In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  As I was speaking, Isabella joined me by the blackboard and began to list the main points in neat capital letters above the pictures that rested on the ledge. I had expected we would be uncomfortable discussing such material with Isabella present, but she appeared nonplussed.

  Alistair asked, “Did the doctor who performed the autopsy indicate what type of weapon caused the throat and head wounds?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Because the throat wound was a very clean incision, with no extraneous tearing, Dr. Fields believes an extremely sharp weapon was used, such as a razor. Moreover, a large weapon was used to effect the head injury, and Dr. Fields goes so far as to suggest it would be some kind of metal object, such as a crowbar or pipe.” I quickly scanned the report to find the relevant margin note he had written for me. Tapping the report with my pen, I explained, “In his opinion, a different material, such as wood, could not have lacerated the skin as cleanly as was done in this case.”

  “I see,” Alistair said. He was staring at the list of injuries on the board, apparently absorbed in thought; he barely looked up as Horace excused himself and left the room.

  “Do go on,” Fred Ebbings urged, and I noticed they were all listening attentively.

  “There were traces of chloroform in her body. From that, in addition to some peculiar bruising on Sarah’s heels, and the fact that she has no defensive wounds on her hands or wrists, it is the doctor’s opinion that she was incapacitated elsewhere in the house and dragged to the guest bedroom. There, her killer arranged the room to look as we found it.” I went on to describe the other details apparent in the photographs: how her long braid of hair had been cut, and how her blue dress had been slashed, with one fragment of cloth used to cover her face.

  “Part of his plan revolved around blood. As Dr. Fields has explained it, her throat was slit first, and it bled extensively as she died. But bleeding stops within a few minutes of death, so the postmortem wounds to her head generated less blood than would otherwise be expected. To compensate for this, her killer appears to have struck the same head injuries—over and over, using his metal weapon—in order to create the blood-spatter effect we saw.”

  Tom Baxter leaned forward against the table, brow furrowed, trying to make sense of it all. When he spoke directly to Alistair, his tone was carefully measured. “You know, I admit many of these elements fit what we’ve learned about Fromley’s murderous fantasies. But the use of chloroform does not. And neither do the postmortem injuries to her head. How do we explain the inconsistencies?”

  “Those discrepancies initially bothered me, too,” Alistair conceded. “What I have concluded is that, given the environment in which Fromley confronted his victim—with her aunt and the house maid Stella nearby on the grounds—he subdued her with chloroform as a method of control. Otherwise, she might have made too much noise and commotion. But to make the experience emotionally satisfying for him, he needed her injuries to mirror what he had imagined. So that is why he inflicted the wounds that Detective Ziele might describe as ‘overkill.’ ”

  “Yes,” Fred Ebbings said. “Putting aside Fromley’s possible involvement for the moment, what we need to remember when we look at this crime scene is that it reflects the mind of the killer. He has killed in the first place because his distorted thinking led him to believe he needed to. And when he killed, he did so in this manner because it made the experience satisfying in a way that no other method could.”

  “By that you are referring to the blood spatter?” I asked. I recollected I had had a similar thought at the scene last night.

  “Yes, that’s definitely part of it,” Ebbings said. “But it’s also about fulfilling his fantasy. The fantasy is something he has replayed countless times in his own mind, and he is finally at the point of making it a reality. To change some aspect of a scenario he has so long imagined would disappoint him.”

  I did not mention it to the group, but I thought briefly of a recent visit paid to the police department by Detective Abberline of Scotland Yard, the senior detective involved in the still unsolved “Jack the Ripper” case in London some fifteen years back. While discussing a number of new procedures and techniques such as fingerprinting, he had also revisited the case of George Chapman, one of the chief Ripper suspects. Chapman had been in London during the time of the Ripper murders, but then he returned to the New York area and proceeded to poison three different women. Abberline had wondered why a killer whose method had been “mutilation” would suddenly turn to poison—and questioned whether it was even possible. It led him to have serious doubts about Chapman. By analogy, I worried whether we should have similar doubts about Fromley.

  “What about her facial wounds?” I asked. “You mentioned earlier that the shattering blows to her head may suggest her killer was angry with her. But that implies a personal relationship, and there’s no indication such a relationship existed between Sarah Wingate and Michael Fromley—right?”

  “Strictly speaking, you are right,” Alistair said. “But we must remember that he perceives the entire world around him in a distorted manner, and within this mind-set, a ‘personal relationship’ means something altogether different to him than it would to you or to me. He may have built the relationship entirely within his head, with little or no participation from his victim. Or she could be a stand-in for someone else, since Sarah Wingate shares some of the same characteristics as the women in Michael’s fantasies.”

  Ebbings picked up Alistair’s thread of reasoning. “And what we learned from our interviews with Michael was that before he killed in his fantasies, he first dehumanized his victims so as to make his own actions easier. The brutal facial injuries are a way of dehumanizing her, since with each blow, she less resembles a real person.”

  “I agree,” Alistair added. “Our killer in this scenario wants two things. First, I read him as wanting control above all else. Through killing he exercises the ultimate control. First, he determines whether she lives or dies. Next, he determines exactly how she dies.”

  “And the locket?” Horace asked. “Why take her jewelry?” Horace Wood had rejoined the group, though at what point I could not say.

  “It provides a tangible way for him to remember the experience,” Ebbings said. “It serves as a memento, to put it another way. In this case particularly, since the locket contained a picture of her, I can see why it would appeal. He would have wanted to take it out, look at her photo, and fantasize yet again about the experience of killing her.”

  “So it sounds like it’s safe to assume Fromley is the guy who did this, right?” Horace voiced my own question for me. “It’s hard to imagine another criminal who thinks and behaves like him.”

  “Well,” Tom replied, “while I may have some lingering doubts, the fact that the actual crime scene so closely mirrors the fantasy that Fromley described seems too coincidental to disregard.”

  “I do have one last question,” I interjected. “Why do you believe the killer covered Sarah’s face with part of her dress?”

  Alistair’s eyes lit up, as though he had been waiting for just this question. “Your question has just, in a nutshell, hit upon why I held out such hope for Michael Fromley’s rehabilitative potential. Covering his victim in some manner was always part of his more violent fantasies, and I read the act as signifying remorse for what he has done. At the very end, he felt a flicker of shame, so he covered the victim and left her with some dignity. To put it another way, he rehumanized her at the end of a long process of dehumanizing her.”

  “Do we know anything yet that would suggest why she was chosen?” Tom asked. “If Fromley is her killer, what would have led him to pick her, specifically, as his victim?”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Fred Ebbings said. “But her physical profile does resemble a woman in one of Fromley’s recurring fantasies. I’ll check my case notes.”

  My mind was churning, trying to make sense of so many ideas at once. I could not see how Alistair and his colleagues could claim to
know everything they had just suggested. And yet, they each spoke with a comfortable authority and spun a narrative that was both cohesive and logical.

  “From all you have said, Michael Fromley certainly is a suspect who must be thoroughly investigated—and I appreciate the help you can give me toward that end,” I said. “Alistair, can you arrange for us to meet with whomever of Fromley’s family and friends you believe might help us locate him? Meanwhile, I can begin to talk with some of Sarah Wingate’s acquaintances to learn more about her. I want to pursue this investigation on both traditional and nontraditional fronts.”

  “I asked Horace to speak first thing this morning with Richard Bonham, a professor of mathematics here, to get some basic information about Sarah. He knew her both as a graduate student in his department, and also as his daughter Mary’s closest friend,” Alistair said. “We discovered Sarah actually lived with the Bonham family at their town house on 113th and Riverside.”

  “Yes, well,” Horace said, “I did speak with Richard Bonham first thing this morning—in fact, I got there within a half hour of the policeman who broke the news about the murder.” Horace beamed with satisfaction, clearly pleased with himself. “Professor Bonham was quite a help. He thought the girl had tremendous academic potential. But from what he said about her activities, I’d say she was also a troublemaker. Apparently Sarah was one of those rabble-rousing feminists desperate for the vote, always marching in one demonstration or another,” he said. “Last month she led the group that demonstrated on the president’s steps for granting women admission to the undergraduate program.”

  I happened to glance at Isabella. For an instant so brief I was convinced I must have imagined it, I saw disapproval in her eyes as she looked toward Horace—who was by now again seated immediately to her right. Once more, I had not noticed him move.

  “Horace, isn’t your fiancée a member of one of those feminist groups?” Isabella asked. “You’ll have to change your tune once you’re married next summer!”

  “She’s not in that kind of feminist group,” Horace snapped, flushing with embarrassment.

  “Enough of this,” Tom interrupted. “It’s not what got Sarah Wingate murdered, after all.”

  “Actually, we can’t know that yet,” I said. “We don’t know what her connection with Michael Fromley was—if indeed that’s what led to her murder. And until we’ve solved her murder, nothing about her life is unimportant.”

  “Ziele is right,” Alistair said, his expression unreadable. “Horace, please continue.”

  “Yes, well,” Horace continued, “Sarah was determined to get her doctorate in mathematics, and had just started her fourth year of graduate work this fall. According to Professor Bonham, she was in good academic standing and performing well. He also mentioned that she had a part-time job at the dean’s office. Just some filing, simple clerical work.”

  “Thank you, Horace,” Alistair said. “Perhaps some of Sarah Wingate’s friends can offer more detail about these matters.”

  “I actually have a list of Sarah Wingate’s friends,” Horace said, producing a grimy, wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket. “Do you want me to follow up?”

  “I would like to,” I said, and he handed me the list wordlessly. While the extra efforts of these people were well intended, the success or failure of this investigation was ultimately mine—and I disliked relying on the opinions of others. This was especially true in interviews, where I had to evaluate the information I learned in light of the credibility of the person speaking.

  Alistair must have understood, because he immediately delegated other assignments—but all entailing simple background research. Tom and Fred, as senior faculty, would visit the registrar’s office to get a list of Sarah Wingate’s courses and talk with the faculty about her performance. They would also visit the dean’s office to determine the length of her employment there and the scope of her duties. Horace would visit the offices of the student paper, The Spectator, to view back issues and gather any past articles mentioning Sarah Wingate. Alistair would try to reach Fromley’s family, the Wallingfords, to arrange an immediate meeting. Meanwhile, I would interview the Bonham family as well as Caleb Muller, her academic advisor. Alistair promised to meet me at 113th Street and Broadway at one o’clock; he was confident he would have reached the Wallingfords by then. Then, he took me aside to offer an additional suggestion.

  “You may want to take Isabella with you to the Bonhams. She will be able to put Miss Bonham at ease—and that will enable your interview to proceed more smoothly.”

  “Understood. But first, I need to check in with the office; may I use your telephone?” I asked.

  He directed me to his private office next door, where I closed the door and dialed Joe. It was some moments before Charlie, our secretary, brought Joe to the telephone. I filled him in, omitting nothing.

  “You trust everything this professor says?” he asked. After hearing my tale, he sounded incredulous.

  “Not for a moment,” I said. “But it bears looking into, wouldn’t you say?”

  Joe’s answer was a loud grunt.

  He went on to tell me that Peter Voyt had scored a breakthrough of sorts. His calls to a number of the more successful—and thus expensive—photographers in the city had yielded results. After discovering a photographer who promised to be the right match on the telephone, Peter had straightaway gone to examine the photographer’s files. The tiny photographs in Sarah’s locket were indeed part of a larger series of portraits, completed in December 1899, and paid for by an A. MacDonald. The photographer barely remembered the couple, since almost six years had passed. But he was able to confirm Peter’s suspicion that the photographs were part of a larger series, typical of couples sitting for engagement pictures.

  “It was very unusual to have photographs like that reduced for a tiny locket,” Joe explained.

  But Sarah had wanted to keep the photographs secret—and that would have been impossible with a large photograph. The other photographs were no doubt within the possession of A. MacDonald.

  Now that we had a name, Joe would follow up by attempting to locate as many A. MacDonalds as he could identify in the New York City area.

  “What’s your plan if you find him?” I asked.

  “To figure out what he had to do with Sarah Wingate and her murder. I’ll just ask him.”

  Of course. That always worked.

  I hung up before I said something I would truly regret.

  CHAPTER 6

  The brownstone near the corner of 113th Street and Riverside Drive where the Bonhams lived was newly built, marked by ornamental iron filigree combined with patterns of red, yellow, and tan brick. Similar buildings throughout the Upper West Side were going up as fast as construction would allow, each one more elaborate than the last, in a real estate boom that seemingly had no end in sight. The city was expanding northward, and its growing economy enabled more and more people to afford what was being so rapidly built.

  Once inside the Bonham home, Isabella and I were taken through a passage behind the stairwell to a large, comfortable library to wait for Sarah’s friend. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves dominated the room, each filled with old books stuck in at odd angles. No doubt they were the source of the room’s musty smell. Mary Bonham did not keep us waiting long. A short and plump young woman, she had brown hair, a round face, and red, puffy eyes behind thick glasses. I noticed that she visibly relaxed upon seeing Isabella, and I silently thanked Alistair for his foresight in suggesting Isabella as a companion.

  “Our condolences,” I offered gently, after we had made the necessary introductions. “We appreciate your talking with us this afternoon; we realize this is a difficult time for you.”

  She nodded insensibly, but remembered her manners and asked if we cared for coffee or sandwiches. Though I was famished, I declined. I always felt it was inappropriate to eat or drink in these circumstances, as though this were a social visit. It was not, and I disliked having an
y pretense about that.

  I began by asking Mary a few simple questions about her family and the duration of her friendship with Sarah. Her responses—even to such simple questions—were so reluctant that I signaled Isabella to try. Perhaps she would have better success with this shy young girl. The risk, of course, was that she might not formulate the right questions, but I soon found myself appreciating her natural instincts. She first asked when Sarah came to live with the Bonhams.

  “Just over a year ago,” Mary said, pulling a green shawl tightly around her. “She came to us soon after last fall’s robbery.”

  “Can you tell us—”

  I cut off Isabella’s question with my own. “What robbery?”

  But I was too abrupt, and Mary recoiled from what she perceived as a rude reply. “I’m sorry,” I said, modifying my response, “I’m not familiar with that incident, and it could be important.” Then I waited, annoyed that I had overreacted.

  “Well,” she said, “it happened a year ago September, right after Labor Day. It’s the reason why Sarah moved here, since the Wingates wouldn’t hear of her living alone after the robbery.” She corrected herself quickly. “Of course, Sarah had never lived alone; Mrs. Gardner runs a respectable rooming house for young ladies who attend college. But it’s not the same as living with a family.”

  “We understand,” Isabella demurred before prompting her to get back on point. “And the robbery?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, almost breathlessly. “Sarah returned to her room one night and surprised a stranger rifling through her personal things. She screamed and the man left, but he made off with money and some jewelry.”

  “This man was caught and identified?” I asked.

  “Eventually, yes,” she said, “and Sarah recovered the jewelry, but not the money. That was long spent by the time the police arrested him.”