Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  'Yes.'

  'But if you shoot me, you will be arrested.'

  ‘You think so? A stranger broke into my house in the dead of night. I feared for the life of my daughter. So I shot him.'

  His hiccupping heart gradually slowed. And then he said with a dead voice, 'I see.'

  'Would you answer my question, please?'

  He filled his lungs, once, twice. 'I don't know yet. I am not sure if I will ever find the strength to tell her the truth. Will you? Will you tell your daughter about her father?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who was he?'

  'A cold, scheming bastard. A criminal mastermind. Because of him I know how to find your murderer. I have one more question for you. If you are still willing.'

  I felt McCurley move, heard the scrape of his palm across his jaw.

  'All right,' he said.

  'What happened to your wife?'

  His hand contracted so fast, I nearly lost my grip on his wrist. All the muscles in his arm coiled.

  'McCurley,' I said softly, 'My aim is not to torture you. The information I'm about to give you can jeopardise everything that I have. My daughter's safety. My own freedom. Believe me when I say that I have plenty of reasons to walk away from you, and only very few reasons to tell you what I know.'

  A growl erupted from his chest.

  I clamped down on his wrist. 'You treat your Ms Hacker with surprisingly little respect, your Sergeant Boyle like a doormat, and me like a cockroach you found in your meal. You might have a murderer to catch, but that is not enough incentive for me to lay myself bare for a man who shows nothing but unkindness and arrogance whenever I see him.'

  'This conversation is over.' He yanked his hand free and stood. 'May I pick up my gun and leave without getting shot?'

  I sighed. 'If you really want to leave, then go. I don't need you to find this man. He will come to me. He plans for me to be his grand finale. But to explain to you how I came to this conclusion, to tell you everything I know about the killer, I would have to trust you with my life. So you see my dilemma. I need to know that I'm talking to a human being, and not an empty shell. I need you to trust me a little before I can trust you with my life and that of my daughter.'

  I watched his barely discernible silhouette in the pitch dark. The outlines of his shoulders, his compressed fists.

  His breath was heavy. Perhaps undecided, perhaps bracing himself. At last, he emptied his lungs and sat back down

  I curled my hand around his wrist and placed my finger on his pulse.

  'Thank you,' I said.

  'You might regret this.'

  'And so might you.'

  I waited in silence for him to begin.

  With measured breaths, he calmed his heart. 'I keep Ms Hacker at a cool distance, else she might believe I would marry her one day. She's young and naive.'

  'I can see that.'

  'Boyle agrees to be treated like a doormat whenever it helps to interrogate witnesses and suspects. Most people believe that men in uniform have authority. A hierarchy is immediately accepted. Even in plainclothes, as the detective leading the investigation, I am above everyone else. Most witnesses treat me with respect. Most suspects feel at least a trace of fear of me. Very few people resist all authority. You are one of them. In such cases, I make sure to call in Boyle.'

  'You wanted me to spill my guts to the kind man, while you made a show of being the tough inspector?'

  'No. I use Boyle to gauge character. Most of the people who abhor authority do so only because they want to be the top dog. They want to feel superior. The moment the biggest bully — which would be me — leaves the office, they turn on Boyle. He's a kind and shy man. So naturally, they believe him to be at the very bottom of the hierarchy.'

  His heartbeat was calm and regular.

  'And what does that tell you? That people can be pricks?'

  He chuckled. 'Yes. That and bullies. It's often criminals who abuse Boyle. Verbally, mostly. The ones who try to assault him are in for a surprise.'

  I took my clammy hand off his wrist and rubbed it against my trousers. Then I placed my finger back on his pulse. 'And what did you learn about me?'

  'That you don't give a damn about hierarchy, and that you seem to find all policemen equally useless.'

  'I would have told you that, had you asked.'

  'But you are not a bully. It's an important bit of information when one is looking for a murderer.'

  'Why have you treated me with so much contempt since the very moment you walked into my lecture hall?'

  'That's how I work. Highly educated people often believe they know better than the police. I've heard that some of them even play detective. I did not treat you with contempt. I needled you where it would annoy you the most, hoping to make you tell me things you wished not to.’

  'It worked.'

  'What makes you think the murderer wants you?'

  'There is one more question you need to answer,' I reminded him.

  'You said in the beginning that I don't need to answer all of your questions. That I may choose to remain silent.'

  'And so may I.'

  McCurley moved a fraction. He cocked his head, and I could almost make out the faintest glint of his eyes.

  'Why are we sitting in the dark? And why is the house empty?'

  'You are sitting here because you agreed to listen to me. And I am sitting here because…I am waiting for a killer.'

  His spine snapped straight. 'You know him.'

  'No. I do not. Or rather, I hope I don't.'

  'But you believe he will come tonight?'

  I shrugged. 'Evidence and experience tell me that he wants to scare me senseless before he strikes. He might come and take a look in the next few days. Perhaps he already has. I don't know.'

  'But why you?'

  'I can't tell you that yet. Not before you've answered my question.' I lent my head back against the wall and shut my eyes. I had all night. It was McCurley's decision whether he wished to talk or not.

  I listened to the rough song of the crickets, the crescendo of the nightingale that lived in one of the neighbours' gardens. And to McCurley, fighting a battle with himself. His heart was racing.

  'We lost our first child. Our son was born prematurely and lived only a few minutes. Ailis…my wife, she…hurt herself. Nearly killed herself. Hospital staff committed her to an asylum. She spent half a year there.

  'When she was released, she seemed better, but she… She never talked about what happened there. She seemed normal. Doing fine. Strangely so. We didn't dare have another child for more than three years, and then it…just happened. And while the child grew inside her, her composure cracked.

  'I realised then that all this time, she'd been…faking. She’d professed to be well because she was terrified of being sent back to the asylum. I was blind to it. I didn't want to see her suffering. When our baby was born healthy, Ailis was happy. Again I let myself believe all was well. Until…'

  His wrist was vibrating under my palm. His skin was ice cold and sweaty. I forced myself to keep my hand where it was, to keep my finger on his pulse, because of the price Klara and I would have to pay if McCurley was a liar and a cheat. And so I kept torturing him.

  'Until I found her sitting in the open window, her legs thrust out into a cold night, and in her arms…Líadáin. She wanted to kill my daughter. The madness in her eyes was…I've never seen anything like it, and I pray I'll never see it again. I jumped and grabbed for Líadáin. It was her leg that I managed to snatch. I broke it when I tore her away from her mother. And Ailis…fell. The only noise she made was that…when her body…' He groaned and knocked his head against the wall behind him. 'The thought of pulling her back in didn't even touch my mind until after the funeral.'

  It was similar enough to what Uriel had told me. But I found his account more believable than the rumour my friend had heard in a pub.

  I took my hand off McCurley's wrist. 'The click you will hear in a moment is m
e releasing the hammer of my gun.'

  I placed my revolver onto the floorboards, and waited for McCurley's breath to return to normal. I wasn't proud of what I was doing. But I kept telling myself that it was necessary. 'I've noticed a small asymmetry in how Líadáin kicks her legs. If you allow, I'd like to examine her hips to see if—'

  'I'm not letting you near her again.'

  'I understand.'

  He snorted. 'Your turn.'

  'Did you bring the photograph of the bacteriology class?'

  'Yes.'

  'Good.' I struck a match and lit the candle I had placed on the floor before McCurley was to arrive. ‘I’ve laid it all out on the kitchen table. Follow me.' I didn't look at him. Mostly because I wanted to give him space. I'd violated his privacy, and was trying to make up for it. A little, at least.

  'If you are afraid he's watching, won't he see us now?'

  'The curtains are drawn,' I explained. 'My daughter usually has a midnight snack in the kitchen. To anyone outside, the house appears perfectly normal. But don't get too close to any of the windows.'

  We entered the kitchen. I lit the gas range and heated water for tea. McCurley dipped his fingers against my notes, carefully, as though afraid to touch them.

  'What is this?' he asked.

  'A glimpse into the mind of the Railway Strangler.'

  18

  McCurley ran a hand over his face, muttering, ‘So that name spread.'

  'People have a need to put a monstrous name to a monster.'

  He frowned at me. 'Why are you wearing men's clothing?'

  'Trousers come in handy if I have to fight off an assailant. Sometimes I think women are made to wear gowns so that they can't defend themselves. Considering that the vast majority of assailants are men, the notion that women are supposed to feel safe in the company of a man is ludicrous. Tea?'

  He huffed a laugh, and nodded at the cup in front of him. He placed the small photograph I'd asked him to bring on the table and tapped his index finger on the faces of twenty-four young men. 'Is he among them?'

  'Do you believe the killer sends you a photograph of himself? No. This picture connects all your dots. But that’s the end of our story and must come later. The beginning is important. I will walk you through my conclusions, and you tell me if they line up with yours. Or not.'

  A nod. No impatience or anger. Good.

  'We have three victims,' I began. 'All strangled. All dumped by a railway. All women aged between twenty-eight and thirty-six. All healthy and of reproductive age. Yet none was violated.' I moved the sheet of paper that contained those major points in front of us, and placed my mug on a corner.

  McCurley nodded. 'I was wondering whether the victims being women might, in fact, be unimportant to the killer.'

  'Exactly! Have you checked for similar deaths among men and children?'

  'Boyle’s dug back through ten years of homicide records. We found several cases that might or might not have been committed by the Railway Strangler. The most recent death by strangulation that looks similar to our three dead women was a boy, aged eight. Happened three months ago. The father is in custody and swears he didn't do it. Evidence says he did. And he has no alibi.' McCurley turned his attention from the files to me. ‘That’s not in the case notes I gave you, because I’d dismissed it as irrelevant. And the killer wrote about three victims.'

  'He could be lying.'

  'I know.'

  I tapped on my notes. 'Let's take one step at a time. On May 15, Henrietta Hyde was found on the Fall River Railroad near Savin Hill Avenue. She was killed at noon, and her body lay curled on its side for five to six hours. Extensive bruising to her throat, from jaw to collarbones. She's the only victim who was placed on the tracks. And her neck was arranged on one of the rails so that the train would cut through the evidence and destroy it. The only victim without blood and skin under her nails. The only victim whose outer clothing had been removed. The only victim killed in the daytime, and the only victim not living with a husband — who is excluded as a suspect, because from your case notes he is living in California and was seen there by several people on the day his wife was killed.'

  'Do you think she was killed by someone other than our man?'

  'The thought occurred to me. Now, let’s get to Georgie's mother, Mrs Miller, and Petey — your first suspect.' I paused and looked up. 'Have you released him?'

  'A physician had him transferred to an asylum.'

  I nodded, wiping away the images of McCurley's wife on the window sill, their newborn daughter in her arms.

  'All right. So you summoned Mrs Miller to help with questioning Petey. Which was only half successful, owing to Petey not recognising Mrs Miller or anyone else who entered his cell. And with his general…state of mind.' I rubbed my brow. 'Dammit to hell and back! The one witness who might have seen the murderer has the memory of a colander!'

  'Witnesses are often depressingly forgetful,' McCurley said. 'At least he was able tell us that a man was with the victim. But his description can't be trusted.'

  'It isn't even much of a description. "Wore a topper and an old-fashioned silk necktie."'

  'He's not the only one who saw him. Remember—'

  'Yes, the photographer. But he described a man with a bushy beard and thick glasses. Anyone could hide behind those. He could not say what colour the man’s eyes were or what clothes he was wearing. He only remembers that his client was of normal height and had a pleasant voice. Nothing that could help identify him.'

  'Let's focus on what we have.' McCurley sat down and poured more tea.

  I moved a chair and propped a foot onto it. 'According to Ms Munro, who shared rooms with the victim, Mrs Hyde was having a secret affair. Although Ms Munro and Mrs Hyde seem to have been friends who talked about many things, Mrs Hyde kept the identity of the man secret. This is important, because there are only very few reasons to keep an illicit affair from a friend who works as a prostitute. There was enough trust between the two that they talked about Ms Munro's clients. So why did Mrs Hyde not talk about her lover?'

  'He asked her not to tell anyone.'

  'Yes.'

  Slowly, McCurley nodded. 'Because he is married? A known criminal? Or…known to Ms Munro.'

  I'd never considered that last point. Struck, I sat down and stared at McCurley. 'What if he is one of Ms Munro's clients? Most of them are married men, I'm sure. But if she knows him she…may be in grave danger.'

  Absently, he fingered his moustache, said, 'Huh!' and pulled out a notebook. Scribbling in it, he mumbled, 'I'll send Boyle to get a list of the names of all her clients.'

  'Now, the second victim,' I continued. 'Elizabeth Hughes, found near the New England Railroad on June 7. She, too, had extensive bruising to her throat and neck. Faint bruising was found on her forearms, and her fingernails were broken, bloody, and dirty. Her clothes were in disarray. Clearly, she put up a fight. And her body was used to convey the first message to you. A photograph of my portrait was pushed into her corset. The murderer begins to communicate with you, using this body, but not the first. Why?'

  'I see only two reasons. One, the first killing was unplanned. Two, the first killing wasn't his doing.'

  'My thoughts precisely. To make absolutely sure the first victim is his, you have to start talking to him.'

  McCurley raised his eyebrows, bunched them together, and said, 'Ah. The newspapers.' He went back to his notebook, leafed through it, and wrote a note on a corner of a page. 'I'd thought about it and then dismissed it, because it felt too…queer.' Slowly, he placed his pencil next to the book and looked at me. 'Why are you so keen to live inside a murderer's mind?'

  'Keen? I'm not keen to do this.'

  He raised both hands in a gesture of apology. 'I'm just puzzled by all this.' He motioned toward my notes scattered across the table. 'People usually run away screaming, or show a sickening form of sensational curiosity. But you seem…to love the examination of every small bit of this tragedy. You ar
e fascinated by it. Why?' His voice was rough, as though his throat was too sticky to let words slip through his vocal cords.

  'Fascinated? No. I am a scientist. I gather data and analyse them.'

  'I've never met anyone who would willingly put herself into the mind of a killer.'

  'Odd. Don’t you do exactly that? Put yourself in the mind of a killer, or a thief, or whatever kind of criminal. So you can predict his next step and catch him.'

  'Yes, but…' He inhaled. 'Very few detectives do that. It's not a…pleasant place to be.'

  'No. It's not. But it's necessary.'

  'Where did you learn this?' There was a gentle curiosity behind his question.

  'There was a time when I needed to be able to predict my husband's next steps. He regarded lives as nothing but things to be used and discarded at will. Knowing what he would do next kept me alive.’

  'What about the man who hacked off your finger?'

  'My husband's henchmen are all in prison now. Or dead. Except the one who took my finger.' My hand strayed to the scar on my shoulder. I massaged the tender spot that ached whenever the weather was turning. 'He shot me. Nearly killed me and my daughter. She was only a few minutes old then.'

  McCurley said nothing for a long moment, and then spoke softly, 'Is he the murderer?'

  'No. Not him.'

  'Explain, please.'

  ‘I know for a fact that he is in France. I trust my source absolutely. Let's get back to victim number two. More importantly, her connection to me. She was my patient for a day. How did the killer know that? How could he possibly know?'

  'Why are you so sure that he knew? That it mattered to him?'

  'Because of this.' I nodded to the small photograph. ‘And my portrait, of course.’

  He rubbed his neck. 'If your assumption is correct, then… He must have known the second victim, and she must have mentioned to him that she saw you. Or he saw her entering or leaving your practice, because he was already watching you.'

  'But there is no connection between the first victim and me. None while she was alive, that is. The papers did not mention my name. The only people who know that I examined the first victim are my housekeeper, my gardener, my closest friends, the post-mortem surgeon and his assistants, the coroner, and the police.'