “Perry Grafton.”
The boy scanned the pages with his index finger momentarily before shaking his head.
“’Fraid we don’t have a guest by that name, gentlemen.”
Kraus added, “How ‘bout Schneider?”
The boy scanned the page again, drumming his finger when he found the name. “Here it is,” he said. “Hermann Schneider?”
Donaghue and Kraus glanced at each other.
“What room?” Kraus blurted.
“209.”
“Thank you,” Kraus answered as he and Donaghue hustled through the archway leading to the staircase.
“Listen,” Donaghue muttered as he ascended, “I’ll take point since I’m armed. If something goes wrong – anything – get the hell out of here and find the sheriff. Got it?”
Kraus nodded.
Both bounded up the staircase nimbly. Upon reaching the landing of the second floor, Donaghue grabbed his revolver, drew the hammer back, and made himself ready for assault. He wasn’t gonna kill the wretch – not yet at least. He’d wound him and apprehend him first. Then, only after a full confession was witnessed by Leadville law enforcement, Donaghue’d shove the muzzle of his revolver down the monster’s throat and empty the cylinder. He didn’t give one damn if they’d lock him up for life or hang him for interfering with the investigation of the most brutal mass murderer west of the Mississippi. Donaghue was going to avenge his wife’s death.