Murder on the Last Frontier

by Cathy Pegau

  “All right,” she capitulated. “But will you pass along information for me to use in an article for the local paper? It’s possible other girls could be in danger.”

  Michael narrowed his gaze at her, lips pressed tight beneath the dark blond of his moustache. “You’ll only pester me if I say no, won’t you?”

  Charlotte couldn’t help her smile. “You know me well.”

  He grunted in acknowledgment. “Fine. I’ll give you what I can, if I think it’ll help keep others safe.”

  Which, in protective big brother parlance, probably meant a whitewashing of details. But Charlotte didn’t push it. Not yet, anyway.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll wait here for you, or back at your place, if that’s okay. I can get started on lunch.”

  He leaned closer and lowered his voice. The earnestness in his eyes worried her. “Don’t talk to anyone about it, Charlotte. Understand?”

  “Of course not.”

  Michael turned on his heel and strode down the boardwalk, his knee-high boots thudding with controlled urgency.

  Charlotte lingered over her coffee, glancing out the window with the hope of catching Michael on his way back. After more than half an hour of ignoring the toast she’d ordered, despite not being hungry, and letting her coffee grow cold, she decided to go on to his office. It was a little early to have lunch, but she could see what he had on his shelves and in his larder. She needed to do something to occupy the time.

  The rain had picked up, as had the wind. Not bothering to button her coat for such a short dash, Charlotte was nearly soaked through by the time she’d crossed the street and hurried into Michael’s office. She pushed the door closed and let her eyes adjust to the dim light coming through the single window before crossing to the inner door.

  The exam room was pitch dark. She felt along the wall for a switch.

  The overhead light came on to reveal a high wooden table, the end leaves folded down. Gleaming counters and glass-front cabinets along the walls revealed the accoutrements of Michael’s practice. It was a clean, neat space that showed her brother’s attention to detail and dedication, and surely set patients at ease.

  Another door on the left led to his living quarters. Charlotte went in and turned on the light. The bed near the door was neatly made. A woodstove in the far corner ticked and popped as it cooled from the dying fire. She kept her coat on against the damp chill settling into the room as she added more wood. The embers within the iron box quickly ignited the dry logs, and soon a merry fire was burning.

  That would do for heat, but what about cooking? Across the room, a narrow coal stove and a small enamel sink were the entirety of Michael’s kitchen. Along the walls, shelves held canned and jarred foods, tins of saltines, and something called Sailor Boy pilot bread. Cabinets above and below the sink held more food as well as cooking utensils, cups, and plates. A small square table and two straight-back chairs made up the dining area. It was a shabby room, but neat enough, and the braided rug on the wood floor looked clean.

  Charlotte set a kettle of water on the woodstove and surveyed the shelves. Mostly home-canned salmon, by the looks of it, along with some jams and jellies, and commercial cans of vegetables and local clams. Not much variety, as he’d warned her. She took down a can of salmon and found a few spices in the cupboard. She pried open the tin of pilot bread.

  “Huh. Hardtack.” That would make a decent vehicle for a salmon salad concoction.

  Michael’s voice carried in from the front office. “Bring her in here, Eddington.”

  Charlotte froze. Her. They were bringing Darcy in for the autopsy. Lunch preparation forgotten, she quietly walked to the door leading into the examination room. It hadn’t closed all the way when she’d entered, and through the gap, Charlotte saw Michael raising the leaves of the exam table.

  Deputy Eddington carried in the tarp-wrapped body and laid her down with a gentleness that made Charlotte’s throat close. He was a big man, and Darcy’s body seemed so small by comparison, even under the heavy canvas.

  “That’s fine, Deputy,” Michael said. “I’ll make my report and deliver it soon. We’ll want to have her interred as soon as possible.”

  Eddington straightened, about to respond, and caught Charlotte peeking at them. She held her breath. Was he going to say something to Michael? She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  Then why are you spying on them and not announcing your presence?

  He stared at her for a moment longer before answering Michael. “I’m sure Brigit and the girls’ll want to arrange something. Don’t think Darcy had any family in these parts.”

  “No,” Michael said softly. He reached out to touch the tips of his fingers to the canvas. “They were all she had.”

  Eddington glanced down at Michael’s hand, then his gaze flicked up to Charlotte again.

  “We chatted some when I went to check on the girls.” Michael lifted his head. He saw the deputy looking past him and turned. Seeing Charlotte at the door, his face flushed red. “What are you doing here?”

  Charlotte stepped into the exam room. “I told you I’d come back to make us lunch.” She nodded toward the table. “You’re going to be busy this afternoon. I want to help.”

  Michael opened his mouth, but Eddington spoke over him. “You don’t want to be here for this, Miss Brody.”

  “No, but I’m guessing neither do you, Deputy.” Eddington’s lips pressed together. “I can help my brother by taking notes, and you can continue your investigation.”

  He held her gaze, but addressed Michael. “Doc?”

  Charlotte knew Michael would be harder to convince, but with Eddington on her side her brother might relent. “You’ll need someone to help prepare her body for the undertaker. Better a woman for that, don’t you think?”

  It was a stretch of an argument. Would he bite?

  Michael grimaced. He removed his mackinaw and suit jacket, draping them over the lone chair in the room, then unbuttoned his cuffs before answering. “This isn’t going to be pretty, Charlotte. It was a brutal attack.”

  Charlotte’s mouth dried, and her stomach tightened. “I was there at the 1913 Washington parade, where women were beaten for merely stating their desire for equality. I spoke to some of those imprisoned with Alice Paul at the Occoquan workhouse in Virginia, days after their release. I heard the stories of their abuse, saw the broken bones, bruises, and scars, Michael.”

  “This is different,” he said.

  “I know.” She swallowed hard. “Someone hurt this girl, and I want to help find out who.”

  Her brother gave the deputy a beseeching look, hoping for support even though he could have easily told her no himself. Eddington shrugged and started for the outer office.

  “Your call, Doc,” he said. “I have a killer to find. Let me know what your exam shows.”

  The exterior door closed hard, shaking the cabin. Charlotte kept her expression sober, but inside she was pleased as punch. Between not calling her out for spying from the other room and his neutrality on her providing help, Eddington seemed to be on her side. Though for the life of her, Charlotte couldn’t figure out why.

  “Fine,” Michael said. “Let’s get some lunch, and then we’ll start.”

  The warm feeling of the deputy’s support fizzled like a Fourth of July sparkler in the rain. Charlotte’s stomach churned. “Lunch? Do you think eating beforehand is such a good idea?”

  “If you’re not up for it . . .”

  His implication—no, challenge—put steel in her spine. “I have some salmon out. Let’s eat, then get to work.”

  Charlotte found it hard to concentrate on creating conversation with Darcy’s body waiting for them in the next room, and Michael was lost in thought much of the time. She picked at her food, eating little more than a pilot bread cracker. It was something bland to settle her already jittery stomach, and better than nothing.

  They stepped into the exam room, and he continued to
the outer office to secure the front door.

  “I don’t think we need anyone dropping by unannounced,” he said upon returning. “My patients would probably rather not think about this aspect of my job.”

  He squatted down in front of a cabinet and opened the door. Out came several glass jars with metal screw-top lids, a tray of shiny metal instruments, and a folded piece of black cloth. Atop the cloth was a pair of black rubber gloves.

  “How many autopsies have you done?” Charlotte asked.

  “More than a few.” The sour look on his face told her how he felt about doing them at all. “Most causes of death are obvious, and my findings merely confirm that someone died of natural causes, accidentally, or was shot or stabbed.”

  Michael secured his sleeves with garters, then pulled on the black gloves. Charlotte helped tie the rubberized apron over his clothing. He opened a drawer and passed her a fountain pen, a jar of ink, and a form with the Alaska Territory seal and CORONER’S REPORT at the top.

  “Just write what I say. I’ll have to stop now and again to draw diagrams or pictures.” He caught her eye when he turned around. “Unless you want to do that too?”

  Charlotte’s mouth dried. “I can’t draw.”

  His wry smile did nothing to alleviate the heaviness of the task ahead. “I know. Don’t worry. You just keep your back to the table. But to be on the safe side . . .” He withdrew a tin of Vicks VapoRub from the drawer. Opening it, he dabbed some inside his nostrils. “I suggest you do the same. The aroma of internal organs can be overwhelming.”

  Suppressing her grimace, Charlotte dipped her finger into the camphor and mentholated ointment and spread some under her nose. Her eyes teared at the bite of the strong scent; she recalled having the gooey stuff spread across her chest as a child fighting a cold. After a minute or so, she became accustomed to it and nodded to Michael that she was ready.

  She sat on the edge of the chair, the form on the counter that ran along the wall of the exam room. Positioned with her back to the table, head bent, she tapped excess ink into the jar and readied herself for Michael’s narrative.

  “The subject,” he began, his tone solemn, “is Miss Darcy Dugan, approximately twenty-two years of age. Miss Dugan was employed by Miss Brigit O’Brien as a . . .” He coughed, but Charlotte couldn’t say if it was real or out of a need to find the right word. “As a lady of the evening. She is—was—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat again. “She was known to me over the last year from biweekly health exams. I last saw Miss Dugan yesterday afternoon at three. She had complained of exhaustion and a general feeling of malaise. She refused a comprehensive examination. The abbreviated exam I performed revealed a slight pallor of her skin and somewhat elevated heart rate, but no other indications of disease. I prescribed rest, fluids, and iron pills.”

  Michael didn’t speak too quickly for her to keep up, but Charlotte was glad for her shorthand classes in high school.

  “Miss Dugan,” he continued, “was found at eight this morning by Mr. Paul Avery while he was out with his dog in the copse of spruce where Dock Road and the railroad tracks meet just beyond Council Avenue. There doesn’t appear to be any disturbance or damage to the body by dogs, bears, or other scavengers.”

  Charlotte lifted her head and half turned toward her brother. “Bears this close to town?”

  Michael had his back to her, blocking Darcy’s body. He looked over his shoulder at Charlotte. “Black bears wander through all the time. Mostly at dawn or dusk, but they’re active at night as well, so be careful if you’re out and about. Ready to continue?”

  She nodded.

  “Miss Dugan was partially covered in duff, as if the killer kicked the debris onto her. A short, thick branch, believed to be the principal weapon in the attack, was found nearby.”

  Charlotte paused in her writing and interrupted him again. “A weapon?”

  Michael now stood near Darcy’s head, hands resting lightly on Darcy’s shoulders, ready to lift the canvas. The strain lines around his eyes and mouth seemed deeper. “Yes. We’ll run tests later, but it’s most certainly covered in blood.”

  He started to unwrap the tarp. The rustling of the heavy material made Charlotte’s mouth dry with apprehension. As though of their own volition, her eyes jumped to the young woman’s face, a perfect view of her left-side profile. No one could mistake Darcy for being asleep. Her eyes were half open, and thick blood was smeared under the nose and across the slack mouth. Tendrils of reddish blond hair draped over the edge of the table, but it was matted, wet and black, close to her skull. Dirt spattered onto the floor.

  Michael sighed, his face pinched with purpose and something Charlotte couldn’t quite determine. Whatever it was, she didn’t envy her brother the terrible task ahead.

  Charlotte’s stomach clenched like a fist, forcing what little she’d eaten for lunch back up toward her throat. She swallowed and returned her attention to the form. Being in the same room was proving to be more difficult than she’d anticipated. She had no desire to see the injuries inflicted on Darcy, if she could help it, but the need to know what, exactly, had happened challenged her ability to keep her back to the table.

  “Miss Dugan is wearing a blue dressing gown over a white chemise, undergarments, and black boots. Her boots are loosely tied and covered in mud, as are her clothes. The lower half of her gown and chemise are darker, perhaps due to the rains we’ve had,” he said with cool formality that belied his earlier emotion. “There is severe bruising on the face. Swelling of the left eye, with a five-inch laceration along the orbital bone, suggests the assailant was right-handed. There’s discoloration at the throat as well. The skull has been crushed in on both sides.”

  Charlotte heard Michael move around the table, but dared not lift her head. He picked up the sketchbook and pencil set out on the counter. Of course he had to provide pictorial records. There was a resident photographer, Michael had said at lunch, but he was out of town. The scratching of lead on the thick paper seemed loud in the small room. Charlotte breathed deeply, and a renewed burst of camphor burned in her nose.

  After a few minutes of sketching, Michael set the book and pencil down. The tray of instruments near Charlotte rattled when he reached for a pair of blunt-nosed scissors. She glanced up, careful to keep her gaze on him.

  “I’m going to remove her clothing.” He spoke as if remarking on the color of paint, but she noted his unusual paleness. Michael might be going about the postmortem in an outwardly detached manner, but it bothered him, that much was certain. He’d said he’d performed autopsies before. Was he always so disturbed or was this one different somehow? Because Darcy had been a patient? Because of the manner of her death? “We’ll cover her with some blankets or sheets I have here for the undertaker.”

  “Do you need my help?” Charlotte was relieved when he shook his head. She tried not to think about the further indignity Darcy had to face of being handled by yet another stranger. “When will the undertaker arrive?”

  Michael shrugged. “Later today. He’ll get things from Miss Brigit for the burial.”

  The sound of his moving Darcy’s body about continued for several minutes.

  “I’ll be God damned,” Michael said in a harsh whisper.

  Charlotte rose, startled by his expletive. Darcy’s folded dressing gown was under the table. Michael stood near her lower legs, staring down at her with wide eyes. Charlotte followed his gaze and immediately wished she hadn’t. The bottom half of Darcy’s chemise was dark with blood, not rain or mud.

  “What happened?” Charlotte asked, her throat tight. “Was she stabbed?”

  Michael shook his head. “We didn’t see any cuts in her clothing when we rolled her onto the tarp. I think she hemorrhaged.”

  Charlotte glanced down again, curiosity momentarily overtaking repugnance. Darcy’s bared arms were bruised. Several fingers were bent at odd angles. She’d attempted to defend herself against the blows, or perhaps fight back.

&nb
sp; You poor girl.

  Mud and water had seeped through her dressing gown to the cotton undergarments. Despite her revulsion, Charlotte peered closer at the muck on Darcy’s clothing. “Look at this, Michael.” She pointed to the mud stain. “The edges here are too perfectly curved to be random.”

  He bent closer, frowning. “I’d say it’s a shoe print. Or a boot. Difficult to tell. But there’s more than one, for certain.”

  Charlotte straightened. “Most of the mud that came through to the chemise and knickers is concentrated on her lower body. The killer was aiming for her stomach.”

  Michael’s already pale complexion turned ashen. “I think you’re right.” He reached for the scissors and began cutting the front of Darcy’s chemise. “Faster and easier this way.”

  Folding back the thin material, Michael exposed her breasts and belly. The discoloration of her abdomen confirmed her attacker had focused his attention there. It took a bit more effort to cut through the blood-soaked lower half, and when Michael revealed the area of her hips and upper thighs, both he and Charlotte startled. Charlotte’s body went cold.

  Darcy’s smallclothes were nearly black with blood.

  “Go sit down, Charlotte.” Michael’s roughened voice seemed to come from far away. She remained standing. He came around the table and, using the insides of his forearms to avoid touching her with the exam gloves, gently urged her back to the counter. “I need you to record this. Please.”

  Charlotte didn’t sit, instead positioning herself so she could watch him out of the corner of her eye while she wrote. Michael gave her a long look, though he himself appeared as shaky as she felt. Satisfied she was as removed from the proceedings as she would get, he stood between the table and Charlotte to block her view as he continued.

  “Severe bruising of the lower abdomen and thighs. Hemorrhaging from the—” His voice caught, but he recovered quickly. “Hemorrhaging from the vaginal canal indicates ruptured organs. No other exterior injuries evident. I will commence the internal exam.”