Let the Dead Keep Their Secrets

by Rosemary Simpson

Claire stared at him, the rigid facial lines of control slowly turning to stone. “Aaron killed them. Catherine is begging me for justice. I thought you would understand that I intend to see she receives it.”

  “Nothing will bring your sister and her child back,” Prudence said.

  Geoffrey nodded at Josiah, who slipped out of the office, returning almost immediately with a copy of the contract signed by all clients of Hunter and MacKenzie, Investigative Law.

  “We’ll take your case,” Geoffrey said, knowing that Prudence would agree with him. His seeming indecision had been a test of Claire’s determination and commitment. “We’ll find out everything we can about your sister’s husband and we’ll re-create as much as possible of what happened during Catherine’s marriage and final hours. I can promise that much.”

  Josiah’s fingers tapped a rapid count on his stenographer’s pad. He frowned. Tapped the count again. Scribbled a calculation.

  “I have to know what happened when Catherine gave birth,” Claire said. “Something caused her to cry out to me for help, even though we were four thousand miles apart. When there was no response to the telegram, I denied my fears, because no matter how much I disliked him, I had no reason to doubt that Aaron loved her. And she him. I should have known it was all a lie, but I didn’t.”

  “We’ll need authorization to act on your behalf when we talk to your father’s lawyers,” Geoffrey said.

  Josiah placed the appropriate form on the desk, whisked it away as soon as Claire Buchanan signed it.

  “Does the same firm handle your affairs?” Prudence caught Geoffrey’s nod of approval and knew he’d guessed where the question was leading.

  “I remember a brief visit to their office before I left for Europe. Father insisted I have a valid will since I was of legal age. Musicians travel so much, from city to city, across oceans and continents. He always said anyone living the way we did was a fool not to keep his paperwork in order.”

  “Who inherits your estate, Miss Buchanan?” Prudence asked.

  There was a long, strained moment of silence before Claire answered. When she did, her voice trembled and her already-pale skin turned ashen. “My sister, and if she predeceases me, her heirs.”

  “Are the heirs named?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you have a new will drawn up as soon as possible because as things stand now, the man you’re accusing of murder will inherit every penny and franc you possess.”

  * * *

  “This is where we start,” Geoffrey remarked, studying the carte de visite and the postmortem photograph of Catherine Sorensen and her child. Their client, visibly upset by his revelation of the legal status of her despised brother-in-law, had given them into his safekeeping when she left the office. “Sometimes photographers arrive while the body is still being washed. They see the death scene before it’s set to rights.”

  “Ghouls,” Josiah declared. He shared Geoffrey’s dislike of postmortem photography. “I know it may be the only memento a family has of the deceased, but I find the practice too macabre for my taste.”

  “It’s done more often than not,” Prudence contributed. “Every parent who loses a child wants to have a cabinet photo or a carte de visite made up with the infant’s picture on it. Hardly a month goes by that I don’t receive one or two of them in the post. It’s very sad.”

  “The gallery isn’t far from here,” Geoffrey said, reading the name and address printed on the back of the folder. “Bartholomew Monroe, Portrait Photographer. It’s on Broadway, south of Canal Street.”

  “Geoffrey, I’d like to ask Jacob Riis to examine the photograph before we visit the gallery.”

  “Who is Jacob Riis?” Josiah asked.

  “I don’t think you’ve met him,” Geoffrey replied. “He’s the photographer who recorded the crime scene in Colonial Park for the police department when Nora Kenny’s body was found. Riis is a crime reporter for the Tribune, but he takes every extra job that comes his way. He goes into the tenements at night to photograph how the immigrants live—it’s an obsession with him. He’s one of the best there is at what he does. He can tell us how this photograph was taken, and maybe even when, relative to the deaths.” Geoffrey took Thomas Compton’s Medical Guide to Anatomy and Disease from his bookcase.

  “I don’t understand,” Prudence said.

  “I’ll show you.” Geoffrey paged through the Medical Guide. “Here we are. Physical changes occurring in the body after death. I’m paraphrasing, but this is the gist of it—”

  “I wonder, sir, if Miss Prudence might be spared the details,” Josiah interrupted.

  “I rather think it has to be part of my investigative education,” Prudence said softly. “I’m sure Mr. Pinkerton didn’t spare his lady operatives anything the men had to know.”

  “He didn’t,” Geoffrey confirmed.

  Josiah’s face fell. He wasn’t as strong of stomach as he liked to pretend he was.

  “Immediately after death the body goes limp. Then anywhere from two to seven hours later, depending on temperature, the muscles stiffen into what’s called rigor mortis. And this is what’s important for us. Rigor mortis starts with the eyelids, jaw, and neck. Then it gradually spreads to all of the muscles, taking eight to ten hours to render the body completely rigid.”

  “Catherine Sorensen and her daughter weren’t rigid when Bartholomew Monroe photographed them. He wouldn’t have been able to pose them the way he did, to look as natural as they do.”

  “Exactly. Which means he had to have been in the house either before rigor mortis set in or after it passed off.”

  “How long does it last?”

  “As long as eighteen to twenty hours according to this article. But there are variables, temperature of the place where the bodies are found being the most important.”

  “There’s something wrong with Mrs. Sorensen’s eyes,” Josiah said. He held a magnifying glass over the photograph, his objection to explicit medical details forgotten. “I can’t be sure, but it looks like they’ve been changed somehow.”

  “Retouched,” Geoffrey said. “Postmortem photographers are occasionally asked to paint over eyes that are closed and can’t be reopened.”

  “That’s another reason for Mr. Riis to look at it,” Prudence insisted. “There has to be an explanation for why the eyes were painted over. He might be able to tell us what it is.”

  “Sometimes they keep the eyes open with a bit of the adhesive actors use to stick their beards on,” Geoffrey said. “We saw that fairly frequently when I was a Pinkerton. I remember one case where a dead child’s mother had hysterics when they couldn’t get the eyes to close again. They waited too long or the glue was too strong. But the photograph was very realistic looking.”

  Josiah stared at the image in fascinated revulsion.

  * * *

  Jacob Riis worked out of a small office leased by the Tribune in a building opposite the Central Department of the New York City Police at 300 Mulberry Street.

  “It doesn’t look anything like what I thought it would from its reputation,” Prudence said. Danny Dennis’s hansom cab had deposited them in front of the five-story building where so much New York City police history had been made, where the Rogues’ Gallery was located and the third degree perfected.

  “There’s another entrance on Mott Street,” Geoffrey told her. “They’re both watched night and day by reporters, especially when a rumor leaks out that a big arrest is about to be made. Things are quiet right now.” He gestured across the street, where the occasional figure wearing a bowler hat could be seen crisscrossing in front of curtainless windows, pausing to look out at police headquarters. “The Tribune isn’t the only paper with a press office nearby. Competition for a story is fierce.” He took her arm. “Are you sure you want to go through with this, Prudence?”

  “Of course I am. It was my idea to begin with.”

  “I’m only asking because reporters without anything to write about will snif
f out whatever they can. You don’t want them becoming interested in what a proper young socialite is doing this close to Five Points. And if one of them sees you, you’re bound to be recognized.” The MacKenzie name was not unfamiliar to the press; Prudence’s father had been a celebrated judge, his daughter’s odd predilection for involving herself in criminal investigations the topic of not-so-subtle criticism in the gossip columns.

  “I doubt anything I do will sell papers.” It was on the tip of Prudence’s tongue to remind him that her ambitions far exceeded anything most debutantes envisioned for themselves, but she bit back what would have been a sharp retort. “Prove yourself first, talk later.” How many times had her father given that stern advice to his beginning law clerks? “Do you think Mr. Riis will remember who we are?” she asked, neatly changing the subject.

  “I had Josiah telephone him. He’s expecting us.”

  The Tribune office was a single small room on the third floor facing police headquarters. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell as they climbed; a door above them opened and Jacob Riis leaned over the railing. “I was about to give up on you,” he called down.

  Geoffrey stepped carefully around a pile of camera and tripod cases left conveniently close to the door in Riis’s crowded work area. Prudence followed behind. Labeled boxes of glass slides stood one atop the other in front of a many-drawered cabinet. A battered table in the center of the room held a shiny black Remington typewriter wedged in among an assortment of photographic equipment. A wide, wooden box telephone had been attached to the wall near the only window. One corner of the office had been partitioned off to make a darkroom. Despite the window cracked open to bring in some fresh February air, the place reeked of chemicals old and new. It was clear that Riis was using the Tribune space for his own projects, as well as what he produced for the newspaper.

  “I won’t shake hands,” he said, wiping his fingers on a stained towel. “I’m used to the chemical emulsions, but I doubt you are.” Though only thirty-nine years old, Riis had the worn air of a man who had devoted too much of his time and his health to a cause. He wore round spectacles and a drooping mustache starting to go gray; a leather apron covered his clothing. Once Josiah had prodded his memory, he quickly recalled Mr. Hunter and Miss MacKenzie from their involvement in the strange and horrifying mutilations of two servant girls and a prostitute that had reminded New Yorkers of the Ripper killings in London. The photographs he’d taken at Colonial Park had sold for enough to buy months of supplies for his tenement pictures.

  “I’m not sure how much use I can be,” he said, a slight accent betraying his Danish origins. “But I’ll do the best I can.”

  He held the cabinet photo of Catherine and Ingrid Sorensen by its edges, careful not to smudge the print, setting aside the cardboard folder. “What am I looking for?” he asked, sliding the photograph beneath the thick lens of an enlarger. “How much do you already know?”

  “The mother and child are both dead,” Geoffrey began.

  “That’s obvious,” Riis said. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “We have to know how soon after death the photograph was taken,” Prudence explained, “but we don’t want to question either the photographer or the family. Not yet. Not until we have more information.”

  “Look at the eyes,” Geoffrey urged.

  “I need more light.” Riis turned on the overhead gas fixture, a pipe running across the ceiling, then down to two open receptacles secured to a shorter horizontal pipe. “Better.” The smell of gas mingled with the heavy acidic stench of the chemicals.

  “I think the two of you should take a look,” he said, standing back from the table. “Don’t squint and keep both eyes open. It’s easier to use than a microscope, but it still takes a little getting used to.”

  At first, Prudence couldn’t make out exactly what she was seeing. She closed one eye, then opened it again, remembering what Riis had said. Slowly the image swam into focus, and when she played with the knob to which Riis guided her fingers, it eventually became startlingly vivid. Every hair on Catherine’s head seemed separate from every other; even the grains of powder on her skin were easily discernible. The closeness was unlike anything she had ever seen. When she stepped away from the instrument, she wasn’t sure what such an examination might prove, only that she had entered briefly into a new world.

  “It looks to me as if only parts of the eyes have been painted,” Geoffrey said, straightening from the lens. “I have an idea what that might mean, but I don’t know enough about postmortem photography to be sure.”

  “It’s both popular and lucrative,” Riis said. “Bartholomew Monroe has quite a reputation.”

  “You’re familiar with his work?”

  “I’m surprised you’re not. He has a large gallery on Broadway, with a studio above it for the live portraits.”

  “Have you ever done this kind of photography, Mr. Riis?” Prudence asked.

  “Only when there wasn’t any other way to make the money I needed.” Riis took off his spectacles, polishing them vigorously on the towel he’d used to wipe the chemicals from his hands. “Not that there’s anything wrong with what Monroe does. For some families this is the only way they have to remember their beloved, especially when it’s a child who’s died. Monroe usually does all of his own photography, but every now and then he hires help. I’ve worked for him occasionally, but I’m not the only one. The newspaper business has never paid very well.”

  “What can you tell us about this photograph?” Geoffrey took one more quick look through the lens, then stepped away from the table.

  “Do you know about rigor mortis?” Riis asked.

  “I was a Pinkerton.”

  “Then you’ve probably figured out that the picture was taken before rigor mortis set in, not after it passed off. The texture of the skin told you that.”

  Geoffrey nodded.

  “And the eyes were open. Both the mother’s and the baby’s.”

  “Held open by some kind of adhesive?” Prudence asked.

  “No. You’d see a trace of the glue against the back of the eyelid in the enlargement. Their lids are smooth.”

  “Then why did the photographer use paint to make the eyes look more lifelike? I thought that was only done when the eyes were closed and couldn’t be made to stay open.”

  “Look again, Miss MacKenzie. Tell me exactly what you see.”

  Prudence bent over the enlarger, confident this time that she knew what she was doing. “I’m looking at the mother’s eyes. I can see traces of very fine brushstrokes.”

  “He probably used a magnifying glass or an enlarger lens to guide the brush.”

  “The white looks almost luminous.”

  “Look at the mother’s pupils, Miss MacKenzie.”

  Seconds ticked by as Prudence stared into Catherine Sorensen’s eyes. When she finally raised her head, she nodded confirmation at Jacob Riis, then turned to Geoffrey. “Look at the pupils of her eyes,” she told him. “I don’t want to say anything until you do.”

  Moments later, Prudence knew she had been right.

  “Only the whites have been painted over. And so skillfully that if Josiah hadn’t noticed it through his magnifying glass, we might not have remarked on it. Our client never said a word about retouching.”

  “What does it mean?” Prudence asked. “Mr. Riis, you said you’ve taken this type of photograph yourself. Would you ever paint over an open eye?”

  “If there’s been an injury, of course. The only other time I’ve known it to be done was when a wife whose husband was overfond of the drink wanted his weakness hidden. The whites of his eyes looked like spiders had spun webs in them.”

  “A new mother would hardly be drinking whiskey,” Prudence said.

  “I’ve been a police photographer for a long time, Miss MacKenzie. I’ve seen women so drunk they didn’t know they’d given birth until they sobered up.”

  “Not this mother.”

&n
bsp; “No. I agree. Not this mother. Mr. Hunter?”

  “Petechial hemorrhages?”

  “Very possibly. If the eyes were closed after the photograph was taken, they probably remained that way throughout rigor, certainly while the bodies were being prepared for burial. If there wasn’t a police inquiry, nobody would notice the hemorrhaging. The only way to be sure would be to see the original negatives, before the retouching was done.”

  “I wasn’t a Pinkerton, Mr. Riis. You’ll have to explain ‘petechial hemorrhages’ to me.”

  “When someone dies from asphyxiation or lack of oxygen, Prudence, the pressure on the tiny blood vessels of the eyes and eyelids causes them to rupture, leaving distinctive red dots. Those are the petechiae.”

  “Well done, Mr. Hunter. The police look for signs of petechial hemorrhaging when they suspect strangulation. I’ve seen it dozens of times.”

  “And photographed it?”

  “Yes. The damage is unmistakable.” Riis took a set of photographs from one of the cabinet drawers, arranging them in a neat row on the table. “These are extra prints I made for my own records,” he explained. He handed Prudence a magnifying glass. “Don’t look at anything but the eyes, Miss MacKenzie,” he warned.

  It was impossible not to glance at the ruined, distorted faces before her, some of them so badly battered and bruised they hardly looked human. Don’t look at anything but the eyes.

  Now that she knew what to search for, Prudence quickly catalogued the types of hemorrhages in her mind; they ranged from barely visible dots that looked like pinpricks, to larger, more extensive bleeds. “What color are the petechiae, Mr. Riis?” she asked.

  “They can be a pale pink to a bright red,” he answered.

  “Do you ever tint the petechiae to make them more realistic?”

  “Not for police purposes. It’s tedious and expensive work. I don’t have time for it and the detectives don’t need it. They’ve seen the bodies, so the photographs are just to jog their memories later on.” Riis collected the photographs, handed them to Hunter. “The other thing you have to remember is that hemorrhaging can occur in a long or very difficult childbirth.”