by S A Falconi
“Please tell me you found something,” Abernathe remarked.
Chapman dragged the man across the gravel in the direction of the women along the building’s exterior. “Lock this son of a bitch up,” Chapman ordered the officers.
When Chapman turned, Abernathe saw a fresh abrasion oozing on Chapman’s left cheek.
“Damn it, Chief,” Abernathe commented, “what the hell happened?”
Chapman removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the wound. “What’s it look like?” he snapped. “Bastard pulled a knife on me.”
Abernathe glanced at Chapman’s attacker. The man was crumpled against the brick wall, nearly unconscious for some reason.
“No matter,” Chapman continued, a slight hint of a grin emerging as he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Snapped his lower arm pretty good.”
“Police brutality,” the miner groused.
Chapman wrenched his baton from his belt, stomped toward the miner, and raised the bludgeon fiercely. The miner yelped and cowered like a frightened mutt.
“That’s what I thought,” Chapman growled. “Shut your mouth.”
“Chief,” Abernathe probed impatiently, “Did you find anything?”
Chapman shook his head.
“Nothing?” Abernathe muttered, agitation smothering his voice.
“Nothing,” Chapman repeated. “Save for a few whores and that filthy drunk, we got nothing. None of them know anything. Haven’t seen Donaghue or Kraus in days.”
Abernathe’s hands flew into the air with frustration. “Great,” he snarled. “Now what?”
“Detective!”
Abernathe spun on his heel. Looking down 18th Street, he saw two officers from Team Bravo standing on the walkway in front of the apartment building.
“Detective!” one of them hollered again. “You need to see this!”
Abernathe glanced at Chapman quizzically before hustling across Hanbury Avenue and down the walkway.
“What is it?” Abernathe inquired when he reached the officers.
“We left them where we found them, sir,” one of the officers said. “Follow us.”
The officers led Abernathe down the alley and into Kraus’ apartment. The few possessions Kraus had were strewn all over the floor and the contents of his medicine bag were scattered across the kitchen table. They entered the cramped den and stopped at the chair.
“Here,” the officer said, grabbing the seat cushion and lifting it.
“My God,” Abernathe uttered.
Resting beneath the cushion was a knife. Roughly twelve inches in length, the knife blade was that used by butchers to segment larger cuts of meat. It also was a size large enough to sever a human throat.
Abernathe shook his head. One more piece of evidence pointing to Donaghue. No sign of where he and Kraus went though. The blade was good, but it wasn’t a trail to follow. It was just one lone paw print in the mud.
“Anything else?” Abernathe finally muttered. “Any idea where they might’ve gone?”
The officer nodded, responding, “Yes, sir.” He guided Abernathe into the kitchen where a rickety chair stood next to the cabinets. “Look on top of the cabinets, Detective,” the officer added.
Abernathe climbed onto the chair and looked on top of the cabinets.
“Holy shit,” Abernathe uttered. Tucked in the shadow of the back corner were two sealed jars, both of which contained human organs. “The wombs,” Abernathe gasped. “The son of a bitch kept them.”
~
The blade was ominous on Abernathe’s vacant desk. He imagined he was a preacher staring through the mesh of a confession booth waiting for a congregant to spill his filthy secrets. His gaze was fixated on that blade as if it would magically come to life and confess all of its horrid secrets. But he knew nothing of the sort would happen. The only thing the knife really did was incriminate Donaghue and Kraus more, and until the coroner was finished examining the preserved organs, there was no way of truly proving the suspects’ guilt. Regardless, none of the evidence hinted at their whereabouts. At this point, that was the only truth Abernathe wanted to know.
His gaze broke from the blade and returned to the note sheets recorded by the officers that questioned the apartment building peepers. As was usual, most of the people saw or heard nothing. As for the few who had, their stories were so distorted, so fragmented that no detail could possibly be confirmed or trusted. One elderly woman swore she heard something in the alley at dawn. When she looked out her window, she thought she saw a ghost slither around the corner of the building. A young woman, whom the questioning officer believed to be insane, said that Dr. Kraus was the sweetest man she’d ever met and that there was no way he’d get involved with something as heinous as murder. Then there was the young man who lived directly across the alley from Kraus. He said he’d never even seen Kraus with an associate before. According to him, Kraus was as bizarre as an eclipse.
Abernathe crumpled the notes into a wad and flicked the mass into the corner of his office. The wad landed near the parcel that once served as the canopic jar for the third victim’s womb. Seeing the box though stirred the embers of Abernathe’s mind, and suddenly a glow of life returned to the dormant pit of fire. He tore his desk drawer open and sifted through the stacks of assorted paper. After several tedious moments, he finally located what he was looking for. It was a profile on Kraus. Although there was little in the form of personal history, there was more than enough professional history to make any sleuth suspicious. The doctor was a physiologist prior to settling in Denver. He’d endured all the formal training of a medical doctor, and yet, he abandoned the field of medicine to pursue a career in some frivolous pseudo-science. What would possess a man to make such an unusual professional diversion? Not only that, but that frivolous pursuit ended with a woman hanging herself.
What the parcel really made Abernathe recall was Kraus’ medical training though. Certainly Donaghue had connections to all the victims. Certainly Donaghue had the motive and the means of mortality. But what didn’t fit Donaghue were the extracted wombs. He was a drunken gumshoe, not a professionally-trained surgeon.
But Kraus certainly was.
Abernathe’s eyes returned to the knife. Who used it, he wondered? Donaghue or Kraus? Maybe both used it? Kraus satisfied himself with the extraction and Donaghue finished the work? Slowly, ever so slowly, the jigsaw puzzle was finally being pieced together.
“Detective,” a voice called from outside Abernathe’s office.
Abernathe’s head snapped up. “What?”
The door cracked open. “Mail, sir,” replied the front desk officer.
Abernathe extended a hand across the desk and accepted the three envelopes. He glanced up at the officer. His eyes had caught a glimpse of the knife.
“Something wrong, Officer?”
The officer’s gaze broke and his face flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, sir,” he stammered. He turned abruptly and proceeded out of the office. Just as he was closing the door, his head poked through the opening. “Sorry, Detective, but is that the Ripper’s?”
Abernathe glared at the officer momentarily. The urge to berate the officer, tell him it was none of his business, was overwhelming. But a fraction of Abernathe’s being felt the urge to gloat, to accept the minute victory that his tireless investigation had finally and rightfully earned.
Abernathe replied flatly, “It is.”
The officer was momentarily stunned that Abernathe even answered his question. “Excuse me?” he uttered.
“I said it is … the Ripper’s.”
“My God … What a monster …”
Abernathe nodded. “That’s exactly what I would call him.”
“My apologies for interrupting you, sir,” the officer said, closing the door.
Abernathe sifted through the post documents. His attention was seized by a lone telegram though. Its sender was the Clear Creek County Sheriff’s Department. The message was brief, reading:
Ripper victim four in Georgetown
Abernathe’s guts warped. Donaghue and Kraus were fleeing west, up and over the Divide from where they could run in any direction.
Telegram in hand, Abernathe leaped from his desk and hustled out of his office. He nearly tumbled down the staircase his feet were sputtering so frantically. He raced across the foyer of the precinct and threw Chapman’s door open.
“Abernathe!” Chapman barked from behind his desk. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Georgetown,” Abernathe blurted as he handed the telegram to the chief. “They’re fleeing west, Chief. Look – Clear Creek Sheriff just reported a Ripper slaying in Georgetown. We know where they’re at!”
Chapman snatched the telegram out of Abernathe’s hand and scanned it briefly. “What are you doing, Pete?” he absentmindedly whispered.
“What, Chief?” Abernathe interjected.
“Nothing,” Chapman retorted abruptly, praying that Abernathe didn’t hear him. “I just can’t believe our fortune is all.”
“Call it what you will,” Abernathe replied, seizing the telegram again, “but we got this son of a bitch now.”
Abernathe spun and began to leave.
“Wait, Detective.”
Abernathe turned. “Damn it, Chief! What now? You gonna tell me to wait so you can bribe Billing with another exclusive? You really are something, you know that? You’re a leech just like him.”
Chapman jumped from his chair, slammed a mighty fist upon his desk, and roared, “BITE YOUR TONGUE!”
“You sold us out,” Abernathe accused. “You didn’t tell Billing to wait. You wanted him to go to print before the raid, didn’t you?”
“Detective, sit down!”
“The hell with you, Chief!” Abernathe bellowed, ripping the door to the office open and storming out.
“Abernathe! Abernathe!” Chapman pounded the desktop again. “Damn it,” he hissed as he rounded his desk and thundered out of the office.
As Chapman blundered down the steps, he saw Abernathe rumble out of the alley and down 18th Street on his colt.
“Abernathe!” Chapman roared one last time. His order was lost in the dust of Abernathe’s wake though.
Chapman hustled down the alley toward the stables. He heard the agitated rustling of the other horses, Abernathe’s haste having left them in dismay. Chapman went to the stable of his own horse, threw the gate open, and seized the horse’s reins. The horse wrenched its head back, resisting the vigor of its irate owner. Chapman jerked the reins even harder, prompting a muddled cry from the horse as he submitted. Despite his own age, Chapman mounted deftly and jammed his heels into the horse’s ribs. The effect was instant, the horse’s legs lurching forward with incredible power.
Chapman leaned against the seizing spine as the horse thundered down the alley and out onto 18th Street. Chapman could hardly see Abernathe’s dust trail in the distance now, but he followed the cloud as quickly as his horse was able. Although Abernathe’s wake hung over 18th Street for numerous blocks, Chapman diverted his own horse abruptly down Champa Street. Chapman was certain that Abernathe was heading straight for Union Station to catch the next available engine on the Clear Creek Rail Line. But Chapman surprisingly didn’t give one damn about Abernathe at this point. His only concern was reaching the offices of The East Side Herald.
Chapman veered around the corner of Champa and 15th Street. The offices were a mere twenty yards away when he saw the bulging form of T.G. Billing sauntering down the stoop.
“Billing!” Chapman barked from a distance.
Billing froze at the base of the steps, the thundering horse leaving him with recollections of the fiery colt quartet of Revelations.
Chapman yanked the reins and his horse halted and neighed with alarm. Chapman leaped from his mount before the horse was hardly stopped.
“Chief Chapman!” Billing exclaimed, stumbling backward from fright. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Donaghue,” Chapman snapped. His paw of a hand seized Billing’s shoulder. “He’s found him.”
“Found who?” Billing retorted as Chapman dragged him up the steps and yanked him through the entry.
Chapman remained silent though, nudging passed Billing’s assistant and storming into Billing’s office.
“Mr. Bill …” Aubrey began, but before he could even finish his inquiry, the door to Billing’s office slammed shut.
Inside, Chapman was pacing back and forth frantically while Billing remained awestruck near the door.
“Chief,” Billing sputtered, “what’s happened?”
Still pacing, Chapman uttered, “He’s found him. Damn it, he’s found him!”
“Who’s found whom?” Billing countered. “Breathe, Chief.”
Chapman shook his head with disbelief. “Abernathe. He’s found Donaghue.”
“How?”
“He struck again,” Chapman replied. “The Ripper.”
Billing’s jaw fell open. “My God… a fourth? Where?”
“Georgetown. Somehow the sheriff caught wind of it and sent a telegram to Abernathe. They were there, Billing. Donaghue and Kraus. They were right on that bastard’s heels.”
“Hold on,” Billing added, regaining his composure. “Where’s Abernathe now?”
Chapman threw his hands in the air. “Union Station by now. Looking for the first train up the canyon.”
“Harold, was this not what you wanted?”
“No, damn it! Abernathe wasn’t supposed to find them.” Chapman continued to pace throughout the office. “We played it just the way we wanted. The article gave them the time to get out of the city and the Ripper got careless. Donaghue just needs time to hunt this bastard down. Now?” Chapman grunted with disgust, “They’ve gotta evade Abernathe in the process. And God forgive me if Abernathe catches them before they catch the Ripper.”
“You know that won’t happen, Harold,” Billing reassured. “As long as Donaghue’s off the bottle, he’ll find them.”
Chapman’s pacing finally ceased. He dragged the chair from the corner of the office and plopped onto the seat. “Abernathe thinks he knows what’s going on here.”
Billing looked quizzical. “What do you mean?”
Chapman grinned slightly, saying, “He accused me of selling exclusives to you.”
A smirk grew on Billing’s face. His belly and jowls began to jiggle as guttural laughter escaped his throat. “You’re right, Chief. The guy is an ignoramus. Although, I think you owe me for nearly choking me to death with your pistol.”
“You know what, you’re not the only one risking his ass here.”
Billing nodded and leaned back in his chair. He was quiet for several moments before saying, “So, when do I report on the fourth victim?”
XII.
Donaghue and Kraus didn’t even wait for the sheriff to arrive. Although they knew the Ripper was in the vicinity of Georgetown, they hadn’t a single lead as to his whereabouts or his identity. As was typical, the eyewitness testimony was muddled at best. There wasn’t one detail that was consistent across the accounts save for the fact that the Ripper was a man, a fact that was already blatantly obvious in the first place. After questioning Leroy Wilmont, Donaghue and Kraus had pressed several of the onlookers to see if they knew or saw Walter Blackburn. Not only had none of them heard the name before, the suspect’s physical description wasn’t familiar either. Donaghue was almost certain that the queasy brakeman could verify a character matching Blackburn’s description, but he too claimed complete ignorance.
Donaghue and Kraus felt as if they were locked in a stalemate. Certainly they could comb the township for Blackburn, ask every person with whom they came in contact if he or she saw a man fitting the suspect’s description, but if Blackburn wasn’t even the Ripper, combing the city for him would just be a waste of valuable time. After all, how long would it take for the townspeople of Georgetown to realize that Donaghue and Kraus weren’t lawmen of Pueblo, but
suspects for the very crimes they were investigating? Time was more valuable than any chunk of gold or silver at this point, and it needed to be dedicated to following the lead provided by Mr. Wilmont. If nothing else, the Bucke’s would know the identity of the poor girl that was using their private car. And if Donaghue’s inclination was accurate, the girl would have an intimate connection to the other victims.
Donaghue and Kraus jumped on the next steam engine back to Idaho Springs. From there, they took a train that diverted away from the Clear Creek Rail Line to the bisecting Blackhawk branch that slithered along the banks of the North Clear Creek tributary.
Wilmont had told Donaghue that the Bucke house was atop the peak that separated Blackhawk from Central City. “It’s the diamond among the coal,” Wilmont had said. The town of Blackhawk was far less civilized than Georgetown or Idaho Springs, its infrastructure merely enough to support the needs of hardened miners. Aside from a few shanties and derelict brothels and saloons, Blackhawk was just another boom town awaiting its imminent demise. At that time though, such a demise seemed as distant as the Coming.
Although North Clear Creek was merely a trickle in comparison to its main stem, the banks were pulsing with panners. Jacks and jennies were scattered about the boulder strewn knolls as they waited apathetically for their leasers’ returns. Inconspicuous holes no larger than foxes’ dens were in the areas where the creek ran perfectly alongside the steep face of the mountainside. The holes weren’t dens though, but rudimentary mines just large enough to accommodate hunched-backed miners.
As the train scuttled around a steep embankment, Donaghue and Kraus saw a heavy black cloud hanging above the ground just on the other side of the creek. Men were hustling in and out of the cloud frantically.
“Cave in,” Donaghue muttered to Kraus.
Kraus looked on in amazement. “My God,” he whispered, seeing men wielding pick axes and spades pierce the cloud of soot.
Such a sight made Donaghue recall Florence and the misfortune that crashed upon her husband. Naturally, thinking of Florence made him think of Molly and the others, and that drive to hunt the wretch responsible for the murders returned. The disparity between their two working theories gnawed at him though. Had it not been for Molly, Donaghue would’ve believed to his core that the Ripper was Walter Blackburn. The fact that all the women were prostitutes merely spoke to their ease of accessibility and the public’s apathy towards them. Blackburn had his pick of the litter so to speak, and few people would miss a few dead whores. But Molly was the anomaly. She was the piece of the puzzle that contradicted everything, and yet, fit so perfectly all at the same time. That was what gave Donaghue reservations about Blackburn. But if Blackburn wasn’t the Ripper, then who was?
