by S A Falconi
Naturally, Donaghue was reluctant to join Maclellan’s band of lawlessness, but in a land as harsh as the west, bad company was far better than no company.
Donaghue’s eyes returned to the newspaper before him, the hatred of the article’s author roiling within him. But Donaghue’s former profession still had a grip over his general curiosities, so he ignored the identity of the ignoramus that wrote the article and dove into the text as if it was the official report on the incident.
At approximately 4 o’clock this morning, a woman was found dead in the alley neighboring the infamous Hanbury House on Hanbury Avenue. Rather than staying to investigate the crime scene, the Denver Police officer who discovered the woman returned to the precinct to report the incident.
When police and investigators finally arrived at the crime scene hours later, they discovered the woman had nearly been decapitated by her attacker. Sources also reveal that the woman was sexually violated by means that in no way can be detailed in this public forum.
What this reporter can and will comment on is the general lackluster attitude that the Denver Police Department brings to this investigation. Not only is this poor victim a woman, sources also reveal that she is in fact a harlot. Given the police department’s typical attitude towards such classes of people, this reporter can only assume that this woman’s slayer will go undiscovered. Along with this assumption, we then must assume that no woman of the working class is safe within the confines of the city. This reporter views not just as his journalistic duty to reveal this information, but his moral duty as well.
Donaghue felt the drunken rage surging through his being as every one of Billing’s words slithered into his brain. Without a second thought, Donaghue crumpled the newspaper into a ball and threw it against the wall behind the bar.
“I don’t know why you bother reading that filth, Pete.”
Donaghue turned and saw Ed Maclellan standing behind him. As colossal as Ed was, he was equally as discreet.
“Sorry, boss,” Donaghue muttered as he turned back to face the bar.
Maclellan placed his enormous paw on Donaghue’s back before taking a seat at the bar. Maclellan reached in front of Donaghue for the bottle of bourbon, picked it up momentarily, and replaced it on the bar.
“Hell, Pete,” Maclellan uttered, “It ain’t even noon yet and you’re already full as a tick.”
Donaghue shook his head reproachfully, not at himself as he should have done, but at the thought of T.G. Billing.
“Can’t stand that four-flusher, boss.”
“You know what,” Maclellan began, “It ain’t gonna do you a damn bit of good drowning yourself in the bottle over that swine. He’ll get his in due time, don’t you worry.”
Donaghue shook his head again, his murky mind drifting back to the murder.
“You read his article, boss?”
Maclellan grumbled in affirmation.
“You think he’s right about the victim being scarlet?”
Maclellan shrugged. “God only knows. Police must be leaning that way though.”
“Why you say that?”
“That detective came nosin’ around here earlier. Asked if the girl was one of mine.”
Donaghue’s eyes widened. “What’d you say?”
“Does this look like a whore house, Detective?” Maclellan chuckled at the irony of his statement. “This is one of the premier saloons west of the Mississippi, I says. You wanna start investigatin’ the brothels, that’s fine, but I can tell ya ain’t one of my girls a mab.”
Donaghue sneered brashly. “And he believed that?”
“Don’t matter if he did or not. I got Chapman and his beat officers so greased up I could’a killed the broad myself and got away with it.”
Donaghue glanced at Maclellan queerly.
“Relax, you skittish fice. You of all people should know by now, I ain’t ever killed a soul.”
Donaghue rolled his eyes and remarked sardonically, “That’s reassuring.”
Maclellan sighed and stood. “I just hope this mess doesn’t hurt business is all. Although, so long as this killer doesn’t soak up all the gold and silver in them hills, I don’t think people will give one damn over the other.”
Donaghue nodded slowly in agreement.
“Now,” Maclellan continued, “I need ya sobered up before this evening. Why don’t you go get some shut eye?”
Donaghue shook his head as he stood from the bar. “Nah, I need some air is all.”
Before he turned to exit though, he reached back across the bar and grabbed the bottle of bourbon. Donaghue didn’t take more than three steps before Maclellan quickly snatched the bottle out of his hand.
“Your friend stays with me,” Maclellan remarked.
Donaghue raised his eyebrows smartly in response before exiting the saloon.
Outside, Hanbury Avenue was bustling with its usual daytime activity. Horsemen trotted by and wagons bounded along the mud-baked roadway. Glancing to his right, he could see the commotion that once filled the alley had subsided excepting the few police officers that were still investigating the crime scene. Donaghue took a step to his left, but with the curiosity of his former profession once again overcoming him, he spun around and quietly strolled toward the alley.
At first, he didn’t recognize any of the officers sniffing around the area. As he closed in on the alley though, one man in particular caught his attention. The man was a shadowy, lanky figure who was examining an area away from the others as if he was less interested in the area itself and more interested in simply being a recluse. His head was cast downward as he strolled methodically back and forth. To the ignorant eye, the man would’ve appeared to be engrossed in the area he was inspecting. Donaghue knew better though. He knew the tendencies of this queer individual and knew that the man was inspecting the area as closely as a blindman inspecting a book. When Donaghue was within a few feet of the man, in fact, he still did not perceive his intruder.
“Good afternoon, Detective Abernathe.”
The man’s head snapped upward in shock and his hand went immediately to the revolver holstered on his hip.
Donaghue chuckled drunkenly, adding, “Good thing I’m not the ripper or you’d be as dead as that poor girl.”
The other officers rushed over once they saw the detective reach for his pistol.
Donaghue raised his hands unthreateningly as he said, “Relax, gentlemen, just a concerned citizen.”
The officers ignored Donaghue’s reassurance though and aimed their firearms at his head.
“Really,” Donaghue added, “I come with no hostility. Tell them, Frederick.”
The others looked at Abernathe confusedly. Abernathe, despite his own confusion with the situation, nodded in agreement.
Turning back to face Donaghue, Abernathe inquired, “What are you doing here, Pete?”
“Now, now,” Donaghue slurred, “this is a public place, is it not? In fact, this is my place of employment. I suppose I should ask what you are doing here?”
“Conducting an investigation, now please vacate so that we may continue.”
“Any promising leads?” Donaghue prodded. “Suspects perhaps?”
“Leave, Mr. Donaghue,” Abernathe growled, emphasizing Donaghue’s demoted title.
“Pardon me, Detective, but is this murder not a concern of the public good? And I, as you well know, am a member of such public.”
“Officer O’Brian. Officer Carlson. Please see that Mr. Donaghue finds his way back to the saloon. I’m sure there’s a bottle of whiskey that’s missing him.”
Donaghue lunged at Abernathe vengefully, but the detective stealthily eluded the attack and watched Donaghue stumble face-first onto the ground. The two officers rushed over to Donaghue, locked his arms behind his back, and held him in the dirt.
“Now, Mr. Donaghue,” Abernathe uttered as he approached, “you may either choose to leave this crime scene on your own free will or we will arrest you for interfering with
this investigation. Which do you choose?”
Donaghue stopped struggling and the officers lifted him from the ground.
“Have we a deal?” Abernathe inquired patronizingly.
Donaghue nodded slowly. The officers released Donaghue’s arms. Embarrassment beginning to overcome him, Donaghue slowly ambled away from the crime scene.
“Say, Pete,” Abernathe exclaimed. “Perhaps I should have you come to the morgue to identify the body. After all, nobody knows the harlots in this town better than you.”
Donaghue’s drunkenness evaporated in an instant as he spun on his heel and charged at the detective. Abernathe attempted to dodge the attack, but Donaghue’s sudden lucidity proved too great for Abernathe’s agility. Donaghue balled his left fist and plowed it into the side of Abernathe’s face. Just as Donaghue saw the detective crumple like a sack of rotten wheat, one of the other officers slammed his nightstick against the back of Donaghue’s skull. Donaghue’s vision instantly blackened and he crumpled to the ground.
“Damn it,” Abernathe grumbled, pressing his hand to his swelling cheek.
“You alright, Detective?” Officer Carlson inquired indifferently.
“Do I look alright, you ingrate?”
“No, sir.”
Abernathe set his forearm on the ground and pushed himself upward. His jaw was locked with pain and he could feel the throb of his heartbeats in his temple. Donaghue’s a drunk son of a bitch, Abernathe thought, but he certainly has the brawn of a bull. Although he’d never admit it completely, Abernathe wished he possessed just a pinch of that temperament. There were times, although quite rare, when a brutish disposition was the best means of interrogation and persuasion. Abernathe lacked all sense of physical grit though. He was an intellectual man, a fox that relied on cunning alone for survival. Such a spirit had the tendency to disadvantage a man in his line of work. Lucky for him though, the press had created such an outrage over Donaghue’s brutality and drunkenness that Abernathe’s pacifism was accepted wholeheartedly by the city.
Abernathe looked up and down Hanbury Avenue as he bore his weight on his legs and stood. “Anybody see what happened?” he asked the officers.
They shook their heads apathetically.
“Does it matter?” Carlson asked. “After all, it’s Donaghue.”
“Yeah,” Abernathe muttered, rubbing his cheek. “But the press’ll take any slop they can to smear on us. Even if it is a drunk disgrace of a man.”
“We gonna leave him here?” O’Brian inquired.
“Nah, don’t do that.” Abernathe glanced around as he considered his options. He had no desire to arrest Donaghue despite his assault on a law enforcement officer. He just wanted to get him out of his way. “Drag him into the brothel. Maclellan can deal with him.”
The officers grasped each of Donaghue’s arms and dragged him along the gravel toward the Hanbury House.
Abernathe called out to them, “While you’re at it, get me a cold steak to keep my face from swelling more than it already has.”
~
Donaghue awoke with a headache that would’ve brought a bear to its knees. Just the movement of his eyelids opening brought a throb to his skull. Wherever he was, it was dark and reeked of cheap perfume. The stench magnified his headache tenfold and he found himself stumbling out of the bed in which he lay. He cautiously navigated the foreign room, bumping his outstretched hands along the contours of what must’ve been a chest of drawers. He hoped there weren’t any foreign objects or obstructions on the floor into which he might jam his foot. Insult to injury, he thought. He discovered a circular doorknob in the black void, turned it, and opened the passage.
The hallway into which he stepped was only a lighter shade of pitch than the room, but the dim glow of candlelight trickled up the staircase in the distance. Donaghue made his way to the staircase. Commotion from the first floor became more audible, a commotion that was all too familiar to him.
The stairway dropped into an inconspicuous side passage on the main level. A grimy miner with his arm slumped over a young woman’s shoulders approached drunkenly.
“I ain’t had no bath in months,” the beast grumbled.
Although probably true in its literal meaning, the statement, Donaghue knew, had far different connotations. The girl the miner was with was one of Ed Maclellan’s bath girls, a title that didn’t even hint at the girl’s primary duties.
“Hello, Pete,” the girl greeted apathetically.
Donaghue nodded in return. The girl’s name was Florence. She’d been working for Ed for only a few months and already the work proved to be caustic on her innocence. She’d never worked before coming out to Denver with her husband to seek their fortunes in the silver mines, nor did she have any intentions of working either. A foolishly placed stick of dynamite proved to change that intention abruptly though. Fifteen men total were trapped in that shallow mine shaft, Florence’s husband being one of them. It took the rest of the crew a week to dig them out. By that time, naturally, the men were thoroughly asphyxiated. When told that her husband was dead, she refused to believe it. She made them take her to the site and show her his corpse; only then did reality strike. They barely had any money to begin with, so when Florence was officially widowed, she was left to financially fend for herself. Colorado was civilized only in the vaguest of definitions, and for a woman in such a society, options for work were limited. She couldn’t sew a lick. In fact, she possessed no natural skills or talents of any kind excepting, of course, the talent that Ed Maclellan referred to as the God-given ability of a woman to bring a man company and comfort. And so she came to work at the Hanbury House selling her innocence for the sake of her stomach.
Donaghue could never bring himself to take company with such a woman. Even with his distorted morality, such company felt divinely offensive. Florence was one of the only women at the house that Donaghue hadn’t received services from at some point though. Just as Abernathe stated earlier, Donaghue had a particular proclivity for women of the working class.
The hallway opened up into the main saloon of the Hanbury House, which was bustling with card games, wagers, heavy tobacco smoke, strong liquor, and brash conversation. Donaghue saw Ed’s hulking form behind the bar and approached him.
“’Bout time you woke up,” Maclellan uttered. “Thought maybe that yell’a detective got the best of ya.”
“Lucky shot is all.”
Maclellan snorted smartly. “Sure.”
Donaghue rubbed his forehead.
“Need a drink?”
“More than ever.”
Maclellan grabbed a bottle of brandy from the shelf behind him and placed it on the bar in front of Donaghue.
Donaghue took the bottle and asked, “How long was I out?”
“Few hours is all. You up to work?”
Donaghue pulled several large gulps from the bottle before answering. “Always.”
“Good.” A few moments passed before Maclellan said, “Chief Chapman came by for you earlier.”
Donaghue grumbled. “He say why?”
Maclellan shook his head. “Jus’ said he needed to talk to you.”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with what happened earlier,” Donaghue replied sardonically.
“You never know, he may wanna give you your job back.”
Donaghue rolled his eyes and took several gulps from the brandy bottle again. “That’ll be the day. He almost got fired because of me.”
Maclellan nodded. “He can’t help but like you, Pete.”
“Not any more… not now.”
“You think he prefers that weasel Abernathe over you?”
Donaghue smirked. “Harold would prefer a one-legged whore over Abernathe.”
Maclellan chuckled, replying, “Ain’t that the truth.”
III.
Donaghue walked down the dusty walkway of 18th Street early the next morning as he wondered what the hell the chief wanted to speak with him about. Certainly it had nothing t
o do with his scuffle with Abernathe the day before. If there was a problem, Donaghue would’ve spent the night in a jail cell. The thoughts only perplexed Donaghue more. It had been several years since Donaghue had a civilized conversation with his former boss. Harold knew better than to be seen by the public consorting with Donaghue. The former friendship between Chief Chapman and Donaghue was well-known among the press, the public, and the mayor’s office. It was this friendship that nearly cost the chief his own position. In fact, the only factor that kept the star on Chapman’s chest was his compulsory agreement with Mayor Speer to dismantle the corruption that was rampant in the Denver Police Department. The mayor made it quite clear though that one thing would instantly nullify this agreement – if Chapman was ever seen with Donaghue.
Donaghue stood before the omnipotent steps of the police precinct. The last time he set foot on those steps was when Abernathe and other fellow officers escorted him out of the building and presented him as a sacrifice to a pack of ravenous journalists and disgusted citizens. Donaghue could still feel the saliva as it splattered against his face and shirt. The questions from the press rattled in his memory. The same questions they’d asked repeatedly throughout the course of the investigation. Was he an alcoholic? Was he a womanizer? Did he think he was above the law? Was he working with the organized crime bosses that were robbing the city of its innocence? None of these questions roused more fury within his bosom though than the one asked by that prim, gluttonous imp, T.G. Billing:
