The Truth of All Things (13 page)

“Maybe he felt wronged by her in the past,” Lean said.

Grey shrugged. “Or maybe he fancies girls with freckles.”

“Or witch’s tits. He was certainly intrigued with it,” the doctor added.

“An interesting detail. What do you make of that?” Grey asked.

Dr. Steig puffed on his cigarette and pondered the question for a moment. “Obviously I have never treated anyone who’s committed such an act as this. But I have seen men, deeply troubled, who have had irrational, violent urges. Despite this man’s evident capacity for organizing his thoughts and actions, I presume he is a highly tormented fellow. He may have certain desires he knows are wrong, yet he cannot ignore them. These could cause a great conflict within him. Eventually his anger becomes too much to bear, and he lashes out, punishing the very person, or type of person, that is the object of his immoral fascinations.” The doctor shrugged. “It’s just a thought. I cannot pretend to understand truly the workings of this man’s mind.”

After a long pause, Grey nodded as if he’d made some type of decision. “It’s a plausible theory, but for now it’s only that. What else about Maggie Keene? What clues as to her killer’s identity has she left behind for us? If she’d seen him before, she may have mentioned him to her associates before her death.”

“We questioned Farrell’s other girls. They weren’t talking,” Lean said.

Grey said, “This Tom Doran who collected the body. You said you knew him, Doctor.”

“Yes. In fact, he was one of my first patients here.”

“He works as muscle for Farrell’s operations?” Grey asked.

Lean nodded. “If any of the other girls are talking about Maggie’s death, he should know what they’re saying.”

“How soon can we arrange to question him?” Grey asked.

“I would expect to see him at the funeral tomorrow,” Dr. Steig said.

“Farrell’s not the type to show his face and admit any kind of involvement in this sort of thing. So we should be able to see Doran alone,” Lean said.

“I think I can get him to talk openly,” Dr. Steig added.

“Excellent. Now to our second point. What evidence did our man leave as a result of his prolonged presence in the area?” Grey asked.

“Canvassing the boarding rooms again”—Lean tried to conceal his lack of enthusiasm for the task—“for any eyewitnesses who put him in the area that week. There are some patrolmen I can rely upon to be discreet as to our actual suspicions. The last thing we need is another round of violence, this time against short, dark-haired men.”

Grey nodded. “Our third point. Whether the exact location of the crime reveals any connection to the killer.”

“Perhaps a former employee. Maybe injured or fired?” Dr. Steig said.

“A simple enough question for the owners and foremen,” Lean replied.

“That reminds me—what of the pitchfork left near the body?” Grey asked.

“The workers knew nothing about it. Didn’t belong there.”

“Interesting.” Grey took several steps away from the window and then returned. He traced a star on the glass with his index finger. “We cannot assume a former worker. We should also ask if they have received any threats from outside the company.”

“A competitor?”

“Possibly. Or our man could even be some type of Luddite. The Portland Company is at the forefront of building steam locomotives. Not everyone is thrilled about such developments. The railroads signify change; that frightens some people.”

“I could see arson or some such,” Lean said, “but cutting up a prostitute?”

“I only mention the possibility in light of our man’s choice of weapon.”

“The pitchfork.” The oddity of that detail had struck Lean before, but it was easy to lose sight of it amid all the bizarre details of the crime scene. He realized that he hadn’t fully considered the symbolism of that weapon. “Stuck right in the ground like that. Peeling back the boards, to expose the soil underneath. It does have a primitive, rustic quality.”

“And finally,” Grey said, “the first murder.”

Lean held up a finger. “Assuming there was such a murder. You said yourself it was queer that we’ve heard nothing of it. Perhaps there was no other murder. If our man’s a lunatic, he could have left those two candles and two bloody lines for no reason at all.”

“Unlikely. Everything at our scene was calculated. There was a first murder; and now he’s practically boasting of a third to come.” Grey thought for a moment. “If we remain ignorant, it is because the victim has not yet been found or the body was not thought suspicious. A third possibility is that we are simply too far removed to have word of the event.”

“He certainly meant for Maggie Keene’s body to be found right off. And if his note means he committed the first murder last month, I’d guess enough time has passed for the first one to be discovered,” Lean said.

Dr. Steig nodded his agreement. “And if the first victim was left in any condition like Maggie, the discovery would have raised an outcry.”

“It stands to reason,” Grey said. “So let us assume that a body, probably dismembered, has been discovered, more or less one month ago. But it was far enough away that we’ve heard not a whisper of it.”

“Could be anywhere,” Lean said.

“So we actively pursue the first three areas of inquiry while we cast our net for the last. If the earlier murder was anything like Maggie Keene’s, it was investigated by a detective or sheriff somewhere. I have
contacts in most of the larger cities between here and Manhattan. North of Portland is a different story.”

“I know every county sheriff and town police chief within a hundred miles,” Lean said.

Grey began to pace, his first outward display of excitement since the discussion started. “Then we telephone or telegraph them. Nothing specific, since we can’t be sure if the details will be the same for the first victim. But we ask about murders: peculiar circumstances, mutilations, possible dismemberments. We start close by. I’ll contact Portsmouth, Concord, Worcester, and Boston.”

“I’ll check Bangor, Lewiston, Augusta, and Bath,” Lean said. “And if we come up empty-handed?”

“There is the possibility that we won’t solve this matter until we learn more about our killer’s methods.”

Lean stared at him, grasping the dire meaning of Grey’s plan. “You mean wait until there’s another murder.”

H
elen returned the last of the lecture chairs to its rightful place. She glanced up at the clock on the far wall. Mr. Meserve had gotten long-winded, as she feared he might. When she let the lecture guests out, it was raining. Finding a cab would be difficult, meaning she wasn’t going to keep her promise of getting home before Delia was asleep. She paused a moment by the front desk. The rain beating on the windows made it hard to be sure whether she had heard a faint noise overhead.

Then she heard the sound again and recognized it. One of the small second-floor windows had a loose clasp that often came unhitched and would rattle in the wind. She hoped not too much rain had come in. Helen switched on the electric lights by the stairs and walked up to the landing. Moving down the dim hallway, she caught sight of a light under the door to the special-collections room. The librarian was notorious
for forgetting to extinguish the lights when she left for the evening. Helen moved forward, turned the handle, and stepped into the room.

She flinched as if she’d been slapped. A dark figure stood near the far end of the room. He was visible in profile, facing a bookshelf that also held a half-shuttered lamp. Helen tried to force her throat shut and strangle the scream, but it was too late. Her cry splintered the silence, and the figure darted around the corner. A second later he stepped forward again.

Helen bolted back the way she’d come, down the stairs, one hand clutching up her skirt. The panicked rush kept her from hearing any sounds of pursuit, but she knew he was coming. Her feet thudded down onto the first-floor landing, and she began to turn for the exit but then forced herself to veer off down the hall. She would never outrace him to the front door. The head librarian’s office had a lock. Helen’s hand shot out and grabbed the knob. It slipped under her sweaty palm but turned. She pushed the door open. Her eyes dashed back to her left. The man reached the landing and came toward her.

Helen threw herself into the room and slammed the solid oak door behind her. The key was in the lock, and she turned it, letting herself breathe only after she heard the click, then clutched the key to her chest. The knob rattled. The door shook in its frame as the man abused the handle. Helen looked around and seized a heavy candlestick from a side table. The door went silent. She held her breath and was rewarded with the faint sound of footsteps moving away. The wood of the door felt cool as she pressed her ear against it. The front door of the library banged shut. Helen hurried to the window overlooking the front exit on Congress Street. A dark shadow splashed away across the wide avenue.

She unlocked the office door and, with the candlestick still lodged in her grip, ran across the lobby to bolt the front door. She dashed to the telephone at the front desk and picked up the receiver. What would she say? She hadn’t actually seen the man’s face upstairs. She couldn’t swear he was the same man she had confronted earlier in the lobby. She’d be there for hours while the police asked questions she couldn’t
answer. Her thoughts flashed to Delia—she had to get home. Helen hung up the phone. Uncle Virgil would know what to do. She would ask him in the morning.

Helen let her neighbor out and locked the door behind her. She went back through the kitchen to make sure the rear door was also locked, then hurried upstairs. She peeked into Delia’s room. The curtain was open, and a sliver of rain-soaked moonlight fell through the window to reveal the girl’s sleeping face. Helen went to her own room and worked her way through the process of removing her several layers. She pulled on a muslin robe with a bosom of fine tucks and box pleats, trimmed with embroidery, then returned to her daughter.

When she lifted the covers to climb into bed, Helen saw that Delia was clutching a picture frame. She eased the girl’s grip and slid the picture away. It showed a handsome man with a bushy mustache standing behind a chair. A seated Helen Prescott, younger and smiling, looked out at the world. “Bastard,” she said, then grimaced at the sound of her voice in the still room.

“Mother?” Delia’s head turned, but her eyes remained shut.

“Shhh. Go back to sleep.” Helen set the picture down and slid under the covers. She wrapped her arm around Delia and held her close. She felt the girl’s gentle breathing, close enough that Helen could let her own heart slow, falling into rhythm with that of the dreaming child.

T
om Doran stared straight ahead, his eyes focusing on the ragged rectangle carved into the earth. Nearby, someone in the cluster of Farrell’s girls was crying. Next to the mound of dark earth, the priest was reading a psalm. Doran recognized it, but the words simply swirled around him, then moved on unhindered.

“ ‘Why standest thou afar off, O Lord? Why hidest thou thyself in times of trouble? The wicked in his pride doth persecute the poor.’ ”

The box that held Maggie was nothing fancy. It hadn’t cost much, and Doran felt a twinge of guilt over that, but then again, it was no worse than the coffin for his own wife two decades earlier. Besides which, Maggie was in a better place, and she wouldn’t begrudge him that pine box. The other girls might complain, but Doran knew the loud grief coming from that group would dwindle and die over the next couple of weeks. After that, Maggie Keene might get remembered in a drunken toast on some night when the girls got together for a cup of cheer after a good bit of business. And that would be the whole of it.

The priest’s voice rattled on. “ ‘His mouth is full of cursing and deceit and fraud: under his tongue is mischief and vanity. He sitteth in the lurking places of the villages: in the secret places does he murder the innocent; his eyes are privily set against the poor. He lieth in wait secretly as a lion in his den.’ ”

Doran’s gaze wavered and fell upon the box itself. She was in there, lifeless and still. Whatever made her who she was had gone out of the face he’d seen in the morgue. Doran closed his eyes and tried to picture her as she’d looked while alive. The image soon blurred and twisted until he was instead seeing his own Mary, staring back at him with soft eyes.