The Eye of the Devil

by S A Falconi

  Donaghue nodded understandingly. The buried bitterness that once weighed on Donaghue was lightened slightly. Chapman was still a dear friend despite everything that had previously ensued. He was still a man of character, not the character that big wigs like Mayor Speer held dear or the character that swindlers like T.G. Billing proclaimed. Just character as simple as the prairie that etched it.

  But that sure as hell didn’t mean that Donaghue wasn’t going to investigate his wife’s murder though. Chapman might’ve been a man of character, but Abernathe was a snake as devilish as the serpent Christ encountered in the desert. There was only one man who was going to track this killer down.

  ~

  Detective Abernathe strolled down Champa Street early the next morning as he made his way to the precinct. He preferred walking over riding his colt if such an inclination could be obliged. It somehow afforded him the time and facility to collect his thoughts, a vital function for a man who thrived on solitude and introspection. After all, that was the whole point of abandoning Chicago for Denver. Chicago, the Slaughterhouse of the World – an alias that Abernathe thought had a peculiar figurative meaning. Naturally, the thousands of swine decimated each week by the filth-ridden packing houses appropriately titled the metropolis’s purpose in life. However, the slaughter extended far beyond the stockyards that rested upon the swamps reeking of shikaakwa, that filthy wild onion whose distinctly garlic scent burrowed into your nostrils as densely as the stench of livestock piss and manure. That wasn’t the root of Abernathe’s detestation of Chicago though. He despised the utter chaos of the place. People were packed into the underdeveloped city as tightly as their livestock counterparts, particularly the foreigners who couldn’t speak English no less provide for their families. Crime had become the new shikaakwa of Chicago – theft, murder, and naturally, the exploitation of labor. Chicago was a nightmare for an introverted lawman. He considered working for Pinkerton on several occasions, but the private investigative agency was becoming increasingly involved in the budding labor strikes of Chicago. Eventually, Abernathe stopped lying to himself. He hated Chicago, plain and simple. He loved his work but needed a setting that more appropriately suited his demeanor.

  It was too early in the morning for the Sun to even consider rising. The streets of East Denver were vacant, but the streets of Abernathe’s mind were bustling. He mulled over the details of the murder obsessively. Every blemish on the woman’s body, the ghoulish and the typical. The bonnet that lay on the ground beside her, placed rather than haphazardly tossed aside. The scene was staged, that was clear. The blood stains on the dress certainly revealed that. If only the greenhorn patrolman hadn’t pulled her skirts down. Save her decency? Abernathe scoffed at the nativity of the statement. Nothing of humanity was decent, certainly not this woman. Despite what the papers had spread though, Abernathe didn’t believe she was a harlot. He couldn’t explain why, at least not in speech, but something told him the crime wasn’t as impulsive as a whore crossing the wrong beast. There was something entirely preemptive, evil in fact.

  His mind returned to the hiked skirts. If the scene was staged, then what was the murderer trying to depict with the skirts hiked and the woman’s legs spread eagle for all the city to see? Not that such details mattered anyways. What mattered was what she was killed with and how it was done. It was a blade of some variation, but discovering the type of blade could very well be the trail to their killer. The wound was so deep and yet as clean as if it were made with one strike. Certainly that fact narrowed the possibilities down. But it wasn’t conclusive, and perhaps that was what drove Abernathe to incurable insomnia. There were no coincidences, correlations or hypotheses. There were facts. Undisputable facts. That’s what sentenced murderers, rapists and thieves to the gallows. Facts. Thus far, he had none. He’d yet to even see the coroner’s report on the victim. That wiry, slight doctor, Abernathe thought. He probably flunked out of medical school and was sentenced to a life dissecting dead whores and drunkards. The report probably wouldn’t tell him anything anyways besides the fact that the victim no longer had a heartbeat.

  On the corner of Champa and 18th Street, Abernathe saw the paper boy losing a struggle against two hulking newspaper bundles. The boy couldn’t have been older than twelve years, although the filth that was burrowed into the fibers of his clothing gave him the appearance of a man who’s lived his fair share of harsh years. More out of pity than interest in the news, Abernathe removed a dime from his pocket and approached the boy.

  The boy dropped the two stacks on the corner when he saw Abernathe’s fast-approaching shadow emerge. He would’ve ran like hell too had Abernathe not raised his hands unthreateningly.

  “Hold up, son,” Abernathe called as friendly as was possible for him. “I just wanted to buy a newspaper.”

  The boy stopped mid-stride with the mention of a transaction. He spun on his heel and scurried back to the corner before the strange figure changed his mind.

  “My apologies, sir,” the boy uttered as he knelt down and untied the twine that shackled the newsprint. “Can’t be too careful these days, you know a killer on the loose and all.” His eager fingers struggled with the knotted twine. “Mr. Crawford ties these knots tighter every day, I swear. Just a moment, I’ll have a paper for you, sir.”

  Abernathe watched the boy continue to struggle with the knot though, his fingers fumbling from every possible angle with no progress to speak of. Before his impatience got the best of him, Abernathe reached into his pants pocket and produced a small knife.

  The boy stumbled backward when he saw the knife blade glistening from the lamp light above. Abernathe could see the look of blind terror on the boy’s face as he continued to scuttle backward into the street.

  “Relax,” Abernathe reassured him, kneeling down and reaching for the stack of newspapers. “Just helping you out is all.” He slid the blade between the stack and the twine and severed the knot with a flick of his wrist. “See.”

  But the boy refused to believe him and continued to scuttle backward.

  “I’ll just leave this here then,” Abernathe remarked, removing the top newspaper from the stack and replacing it with the dime. He stood, newspaper in his left hand and knife in his right. He could vaguely see the boy’s pin needle eyes darting from his face to the knife then back to his face as if he knew the mysterious figure was going to attack him. Abernathe knew not what to say or do in such an instant. He didn’t want to frighten the poor boy more than he already was, but he certainly couldn’t just leave him in the street to piss himself could he? Abernathe considered what he thought a normal person would do in this situation, and an unnerving grin happened to curl his mouth. “I’m sorry I frightened you,” he muttered.

  The smile had the unintended effect, for the boy nearly jumped out of his knickers and took off at a dead sprint down Champa Street.

  Abernathe muttered as he returned the knife to his pocket, “What’s wrong with this town?”

  Abernathe watched in wonder as the boy seemingly evaporated in the cloud of darkness down the street. It was a stupid question he knew. After all, a brutal murder was only three days old and so far no suspects, leads or hard evidence had really been discovered. Such fears weren’t just those of a young paper boy either. They were rapidly becoming the anxiety of the whole populace of Denver, particularly the women. Why hasn’t the police department ensured the safety of the public, the press constantly asked? Why haven’t we heard of any new developments? Is the murder unsolvable under the current circumstances or are the lawmen of Denver simply indifferent towards the safety of its ‘working class’? Chief Chapman was a blind drunk as he tried to address such inquiries. The press, the coyotes that they were, ran circles around the chief with their ambiguous questions as they waited patiently for him to make a false statement or spill classified details that they could inflate to the point of rupture. The chief, in Abernathe’s humble opinion, was a fine enforcer of the law but a damn fool as a politician. The
position of precinct chief, whether in the boom town of Chicago or the shack of Denver, was not a profession for a brute with a baton.

  Abernathe walked on in the quiet dark, reaching the precinct just as the sun’s first rays breached the horizon. Save for the fat watchman that was half asleep behind the front desk, not a soul was present at the precinct and Abernathe skulked by without stirring the man. He ascended the cramped stairway leading to the investigators’ offices and nudged his way into his own office.

  He navigated the darkness of his quarters, tossing the newspaper on his desk and reaching for a match to light his lantern. With the match head combusted, he lit the lantern and placed it on the front of his desk. It was then that he saw the front page of the newspaper with the boldfaced headline:

  Murder Weapon Discovered

  Search for the East Side Ripper Continues

  By T.G. Billing

  Abernathe gawked at the headline until the flame of the match curled into his fingertips.

  “Ahh!” he grunted, dropping the match onto the paper and shaking his hand in the air until the burning sensation disappeared.

  His eyes soon returned to the headline, the flicker of the lantern’s flame seemingly mocking him along with the words. Still standing, his eyes scanned the body of the article.

  The weapon that was used by the East Side Ripper has been uncovered, sources say. A 14-inch butcher’s blade that matches the wound that killed the victim was found in an alley a few blocks away from the Hanbury House yesterday. No suspects have been named, however, given the expertise displayed by the wound, the Ripper is likely a professional butcher.

  Further down, Abernathe read, The victim’s identity still has yet to be discovered. Accompanied by the lack of suspects and overall apathy of law enforcement, one can’t help but wonder if the Ripper will be discovered before he strikes again? A sense of fear and vulnerability has rapidly befallen the masses of the city, particularly those women of the working class. Several bath girls that must remain anonymous have raised their concerns to The Herald, asking for the publication’s support for those not of the upper-class. When questioned about the matter, Police Chief Harold Chapman offers little insight or reassurance with statements of ambiguity and peril. Again, we must wonder when the Denver Police Department will begin to take this crime seriously? Perhaps if a man of the upper-classes, a politician no less, is found slaughtered in his office? Will law enforcement sense the urgency for justice then?

  Abernathe picked the newspaper up from his desk, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the dark corner of his office. He wanted to spit and piss on the rag he was so disgusted with the article. Although he hadn’t been named directly, he knew it was only a matter of time before Billing’s aim fell on the lead detective’s scalp in addition to the chief’s. And what was this business about a murder weapon being discovered? Abnerathe knew of no such thing. Hell, the autopsy report hadn’t even been completed yet. Billing was probably right that they wouldn’t have an identity for the victim, nor would they ever get one, but did that really matter? The girl, in all likeliness, was an uprooted drifter like the vast majority of the Denver populace. They didn’t even know if she was a harlot or not. Sure she was found next to the most infamous brothel on the Western Slope with her skirts thrust over her hips, but that meant as little as her bonnet lying on the ground next to her. What mattered was the murder weapon. Was he correct that the weapon had been found? It was highly improbable, but that didn’t mean that Billing was wrong about it being a butcher’s knife. In fact, that seemed fitting for the murder after all.

  There was no way of knowing, of course, until Abernathe saw the coroner’s report. He also needed to speak to the chief immediately. Although Abernathe didn’t believe a single word written by T.G. Billing, he couldn’t help but sense he was being kept in the dark on something. Maybe he was just being paranoid or cautious? He didn’t know. But knowing that Chapman was once in cahoots with that crooked drunk Donaghue crippled the chief’s credibility in the eyes of Abernathe.

  Abernathe waited on the steps of the precinct for Chapman to arrive. He had an inkling, if Billing’s accusations were indeed false, that Chapman would be in the office earlier than normal to raise hell with The East Side Herald.

  The detective wound up smoking four cigarettes before he saw Chapman’s burly frame approach on horseback in the firelight of the rising Sun. He stood and descended the steps to confront the chief. Chapman pulled the reigns taut and dismounted before Abernathe.

  “You see the Herald yet?” Abernathe inquired accusingly.

  Chapman stooped past Abernathe as he guided his horse toward the corral that neighbored the precinct. Over his bulk of a shoulder, he remarked, “Wait for me in my office, Detective.”

  Abernathe ignored the order, storming up to Chapman and blocking his path down the alley.

  “Detective,” Chapman grumbled coolly, “you best get out of my way and do as I said.”

  Chapman stepped to the side, but Abernathe quickly rebutted.

  “You’re trying my patience, Frederick,” Chapman muttered. “Last time, get out of my way and wait for me in my office.”

  Abernathe scowled at the chief but his anger succumbed as he realized his ability to intimidate wasn’t up to snuff for Chapman. Within a few moments, Abernathe stepped aside and the chief proceeded with his steed plodding in his wake. In the meantime, Abernathe skulked back up the stairs of the precinct and paced in Chapman’s office. He labored as he attempted to organize his thoughts with his outrage, but all that resulted was an indecipherable whirlwind of curses and accusations. He tried to remind himself that T.G. Billing was notorious for stretching truths and fabricating outright lies. That was his job as a journalist – sell papers anyway, anyhow. The man lacked all compasses of morality, saying anything that popped into his manipulative mind.

  When Abernathe heard the watchman greet the chief though, his objectivity was waning by the second. Chapman stomped into the office and closed the door behind him.

  “Sit, Detective.”

  “I’ll stand, Chief.”

  Chapman nudged passed Abernathe and took his seat behind his desk. He stared at Abernathe momentarily, a stare that was as much an attempt to read what was on Abernathe’s mind as it was a stare of threat.

  “Well…” Abernathe blurted.

  Chapman shrugged. “Well what?”

  “Don’t give me that, Chief. Did you see the Herald this morning or not?”

  Chapman nodded apathetically. “I did.”

  Abernathe’s eyes bulged. “And…”

  Chapman sighed. “And what, damn it? Billing’s a cheat, a tin-horn with a pencil. We know that so what’s the sense in griping about it?”

  Abernathe erupted, “You know what I mean! Is there any truth to what he said?”

  Chapman jumped from his chair, his face flushed and his carotid bulging with rage. “SIT DOWN!” he barked.

  Abernathe nearly fell backward with fright. His eyes, once bulging with anger, now only bulged from the swelling terror within him. Obediently, he grabbed the stool from the corner of the room and sat.

  Chapman pointed a hostile, accusatory finger at Abernathe as he snapped, “You got some nerve coming in here accusing me as if I was the one who slaughtered that poor girl. In case you forgot, you’re not in Chicago where your name bears more weight than grit. You want answers? I’ll give you answers. But watch your tongue, or by God, I’ll have you walking the beat ‘til your last breath. Got it?”

  Abernathe nodded obediently, the fear churning his guts with haste. Chapman returned to his seat and yanked his desk drawer open. From it he produced a folder and tossed it onto his desk.

  “Your coroner’s report, Detective.”

  Abernathe’s eyes danced from Chapman’s scowl to the folder and back again.

  “Go ahead. Take it.”

  Abernathe rose cautiously, taking the folder in his hand as if it would disintegrate if handled too harshly.
He returned to his seat, staring at the folder with beguilement.

  “Before you read it,” Chapman muttered, “Billing was right about the butcher’s knife, even the size. How in God’s name he found out, I don’t know. He’s wrong about the murder weapon being found though. It’s merely educated speculation at this point. Very educated I’ll add. While you and your team smoke out every packing house from here to Colorado Springs though, I’m gonna find the Judas of the precinct. Understood?”

  Abernathe nodded.

  Chapman continued. “Now, there’s something else that you’ll find peculiar, although I doubt it has any connection to our murderer.”

  Abernathe’s glance shot upward. “Such as?” he inquired, knowing full-well that any detail no matter how miniscule or seemingly irrelevant was crucial to solving a case.

  Chapman sighed. “The victim’s womb had been removed within a few days of her death.”

  A perplexed look overcame Abernathe’s face. “What’d the coroner make of it?”

  “Nothing much,” Chapman replied. “It’s possible our ripper could’ve done it. But it’s also highly unlikely considering the cause of death.”

  Chapman for once is right, Abernathe thought. This wasn’t a premeditated crime. It was a crime of passion and rage as spontaneous as a shriek of agony. Most likely, the victim had either been caught robbing the killer, or she herself was robbed. The latter thought made him wonder though…

  “What of the sexual assault?” Abernathe found himself uttering.

  “That’s the thing. Coroner found no evidence of intercourse whatsoever.”

  Did such a fact confirm or reject the theft theory, Abernathe wondered? What would possess a man to rob a suspected harlot, hike up her skirts, but never touch her? Was it simply a coincidence? Perhaps the killer was about to but he heard the beat officer approaching? Yes, certainly that was the logical explanation. He wanted to but the opportunity evaded him.