by S A Falconi
Donaghue fell from his rumination, asking, “Why do you say that?”
“He’s a recluse. He’s introspective to the point of displaying laziness and apathy. The newspapers make him out to be unsympathetic. It’s not that he doesn’t care though. He just solves mysteries the way a scientist would. He creates his hypothesis, isolates all confounds, and tests the postulation until it’s pulverized. And even then, he doesn’t believe the result. He’s as skeptical as a Yiddish lawyer. He’ll retest the hypothesis before he even considers acting. He’s methodical, careful, unnervingly slow. He’s different than you ever were. Sure your methods were unorthodox, but you did what was necessary. He’s afraid to. He lacks the stomach for it. He solves the crime eventually, but only after a trail of victims has been laid. You were a true hunter of criminals. He’s simply pretending to be one.”
Donaghue didn’t know if it was morbid curiosity or the intoxication of gross adulation, but he couldn’t help but ask, “What are your thoughts on the Hanbury murder?”
A smile emerged on the doctor’s face, followed by an awkward squeal of a chuckle. “You are asking me, Detective? A dream come true for me!” The doctor lifted himself from the floor now, his fear seemingly gone with the wind.
“What are you doing?” Donaghue asked, confused by the doctor’s sudden change in temperament.
Still smiling, the doctor replied, “If we’re going to discuss a murder investigation, we’re not going to do it on the filth-ridden floor like mongrels.” He began walking down the narrow hallway. “Coffee or tea, Detective?”
Donaghue, dumbfound by this point, didn’t respond. After several silent moments, the doctor stopped and turned.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Detective. I haven’t properly introduced myself.” He strode up to Donaghue and thrust out his lanky hand. “I am Dr. Charles Martin Kraus. You can call me Charlie.”
Donaghue shook the doctor’s hand, an awkward salutation considering the circumstances.
“Coffee or tea?” the doctor asked again.
Donaghue didn’t know what to think at this point. His suspect now was befriending him. Not only that, but his suspect had been stalking him for the better half of his tragic career. Donaghue knew little about the doctor, save for the fact that he was clearly delusional on the boundary of insanity. But there was something in the man’s eyes, his elongated brow, his extended lower chop that made Donaghue trust him. Or maybe it was something that was merely inexplicable? An air as indecipherable as a summer breeze? Whatever the explanation though, Donaghue couldn’t resist.
“Coffee, black.”
~
“I’m quite sure my thoughts on the murder are distorted considering my only source of information is the Herald.”
Charlie brought a cup of coffee and a cup of tea to the stool that was his kitchen table. Donaghue sat rigidly in one of the chairs, afraid to move for fear the antique seat would crumble beneath his weight. Save for the minute sitting room behind Donaghue, this was the extent of the doctor’s living quarters.
“I’m afraid the majority of my funds go to my office,” Charlie commented, noticing Donaghue’s wandering eyes. “I hardly spend much time in this rat hole as it is.”
Donaghue had no warrant for judgment considering his quarters were a small room in a brothel. He shrugged the doctor’s comment away and sipped the coffee from his cup. The coffee was oppressive at best. Clearly the doc doesn’t drink coffee, Donaghue thought. If he did, his gut’d be rotten by now. He returned the cup to the table.
“I’m sure you know about as much as I do, Doc,” Donaghue remarked.
“Please, Detective, call me Charlie,” the doctor said politely before sipping his tea.
“Call me Pete,” Donaghue answered tersely. “I lost my right to that title years ago.”
“So did I,” Charlie muttered with a grin and a wink. “Now, you want to know what I think of the Hanbury House murder?”
Donaghue nodded. “Curiosity really.”
Charlie closed his eyes and rubbed his protruding chin with his fingers. He continued in this manner as he spoke, “Far as I can tell, we don’t have a typical theft-gone-awry here. In fact, I tend to believe we have the exact opposite. There’re three things that lead me to think this, two of which came from the Herald, and the third from a drunken patrolman. Now, according to the papers, the victim’s throat was nearly severed in one strike with a large butcher knife. Not many folks carry around a butcher knife for the hell of it, so we’ve gotta assume that our killer wasn’t merely reacting to a robbery. He knew what he was gonna do and he made sure he brought the most lethal weapon he could get his hands on. The Herald also said the woman was sexually violated, again confirming that this was an act of premeditated passion rather than a botched robbery. The question I must ask is: Did he cut her throat at the crime scene or merely dump her body there when all was said and done?”
Charlie stopped and opened his eyes. Looking at Donaghue, he was trying to read the detective’s reactions. Donaghue was entirely apathetic though.
“What’s the third piece?” Donaghue probed. “The information from the patrolman that is.”
“Oh yes!” Charlie exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “The patrolman. A poor kid really. Full as a tick, fuller than I’ve ever seen before. He was grumbling to anyone who would listen. Let me tell you, once I heard what he was grumbling about, I had no problem being that ear. Apparently, he was the beat officer that found the victim. He said it was atrocious – her skirts were died red clear from her neck down. He said he’d never seen something that evil before. Brought a chill up his spine as if Satan’s fingernail was gliding up it. Anyway, he also told me that the victim’s skirts were hiked up over her hips and her legs were spread wide open for all to see.” Charlie shook his head with disgust. “It is that fact, Detective, that leads me to believe we got much more than a cold-blooded killer running amuck in our city.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Donaghue answered with uncertainty.
“The nature of this crime is not focused on money or raw violence. This crime is centered around sexual desire and perversion. Our killer is sadistic in every way possible. And what’s horrifying about him is that he doesn’t kill for money and he doesn’t kill out of anger. He kills for sexual enjoyment.”
Donaghue had heard nonsense like this before from crack pot criminologists, phrenologists and the like. What the doctor was referring to deviated so far beyond customary investigative practices, it sounded more like the rant of a crazy seer than a lucid doctor. Not only was what he was referring to not observable, it also told them nothing of who the killer was or where he could be found. It was at this moment that Donaghue recalled what the doctor referred to himself as – a psychoanalyst. He recalled a scientific phenomenon of the mind that was gaining considerable popularity in Europe, particularly Germany, led by a man named Sigmund Freud. From what Donaghue could recall, Freud’s Psychoanalysis focused on the mind’s unconscious desires and the inner battle that occurred between those desires and the expectations placed on man by society. He recalled also that those unconscious desires were largely sexual in nature, a component of Freud’s theory that was heavily criticized.
The Doc is trying to merge Freud’s obsession with sexual desire with criminology, Donaghue thought. He truly is a crazy man. Just as Chapman had pointed out the day before, this was a crime of reactionary passion. Molly had crossed the wrong man and he killed her out of rage. Plain and simple. How many crimes had he seen that were so? Hundreds. Saloon brawls gone wrong. Harlots caught red-handed trying to steal from customers. Drunks robbed in the early mornings for their meager fortunes panned out of the streams of the Rocky Mountains. There was no sexual desire at the heart of those crimes. Just grungy animals with nothing more on their minds than money and rage. Those were the motives of most crimes – money and rage. Certainly not sexual desire. That was just lunacy.
Donaghue, no longer wishing to waste his time and in n
eed of a drink, pushed his rickety chair back and stood.
“I apologize, Doctor,” he quickly remarked, “but I just realized I’m late for an appointment.”
Donaghue proceeded down the hallway without a response from the doctor. When he reached the entryway though, he heard the doctor’s whine of a voice from the kitchen.
“An appointment with a whiskey bottle?” he asked.
Donaghue’s head snapped around and his piercing eyes befell the doctor’s.
“What’d you say?” he snarled.
The doctor showed no fear though. He simply repeated, “An appointment with a whiskey bottle?”
Donaghue’s steps thundered down the hall and before he or the doctor realized it, Donaghue had his hand pinned beneath the doctor’s prominent chin.
Donaghue barked, “What’d you say to me you son of a bitch?”
The doctor choked for breath, his face growing redder by the second. A gurgle escaped his throat, but not just a gasp for breath. Words.
Donaghue loosened his grip. “What’re you trying to say now?”
The doctor sucked the air in that he could, the vice of the detective’s hand leaving but a straw’s diameter through which to breathe.
After several moments, the doctor managed to gurgle, “What… about… the victim’s… womb?”
Donaghue’s hand fell instantly and he backed away from the doctor. “What’d you say?”
The air stung the doctor’s throat and lungs as he gasped. Coughing, he asked, “What about… the victim’s womb?”
Donaghue shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do,” the doctor muttered, his voice still hoarse. “You know precisely what I’m talking about.”
“You’re insane,” Donaghue found himself saying. “You’re insane.”
“Quit denying the truth, Detective. Why would the killer remove her womb?”
“He didn’t you lunatic. She had it removed days before that.”
The doctor’s eyes grew wide with the hope that Donaghue would make the connection. Donaghue simply stared at the doctor with pure confusion though.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Donaghue asked.
The doctor stood from his chair with eagerness. “Don’t you see, Detective? This is part of the sexual nature of our killer.”
“What are you talking about? She had it removed days before by a surgeon.”
“Why would she do that?”
Donaghue’s head shook with frustration. “I don’t know! She had a condition. She was terminating a pregnancy. I don’t know.”
“You do know, Detective, but you don’t want to believe it because it goes against every notion you have about criminal investigation. You say I’m insane for the claims I’m making, when in fact, you’re explanations are far more illogical than mine!” The doctor rushed up to him and grabbed him by the arms. The doctor’s eyes were crazed and his chin almost touching Donaghue when he added, “Our killer kept it as a keepsake.”
The very thought was so disturbing that Donaghue refused to even process it. The killer removing Molly’s womb as a keepsake? Why in God’s name would he do that? Was the doctor correct? Was the killer truly that disturbed, that insane? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Why would the killer extract her uterus, hike up her skirts, but not have intercourse –
Donaghue stopped at that. There was no evidence of sexual molestation whatsoever. The coroner had proved that. Yes, that ignoramus T.G. Billing printed it, but it was no more fact than the existence of the Grimms’ witches and warlocks.
Donaghue found himself subconsciously muttering it, “Molly wasn’t violated. Molly wasn’t violated. Molly wasn’t violated.” He repeated it over and over again, a trance befalling him like a deep sleep.
Recognizing the temporary psychosis the detective was falling victim to, the doctor quickly tossed Donaghue’s arm over his shoulder and guided the detective into the arm chair in the dank sitting room. Donaghue continued to mutter as the doctor retrieved an elixir from his work bag. He soon returned, producing a small vile and pressing it to Donaghue’s lips.
“Just a sip,” he whispered, pulling the vile away as quickly as he produced it.
Donaghue could feel his lucidity creeping back, the muttering ceasing and his eyes returning to their normal gaze.
The doctor fetched a glass of water and ordered Donaghue to drink it slowly. Donaghue did as he was told. The doctor pulled one of the kitchen chairs into the sitting room and sat in front of Donaghue.
“Who’s Molly, Detective?” he inquired.
Donaghue shook his head slowly and rubbed his eyes with his finger. “Nobody, Doc.”
The doctor leaned forward with intrigue, saying, “She’s the victim isn’t she? They’ve identified her haven’t they?”
Donaghue’s head shook again but the desire to lie progressively dissipated. What difference does it make if I tell him, Donaghue wondered? Nobody’s gonna believe a lunatic anyway.
Donaghue nodded, replying, “Her name’s Molly, Doc. Molly Donaghue.”
The doctor’s eyes grew wider and he leaned closer. “Mrs. Peter Donaghue?”
Donaghue nodded.
The doctor leaned back in his chair, a look of awe smothering his face. “Oh my,” he muttered. “No wonder you’re so neurotic. She’s your wife.”
“Was…” Donaghue grumbled. “She left me years ago.”
“That doesn’t stop her from being your wife though.”
Donaghue had no response to this. He just sat in that arm chair, weary and confused.
The doctor continued, “You kept saying she wasn’t violated. What do you mean?”
Donaghue took a swig of water and answered, “I had to identify her body at the coroner’s office. He told me there was no sign of intercourse. None whatsoever. So you see, your theory about this guy being some sexual fiend is preposterous, insane, and ludicrous. It’s just another tin-horn looking for an easy score. Nothing more.”
The doctor’s head slowly shook though and his eyes closed as he considered the new details. Eyes still closed, he muttered, “On the contrary, this makes our killer even more perverse than I thought.” His eyes snapped open. “Our killer is experiencing what we refer to as a psychosexual block.”
“I beg your pardon?” Donaghue uttered.
“A psychosexual block. It’s a subtype of neurosis wherein the afflicted experiences disruption in the flow of sexual energies and desires from the mind to the body. Think of it in the same terms as a beaver dam. The structure stops the flow of the stream significantly, pooling the water behind it. As that pool expands, the pressure on the structure magnifies, allowing some water to seep through. Our killer wants to put his sexual desires into action, but this block is preventing him from doing so.”
Donaghue shook his head confusedly. “What causes these blocks? A physical dysfunction? What?”
“Occasionally, yes. Typically? No. This block lies not in the body but the psyche. Right now, the water is merely trickling through the dam. But the pressure continues to build behind it. Water will progressively trickle through until the pressure is too great for the dam hold…” the doctor sighed before continuing, “…at which point, the dam will break and the flood will be unleashed.”
“My God,” Donaghue uttered, “we gotta catch this bastard before that happens.”
V.
Abernathe had seen his fair share of arduous days. That morning, nearly a dozen slaughter and packing houses were raided, and although few leads were uncovered, those that were proved to be fruitful. In all, Abernathe and his teams arrested three suspects, one of which being that precious gem in the distant dark in Abernathe’s eyes.
He was the hulking slaughterer that Abernathe and his officers apprehended in the street out front of Pott’s Packing Plant. To the Pott brothers, the man was known as Jarek Paszek, one of four Paszek’s employed at the plant. They hailed from a small town in eastern Poland a
nd escaped the parched landscape of their homeland the moment they were old enough to realize they’d been reared in a wasteland. It took the four brothers five years to scrounge up enough money to catch a ship over to Ellis Island. New York City proved to be everything they heard and had it not been for the drunken impulsivity of the youngest brother, Gustaw, they might’ve made a real go at it. Gustaw’s depravities forced the brothers into an ultimatum – deportation or exile to another state in the union. They chose the latter, choosing to pack the little they had and plow across the country to the boomtown of Denver. They’d hardly been in town a year before the raid.
Abernathe strode up the steps of the precinct with a fresh copy of The Herald pinned beneath his arm. The sun had already disappeared behind the cityscape, casting an auburn shadow over the streets of East Denver. He bustled passed the watchman’s desk and flew up the stairway to the investigator’s floor. Two officers were standing guard at the first door.
“Shall we?” Abernathe murmured to the officer on the right.
The officer opened the door and followed Abernathe into the room.
For being a mere suspect, Jarek appeared as if already condemned to the gallows. Shackles were synched around his wrists and ankles. He sat on a weak stool that surely couldn’t endure his girth for long. A single oil lamp was hanging from the wall in the far corner.
Abernathe unfolded the newspaper and held the front page up for Jarek to see. “What do you make of that, Jarek?” he demanded.
The accompanying officer, the son of a Polish businessman, translated the question into the suspect’s tongue. Jarek had no reaction. His eyes remained locked on Abernathe’s and his face was as apathetic as ever.
Abernathe continued, “Allow me to read the headline for you – Ripper Caught: A Slaughterer of Swine and Shakes.” He paused before reading, “Investigators have apprehended a suspect for the murder of the bath girl on Hanbury Avenue three days prior. Sources confirm the man is Jarek Paszek, a slaughterer from Pott’s Packing House. The suspect is being strongly considered due to his physique, acumen, and profession. Witnesses say that Mr. Paszek’s lineage is one of violent drunkards – his youngest brother was charged with assault in New York City just a few years prior.”
