by Kat Ross
“When was that?” I asked.
“Just over an hour ago, sometime after three.”
I could see why the killer would find this an attractive location to carry out his grisly work. The brief stretch of Avenue A dubbed Sutton Place had recently been developed as a residential area of brownstones, but once we passed Fifty-Ninth Street, the waterfront reverted to its shabby, industrial origins. My stomach tightened as we rounded the corner of Sixty-Third Street and saw the harsh glare of electric arc-lights set up in front of a block-long building with a tower girded by a spiral iron staircase. Connected to the tower by a passageway overlooking the river was a huge grain elevator built of corrugated iron and wood.
The elevator stood some fifty feet from the main building, right on the edge of the wharf. It looked to be about ninety feet tall and forty square at the base, though it tapered toward the top like a medieval battlement. The lights were aimed at something at the bottom.
Our driver stopped the carriage as a patrolman materialized out of the darkness, wearing the blue frock coat and domed felt helmet that I always thought made New York’s municipal force look like English bobbies.
“Hold up,” he said gruffly, seizing the bridle. “You can’t go any further. This area’s closed off. Police investigation.”
Nellie showed him her credentials from The World and his face changed from suspicion to grudging respect, as so often happened with our famous friend. It was probably the only reason we weren’t thrown straight out on our ears.
“Wait here,” he told us. “Maybe you’re known to Sergeant Mallory, and maybe you’re not. But no one gets through without his personal say-so.”
The patrolman returned a minute later and signalled that we should get out of the carriage. “You can walk from here,” he said. “Stay to the middle of the street, and go straight to the sergeant. He says he’ll talk to you.” He looked hard first at Nellie, then at me, ignoring John completely. “Though it’s not a sight for a lady.”
Nellie was clearly used to these kinds of idiotic remarks. “Thank you,” is all she said, as we started off towards the river, and what our quarry had left there.
“Not a sight for anyone,” the officer muttered under his breath, “save perhaps the Devil himself.”
7
The rain eased up some as we made our way toward the arc-lights arrayed around the base of the grain elevator. The ground here was rough and uneven, with chunks of loose paving stone alternating with soggy patches of earth. Twice I tripped, and twice John’s strong hand kept me from falling. It broke the ice between us a bit, although I knew he hadn’t forgotten our argument.
Tattered clouds raced past overhead. A sliver of moon appeared, then vanished just as quickly. The smell of the river grew stronger, and I could see white and yellow lanterns bobbing on the masts of anchored ships to the south. Long Island City lay across the expanse of black water, on the far side of Blackwell’s Island. It was still night, but I could see from the faint bluish line on the horizon that dawn was not far off.
None of us spoke as we approached the small group of uniformed officers. We had no urge to speculate as to the state of the body. We’d know for certain soon enough.
As we came into the periphery of the light, one of the figures detached from the others and greeted us. Sergeant Mallory was a short, broad-shouldered man with an air of world-weary competence. He was young to have earned the rank of detective, early thirties, which meant he was either very smart or very well-connected. As his leather shoes showed signs of wear, I deduced the former, since a well-connected man would almost certainly be a wealthy man. It also implied honesty, which was a rare enough trait in any civil servant, but especially in law enforcement.
“Miss Bly,” he said, looking John and me over with shrewd brown eyes. “I thought you were alone. Sometimes I doubt Officer Beane would remember his own mother’s name if it weren’t tattooed on his backside. Pardon, ladies. But he neglected to mention two additional civilians walking around my crime scene.”
“They’re here for Myrtle,” Nellie said quickly. “This is Harrison Fearing Pell and her associate, John Weston. Myrtle’s on the case.” She crossed her arms and stuck her chin out, as if daring him to cross the great detective.
Mallory frowned. “What case? And how did you get here so quickly? I only got the call an hour or so ago.”
“My sister noticed a certain pattern emerging,” I said carefully. “Killings where the victim’s face has been covered. All in the last week.”
“All?”
“Two others. Becky Rickard and Raffaele Forsizi.”
“I know the cases,” Mallory said warily.
“We wondered if they were connected so we’ve been waiting to see if it happened again,” I said, trying not to fidget under his intense gaze. “Myrtle would have come herself but she’s been hired by the Pinkertons. I’m here on her behalf.”
“I know the whole department is leaky as a sieve, but this is ridiculous,” Mallory muttered through his mustache. “You’ve beaten the morgue boys!” He thought hard for a moment and seemed to reach a decision. “Alright, listen. I may regret this, but Myrtle did me a good turn once, when I was fresh to the force, and I owe her one. However,” and he held up a wagging finger, “that doesn’t mean you get something for nothing. I’ll let you have a look, tell me what you think, but I want to know what Myrtle knows and why she thinks these cases are tied together.” He blew out a long breath. “Which I pray they aren’t, because the good people of New York have been through enough this year.”
I decided right then that I liked Sergeant Mallory. He wasn’t arrogant and inflexible, like some of the detectives Myrtle complained about. And he seemed like he wanted to catch the killer badly enough that he’d take advice from a woman—and risk the ridicule of his colleagues.
I also knew I was navigating some tricky waters. I didn’t want to out-and-out lie to a police officer, which was obstruction of justice and who knew what else, but I wasn’t ready to break a promise to my client yet either. So I danced around the truth, keeping Brady’s and Straker’s names more or less out of it, and sticking to the similarities in the crimes. I mentioned the impression of remorse or ambiguity, and the possibility that more than one person could be involved. When I described the Rickard scene, and the writing that was found there, Mallory nodded in grim resignation.
“Miss Bly, I’ll determine which details can be published and which will be held back, agreed?”
“Agreed,” Nellie said.
“We managed to identify her fairly quickly,” Mallory said. “She had a note from her dentist in her pocket recommending cocaine toothache drops. As it happens, one of my men recognized the name—Anne Marlowe. She was an actress, performing down at Niblo’s. He saw the show with his wife last week. We checked and the description seems to match, although to be honest, it’s hard to know for sure. What’s left of her is…well, you’ll see in a minute. Come on.”
The whole time we’d been talking, my eyes kept drifting towards the center of that spotlight. But my view of what lay there was blocked by two patrolmen and the corner of the grain elevator. Now, we followed Mallory a dozen steps to the open space at the very edge of the East River where what remained of Anne Marlowe lay face-up in the thin rain.
“She was covered with a burlap sack,” Mallory explained. “The watchman actually tripped over the body. He thought it was a bag of grain at first.”
The sack now lay to the side, carefully folded. Beside me, I heard Nellie take in a sharp breath. John was perfectly still, but I could somehow feel his heart racing. I knew he was picturing someone else lying there.
“Cause of death was strangulation?” I heard myself say in a calm voice that seemed like another person entirely.
“Yes,” Mallory said. “The chain was ripped from a longer length we found in the kiln building. We’re still working out how he managed to do that. But the links match perfectly.”
“Not a cutting too
l?”
“No. They were torn apart with brute force.”
I studied the body, trying to blot out the horror of what had been done to another human being and focus only on what it told me about her killer. The chain had been wrapped three times around her neck, so tightly that her lower jaw had been pushed up at an unnatural angle. From the regularity of her features, I guessed that she had been attractive in life, perhaps even heart-breakingly lovely. But the ghastly bloating and discoloration made it impossible to tell.
She was fully dressed, lying on her back with her arms arranged at her sides as though she were sleeping. Her gown was beige with thin pink stripes and a broad lace collar that fell over the shoulders. Only her shoes were missing, but it seemed not unlikely that they had fallen off in the struggle.
Anne Marlowe’s left wrist had been slashed open but there was only a small amount of blood, indicating the wound was inflicted post-mortem.
“The writing is over here,” Mallory said, pointing to an area of wall about fifteen feet north of the body. “It seemed like gibberish until you mentioned the backwards Latin. What do you think, Miss Pell?”
It took only a moment to translate what I saw, which was this:
Erebihorp tsetop mulos em srom
A strange chill went through me as I spoke the words:
“Mors me solum potest prohibere.”
“Which means?”
“Only death can stop me.”
Mallory growled. “If it’s death he wants, I’m sure a jury would be delighted to arrange it. Well, we know we’re dealing with an educated man at least. You don’t learn Latin in the free schools.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “John, would you be good enough to stand over there, just to the right of it? Now raise your hand up as though you were going to write something. Excellent! How tall are you, John? About five foot ten? I think we can safely say our man is of similar build, perhaps an inch or so taller. So just shy of six feet.”
Mallory nodded. “That seems a safe deduction.”
“What about footprints? The ground is soft from the rain.”
“Yes, we found several sets. One is clearly the watchman’s. There are at least three others, I’ve already taken precise measurements and noted the pattern of the soles. I’d say that two are large enough to fit the man we’re looking for. So if we ever find his boots, we may get a match.”
“I’d like to examine the body, if you don’t mind,” John ventured. “I have some medical expertise.”
“Certainly, just be quick about it,” Mallory said, glancing toward the alley that led back to Sixty-Third Street. “I’ve learned about all I can here. She needs to go to the Morgue for formal identification. And before you ask, the watchman saw and heard nothing. He says he passes by about every half hour, so I figure death occurred sometime between three and three-thirty a.m.”
“Any signs of a carriage?” I asked.
“None, and I looked first thing.”
“Then how did he get her here?”
Mallory just shook his head.
“I already sent some men to rouse Niblo’s owner and find out what time she left, and whether or not she was alone. But I don’t think we’ll know much until tomorrow.”
Niblo’s Garden was one of New York’s grandest and most popular theaters, especially in the summertime. It had burned to the ground twice over the years, and each time been rebuilt, most recently by the department store magnate A.T. Stewart. I’d passed by it a few days before, on the way to Straker’s flat, and had a vague sense of seeing an advertisement for a Jules Verne epic.
“Wasn’t the Forsizi kid found by the Union Square slave market?” Nellie pointed out. “Maybe there’s a connection to the theatre. I know Niblo’s is on lower Broadway, but…”
We all turned at a soft exclamation from John. He was crouched down next to Anne Marlowe’s head, which was angled slightly to the side.
“There’s something here,” he said. “It appears to be burn marks.”
“I thought those were lacerations from the chain,” Mallory said, bracing hands on knees and shifting to stay out of John’s light.
“No, they’re definitely burns. Here, here and here.” He indicated one dark spot to the left of the jaw and two to the right. “You see, it looks quite similar to the characteristics of a cigarette burn. Whatever touched her was at least four hundred degrees. The blister hasn’t even formed yet, which is consistent with a third-degree burn.” John carefully turned her head as far as the brutally cinched chain would allow. “You see how the edges are sharply defined?”
“So you’re telling me he’s a smoker?” Mallory asked. “That he tortured her first?”
I thought of the Turkish Elegante stub sitting in an envelope inside my vanity. But John’s next words surprised me.
“No. I said they look like cigarette burns. But they’re not.” He sat back on his heels. “You’re not going to like this.”
Mallory sighed, took off his hat and ran a hand through thinning brown hair. “I don’t like anything about this day so far. How much worse could it get?”
“Worse,” John said. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain they’re fingerprints.”
Perfect silence greeted this bizarre statement.
“Fingerprints,” Mallory echoed flatly. “Burned into her flesh.”
“The ridges are quite visible. I’m just telling you what I’m seeing.”
Mallory leaned in until his face hovered just inches from Anne Marlow’s. He swore under his breath.
“You see them?” John asked softly.
“I see them.”
“The positioning seems to indicate a right-handed individual gripping the throat just so.” John mimed holding Anne the way you might if you were pinning someone down, or if you were large and powerful enough to lift her off her feet. “The thumb here, and the pointer and middle fingers here.”
“But it’s impossible,” Mallory objected. “Even if a man’s flesh could get that hot, which it can’t, the defining patterns of the skin would be burned away. So it must be something of wood or metal. There’s no other explanation.”
John didn’t respond.
“Could a person forge a device made to resemble a fingerprint?” Mallory demanded.
“It’s possible,” John said, although his tone implied that he found the likelihood of such a scenario to be vanishingly small.
“Something like a…a brand.” Mallory nodded to himself. “Yes, it must be. Why is another matter. But this killer is clearly a lunatic. We may never know why. All I want to know is who.” His head snapped around. “Miss Bly! I don’t object to your publishing a story. It might even bring some witnesses out of the woodwork. But you are to keep these burns to yourself. Also the writing. If the public learns we have a murderer taunting the police in Latin—and penned in blood no less—we’ll have a panic on our hands. Half the city is sleeping with windows open due to the heat, and the other half is on the rooftops. I agree that the Rickard killing seems to be linked, but I’m not sure about the Italian kid. I’ll need to speak with the detective who handled that one.” Mallory seemed almost to be talking to himself at this point. I knew it was time to leave. But I needed to be sure he understood what we were dealing with. For I was now fairly certain about one thing.
“Sergeant?” I laid a hand on his sleeve.
“Miss Pell?” Mallory replied distractedly, as the clatter of hooves signified the arrival of the morgue wagon.
“There will be more, unless you catch him,” I said. “Probably very soon.”
The detective held my gaze for a moment. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he had nice eyes. Hazel, with flecks of gold. In the instant before he looked away, I saw a flash of…not fear, exactly. Not yet. But worry.
Sergeant Mallory knew.
“Keep in touch, Miss Pell!” he called after us, as we made our way back to the carriage.
Dawn was fast approaching now, casting a tired, grey light over the proceedings. The
ramshackle buildings that had seemed so ominous when we arrived in the dark of night now struck me as simply seedy and more than a little pitiful. It was a lonely place to die.
“I’m going to Niblo’s tomorrow,” I told Nellie and John. “If Mrs. Rivers doesn’t follow your father’s lead and put bars on the windows.”
“Maybe she should,” he said. “I might be less worried about you.”
“John’s right,” Nellie said. “You’re mad to stay there, Harry.”
“Maybe I won’t then,” I declared, reaching a sudden decision.
“You won’t?”
“How would you fancy a trip upstate?” I asked John, as we turned south onto First Avenue and some semblance of civilization again. “To Cassadaga Lake?”
“Becky Rickard’s sister,” he said, interest sparking in his tired eyes.
“I can’t quite explain it, but I still feel she’s the key to this case. She was the first victim, and the most savagely killed.” Nellie shot me a dubious look. “Not that Anne Marlowe’s death wasn’t savage. But Becky was stabbed. Thirty-one times.”
“And bitten,” John quietly reminded us.
“Exactly,” I said. “It feels different. More personal.”
“The ones after…it’s almost as if Becky gave him a taste for it, so he kept going. But she’s the one he really wanted. And to know why, we need to know who she was. If her sister will speak with us…”
“I’ll cable her ahead tomorrow while you’re at Niblo’s,” John said.
“And I’ll join you in interviewing the other cast members,” Nellie offered. “I’ll need to for the story anyway.”
We arranged the details of the following day’s plans as the carriage carried us downtown. Traffic was still thin, but morning rush hour in New York starts early and wagons and peddlers’ carts and all manner of two- and four-wheeled conveyances were gradually filling the streets. I agreed to meet Nellie at the theatre at noon. John would buy our train tickets (including one for Mrs. Rivers, whom I would need to coax into the trip), and inform Edward of the latest developments. We hashed over what we had learned and made lists of questions.
