In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  It took a moment for the meaning of his question to register, but I soon understood. The killer had slashed the victim’s dress in haphazard strokes from the bodice down, and the bloodstained cloth was of the same material.

  “How old was she?” I asked.

  Dr. Fields paused before offering his opinion. “I’d say she was in her mid-twenties. And, judging from the bloodstains, her body temperature, and the fact that rigor mortis has not yet set in, I’d guess she has not been dead long—two hours, maybe three at most.” He sighed and wiped his brow with a knotted handkerchief. “I’ve lived in this town for thirty years. That I should live to witness something like this . . .” He shook his head.

  “Were the others home at the time? Did anyone hear anything?” I asked, drawing his attention back to details and descriptions. It was the doctor’s analytical skills that this victim required now, not his empathy.

  “You’ll want to speak with Miss Abigail, Mrs. Wingate’s other niece. She’s the one who found her cousin’s body.” Dr. Fields mopped his brow. “She told her aunt to call me before she fainted. No one else is aware of the murder. We still haven’t told them. At this point, it’s probably best if you do so.” His voice was soft as he added, “It has been quite an ordeal for Miss Abigail. I for one can understand how difficult it is to walk into this room unprepared.”

  But of course no one could ever be prepared for violence such as this. As I tried to refocus on the important details of the crime scene, one inconsistency stood out. The victim had a deep throat wound and multiple slashes on her upper arms, in addition to the battery done to her head. Yet there was not a single mark apparent on her hands or forearms. I knelt down next to her to check more closely. But no—there was nothing. Had she even tried to resist? It would have been a natural instinct to raise her hands to protect her face from the crushing blows. And I did not think she had been restrained, for in that case, her wrists would show signs of bruising or chafing.

  The only rational explanation—one the autopsy could confirm—was that she had been incapacitated first, perhaps by a blow to the head. In that case, my picture of her assailant changed entirely. What sort of person would beat and slash a woman who was certainly unconscious, possibly dead? There was no fight in that; only brutal savagery. Was her killer so filled with anger that he had lost all control? Or had he been deranged by bloodlust? Just as I had an instinctive visceral repulsion to it, I knew others experienced a strange attraction to it. They enjoyed its sight and smell, as may have been the case here, where Sarah’s cumulative injuries were more than was necessary to kill.

  I got up and circled to her left, where I noticed something else so odd I could not believe it had escaped my attention earlier. Part of her hair had been cut and—had it been removed? I searched the room quickly to ascertain it had not been placed elsewhere, but it was not to be found. I took out my notebook and made careful notes of what I observed: Sarah’s long blond hair had originally been pulled back in two neat braids; however, the braid by her right ear had been cut off at the level of her earlobe. I examined the shaft of hair nearest the cut and observed that while the exterior of the braid was encrusted with blood, the inner part was clean, which suggested her hair had been removed postmortem. I had seen cases before where bizarre acts were done to a corpse as a message or sign, but the missing braid defied explanation.

  Fortunately I had remembered to grab the camera as we left. I breathed deeply and began to take slow, certain photos. What my mind could not grasp now, I would revisit later, when the black-and-white of the film had muted the red blood that covered the room and overwhelmed my senses. I only hoped the record would not be marred by the slight shaking of my hands. As always, that shaking was made worse by the aching pain in my right arm, which had intensified with the first cold chill of autumn. Its dull throbbing these past eighteen months was an ever-present reminder of Hannah’s death. Or perhaps more accurately, it was a reminder of the incompetent doctor who had botched my treatment after I was broadsided by falling timber from the collapsing deck of the Slocum. As if I needed anything more to remind me of that horrible day.

  From every angle, and varied distances, I photographed the victim and the scene surrounding her. At my insistence, we had acquired a fine Kodak. Even though Joe had seen little practical justification in this expense, he had reluctantly allowed me to outfit the department with what I considered to be an essential tool for recording forensic evidence. While at the detective bureau in the city, I had become fascinated with the latest technology, especially cameras and basic fingerprinting equipment—though admittedly, the latter remained controversial and was not yet accepted by the courts. But earlier this year, London had sent two murderers to the gallows after gaining convictions based on fingerprint evidence alone. And our prison system in New York already used fingerprints to identify inmates. So I expected it would be only a matter of time before fingerprint evidence made its way into New York’s courtrooms. Perhaps it would even be evidence I had collected.

  Joe remained skeptical that Dobson had any use for all this equipment, but after the mayor supported my request, Joe had acquiesced. No doubt he feared his refusal would give the mayor additional ammunition to force him into the retirement he so dreaded. He waited patiently until I had finished photographing the crime scene; then he and Dr. Fields examined the body while I began dusting for latent prints.

  I took out my kit containing the two kinds of fine powder that would make invisible prints appear: black and gray. I used the gray powder on dark surfaces, and the black powder on light ones. Print after print appeared, most smudged and partial, but a few were complete, with each finger ridge delineated. I photographed them all, drawing as near as my lens would allow. I stayed clear of Dr. Fields, though I knew his initial exam would not take long. The bulk of his work would be done at the morgue.

  “Will you be performing the autopsy?”

  I asked. “I expect to. While it’s not my turn in the rotation schedule, I suspect they will honor my request given the circumstances.”

  To my relief, Joe announced he would go downstairs to break the news to Mrs. Wingate, who remained unaware of Sarah’s death.

  “We’d better call in help on this one,” he said, explaining he planned to call our neighboring police department in Yonkers for additional resources.

  “Do you want to telephone Mayor Fuller, as well? He will want to hear about this,” I said.

  He scowled. “No. He’d only bother us with useless questions that we’ve got no answers for.”

  I shrugged. “It’s your decision.”

  But the repercussions would affect us both. The mayor and Joe intensely disliked one another, and I had come to understand why. When problems arose, Joe was practical in his approach to tackling them; he had little patience for the mayor’s preoccupation with political expediency. For his part, the mayor had long ago lost patience for what he viewed as Joe’s frequent insubordination.

  We discussed how the Wingates might retrieve some personal items from the house for their immediate needs this evening, for I did not want them walking past this bedroom—certainly not until we had finished a thorough examination, and the more gruesome signs of death had been scrubbed away. Joe pointed to the area at the opposite end of the hall by the guest bath. “There’s a back stairwell off the kitchen that takes them up over there,” he said. “I expect the family uses it more regularly anyway, since it links these bedrooms with the kitchen.”

  “Good. Then let’s cordon off this room and the front stairway; we can examine it again tomorrow, in first morning’s light.”

  We were lucky to have light at all this evening. The Wingates had been among the first families in the area to install electric lighting in their home, but each individual light was placed so sporadically as to offer little real advantage over the ever-growing darkness. Still, I continued my work until well past seven o’clock.

  After the county coroner’s wagon arrived, and Dr. Fields
removed Sarah’s body, I finished my examination of the room in haste, for the blood splatters on the walls and bed were almost as unsettling as her corpse itself. Her possessions were spare, typical of a visiting guest. Opening the small wardrobe, I discovered three shirtwaists, each plain with large cuffs. They were next to two dark-colored skirts and a pair of boots that buttoned up the side. There was a modern Hammond typewriter at the desk, next to which was a notebook. On its cover, Sarah Wingate had written her name, as well as a title—THE RIEMANN HYPOTHESIS. Inside, line after line was filled with mathematical symbols and equations that resembled mere gibberish.

  At the nightstand by the bed, there were two books: The Ambassadors and Dracula. At the bottom of the stack was last month’s serialized installment of Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth as well as the September issue of Harper’s. Sarah appeared to share popular literary tastes. Ten dollars was shoved into the back of a drawer, as was a pamphlet entitled Common Sense for Women’s Suffrage.

  I checked between the pages of each book, in each drawer, and even in the pockets of each piece of clothing hanging in the closet. But I found no letters, diary, or notes—in short, no personal item that connected Sarah with anyone, much less the person who had wanted to kill her.

  I went on to explore the first floor of the house, checking whether anything appeared to be amiss. In the kitchen, I lingered a few moments; amid the odors of mulled spices and baked fruit, I could almost forget the stench of death that seemed to cling so tenaciously to my skin and clothes. I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I was startled to hear Joe’s voice calling me, insistent and loud.

  “Ziele!” His voice echoed through the back hallway. “We need you over here. You’ve got to take a look at this.”

  I followed the sound of his voice to a rear exit near the back porch, where I became aware once again of the coroner’s wagon as it rumbled over the cobblestones of the Wingate drive, departing for the county morgue. Through the door, I saw a full moon gleaming in the stark November sky. A number of glowing lights bounced up and down in the yard; they were lanterns carried by our neighboring police reinforcements, who had recently arrived and were searching the grounds outside the house.

  Joe met my gaze, and I noticed how his lined features reflected the grim events we had endured this day. With a flash of foreboding, I had the unsettling sensation that we were being drawn into an even more complicated case than I’d originally thought—one that would draw upon our every power of deduction to unravel.

  CHAPTER 2

  “We’ve found something outside.” Joe motioned to me, pointing toward the rear porch as I approached, indicating that I should follow him. He opened the door and gestured to what appeared to be a number of muddy footprints, each consistent with the tread of a man’s boot. The prints were remarkably clear: well defined at the toe, if slightly smudged near the heel. One set led into the house, while another led back into the yard.

  “Large enough to be a man’s footprint,” he explained. “And they are not yet dry, so they can’t have been here long.” He stepped back so I might see more clearly.

  “Maybe these were left by the killer,” he said, stating the obvious, “but how is it possible that there are no prints inside the house?”

  “He removed his boots, I’d say,” I commented dryly.

  I was far more interested in the smudges around the heel of each print, which could indicate that the man had a limp or some other walking impediment. Or perhaps the heel was simply so encrusted with mud that the tread was wholly obscured. I glanced into the expanse of wooded forest behind the house, which was certainly as muddy as the walking path that I had taken to work this morning. Though today had been dry, the past several days had seen heavy rain and the ground was saturated.

  Leaving that issue aside for the moment, I noted how unusually large and wide the prints were. “We should do our best to mea sure one of these. Not an easy thing to accomplish in the dark,” I said, with a glance toward the evening sky, “but important in case someone should disturb this area overnight.”

  Joe nodded in agreement as we stepped back into the house. “I also need to show you this,” he said quietly. “We found it outside, as well.”

  He pulled a small item out of his breast pocket. He was careful to use his handkerchief, and I realized that—despite his own skepticism about fingerprints—he was trying not to jeopardize whatever evidence the object he held might provide. Nestled within the cloth lay a silver locket that was threaded onto a pale blue ribbon. The ribbon was slightly mottled with what I took to be smudges of blood and dirt. As I carefully lifted it, also by means of the clean handkerchief, I noticed it was of superior workmanship, with a filigree pattern bordering its smooth body. On the back, I could barely make out finely engraved letters, which appeared to identify the name of the craftsman. Above this unintelligible writing was an inscription: For S.W.

  “And inside?” I asked.

  “See for yourself,” Joe said.

  My fingers were thick and clumsy as I pried open the locket, still making use of the handkerchief so as not to touch the silver myself. Inside were two small portraits: one man and one woman. I presumed the woman pictured on the left to be Sarah. Although I had seen her only after her brutal death, the person in the picture seemed familiar. Even in black-and-white miniature, it was apparent she had been a handsome woman. Straight hair that I knew to be blond was pulled back, revealing a perfectly oval face with strong, high cheekbones. I also noted wide-set eyes that stared forward with forthrightness, while her smile, though pleasant, was restrained. I could clearly sense her reserve around the photographer.

  The picture opposite Sarah’s was that of a man. He stared into the camera, his broad features half hidden by the large handlebar mustache that had been the fashion in recent years. The soft hues of the small black-and-white photograph suggested a light hair color—perhaps gray, or even white, given his age. He appeared to be much older than Sarah, easily in his fifties I would guess, at the time this picture was taken.

  “I expect that’s her father,” Joe said.

  “Seems likely. We’ll ask the Wingates to confirm it.” I continued to stare at the locket. “Where did you find it, again?” If Joe had mentioned it, I didn’t remember.

  “On the lawn another ten feet beyond the back porch, heading toward the woods. Do you suppose the killer dropped it?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. It was certainly the most plausible explanation. I placed the necklace in my pocket, nestled within the handkerchief. I would check it for fingerprints, but given its small size and the amount of dirt on it, I was not optimistic any clear prints would be found.

  Yet I could not shake the troubling sensation that something was not right. If the man pictured were Sarah’s father, then where was her mother? It seemed odd to carry a photo of one in a locket, yet not the other. And it was odder still to carry a picture of oneself.

  As I made my way back through the house, intent on retrieving my equipment, I heard a discreet cough as I passed by the library. I had almost forgotten about Abigail Wingate, Mrs. Wingate’s other niece. She was sitting on an uncomfortable-looking, overstuffed gold sofa in a room of dark walnut bookcases, heavy red velvet drapes, and a plush oriental carpet. The two terriers I had previously noticed outside were with her; completely exhausted, they lay at her feet and took little notice of me.

  A petite woman with brown hair and blue eyes that were accentuated by a navy blue dress, she looked much younger than I had expected. I did not think she could be more than twenty-five, twenty-six years of age.

  “Simon Ziele . . . or, Detective Ziele, isn’t it?” When she spoke, it was in a smooth, modulated voice, and I immediately recognized the precise diction I associated with New York’s upper classes.

  “Yes,” I said, as I noted the lines of dried tears on her face. Although it was part of my job, I was keenly aware as I stepped into the room that I was intruding upon someone’s private grief. Ofte
n, I was able to brace myself beforehand, but she had taken me by surprise.

  “My name is Abigail Wingate. Dr. Fields said you would have questions for me. And I have some questions for you—” She broke off mid-sentence and gestured toward the small reading chair directly across from her.

  “I’m sorry to meet you under such unfortunate circumstances.” I took the seat that she offered, and was struck by how formal my voice sounded. “We are finished upstairs for tonight,” I said to reassure her as I collected my thoughts. As the first person to have discovered her cousin’s body, she would be an important witness—and given that she seemed coherent enough to talk, it would be best to interview her now, before her memory became muddled by time. Or by the relief offered by one of Dr. Fields’s sedatives—for there was a small container of bromide salts on the end table.

  “Have you found Stella?” Her voice was hushed but her tone was urgent.

  “Stella?” The question caught me by surprise.

  “Stella, our house maid. Didn’t Chief Healy tell you she’s gone missing? No one has seen her since Dr. Fields first arrived. And her suitcase as well as all her clothing are still here.”

  “Had she been told of your cousin’s murder?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “But it’s possible she overheard something.”

  Or she could have seen something, had she ventured upstairs during the confusion.

  “Perhaps she has friends in the area to whom she has gone for the night?” I suggested. “It would be understandable, if we assume she knew what happened here today.”

  “No, she has only been here a few months, and she has no friends nearby.” Rising panic was evident in her voice. “Something’s terribly wrong, if she’s not here.”

  “But she was here for a period of time after you discovered Sarah?” I asked.

  “I think so,” she said, though uncertainly.

  Probably the girl had simply become so upset she ran away. “No need to worry yet, but we’ll check back first thing tomorrow to make sure.” I tried to sound reassuring. “Stella was with your aunt this afternoon?”