I reached for the small photograph that still lay on my desk. It showed a young man of about twenty or so. From underneath a full shock of wavy blond hair, he stared insolently at the camera. He had high cheekbones, wide eyes, and full lips twisted in a half smile. I gazed into the picture searching for a sign of that peculiar brand of evil that turned an ordinary man into a murderer. But of course I wouldn’t see it. I never did. Some people said it lurked in a man’s expression. I knew better—for whatever it was that led someone to murder, it was concealed deep within the soul.
Yet Alistair’s resolution sounded too simple.
“If your suspect has committed this type of murder before, then how did he avoid the electric chair, much less prison?” I was filled with disgust that a murderer should have ever been given a chance to repeat his crime.
Before he could answer, though, my frustration began to grow, and I reversed myself, determined to get to the point. “That doesn’t matter now. Do you know where I can find this man?”
Alistair responded with frustration. “We have been trying to locate him ourselves for over two weeks—and we have failed.”
“You mean he was in prison, but escaped?”
Alistair shook his head.
“Even so, there should be a case history on him.” I began thinking of alternatives, saying, “I’ll need the background you have on his past arrests.”
Alistair looked at me oddly. “It’s not as simple as that, I fear. You won’t find any help in his arrest records—at least, not the sort you seem to want.” He rubbed his chin as he explained. “Our man has a police record, to be sure: assault, battery, even petty theft, if I’m not mistaken. But it has not—at least not yet—included murder.”
“Then how can you even think he may be responsible?” I sputtered. I could hardly control another flash of anger, as I thought of the valuable time I had lost pursuing this entire conversation. I would have said more, but Alistair responded to my frustration immediately.
“Please—a moment’s patience. Let me back up, and tell you the story. Then you will see why I believe he is responsible, and what I am telling you will make perfect sense.”
I glanced at my watch: near half past eight already. I had promised Joe I would return to the Wingate house this morning.
“I must get back over to the crime scene. You’re welcome to accompany me; we can talk on the way.”
I hustled Alistair out the door, and after we had settled ourselves into a waiting cab, I leaned back and tried to listen with an open mind to a tale that grew stranger, and more disturbing, with every new detail that emerged.
Our driver whistled loudly to himself, oblivious to our conversation. Nonetheless, Alistair leaned in toward me to ensure the driver could not overhear his words.
“Are you capable of rehabilitating a monster?” Alistair demanded. His eyes locked into my own, blazing with intensity. “That challenge is one Michael Fromley’s older brother Clyde Wallingford—half brother actually—granted me right after Michael’s first serious arrest, three years ago.” He paused dramatically before continuing. “The boy had been in trouble before, to be sure—but not like this time. There had been barroom fights, petty thefts, and more property damage than you would care to pay for. But no harm was done that money could not fix. And his behavior was not so extreme that it couldn’t be sugarcoated within the Wallingfords’ social circle as simply that of a young man sowing his wild oats.” His tone became sober. “The incident three years ago was different, and Wallingford was beside himself with worry.”
I listened, becoming more interested in spite of myself.
Alistair gripped the sides of his seat to keep his balance as the wheels of the cab rattled violently against the cobblestones. Dobson’s steeper roads were all cobblestone, which helped the horses to keep their footing, but made for a bumpy ride.
“Michael is the youngest son of Louise Wallingford Fromley by her second husband.” He shook his head and grimaced. “Awful woman—so domineering and loud, both husbands undoubtedly hastened to the grave just to get away from her. She nonetheless did a fine job raising her four oldest children, whose father was Earl Wallingford. But for some reason, it was difficult with Michael, right from the beginning. ‘Even in the womb,’ she told me, though of course she was being typically melodramatic. Still, as a small child, he so terrorized the nannies who cared for him that none lasted more than a month or two.”
“How did he get on with his father and his older siblings?” I asked.
“His father died a few months after he was born, and when Fromley was very young, his older siblings were all out of the house. Certain problems arose when his half brother took over the family home and moved back with his wife and two young daughters. Louise of course lived there until her own death, and initially Wallingford was quite willing for Michael to stay on. But Michael began to exhibit disturbing behavior. For example, he had strange moods, in which he would climb into a closet and sit as though in a trance. He also set fire to the drawing room curtains. It was only by good fortune that the house was saved from burning to the ground. Wallingford was horrified, and adamant that the boy should not come in contact with his young daughters.”
Alistair sighed before continuing. “Young Fromley was sent to live with Louise’s spinster sister, a Miss Lizzie Dunn, until a suitable boarding school could be found; when it was, he returned to his aunt during school vacations. She was a timid, mousy woman unprepared to give him the kind of discipline and structure he needed. But then again, perhaps we cannot fault her too much. Neither his overbearing mother nor a succession of strict boarding schools boasted better success. He amassed quite a disciplinary record for starting fires and assaulting others. He was expelled after he menaced another student with a knife. It was terribly embarrassing for the Wallingfords, but they hoped he would eventually grow out of it. They hung on to that hope right up until Michael was arrested in October 1902 for attempted murder, accused of knifing a prostitute named Catherine Smedley and setting her room ablaze.”
“I see. Now he had done real harm and was facing serious jail time.”
“Exactly. As far as the prosecution was concerned, it was a weak case with considerable doubt as to Michael’s guilt. While he was the last person identified as talking with the victim before the attack, no one could swear he was the man who accompanied her up to her room. Though the victim recovered, the experience had affected her memory, and she was never able to identify her attacker.” He looked at me with what appeared to be genuine regret. “Quite frankly, even if the witnesses had been able to testify with greater certainty, it would have made little difference. You might not need a choirboy to put someone like Michael Fromley away, but you need a witness more credible than you’ll find in a brothel.”
We continued to talk as we arrived at the Wingate home, and I was relieved to find the house and grounds were empty. Although the Wingates had spent the night there at Mrs. Wingate’s insistance, they were gone this morning; their note directed us to look around as we wished. I showed Alistair around the perimeter first, alert for anything that might appear unusual. The light this morning was good, and I hoped we would uncover something that had gone unnoticed in last evening’s twilight.
After finding nothing out of the ordinary outdoors, we returned to the house and searched Stella’s third-floor room, for she had not yet returned. According to Miss Wingate, all her clothes were accounted for but her purse was gone. That meant she had taken money, probably as a means of travel, which supported my theory she had sought out friends after yesterday’s tragedy.
“In terms of the Smedley woman, I take it you believe Michael Fromley was, in fact, guilty?” I asked.
“Of the assault, yes.” Alistair was matter-of-fact. “He later admitted it to me, and he said as much to his brother. Given the weakness of the case, the prosecutor and judge were willing to dismiss the attempted-murder charges. He faced lesser charges, as well, but for those, I convinced the pro
secutor to accept a plea bargain involving supervised probation. Wallingford was eager for Michael to enter a plea and save the family from an ugly trial—but only if something could be done to rehabilitate Michael. It did the family no good to keep him out of jail this time, if it meant he would only go in for something worse next time. That was where I came in.”
We made our way back to the second floor and the room where Sarah had been murdered. There, I took additional notes, measuring each individual bloodstain with particular attention to its distance from where Sarah’s corpse had been positioned. Alistair watched me silently for some moments before he continued his story.
“For me, it was a chance like no other.” Alistair’s face was flushed and animated, and his voice reflected his passionate feeling. “I had long envied Lacassagne, the French criminologist who succeeded in getting jailed criminals to tell him their most intimate thoughts. He was interested in all manner of criminals, however, whereas I wished to focus upon violent offenders. Following his example, I went to Sing Sing and Riker’s and interviewed the prisoners there. I even spoke with death row inmates in the hours before their execution. But you’re well aware how quickly New York executes its violent offenders once they are convicted and their appeals exhausted. Remember when Leon Czolgosz assassinated President McKinley? He was convicted at trial near the end of September, and he died in the electric chair only a month later.”
Of course I remembered, for President McKinley’s death had elevated Teddy Roosevelt into office. “But surely,” I interjected, “that was an unusual case, given the circumstances?”
He conceded as much. “It was exceptionally fast, I agree. But even normal cases proceed quickly. If there’s to be no appeal, most convicted offenders are executed within months. And once they lose an appeal, their life is measured in days and weeks. That is barely enough time to gain their confidence, much less scratch the surface of their minds. Not to mention that some death row inmates would rather spend their final hours doing something other than talking to me.” He flashed a self-deprecating smile before he continued talking. “But with Michael, I had a living, breathing research subject who was mine to keep. I needn’t yield him to the executioner in a matter of months. It was a chance—and a chance like no other—to look into a violent mind still very much in formation. How did Michael’s mind work? What motivated him? Why had he developed so differently from his siblings? And was there a way we could intervene and rehabilitate him before he actually crossed the line?”
I looked up from my examination of a three-inch blood splatter.
“Wait a minute.” I was certain I had heard something incorrectly. “Did you say that his criminal tendencies were still ‘in formation’? If he tried to murder this woman—if he slashed her with a knife, set her room afire—then it is no credit to him that she survived. It sounds as though he did everything to kill her, and it is merely by the grace of God that she lived!”
I stood up to face him. “Surely in the mind of this man, there was no difference.”
Alistair was unfazed by my eruption. “Yes, I used to think so, as well. But what my colleagues and I have discovered is that there is a progression in the criminal’s mind that leads to the escalation of violent activity. I’m talking of course about premeditated stranger murder, you understand, not the kind of murder you would call a ‘crime of passion.’ ” He was careful to clarify the legal distinction, for he seemed to sense my next objection before I voiced it. “No murderer, even the most vicious, even that notorious Lew Burdick your police are so proud of having captured earlier this year, simply wakes up one day with the desire to kill. Rather, his desire develops over long periods of time, through tremendous imaginative effort.”
This sounded idiotic and I told him so plainly. “I don’t see Lew Burdick as having made much imaginative effort.” The man had been convicted of butchering his victims in their beds, even as their immediate family members lay listening in terror in nearby rooms.
“In the end, there is nothing imaginary.” Alistair corrected me. “By then, it is too late—there, you are right. But in the beginning, as we’ve discovered from our interviews with so many others, even a man like Burdick would have first started with nothing but a picture in his mind.” Alistair walked around the room, using his hands emphatically to help me visualize what he was saying.
“He must have liked the picture he imagined. He probably experienced sensations of power that were new to him, and these sensations proved intoxicating. But this imaginary stage I describe is still just that—an act of the imagination—and he would have no serious thoughts of killing anyone at this point.”
His tone suddenly became more somber. “What our interviews have shown, however, is that the more he mulls over this imagined violence, the more he creates his own need for it—and then he constructs this violent fantasy more and more often. One day, his imaginary victims will not satisfy him, so he will begin to imagine real people he has seen, even his acquaintances, in the role of the victim. It’s at this point he begins to consider real violence against real people. And from there, it is simply a matter of time until . . .”
He didn’t have to say it. All we had to do was look around us. Alistair, in fact, seemed to be registering the aftermath of yesterday’s violence for the first time.
His theory was an interesting one, but I still had difficulty understanding how it pertained to Michael Fromley.
“Even if you are right,” I said, challenging him, “what you describe with Catherine Smedley was not merely a fantasy. It was real, and it had terrible consequences.” I shook my head. “By your own theory, his would no longer be a criminal mind in formation. He had committed a criminal act.”
“Well, it’s true that Fromley had begun to cross from the imaginary realm into reality, in that he was dealing now with real victims,” Alistair said. “But he didn’t mean to kill the girl—not yet, anyway. He was still experimenting with how it might feel.”
“How can you know that?” I demanded.
“Because despite his many problems, Michael was always very candid with me. That’s what he claimed, and I believed him.” He paused. “He was, and is, a dangerous man. And I knew the imperative.” Alistair’s voice grew thick with emotion. “I knew that if we didn’t succeed with him, that he would try again—and the next time he would kill. So we put in place certain safeguards, all financed by Wallingford. We hired a bodyguard to protect both the public and ourselves. Plus, we implemented rigorous interview sessions with the goal of understanding Michael and rehabilitating him. We worked incredibly hard, and I thought we’d done it. As he told it, his daydreams were becoming less frequent and less violent. He had interviewed for a job at the Fulton Street docks, and he seemed to be more content than ever before. All was proceeding very smoothly until the day he vanished. And we have seen no sign of him for the past two weeks, until last night when I received word of the murder that happened in this very room.”
“But you still haven’t explained why—exactly why—you believe Michael Fromley is Sarah Wingate’s killer?” I countered. “I understand he is dangerous and has brutally assaulted a young woman in the past. And it’s worrisome that he’s now missing. But I see no particular reason to suspect him in my case.”
Alistair swallowed hard. “You are right, to a point, but there is more—which only you can confirm. Because from what I’ve heard about your crime scene, it exactly mirrors the fantasies Michael has nursed these past years. Read this”—he handed me a piece of paper—“and tell me if you do not share my concern. It is just one of my many case notes. There are more that will say the same thing.”
A strong November wind whipped around the house and rattled the windows in the room. I took the paper from Alistair, quickly scanning his words.
Thursday, March 18. Today he reported another incident of his daydream. This is the fifth time this month. The trigger was a young woman of about twenty who boarded his car on the El downtown. A blonde, she wore a
blue dress and was exceptionally pretty. He imagined her to be a seamstress and conjured many sordid details about her life. Then he began the process I have noted before:
1. Objectification: He degrades her until he no longer views her as a human being worthy of respectful treatment.
2. Imagination: He envisions himself interacting with her with the same result: a rush of excitement when she obeys him after he displays his knife; a pleas urable feeling of control as he decides where and how she will die.
3. Method: He cuts her dress away from her body into long strips of ribbon. Finally, he plunges his knife into her heart, before he slashes her skin at random. When she is dead, he describes the impulse to take some part of her as a remembrance. The remembrance varies; in today’s version, it is the tiny signet ring she wore.
4. Effect: The experience is so intense he loses track of time and space. Here, he travels on the El two stops beyond his destination.
I felt physically ill, my stomach lurching as I thought of Sarah Wingate’s battered corpse. I could distinguish the cases and focus upon their differences. But the similarities were striking: Sarah Wingate was a blonde; she had been slashed multiple times; she was wearing a blue dress that had been cut into ribbons. And even if I managed to dismiss that evidence as mere coincidence, there was no getting away from the remembrances he had taken. The killer had taken a braid of Sarah’s hair and likely attempted to take Sarah’s locket, dropping it as he left the premises. The similarities were far too compelling to disregard. I shuddered as I remembered the crime scene. Any man who could do such terrible things was deserving of nothing—not Alistair’s help, and certainly not the limited freedom he had enjoyed.
In the Shadow of Gotham Page 5
