by S A Falconi
Jarek stared coldly into Abernathe’s eyes. “I didn’t kill that girl,” he grumbled in Polish.
Abernathe countered, “Then why did everyone you work with give you up? Even your brothers gave you up.”
Jarek sneered. “That’s a lie! My brothers would spit in your face.”
“They certainly wanted to. But when we bought them a one-way boarding pass back to Ellis Island, they sang like canaries. They told us where you were three nights ago, Jarek. You were at the Hanbury House.”
“Bathing is not a crime,” Jarek hissed.
“It is when you butcher the girl for not bathing you properly.”
“You have nothing on me.”
Abernathe smirked, replying, “Yeah we do. We raided your quarters earlier today and I bet you won’t guess what we found there? We found your butcher blade. The coroner’s already identified the blade as matching the wound on the victim’s neck.”
Jarek’s head shook like a mangy mut’s. “I don’t understand.”
“We found the murder weapon in your possession, Jarek. And in America, such evidence is enough to lock a conviction.”
“But I didn’t kill that girl!” Jarek roared, attempting to stand as he shook his shackles violently. “I DIDN’T KILL THAT GIRL!”
Abernathe’s smirk grew. “Awfully bad temper there, Jarek. I wonder if that’s the same temper that forced you to murder that girl when she charged you more than you were willing to pay?”
“I DIDN’T KILL HER!”
“Save it,” Abernathe replied. “Your sentencing is tomorrow. Best pray to God to have mercy on your disgusting soul.” Abernathe rolled the newspaper up and threw it in the face of Jarek.
“YOU BASTARD!” Jarek roared as he nearly tore the floorboards free from the rafters below.
Abernathe, having already proved his point several times over, left the room with the curses and growls of the suspect booming in his wake.
“Well, Detective,” the translator remarked as he closed the door, “I think you got him.”
“Thank, God,” Abernathe added. “We got him before he could get someone else.”
~
Donaghue couldn’t remember the last night he was as stone sober as the night Jarek Paszek was taken into custody. He was seated at his usual nightly post on the first stool at the bar. There was a time when he had to stand next to the entryway with his pistol showing on his hip to command the omnipotence Ed Maclellan sought for the security of the Hanbury House. It wasn’t long though before the patrons realized that the exiled drunken detective was still a bastard not to be tested. Now, just the sight of Donaghue sitting at the bar was authoritative enough to maintain the peace.
The East Side Herald was sprawled out on the bar before him. He’d already read the front page article numerous times, but Donaghue refused to let the words be absorbed. Every sign of warning told him that Jarek Paszek was innocent. For one, Billing was the article’s author. For another, Abernathe was desperate, a state of mind that could dismantle any man’s renown patience. And once desperation enshrouded a man’s conscience, he was bound to be the victim of folly. It’d happened only a few times to Donaghue early in his career. They were cases of atrocious circumstance and he dumped every ounce of effort into resolving them. The boundary between unrelenting effort and desperation was nearly transparent though, and his youth caused him to falter. Abernathe wasn’t a greenhorn sleuth though. He was a seasoned, big city detective. A seasoned detective that wanted nothing more than this case to finally disappear.
“You come up with anything, Detective?”
Donaghue turned to see his new comrade, Dr. Kraus.
“Nothing, how ‘bout you, Doc?”
“Well,” Kraus began as he took the stool next to Donaghue, “this Paszek is not the guy. Of that I am sure.” He motioned to the bartender. “Bourbon?”
Donaghue asked, “Why do you say that?”
The bartender placed the glass of liquor on the bar.
“Cheers,” the doctor remarked as he sipped the bourbon. “You not drinking, Detective?”
Donaghue shook his head. “Don’t have a tongue for it tonight.”
Dr. Kraus nodded. “I understand.”
“Now, tell me why Paszek can’t be the guy.”
Kraus’ shoulders tilted in a slight shrug as he replied, “No motive.”
“That’s it?” Donaghue asked, perplexed. “How do you know?”
“I talked to his brothers. He spends as much time in whore houses as his purse can allow.”
Donaghue’s eyes grew wide. “How is that not motive? The guy can’t hold himself back. You said yourself our guy is a sexual fiend.”
“Exactly,” Kraus retorted.
Donaghue’s gaze locked on the doctor’s. “What do you mean?” he muttered.
“Detective, our victim wasn’t touched in any way sexually. If Paszek was our guy, he would’ve had his way with her.”
“Simple as that?”
Kraus nodded. “Simple as that.” Kraus took another sip of his bourbon. “So, any luck with your friends in low places?”
Donaghue shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“Maybe. It may just be coincidence though.”
Kraus smirked. “And you believe in coincidence?”
Donaghue answered flatly, “Not yet.”
Their conversation quieted for several minutes as Donaghue returned to the Herald and the doctor glanced about Hanbury House. It seemed word spread quickly about the arrest of Jarek Paszek, for the city’s nightlife had returned to full vigor. Every table in the place was packed with card games, liquor and wagers that could pay the month’s lease three-times over. The patrons could hardly recall a murderer on the loose.
Kraus drained the remainder of his drink and sighed. “You think it’s a competitor of Maclellan trying to hurt business?”
“I’ve known Maclellan much longer than I’ve worked for him. The guy has more enemies than a mutt has fleas. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that if this was an attempt to hurt business, Ed would’ve already taken care of it.”
The doctor’s brow furrowed as he remarked, “How do you know?”
“Because, Doc,” Donaghue answered with an austere stare, “he already would’ve had me kill them.”
Dr. Kraus’ eyes grew wide. He almost didn’t believe his ears. Or maybe he just didn’t want to believe them.
“That’s right, Doc,” Donaghue added grimly. “I became one of the guys I used to spend every waking moment trying to hunt down.”
Kraus was silent with thought for several moments. Finally, he said, “Sometimes, a man must defy his conscience in order to survive.”
“I barely know you… but I know that you don’t really believe that.”
Just as Kraus was about to reply, an ear-splitting shriek tore down the staircase and reverberated through the main saloon. Instantly, the ruckus of intemperance was silenced. Every head shot toward the staircase as if waiting for a ghost or the Devil himself to descend. Donaghue wasn’t about to sit and wait though. He pounced from his bar stool and took off for the main staircase. As he bounded upward, he snatched his pistol from his holster, his trigger finger rigid with anticipation. Upon reaching the case’s summit though, he immediately returned his weapon to his belt. One of Ed’s bath girls was curled up against the hallway wall, the only indication of life being her terror-stricken sobs. Donaghue raced down the hall towards her.
“What happened?” he ordered, kneeling at the girl’s side. “Tell me what happened.”
The girl was hysterical though, her words an indecipherable hodgepodge.
“Hey!” Donaghue barked as he grabbed her by the shoulders. “What happened?”
The girl looked like a phantom in the candlelight. Her mouth quivered in an attempt to answer Donaghue’s question, but shock had already imprisoned her consciousness.
Out of impatience and fright, Donaghue shook h
er several times, demanding, “Tell me what happened!”
With a squeal, the girl pointed across the hall. Turning, Donaghue saw the door to the adjacent bedroom was wide open. Candlelight flickered on the ceiling and the small chest of drawers in the far corner. A dismal shadow was cast across the small bed, and although details couldn’t be ascertained, it was clear the form a body was sprawled across it. Instinctively, Donaghue drew his pistol again and slowly crept into the bedroom. The smell of burning oil was a mere fragment of the stench of rotting flesh that overtook him. With each step he made, the details of the scene surfaced as the features of the moon appear with the fading of a nocturnal haze. The form’s long hair flowed elegantly down the length of the pillow to the shoulders. The mouth was open wide as if the ghoulish shriek had emanated from those very lungs. To Donaghue’s surprise and horror, the body was still fully-clothed despite the skirts being hiked up over the hips and the legs spread the width of the bed. Only when he was within a few feet could he see the dark red slash across the woman’s throat, a wound that miraculously did not sever the head entirely.
He stared with panic at the woman’s face, and whether it was his own mind or the shadows cast from the flickering candlelight, he saw Molly’s face staring back at him. Revulsion was a torrent through his guts as he stared. Revulsion of the scene certainly, but more so revulsion of its implications. Molly’s murderer was still on the loose, on the loose and striking once again.
“My God …” a voice muttered from behind.
Donaghue spun on his heel and aimed his pistol at the voice’s source.
“Pete,” Maclellan uttered, “what are you doing?”
Donaghue’s hand shook wildly as he stared at Maclellan. “Do you know anything about this?” he managed to ask.
“Put the gun down,” Maclellan whispered as he stepped into the bedroom. “I could ask you the same thing, Pete.”
Donaghue’s eyes grew wide. “You think I did this?”
Maclellan took two more steps closer, answering, “No. But I need you to put the gun down before you do something foolish.”
Slowly, Donaghue’s better senses returned and he returned his pistol to his holster.
“Who is it?” Ed remarked.
Donaghue sighed and glanced back at the body, hoping Molly’s face was no longer there. It wasn’t, but the face that was sickened him almost as much.
“It’s Florence, Ed.”
~
“Walk me through it again, Pete,” Chief Chapman asked Donaghue from across the table in the interrogation room of the precinct. “Every minute detail.”
“Harold, I told you everything I noticed,” Donaghue answered.
“I need to hear it again.”
“Why, Harold?”
“Damn it, Pete,” Chapman grumbled as he paced across the room. “Because some monster is on the loose slaughtering these poor girls. Is that what you want? For Molly’s and Florence’s killer to continue butchering shakes?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Donaghue uttered with brevity. “I already know the rabbit hole that bastard Abernathe is going down. I had nothing to do with this.”
“I know that, Pete, but you gotta admit that you are a connection point here.”
Donaghue threw his hands into the air. “So are hundreds of others in this city. Maclellan included!”
“Well let me ask you this. Do you think he’s got any involvement in this?”
“For what purpose?”
“You tell me, Detective. Is he showing the girls who’s boss?”
“C’mon, Harold! By killing Molly and Florence? You couldn’t get more subservient than those two. Besides, Molly hasn’t worked here in years.”
“My mistake,” Chapman grumbled sardonically, “I forgot they were the saints of harlots!”
Donaghue jumped to his feet and shoved the small table aside.
“You know something, Chief,” Donaghue barked, “maybe that bastard Billing is right. Maybe the police could care less that these two girls are dead.”
Donaghue stepped forward, attempting to leave the room. Chapman slapped his hand against Donaghue’s chest though, stopping him in his tracks.
“You know I want this monster just as bad as anyone, Pete.”
“You do?”
“Damn right I do!”
“Then take Abernathe off the case!”
Chapman’s hand fell and a grimace overcame his expression.
“That’s what this is about?” Chapman inquired. “You’re angry about Abernathe taking your position?”
“Don’t give me that, Chief.”
“No, it suddenly makes sense now.”
“No, it’s got nothing to do with Abernathe being in the position I once held.”
“Then what, Pete?”
Donaghue’s head shook with agitation. “He’s not fit for a case like this.”
“What do you mean not fit?”
“Look at him, Chief. He jumps at the first suspect he has. The guy didn’t even fit the profile!”
“Easy to call in hindsight don’t you think?”
“Not at all. It was blatantly obvious.”
“If you’re so damn smart, Pete, then why don’t you tell me who it is?”
Donaghue sneered and attempted to move Chapman away from the doorway.
“No,” Chapman barked, shoving Donaghue backward. “You’re clearly working this case, so tell me what you think you got.”
Donaghue stepped up to Chapman again and put his face within inches of his. “In case you forgot,” he hissed, “I’m no longer a detective. You saw to that, Chief.” Donaghue side-stepped Chapman and proceeded to open the door.
“Make sure you’re available, Donaghue,” Chapman called from behind. “I gotta feeling Detective Abernathe’s gonna wanna talk to you.”
Donaghue ignored the sneer and proceeded down the stairway to leave the precinct. Upon opening the door to the streets though, he wished he would’ve stayed put. Standing at the base of the stairway waiting for Donaghue like a serpent in the grass was none other than T.G. Billing.
“Mr. Donaghue,” Billing exclaimed gleefully as if greeting an old friend, “fancy running into you here.”
Donaghue was strongly inclined to tell Billing off, but his anger was honed on other targets at the moment. Treating the journalist’s greeting as if it were merely a hog breaking wind, Donaghue hustled down the staircase and strode passed.
Billing called out smugly, “My journalist’s intuition tells me you are the new suspect in the East Side Ripper Murders, Mr. Donaghue?”
Donaghue stopped abruptly. Billing was doing what Billing did best – manipulate his way into a sliver of truth that he could exploit and inflame. Unfortunately for Donaghue though, Billing knew just enough to completely destroy him. It didn’t matter what was true and what was false. What mattered was what Billing could make the public believe. And Billing knew that if he repeated a lie long enough, no matter its size, the public would eventually come to believe it.
Whether it was his innate arrogance or his distaste towards Abernathe and the rest of the police department didn’t matter; all that Donaghue knew was that the only way the East Side Ripper was going to be found was if he was the one hunting him. He sure as hell couldn’t do that from the confines of a prison cell.
Donaghue glanced over his shoulder and said, “Walk with me.”
Not even Billing could hide his elation. In all his time reporting in Denver, he’d never received information from Donaghue no less an exclusive. As controversial as Donaghue was, he never compromised an investigation by leaking information to the press. The man was immune to bribery, and when Billing threatened to blackmail Donaghue with his affinity for liquor and prostitutes, Donaghue didn’t even flinch. “Better to be wrongfully condemned by the masses than to betray one’s self,” he said.
Maybe he’s finally realizing it, Billing thought as he waddled to catch up to Donaghue; a man’s only judge is the percept
ion of the masses.
When Billing finally reached him, Donaghue said, “Before I tell you anything, let me make one thing perfectly clear – my name is not to be mentioned or implied in this article. Understood?”
“Naturally,” Billing replied, “I’ve always respected source anonymity. Now, Mr. Donaghue, what can you tell me about these murders?”
“First and foremost, neither the first nor the second victim was sexually violated no less raped. I don’t know who told you the first was, but I can assure you she wasn’t.”
Billing’s brow furrowed as he inquired, “How do you know that?”
Donaghue shook his head. “That I cannot say. Just trust that what I’m telling you is accurate.”
“I have to know your sources, Mr. Donaghue. I can’t just make accusations blindly.”
Donaghue stopped and glared at Billing. This pig bleeds hypocrisy, Donaghue thought.
“Then I guess you don’t have a story, Billing.”
“Okay, okay. Relax,” Billing retorted. “I’ll figure that part out. So neither of the victims were raped?”
“Neither.”
“Why kill them then?”
Donaghue shrugged. “The very question I’m trying to answer.”
“You’re trying to answer?” Billing inquired. “Does that mean that you’re working the case on your own?”
“No,” Donaghue countered. “And if I hear such heresy, I’ll make sure you won’t write another article again.”
“Relax, Mr. Donaghue,” Billing replied with a grin and a chortle. “Will you be sure to keep me up-to-date on developments of this non-existent investigation?”
Donaghue’s responding glower was enough to divert the conversation though.
“So,” Billing added, “can you tell me who the victims are? I have a feeling Chapman and Abernathe know, they’re just reluctant to say.”
“The first is still unknown. Truthfully, they don’t even know if she’s a shake. The second is one of the girls from the Hanbury House.”
