"M-m-mister... M-Mister Pinkerton... w-wh-what does this... what does this m-mean?"
"HOLD FAST, MR. POE!"
Pinkerton yanked the reins backward so hard and fast he nearly tore the bits from the bridles, causing the horses to rear up suddenly, and the carriage to careen sideways on the icy hard-pack. The buggy skidded to a sudden and violent stop, nearly tipping over on Poe's side.
The bolsters banged down on the opposite wheels, rattling Poe's teeth.
"Oh-dear-God-deliver-me!" Still gripping his flask of opium, the poet had his large head between his legs now, as though he suddenly were an ostrich hiding in the sand, praying for this monstrous intrusion to spare him.
"One moment please," Pinkerton said, hopping off the bench to the ground. His Wellingtons jangled as he reached for his sidearm tucked into the pigskin holster tied to his tree stump thigh. It was an old Maynard percussion pistol — a .67 calibre job — the same make General Washington had carried in the Great War of Independence nearly a century earlier.
Poe was peering through his fingers at the onslaught rolling toward them like a tide of fur and fangs. His heart rose into his throat. Fifty yards away now, and emerging from the trees, their killing breaths like engines.
"YAWP!"
The warning call barked out of Pinkerton as he thumbed a paper percussion cap into the breechblock. He lifted the long barrel into the cold air and squeezed off a shot into the black sky. In a bloom of spark the report shattered the night, made Poe's ears ring, and jerked Pinkerton's muscular arm.
It was as though the wave of beasts had broken against a beach. All at once, like a mad precision team, they skidded and convulsed to a stop, some of them yelping and immediately turning tail.
Poe glanced up from his sweaty palms in utter astonishment as the wolves abruptly retreated toward the darkness of the thicker woods. Within moments the tidal wave of menacing blackguard had dispersed.
"Curious phenomenon," Pinkerton commented as he shoved the pistol back into its sheathe. "Are ye well, Mr. Poe?"
Poe tried to offer up a reply but all he could manage was, "Oh... I... I... I haven't seen such... oh my... "
"Would ye believe that's the second occasion on which that's happened to me since the beginning of the troubles at the packing plant." Pinkerton was reaching under a canvas flap on the side of the buggy as he spoke, extracting a trail-worn saddle bag. "Fortunately I'm confident we're going to get to the truth of the matter when ye see what I've got in here." He was patting the side of the bag. "Come, Mr. Poe, I'll buy ye a pint and charge it to the county."
The Scotsman turned and starting trudging through the mud toward a squat wooden building in the distance, planted in the festering marshland beside the road. Poe strained his eyes to see the edifice. Constructed from logs of scorched walnut, it featured a broken-down sign above its door, illuminated by gaslight, barely visible in the fog: O'Shaunnesey's Tavern.
5.
"THE ADVENT OF THE DAGUERRIST"
9 March - 12:50 AM
Five days before that fateful meeting between Messrs. Pinkerton and Poe, the Scotsman breached a certain etiquette among caretakers of the dead. Perhaps this was due to the deputy's stubborn Scottish cranium being filled up with tales of mystery and imagination from the Poe canon. Or perhaps it was simply a vagary of the age, a passing of one epoch into another. Whatever the reason, though, when the knock came on Allan Pinkerton's door that frosty March morning, rousing both the deputy and his beloved Joan out of a deep winter's sleep, the accepted protocol at the sight of a murder was about to change.
The escort, a young man from the Ashland packing house crew, delivered the news in fits and starts in the Pinkerton kitchen, while Pinkerton pulled on his muddy field boots and splashed cold water on his face. Since Sheriff Bradley was still officially detained in Washington, Pinkerton was in charge of the town's constabulary; hence the young man was more than happy to fetch and convey the surly Scotsman at his convenience to the scene of the dastardly attack.
The ride out to Madison Street that morning passed in a blur of gaslight, mud, and wood smoke.
When Pinkerton arrived at the blood-soaked tableau along the moraine, something turned over inside him. In the purple dawn he saw the packing house men gathered in their black aprons on the ridge, gazing down at a slope strewn with the bloody viscera that once was their fellow butcher. An idea popped in Pinkerton's mind like the spark of a flint.
"Gentlemen!" he boomed, spitting vapor in the cold air. "I would appreciate it if none of ye moved!"
The onlookers froze like deer.
"Boy," Pinkerton murmured then to his companion. "Be a good lad and go fetch me the Daguerrist."
"The what, Sir?"
"The Daguerrist, the photograph maker. The one visiting Madam Pulaski's Museum."
The boy stared at the deputy for a moment, then gave a terse nod and trotted off.
Over the next fifteen minutes Pinkerton paced through the gloom, circling the periphery of the area in his grime-specked boots, pondering the devilish act that had precipitated this horrible carnage. As to rhyme or reason, Pinkerton was utterly perplexed. One thing, however, which ticked at the back of his thoughts like a clock, was the urge to record the features of the immediate landscape — the snow dappled mud around the remains, the texture of the path, the condition of the adjacent trees and any anomalies which might be visible to the naked eye. Could such observation lead to extrapolations about the perpetrator? Pinkerton was unsure. He was wandering into uncharted intellectual territory.
When the Daguerrist arrived Pinkerton was crouched at the top of the slope as if in supplication, staring at the ground. "Good evening, Mr. Brady," the Scotsman murmured, not taking his eyes off the icy, rubble-cluttered grade.
"Deputy, I cannot imagine why you have roused me from a deep morning slumber this day," the Daguerrist complained, balancing a heavy black trunk on his back, and awkwardly holding the long sticks of a tripod under his arm. His name was Matthew Brady, and he was a slender, handsome dandy with a luxurious mustache and a velvet black vested suit. "If this is some kind of joke, I must protest in the most vehement way that I am not amused."
Pinkerton looked up at the Daguerrist. "As you can see, Sir, this is no joke."
"My dear Deputy, you must understand that I am in fact not even from this area, am only passing through, and aside from that, I am accustomed to working only in my studio for —" All at once the photographer fell silent when he finally spied the gore streaked remains twenty feet away, now becoming visible in the lightening dawn. Brady made an attempt to say something else, stammered a little, swallowed deeply, then turned away, dropping his equipment into the snow.
Then he roared vomit into the mire, expelling his morning rashers and eggs.
The Scotsman rose, went over and patted the Daguerrist on the back. "All right, Sir, let it out. There's no shame in it."
"F-forgive me... I... I... ."
"All I require are a few simple photographs and you'll be on yer way."
Brady wiped his mouth, straightening back up. "I'm afraid there's not enough light." He sniffed and looked away. "And even if there were, I require complete stillness for at least ten minutes in order to expose the copper plates."
Pinkerton jerked a thumb at the corpse. "Sadly, Sir, this poor fella'll give ye no problems in the stillness department. As fer the light... " The Scotsman cupped his hands and bellowed up at the packing house crew. "Gents, if you please! A coupla tins o' kerosene on the double!"
They set up along the edge of the moraine, laying rags and old blankets along the gravel, then soaking the material with gallons of accelerant. Brady put his powder charge in the branches of a neighboring oak, aiming down it at the corpse, then positioning his tripod on the side of the hill. Pinkerton specified what part of the ground he wanted documented. Soon Brady was ready. Pinkerton gave the crew a nod, and they touched matches to the rags.
Fire licked along the ground, then bloomed in br
illiant rosettes of light. The moraine began to glow in magnesium bright yellow light. Pinkerton nodded at Brady, and the Daguerrist triggered the flash powder.
FFFFFFFFFFOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMPP!
In that single flash, history's first forensic photograph of a killer's footprints began to burn itself into a sheet of silver-plated copper.
Five days later, two brooding souls sat in the dim light of a deserted tavern, their coats over the backs of their chairs, their mugs of draft and bowls of hopping john, sowbelly and hardtack sitting untouched in front of them, as they stared at the pair of glass plates containing the ghostly, milky images of Brady's Daguerreotypes. In the photographs, a perpendicular trail of muddy footprints was visible next to the butcher's body. The footprints had clearly come from the woods.
"Look closely, Mr. Poe," Pinkerton urged, running a grimy thumbnail along the edge of the Daguerreotype. "But not too closely, as Dupin might say."
"I... I see... certainly evidence of a single assailant," the poet croaked. By now he was in the throes of a full blown laudanum drunk. The candle lit room spun. He wiped his feverish brow as he studied the plates.
"Excellent, Sir, I concur with ye fully. I would only add the appearance of heavy, crude leather soles suggests a male perpetrator."
Poe pointed a trembling finger. "And the way the body is contorted, I would hazard the poor soul must have turned to flee before the attack?"
"Aye, that seems to be the case."
"I gather now the value of such documentation," Poe commented earnestly, nodding at the golden tinted images, still glistening with iodine and salt. He felt a strange charge of energy in his gut now, piercing the wooziness, spurred on by the burgeoning friendship with this mysterious law man, this coarse, scabrous savant. God help him, but with each passing moment, Poe grew more and more fond of this Pinkerton fellow. "Mr. Pinkerton, you are inspired! These tintypes speak volumes — especially to those who know how and where to look!"
Pinkerton was smiling. "You flatter me, Sir. But the truth is, I am only extending the theories of the French constable in your tale."
Poe looked at him. "Was this unfortunate gentleman in the employ of the packing house?"
Pinkerton nodded and informed him that the victim — one Jasper Mullin — was indeed a regular at the plant, a clean-up man working alone in the outbuildings that evening.
"Did the man have kin?"
"No sir, unmarried... the resident of Killian's boarding house down in the levee district."
Poe thought about that for a moment while continuing to ponder the Daguerreotypes. "May I assume you've found no disgruntled creditors or holders of vendettas of any sort?"
The Scotsman shrugged. "The fella was a lonely sort, perhaps a bit of a simpleton. I cannot imagine a soul who would go to the trouble."
Poe looked hard at the faint image of footprints. He had to concentrate to keep the plates from blurring in his compromised vision. He dabbed his moist brow with a handkerchief, wiped his mustache. "Something odd about these prints, Mr. Pinkerton. Something not quite right."
"Pardon?" The Scotsman had suddenly become distracted. His attention had wandered to the open door across the room, the door to the innkeeper's kitchen. "I'm sorry, Sir... I did not catch that last bit. What was that?"
"The footprints," Poe said with the flick a nod toward the glass plates. "I cannot quite pinpoint the cause but something is amiss."
"Amiss?" Pinkerton kept staring at that great weather-warped oaken door. "How so?"
Poe pointed at the photograph. "Well, for one, they seem to spontaneously change their composition."
"Composition, Sir?" Pinkerton looked at the Daguerreotypes. "Come again?"
Poe ran a delicate fingernail along the glass surface above the footprints. "If you notice, the prints seem wide and flat here." He tapped the glass. "And here." Another tap. "But within a yard or so of the remains... they look as though they narrow. Do you see? They change shape."
"Jesus Mary and Joseph," Pinkerton uttered, noticing the change in the prints. "Right ye are, Mr. Poe. They seem to get skinnier." Pinkerton stared and stared, his brow beginning to furrow. "What do ye make of it?"
"I haven't the faintest notion," Poe admitted and let out a long sigh. He looked around the deserted tavern. The room was a cavernous, malodorous chamber the size of a dance hall, with plank floors, scattered tables, and giant worm-eaten beams running overhead. The air stank of rancid beer, sickening sweet tobacco, and the sweaty musk of highwaymen. A few congealed candles illuminated the room, casting a forlorn light that was almost tranquil. But there was something troubling about it as well. The place had completely cleared of all apparent humanity. Even the shabby little innkeeper and his portly barmaid of a daughter had vanished.
"Yer noticing it as well I see," Pinkerton murmured, indicating the empty tavern. "We seem to have frightened off the locals."
Poe looked back at the shape-shifting footprints. "I trust there is an explanation for these changing prints."
"Would it have something to do with the velocity of movement? The chase would have ended there," Pinkerton offered, pointing down at the image of Jasper Mullins' gruesome remains imprinted in iodine-bathed copper. "I'm assuming the speed and intensity could very well distort the shape of a footprint?"
"That is certainly one possible explanation," Poe replied, sounding a bit incredulous, pondering the Daguerreotype as best he could in his growing state of intoxication. "The brutality of the attack, the strength with which an assailant would produce such grisly affects... well, it quite obviously begs the question as to the nature of the assailant."
"Now I'm afraid yer intellect has once again passed me by," Pinkerton admitted.
"Look at the footprints again," Poe urged. He pointed his delicate index finger at the narrowing prints near the mangled corpse. "If all possibilities are considered, one must consider the remotest of all."
The Scotsman furrowed his brow for a moment, thinking about it. He fought the natural inclination of his mind to travel off the beaten path. Finally he lowered his voice as he spoke: "I can only conclude that what yer referrin' to is what ye would call a transformation."
Poe offered a lupine little smile. "Not exactly, Sir, although I must offer my compliments – the notion of a Loup Garou had not occurred to me until now."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Poe, the Loops-what?"
"Loup-Garou," the poet pronounced carefully. "The elders of Bohemia created such a legend. The Loups-Garoux were ostensibly shape-shifters. Werewolves. Half beast, half men, roaming the countryside, terrorizing villagers."
Pinkerton looked as though he were about to chortle. "Ye can't be serious, Mr. Poe."
"Fear not, Fair Constable," Poe said, painfully rising to his brittle, slender five-foot-ten-inch height. He stood there on watery knees for a moment, staring at the daguerreotype. "Contrary to the opinions of my critics, I am a man of science. As I am sure you yourself can lay claim."
The Scotsman smiled nervously, studying the thin, haunted scribe. "I'm not certain I would be so bold, but please, continue, Mr. Poe, I am intrigued beyond all words."
"These deeds are decidedly earthly, I would venture, however unnatural they may be in their commission."
"Go on, Mr. Poe."
The poet reached down and lifted one of the copper-plated sheets of glass against a mug, his gaze locked onto that murky ghost of an image. His blood coursed in his neck. He felt light-headed. "Legitimate deductions…" he murmured, almost to himself.
"Say again, Sir?" Pinkerton blurted. "I did not catch that last bit."
Poe began to back away from the daguerreotype, one feeble step at a time, keeping his eyes locked onto the image. He felt almost buoyant. "It was something Dupin used to say."
"What was that, Sir?"
"Things which are complex or inexplicable," Poe muttered, staring at the daguerreotype, "are often mistaken for profound. Dupin said that in 'Rue Morgue.'"
"Are ye all right, Mr. Poe? Ye look
as though yer not feeling too spritely."
"Your killer, Sir," Poe suddenly uttered with great urgency. He stood now at least twenty feet away from the picture, the room draped in flickering candle-shadows. At this distance, the trail of footsteps in the daguerreotype were as small as peppercorns, and all once the aspect of them that had eluded Poe – the simple, unadorned nature of these footsteps in the snow – suddenly revealed itself. Poe's voice dropped to a whisper. "The key is not where the footsteps went."
Across the room, the Scotsman sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. "What is it, Mr. Poe? What do you see?"
Poe's scalp crawled with chills. It was odd to think of that trifle literary creation as real, as an authority on anything, but that is precisely what Dupin had become to him at this strange and eerie juncture. "The key is where they came from… the glen, the wooded glen. The wilderness."
Pinkerton slowly strode, spurs jangling, over to the poet. "All due respect, Mr. Poe, any half-wit could see they came from the woods. The posse even scoured the trees from 39th to the Widow Brown's. What are ye sayin' exactly?"
The poet looked at him. "They didn't go far enough. Those footsteps do not merely come from the forest, Mr. Pinkerton. From the nimble quality of their gait, the straightness apparent only from a distance…they do more than merely come from the glen. They are one with it. They hale from it."
Now a long moment of silence passed, so full of portents it seemed to hang like a fog in the room. At last Pinkerton mustered a soft pronouncement delivered with such gravity that Poe could feel it auger into his eardrums. "Then, Sir, we must go there at once."
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