The Eye of the Devil

by S A Falconi

  “What do you make of it?” Chapman finally inquired.

  The question jostled Abernathe out of his introspection. “What?”

  Chapman’s brow furrowed with curiosity. He’s a queer son of a bitch, Chapman thought before repeating himself. “What do you make of it?”

  “Sounds like our guy’s a butcher.” Abernathe stood, adding, “We’ll start raiding the packing houses first thing this morning.”

  “Good,” Chapman muttered.

  Abernathe cracked the door and squeezed halfway through the opening before asking Chapman, “Were we able to identify the victim?”

  Chapman’s eyes latched onto Abernathe’s as he replied, “No.”

  Abernathe nodded and left the office.

  Chapman opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a ragged cigar box. He flipped the lid, selected one of the cheap cigars, and returned the box to the drawer. Once cut, he stuck the cigar between his chops and puffed heavily as he lit the tobacco. Smoke billowed and rose into the air, catching the rising sun’s rays through the window. With the cigar sufficiently ablaze, he leaned back in his chair and pondered the occurrences of the last twenty-four hours. He considered his meeting with Donaghue, the trip to the coroner’s office, his interrogation of the puny medical examiner, and his confidential appointment with T.G. Billing. Despite the straight-laced opinion of Abernathe, Chapman felt no remorse for divulging confidential information about Molly’s murder, nor did he regret lying to Abernathe about the matter. Chapman didn’t become chief by being straight-laced. He became chief by doing what was necessary even if it tested the durability of his moral fiber. It was called doing the harder right rather than the easier wrong. At least, that’s how he justified it. And although T.G. Billing was a yellow coward who’d nearly destroyed Chapman’s career in the process of destroying Donaghue’s, it didn’t mean he wasn’t of use. Chapman almost snickered when he recalled the gleam in Billing’s eye when he told him what he knew. Billing about pissed his pants with glee. Little did the manipulative journalist realize that he was merely Chapman’s pawn in the greater game of catching Molly’s killer. Chapman hoped that the article would smoke the fox out of his den, and when that happened, Chapman would be waiting with his Browning Lever Action Repeating Shotgun. He could almost hear the blast of the shotgun. He just needed to be patient. Patience was the key of any hunt.

  IV.

  Donaghue was drinking a cup of coffee at the bar of the Hanbury House when he heard the ruckus of a scuffle out front. He glanced at Ed Maclellan, both men wondering what disturbance could arise at eight o’clock in the morning. Maclellan was the first to approach the front window and investigate. A guttural cackle erupted from his throat when his eyes befell the scene.

  “What the hell are you laughing at?” Donaghue asked, sliding from his stool to bare witness himself.

  Maclellan didn’t respond; he merely stepped out of the way for Donaghue to see. When Donaghue saw what was happening, he too began to chuckle. Out in front of Pott’s Packing Plant was a horde of police cavalry, at least ten steeds with their star-spangled riders leaping from their mounts as if a band of Injuns were hot on their tails. Leading the pack of the stumbling, bumbling morons was none other than Detective Abernathe.

  Through his hilarity, Maclellan choked out, “What… in God’s name… are they doing?”

  It’s a raid, Donaghue thought. A pathetic excuse for one, but a raid nonetheless. Clearly Abernathe had read the coroner’s report, and like every rash gumshoe out there, he assumed the killer was a butcher. Or maybe, Donaghue thought, Abernathe was an avid disciple of T.G. Billing and took every ounce of filth the imp defecated as truth. Whatever it was, Abernathe looked like a modern day George Custer. Donaghue only wished the packing plant was Little Bighorn. Donaghue, driven by curiosity, side-stepped and opened the front door.

  “Where you going?” Maclellan asked, his hilarity mere chortles now.

  “Just to get a better look is all.”

  Donaghue stepped out onto the gravel walkway and watched in amusement as the police stormed through the entry of the packing house. Several minutes passed as muffled, indistinguishable sounds emanated through the planked walls. No gunshots though, Donaghue thought, none yet at least. How shocked Abner Pott and his brothers must be though. Particularly the last few years, it was Hanbury House that was visited by the police a few times a week. And if Mayor Speer had a real fit to fix, he’d have Maclellan arrested for a night in an attempt to prove that he ran this town rather than some hulking Pot-Licker. But now the law was raiding one of the only legitimate branches of business there was in East Side Denver, an irony that was all too comical for Ed Maclellan.

  A man in a blood-drenched apron emerged from the plant. Then another. A third stumbled out followed by several police officers. Within a quarter of an hour, Abernathe and his raiders had over twenty of the Pott Packing Plant’s slaughterers and butchers standing alongside the front of the plant. With such a show displayed, spectators from all walks of life began forming a perimeter in the middle of Hanbury Avenue. Donaghue saw Abernathe bustling to and fro as he interrogated butchers and directed his men to keep the pulsing crowd at bay. As was the case with any mass chaos, the newspaper reporters began sprouting from all directions, converging on Pott’s Packing Plant like flies to a fresh field patty. Although Donaghue recognized several of the pencil-wielding fiends – Morey Olbermann, Oskar Blitzer, and Theodore Calvert – he didn’t see the portly frame of T.G. Billing. Where is that pudgy wretch, Donaghue wondered? He scanned the crowd, certain that Billing was simply slithering amongst the spectators. But he saw nothing, that is, at least not Billing.

  Donaghue’s eye fell on one of the spectators though, a peculiar fellow that lurked by an apartment building on the opposite side of 18th Street. Donaghue didn’t recognize the man, but his abnormally large forehead and prominent underbite certainly made him difficult to disregard. From what Donaghue could tell, the man was roughly in his forties, tall and slender, and wore a suit that could be mistaken as lavish from a distance. Donaghue watched the man intently without any reason except for curiosity. What struck Donaghue as peculiar, besides the man’s distinctive physical features, was the manner in which he stared at the comedy unfolding in front of Pott’s. He wasn’t as the others were, snooping for the sole purpose of having nothing else more important to do. He watched as if waiting for something specific to happen, something he was seemingly controlling. It was then that the man reached into his breast pocket and removed a pad of paper and pencil and feverishly scribbled. Donaghue glanced back at the scene in front of Pott’s and saw Abernathe with an enormous butcher pinned face down in the dirt. The butcher was a mongrel, cursing and growling nonsensically as several police officers helped subdue the man. Donaghue quickly returned his gaze to the peculiar man across the street. He was still feverishly scribbling on his notepad. Is he a reporter, Donaghue wondered? He certainly didn’t look like one, and why would he be observing from afar? It didn’t add up.

  Still scribbling, the man’s eyes lifted, catching Donaghue’s gaze. Even from across the street, Donaghue could see the man’s eyes grow wide with anxiety. He quickly stuffed the notepad and pencil back into his breast pocket, turned on his heel, and scurried down Hanbury Avenue away from Pott’s Packing Plant.

  For no other explanation than carnal instinct, Donaghue proceeded to pursue the man at a safe distance. He crossed 18th Street and followed. The peculiar man’s pace quickened, his sapling legs advancing him six feet with each step. Donaghue was losing distance on the man now and he had to run just to keep pace. As if a sixth sense was warning him, the peculiar man began to run. Within a few moments, the man was sprinting down the gravel path of Hanbury Avenue.

  In hindsight, Donaghue knew he should’ve let the man be. After all, what was the harm in gawking at a display of flagrant law enforcement? Wasn’t Donaghue as guilty of such an offense? But Donaghue caught a scent, although subtle, that was utterly sour and
offensive. This man wasn’t just an innocent bystander; he was intimately connected with the reason for the raid. In his gut, Donaghue knew this man had information regarding Molly’s murder. In fact, he likely was the murderer.

  With this in mind, Donaghue broke into a sprint, and although the peculiar man’s stride was significantly greater than his, Donaghue had always been a gifted runner. He could see the gap was closing between him and the man, and although the man flailed his limbs in an attempt to quicken his pace, it was fruitless. Donaghue closed the gap to sixty feet when the man abruptly halted and darted down an alleyway. Donaghue was hot on his tail though, skirting the corner of the building. The man stopped at an entryway at the end of the alley. He feverishly dug into his pocket, removed a key, and slammed it into the entry lock. With the click of the lock, he flung the door open and jumped into the discreet apartment building. He might’ve been quick enough to get inside the building, but he wasn’t quick enough to throw the door’s latch. With the force of an avalanche, Donaghue slammed his shoulder against the door, the entry bursting open and sending the queer man to the seat of his pants. The man, terror-stricken by this point, groped inside his suit jacket for a weapon – a knife most likely, Donaghue supposed. With the instincts of a lawman still engrained in his being, Donaghue swiftly reached into his boot and produced a small revolver.

  “Don’t move,” Donaghue threatened, the revolver poised on the man’s abnormal brow.

  “Don’t shoot,” the man pled as he threw his hands into the air. “My money’s in the bottom desk drawer, but for God’s sake, please don’t kill me.”

  “I’m not here to rob you,” Donaghue uttered, his eyes fixed on the peculiar man. “I’m not here to kill you either, so long as you answer my questions.”

  “Questions?” the man inquired. “What questions?”

  Donaghue crept closer. “What were you doing out front of Pott’s this morning?”

  The man stuttered, “Wha-what? I was watching the raid like everybody else.”

  Donaghue pulled the hammer back on the revolver, the loaded chamber clicking into position. “Last time – what were you doing out front of Pott’s?”

  “Geez,” the man blurted. “I was watching the raid. Nothing more!”

  Donaghue took another step forward. “I don’t believe you. Show me your notepad.”

  “My wha—”

  BANG!

  The man nearly pissed himself as the bullet put a crater into the floor at his feet.

  “Show me your notepad,” Donaghue muttered.

  “Okay, okay,” the man stammered as he reached into his breast pocket, removed the notepad and tossed it at Donaghue’s feet.

  Revolver still poised at the man’s head, Donaghue knelt and grabbed the notepad. The pages were bound by cheap, frayed leather and the letters “CMK” were stamped on the front in flaking gold. He flipped through each page meticulously, noting each isolated scribble, note and phrase. Many of the notes were as illegible as hieroglyphics given the gainly nature of the handwriting. Some were legible though, notes like: “approx 6.5’, hair dark, Hanbury House, Pott’s, butcher knife”.

  “What is this?” Donaghue finally asked.

  “Nothing,” the man blurted with terror and anxiety. “I’m a writer. Those are my notes.”

  “Journalist?”

  “No, no. Well… in a way.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning?” the man stuttered again, “well, meaning… uh… meaning that… I uh…”

  My God, Donaghue thought, the son of a bitch’s speech is worse than his handwriting. He saw the terror in the man’s eyes though, the eyes that were honed in so fervently on the nose of the revolver. He’s not a man of the West, Donaghue realized. In fact, this might be the first time this man’s ever stared into the eye of a revolver. Realizing the gun was likely hindering his interrogation, Donaghue slowly dropped his arm and slid the weapon into his jacket pocket.

  Donaghue uttered, “What’re the notes for?”

  “I’m working on a book,” the man blurted.

  “What kind of book?”

  “Case studies. I’m a Physiologist… was I should say.”

  Donaghue’s brow slanted. “Was?”

  The man shook a hand apologetically. “It’s a long story. Not important to my work. Actually… it is, but it wouldn’t interest you.”

  “On the contrary,” Donaghue retorted, stepping forward and kneeling down, “I’m quite intrigued. Tell me, what is your line of work?”

  The man shook his head, replying, “You’ve probably never heard of it. Not in this hell hole at least.”

  “Try me.”

  The man sighed. “I’m a psychoanalyst … was … am … Hell, I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

  “I thought you said you were a physiologist?”

  “I’m both really. But like I said, it’s quite complicated.”

  “How so?”

  “A patient of mine killed herself.”

  The image of Molly’s corpse flashed into Donaghue’s mind and his guts churned with the thought that this could be the mongrel that slaughtered her. He found himself fighting the urge to reach for his revolver and shove it down this fiend’s throat.

  “It was many years ago in Philadelphia,” the man continued sorrowfully as if he forgot his intruder had a pistol aimed at his face moments prior, “she was suffering from a vicious state of neuroticism. I labored greatly to try to fix her but…” his head fell and he shook it reproachfully, “but her condition was too much to defeat. She hung herself from a dining room rafter. Her husband, a bloated big wig with a wallet of greater girth than his physique, accused me of driving her to such a state of being and sued me for everything in my possession, both material and spiritual. It’s not about the money, he proclaimed before the judge. It’s the principle!” the man’s intonation of this last phrase certainly mirrored that of the husband’s accusation. “We can’t have swindlers posing as doctors, convincing lethargic housewives that they’ve contracted some ‘disorder of the mind’. My wife, rest in peace, was driven into insanity’s embrace by that lunatic!”

  It was clear that the man had completely forgotten about Donaghue or the gun, and instead, was perched in that New England courtroom with his hands and feet shackled. Donaghue watched with intrigue. This man’s certainly crazy, Donaghue thought. It was then that Donaghue’s rationality began to return and he realized that the man lacked the physical faculty to perform such an atrocious deed as was done to Molly. Knowing Molly, she would’ve snapped this man’s legs like the saplings they were.

  But then, the rationality coming full circle now, Donaghue realized that the freshest scribbles in the doctor’s notebook – “approx 6.5’, hair dark” – described the features of the butcher that Abernathe apprehended.

  Donaghue’s gaze turned from empathic to grave once again. “Why are you noting the features of the suspect?” he inquired.

  The doctor was slow to return to reality. Even when he answered, his eyes were still glazed with rumination. “I told you, Detective, it’s part of my research.”

  “Excuse me?” Donaghue uttered. “What did you call me?”

  The glaze evaporated from the doctor’s eyes and the wide-eyed bewilderment returned.

  “My apologies, sir. I must’ve been ensnared by the past more than I realized.”

  Donaghue was once the best at distinguishing between truths and lies, and although he was years out of practice, such a skill merely lays in dormancy.

  “You’re lying,” Donaghue hissed. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

  The doctor’s head shook in protest. “I’m afraid I don’t. I told you, I was caught in the past. During that time, I had investigators breathing down my neck constantly. It was a parapraxis, a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

  “Nope,” Donaghue persisted, “you know exactly who I am.” He inched closer to the doctor, hoping to intimidate him into confession. “Why are you noting the
features of the suspect?”

  The doctor glanced at Donaghue briefly. He’s as relentless as the papers said, the doctor thought.

  “You’re right,” the doctor finally whispered, his eyes cast downward. “You’re Detective Donaghue… former detective.”

  Donaghue attempted to ignore the sting of the word “former”. He’d momentarily forgotten his banishment from law enforcement, a feeling that was as soothing as a good woman’s company.

  “Why are you noting the features of the murder suspect? Why did you note the Hanbury House and the butcher knife?”

  The doctor shook his head again. “You’ll think I’m foolish,” he muttered.

  Donaghue grinned. “You think a man with my past has any bearing with which to judge?”

  The doctor didn’t smile despite Donaghue’s self-deprecation. He replied, “It’s a hobby of mine, investigating that is. As a matter of fact, I used to follow you, Detective. Not you specifically, but your cases… those that the papers made known at least. I was your shadow, naturally. You were always a few steps ahead of me. But I tracked your moves nonetheless. I learned the tricks of the trade, the ways of the gumshoe. You were great at what you did…” the doctor trailed off momentarily, “… if only they hadn’t crucified you.”

  Donaghue’s disbelief of what he’d just heard was nearly indecipherable. He waded through the muck of the doctor’s proclamation, trying to recall a greenhorn sleuth acting as his shadow. No such recollection came to him, despite the fact that he engrossed himself wholeheartedly during an investigation. But still, the thought seemed preposterous. After all, who in their right mind would give credence to a wretch like Donaghue, no less hold him as the standard of criminal investigation? But then again, the questioned resurfaced: Why else would the doctor be noting the details of the murder?

  “Abernathe’s good at what he does,” the doctor added, “but his nature isn’t conducive for law enforcement.”