by S A Falconi
Before Donaghue, Kraus, and Abernathe ascended the short stairway onto the front porch, Abernathe ordered the other four officers to form a perimeter around the home. Plug any escape route, he told them. Our goal is apprehension. Fire only if death is eminent. The officers hustled to their positions, flanking the home as if it were an enemy stronghold. After a minute, Abernathe ascended the stairway first and knocked brusquely on the wooden door.
No answer.
Abernathe knocked again, this time cocking his revolver as he waited.
No answer again though.
“Here we go,” Abernathe muttered to Donaghue and Kraus, preparing himself to kick the door down.
Just as Abernathe was about to bellow a warning and rip the door from its hinges, a gruff voice called from within the home. The three men waited eagerly, unsure who would appear in the doorway. The door burst open and Abernathe, Donaghue and Kraus all raised their weapons abruptly.
“Wait!” a gruff voice called beyond the threshold. “Don’t shoot!”
Abernathe was the first to see him. The man who answered the door was a portly fellow adorned by dress that would be considered formal to anyone except for a man of his social stature. To him, the tailored suit was casual wear fit only for the comforts of home.
“Blaxton Bucke?” Abernathe authoritatively called.
“Yes,” the corpulent figure answered. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“My apologies, sir,” Abernathe replied, returning his revolver to his holster and montioning for Donaghue and Kraus to follow suit. “We’re looking for your wife – Mrs. Anabeth Bucke.”
With the weapons no longer threatening him, Bucke became irate. “Who in God’s name wants to know?”
“Please, sir,” Abernathe retorted, “is she here?”
“Who wants to know?” Bucke fired back.
“Detective Abernathe, Mr. Bucke, of the Denver Police Department.”
Bucke motioned to Donaghue and Kraus. “And who are they?”
Abernathe replied, “Detectives Donaghue and Kraus, sir. Must you see our credentials?”
Bucke’s peevish eyes scanned the three intruders. After several moments, he shook his head firmly, his flabby chin waving. “Come in, gentlemen.” Bucke stepped aside, granting them entrance.
“My apologies, sir,” Abernathe countered, “but we really must know if Mrs. Bucke is present.”
“Would I be answering the door if she was, Detective? My wife may run amuck when I’m not home, but she knows better than to disobey when I am. Come in.”
Abernathe cautiously proceeded through the entry as he glanced to and fro for any sign of Anabeth Bucke. All seemed normal though and Donaghue and Kraus soon followed.
“Have a seat, detectives,” Bucke offered, motioning to the sitting room in which Donaghue and Kraus sat a few days before. “Get you gentlemen a brandy? Finest in Colorado.”
“No thank you, sir,” Abernathe muttered, taking a seat.
Donaghue and Kraus sat across the coffee table. Bucke plopped himself into an oversized chair adorned with finely tanned leather.
Bucke sighed, “Now what could a couple of Denver detectives want with my wife?”
“Just seeking her assistance in an ongoing investigation, sir.”
Bucke chortled, his girth bouncing jollily with each heave of his chest. “Assistance?” he blurted. “My wife can’t even do the one thing women are born to do. How could she possibly assist you in a criminal investigation?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Abernathe answered, “we can’t discuss the details of the investigation with you. We just need to know where Mrs. Bucke is.”
Bucke’s laughter ceased, his eyes disappearing behind his furrowing brow. “Do you know who I am?” he muttered defiantly. “I’m largely responsible for why this territory is inhabitable. You can’t discuss the details of the investigation with me? The details with which my wife can assist? I don’t care if you can divulge it or not – tell me what is going on.”
“Sir,” Abernathe pressed, “it would greatly assist us—”
“Are you deaf?” Bucke interrupted. “I said, tell me what is going on or get out of my house.”
Abernathe glanced at Donaghue and Kraus as he deliberated his options. Donaghue wasn’t going to give the detective a chance for rebuttal though.
“We believe she’s the East Side Ripper, Mr. Bucke,” Donaghue blurted.
Bucke’s jaw nearly broke from his face. The anger that once smothered his eyes was now replaced by complete confusion.
“Wh-wh-wh-” he stammered, “what did you say?”
Abernathe shot Donaghue a menacing glare before answering, “He’s right, sir. We have substantial evidence linking her to the East Side Ripper murders. Now I’m gonna ask you again – where is your wife, Mr. Bucke?”
He stared blankly at Abernathe, then at Donaghue and Kraus. Disbelief didn’t even begin to describe his affect. Was this some ridiculous prank that his business associates were playing? It was no secret that Anabeth was slowing falling off her rocker – she was the perfect target for mockery. But something such as this? This wasn’t a childish prank; this was far beyond an innocent mockery.
“Show me your badge,” Bucke finally whispered.
Abernathe handed his silver-plated shield over to Bucke. The portly businessman inspected it momentarily before concluding that it was in fact legitimate. Had he asked for Donaghue’s and Kraus’ badges, he might’ve considered biting his tongue, refuting the charges entirely. But he didn’t. The moment he verified the shield’s authenticity, Bucke suddenly recalled the strange characters with whom his wife had been colluding. For a few months now, she’d been acting queerer than usual. When he was home, she didn’t argue with the veracity she once did. At times, she even seemed cordial. The more Bucke thought about it, the more Bucke realized that his wife wasn’t her usually pugnacious self. Was she the East Side Ripper? Certainly not! But did she know something about it … potentially.
“She’s not here,” Bucke muttered. “She was the last time I was home three weeks ago though.”
“Any ideas where she may be now?”
Bucke shrugged. “I know she visits Golden on occasion,” he answered. “We have a home alongside South Table Mountain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bucke,” Abernathe replied, standing.
Donaghue and Kraus stood as well. They followed Abernathe across the room toward the entry.
Before he passed through the entry though, Donaghue asked Bucke, “When was the last time you went to your house in Golden, sir?”
Bucke shook is jowly head, muttering, “Months, Detective. Months.”
~
Golden, Colorado was one of the original boomtowns of the Rockies. Unlike its boomtown bretheren, however, Golden withstood the depletion of the precious ore that provided its founding stimulus. Nonetheless, Golden was home to an entirely different gold, one that was as renewable as it was refreshing. Although the golden brew of Adolph Coors was the initial revitalizing mineral of the township, Golden quickly supported itself with other renewable industries and became the capital of the Colorado Territory after the Civil War.
When Colorado finally joined the Union in 1876, Golden began to be recognized not only for its industry, but also for its geographic beauty. Golden stood in the same fashion as a military fortress. Mesas of grandeur stood sentry on the upper and lower ramparts of the city’s eastern flank, while the cragged foothills of the Rocky Mountains served as its bulwark to the west. The waters of Clear Creek served as the city’s moat, frothing from the mouth of Clear Creek Canyon in a most torrential fashion.
As the narrow-gauge locomotive breached the mouth of the canyon, Donaghue peered through the window in awe at the massive table mountain to the south, iconized by its famous Castle Rock. The hint of autumn was evident in the valley, its native Aspen trees beginning that exterior transformation from deep green to vibrant gold. Donaghue could hardly believe that such an oasis could serve a
s a haven to a lunatic as murderous as Anabeth Bucke. It seemed such a place would sense the impropriety in its confines and expel it into the protecting dyke’s current. But such a thing was a fable reserved only for the fantasy of Aesop and the Grimm brothers. The only way such a villain could be expelled was by force, and that was precisely what Donaghue, Kraus, and Abernathe planned.
Blaxton Bucke’s home was nestled at the foot of the southern mesa just a few miles south of the brewery. It served as the caboose of a distinguished lane that intersected Golden’s main street, Washington Avenue. At the north end of Washington Avenue was the train depot, the junction at which the narrow-gauge locomotive from Blackhawk eventually halted.
Donaghue, Kraus, and Abernathe heard the steam engine hiss mightily, the pressure belched from the depths of it gut. The three men hustled into the corridor, shoving their way down the length of the train car to the exit. Waiting on the platform for the three sleuths was Chief Chapman, that ever-present scowl that served as his trademark plastered to his expression. The chief greeted each man quickly before guiding them through the bustling depot to the main avenue.
“I’ve requested the assistance of the sheriff’s department,” Chapman remarked as they exited the station.
Donaghue, Kraus and Abernathe saw that ‘assistance’ did not begin to describe what the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department was providing. Waiting on the cobble street were ten mounted officers. Before them was a carriage reserved for Chapman, Abernathe, Donaghue and Kraus. They hustled past the horses and piled into the carriage. The wagon jolted as the mare proceeded down Washington as swiftly as the vehicle would grant. Anxiety swelled in the four men as each removed his revolver and made sure it was loaded. The standing order was to seize Anabeth Bucke alive, but if she turned mortally combative, lethal force would have to be utilized.
Kraus’ hands were shaking as the carriage veered the corner of Washington and 16th Street. His heart beat with even greater fervor than when they approached the manor in Blackhawk earlier. He knew she would be in the house. A small fraction of him recalled the countless hours spent in therapy with her. It just didn’t seem possible, a creature of such demeanor doing the atrocious things that hallmarked the Ripper murders. But just as Abernathe had said earlier, Anabeth Bucke was a master of deception, and she’d played Kraus for the biggest fool of them all.
They watched as the residences of Golden’s affluent populace bounded past the carriage window. As they progressed down 16th Street, each home seemed to grow in grandeur and elegance, as if characterizing the socioeconomic hierarchy. A few minutes later, the police carriage halted before an expansive Victorian structure painted in a hue of yellow as vibrant as a sunflower, a residence fit only for the socially elite. As Donaghue, Kraus, Chapman and Abernathe disembarked the vehicle, the mounted deputies leaped from their saddles and gathered around the four men.
“Deputies,” Chapman ordered, “form a perimeter about the residence. All exits, and all first-story and below-ground windows covered. Understood?”
“Yes, Chief,” the officers answered, unholstering their revolvers and disbursing across the kempt lawn.
To Abernathe and Donaghue, Chapman said, “We get the front door – I’ll take point.” To Kraus, he said, “Doc, you stay here. I need trained marksmen storming that door.”
“Chief,” Donaghue protested, “Dr. Kraus has every right to be here as we do.”
“Never said he didn’t,” Chapman retorted, “but I’m endangering one civilian as it is. Last thing I need is to endanger another.”
Chapman and Abernathe proceeded up the cobble walkway leading to the front door.
“Chief,” Donaghue called.
Chapman and Abernathe turned.
“You want Anabeth Bucke dead or alive?” he continued. “She trusts the Doc, Chief. Put him in the back, but for God’s sake, he must join us.”
“With all due respect,” Chapman answered, “she fooled Dr. Kraus.”
“No more than the rest of us,” Donaghue countered. “What she divulged to Dr. Kraus is all true. The things he knows about her – he’s armed with the best leverage of anyone.”
Chapman glanced at Abernathe. Donaghue was right. Kraus was the only one who truly understood the intricacies of the Ripper’s mind. He wasn’t a lawman as the other three were. He was a confidant – a friend. Abernathe nodded with approval.
“Fine,” Chapman grumbled, “stay behind us and out of the way.”
Donaghue and Kraus, revolvers ready by their sides, hustled up the walkway behind the chief and detective. The four proceeded cautiously as they ascended the yellow staircase leading up to the wrap-around porch. Chapman stopped at the door and the others quickly huddled around him.
Chapman, revolver fixed in his shooting hand, pounded his unarmed fist against the bonewhite door. “Anabeth Bucke!” he thundered. “Denver Police, open the door!” He paused and waited, leaning his ear toward the door to hear even the slightest inclination of movement.
Donaghue glanced through the expansive bay window and, although the view was muddled by the ivory lace drapery, he could tell there was no presence in the front sitting room.
“Anabeth Bucke!” Chapman bellowed again. “You’re surrounded. Open the door and come out with your hands up!”
The chief leaned close again, but he still could not hear anything. He glanced back at Abernathe, Donaghue and Kraus, motioning to ready themselves to breach the home. Each cocked his revolver, affirmations of the command.
With a stifled grunt, Chapman raised his foot and slammed his sole against the door’s perimeter. The wood splintered violently, a vertical fracture splitting the door in two pieces as the threshold became unobstructed. Chapman was the first to enter, followed by Abernathe, Donaghue and Kraus. The home was impeccably kempt and the scent of lavender was pungent as Chapman proceeded down the main hallway, Abernathe into the sitting room, and Donaghue and Kraus into the dining room. No sign of life was present – no used drinking glass or coffee mug, no spent cigarettes, not even the pillows on the chairs were disheveled in the slightest. The entirety of the first floor was untouched, preserved.
Chapman returned from the kitchen shortly after. “Nothing,” he muttered, glancing up the elaborate staircase leading to the second floor. He motioned to Abernathe, and the detective followed the chief up the staircase cautiously.
Donaghue and Kraus waited anxiously for the piercing echo of a shriek or gunshot. But neither came. Seconds passed, then minutes, but no sound ensued save for the creaks of the floorboards beneath the footsteps of the two men.
Chapman and Abernathe soon appeared, expressions of perplexity on their faces.
“Nothing,” Chapman muttered as he reached the first floor. “Bed linens look as though they haven’t been touched in weeks.”
“That leaves one more place,” Abernathe retorted, glancing down the main hall at a lone door. “The cellar.”
The other three nodded. Chapman took the lead and the others followed. They huddled about the door momentarily before Abernathe threw the door open and Chapman stepped onto the staircase. The cellar was dark excepting the bit of daylight filtering through the tiny windowpanes.
“Anabeth Bucke,” Chapman called into the darkness, slowly progressing down the steps, “Chief Chapman of the Denver Police Department. We have a warrant for your arrest. Come out with your hands up.” Chapman thought he heard a stifled giggle and halted. “Anabeth?”
Chapman continued down the staircase, the wood croaking as Abernathe, Donaghue and Kraus cautiously joined him. As he descended, Chapman’s view of the dank cellar became clearer. An increasingly rank stench drifted into his nostrils too, one that instantly reminded him of the coroner’s cologne. He glanced left and saw nothing except wooden crates stacked neatly against the stone wall. He glanced right and his arms instantly shot out before him, aiming his revolver.
“Don’t move!” Chapman barked at the underground expanse, cautiously continuing down
the remaining steps.
Abernathe and Donaghue raised their revolvers as well, peering through the darkness. Kraus kept his weapon at his side though, shock overcoming him more as the scene unfolded before him. Only when all four men were at the foot of the staircase could they fully comprehend what they were witnessing. In the far reaches of the shadowed cellar was Anabeth Bucke standing next to a long wooden table. Although her expression was difficult to discern, the object in her hand refracted the scant daylight from the windows – it was a surgeon’s scalpel. The darkened shadow of a puddle surrounded her feet and the feet of the wooden table. They all could hear the liquid as it dripped freshly from the table’s edge onto the floor. As for the table itself, its span was covered by an indistinguishable form – indistinguishable from the lack of luminance and indistinguishable from the mutilation.
“My God,” Kraus gasped, realizing that the dismembered form atop the table was a woman’s body.
“Don’t move!” Abernathe thundered, inching his way around Chapman toward the suspect. “Drop the blade!”
“Hello Frederick,” that gentle voice muttered.
Abernathe ignored her, barking, “Drop the knife!”
“Of course,” she replied, slowly moving her hand to the table. She placed it ever so cautiously on the edge as if putting a child to bed. “Scalpal – not knife,” she added.
“On your knees,” Abernathe ordered. “Hands behind your head.”
“How does it feel, Detective?” Anabeth crooned, still standing. “How does it feel to finally capture the East Side Ripper?”
“On your knees,” he reiterated, inching his way forward.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? You did nothing to find me and yet, here you are, leading the arrest. Must be nice taking the credit for something you had no part in.”
“Hands up.”
Donaghue could see the devilish grin on Anabeth’s face as she added, “Do make sure the public knows it was a woman that eluded you.”
“You’re gonna tell them yourself,” Kraus retorted from the back. “You’re gonna tell everyone your mission, your purpose, Anabeth. But you gotta get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”