Chapter 6
“Did you hear? Did you?” Sarah said to Phillip as soon as he opened the door.
“Hear what?” he said, even though he was fairly certain he knew what his sister was bristling about.
“About Uncle. And you knew very well what I meant.”
“Yes. He told me.”
“Well?”
Phillip hung his hat on the wall hook and went to his sister, whose tears were nearly brimming over. He pulled her into a hug. “Sarah, shhh. Aren’t you happy for him? And it’s not like this is a surprise. He’s been stepping out with Miriam for years.”
“I thought he was just . . . you know . . . with her. Him and every other old man in that neighborhood.”
Phillip held her at arm’s length. “Sarah. That’s not fair. Do you think Uncle Patrick would have put up with anyone poaching his woman? He wouldn’t. He would have walked away years ago. But he didn’t.”
“He said he loves her,” she whispered.
“I think he does.”
“Then I’m glad. He’s been the only father or mother I’ve ever known. I love him. I guess I’ll just have to learn to love her too.”
Phillip kissed her forehead. “It’s going to be a big change, I know that, but I think we’ll see a fair amount of him. Try and be happy for him and for her.”
“Nothing seems to be going right, that’s all.”
“What are we talking about now?”
She shook her head and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Nothing. I better get back to helping Eliza with the baking.”
Phillip watched her go and wondered if Patrick and Miriam’s wedding was the only thing bothering his usually cheerful sister.
Phillip ventured down to the Basin, just north of the city docks, to the stone building that jutted out from raised ground, one of three mortuaries in the city.
This mortuary catered to a less salubrious clientele than the others.
Unknown deceased and victims of crimes usually ended up here, where the city’s only “doctor of the dead,” as Timothy referred to William Welch, did his work as a pathologist. He tapped and then opened the door to a small room with a desk, a single man sitting behind it, a thick wool scarf around his neck.
Phillip had only visited the Basin mort a few times, but he always thought the fellow who manned the door was as close to being one of the dead on the slabs behind him as it was possible to be and still be breathing.
“Bert,” he said. “The doc in?”
“He is. Allow me to fetch him,” he drawled and rose slowly, turning deliberately to the heavy door behind him. He opened the door and disappeared inside.
The anteroom Phillip was in was chilly and had the strong odor of carbolic acid, cold earth, and rotting flesh.
The inner door opened and William Welch came out, wiping his hands on a towel, a broad smile on his face.
He was a large man, in both height and girth, with a thick shock of cropped white hair and beard.
He wore a leather apron that was stained with things Phillip refused to think about.
“Mr. Brown. Haven’t seen you for ages. Where is your friend Mr. Sweitzinger?”
“You don’t know, then?”
“Know what?” he said and turned to Bert. “Run over to the tavern and get us some tea or a brew if they haven’t a kettle on this time of day. If there’s any of Mrs. Jones’s pie, get a few slices. There’s coins in the jar on the shelf.”
Bert was on his way, taking his time digging through the jar until Doctor Welch told him to hurry along, that it was past time for their afternoon bite. He turned to Phillip.
“Know what?”
“There was a murder on Washington and Eastern last week. Timothy Sweitzinger was found in bed with the dead woman, a knife in her chest, and covered in blood.”
“The Button woman? Good Lord! I heard it was a policeman but had no idea it was Timothy. What in the hell happened?”
“That’s what I’m here to ask you.”
“I just started on her. She clearly died from a severed artery. Her heart would have kept pumping for some minutes after the blow.”
“The bed was soaked in blood, and so was Timothy.”
“He knew this woman?”
“No. He has no idea how he got to that room or who Josephine Button was.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. I think he might have been drugged. Is there any way to tell if she’d been drugged?”
“Sometimes I can smell laudanum on a victim, but I haven’t completed her examination.”
“There was no sign of a struggle at the murder site unless she was killed elsewhere, but then how would you account for all the blood if she was killed somewhere else?”
“If it was that much, she was likely killed there. No sign of a struggle, you say?”
“None. Everything in the room other than the bed was undisturbed. Hairbrush, wash bowl and pitcher, all lined up as if waiting for someone to use them.”
“Then they were both were likely unconscious when they went there or were taken there,” Welch said and turned to the heavy door. “Come along. We’ll see what we can see.” He stopped. “Unless you’re squeamish?”
Phillip took a deep breath. “I’m coming.
” He followed Welch into the tunnel-like room, bricked walls and ceiling and stout posts every ten feet or so.
The temperature dropped at least ten degrees from where Bert’s desk sat.
Phillip blew on his hands and stuck them in his pockets while Welch pulled a sheet from a table nearby.
The wide overhead gaslights shone brightly on the mottled skin of Josephine Button, naked as the day she’d entered the world.
Phillip did not want to take a deep breath in this area, as even with shallow breathing the scent of decay was nearly overwhelming.
Welch was busy moving a light closer to the woman’s chest. “You’ll get over the smell in a moment. Look here.”
Phillip stepped closer, focusing on where Welch’s instrument probed and not on the rest of the body.
“I’d say it was a thin blade, exceedingly sharp, perhaps six or seven inches in length. It had a small cross bar at the hilt where the blade met the handle. Can you see those faint marks? Whoever killed this woman knew exactly where to strike and did so with considerable force.”
“What do you mean? Are you saying that someone with experience, like a surgeon, did this?”
“Can’t say for sure. But the way the knife misses all the bones and cartilage that surrounded this artery, it would have been a one in a thousand chance that they would have hit it just so if they didn’t know their way around a body.
Look here,” he said and picked up the woman’s hand.
“Not a scratch. Nothing under the nails. No broken bones. Nothing that would indicate a person fighting for their life, which is the other reason it seems likely she was unconscious when she was killed. If her body was in motion, defending herself, what was the likelihood that the knife would have found this exact spot?”
“More, even, than a thousand to one.”
“Probably. And there were no other marks indicating multiple attempts. If I find anything else out, I’ll send you a message. You’re still on Wolfe Street? Unless you want to wait and have a slice of raisin pie and a cup.”
Phillip could not imagine his stomach allowing him to eat anything, not with the smell of the morgue hanging in his nose, the taste of it on his lips. He shook his head. “No, thanks. Please let me know if you can determine if Miss Button was drugged, and with what.”
Phillip stepped outside and took a deep breath of air.
The smell was salty and briny, much like the odors at the cannery, which cleared his head and settled his stomach with their familiarity.
He took the first streetcar he could find heading back in the direction of his neighborhood and the corner of Eastern and Washington Streets.
He jumped off a few blocks away and took his time walking, checking out low-growing bushes and bins with rubbish and burn piles.
He turned down the alley behind the corner house and spent some time pulling discarded items from the undergrowth and examining them.
“Hey, mister,” he heard and turned to see the Moulder boy walking toward him. “What ya looking for?”
Phillip stared down at the boy. “What do you think I’m looking for?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably something to do with the lady with the knife in her. Did ya know her?”
“I didn’t know Miss Button, but I do know the man accused of murdering her.”
“The copper?”
“Yes. I’ve known him since I wasn’t even as old as you.”
“Ya don’t think he done her in, then.”
“I don’t.”
“Looks bad, though,” he said and shook his head. “Him all covered in blood beside her.”
“How do you know about all this?”
“I listen. Most people don’t even notice I’m around or think I won’t know what they mean.”
Phillip smiled. “And you don’t tell them otherwise.”
“Nope,” he said with a grin and then pursed his lips as if considering a weighty decision.
“There’s a bag, next street over. I can’t get to it.
Sitting too high. Looks like somebody tried to throw it in that empty lot where all the scraps and old furniture sits.
But it got caught in a tree branch. Been there for about a week. ”
“Can you show me? There’s a penny in it for you.”
“Yeah, I can show ya.”
“What’s your name?”
“Francis Moulder. Everybody calls me Frank, though.”
“All right, Frank. Show me this bag.”