Introduction

Baltimore, 1909. Dr. Sarah Kennecott is on the autism spectrum—a trait unidentified and unappreciated at the time. After getting fired for looking too closely into a showgirl’s killing, she refuses to back down from the investigation.

She forms an unlikely bond with Jack Harden, a private detective suffering from a wartime emotional trauma. Despite their differences, Sarah and Jack develop a mutual understanding and form a potent team. The pair pursue the murder case from gilded mansions to seedy barrooms while doing their best to avoid a cast of devious characters, some of whom have secrets worth killing to keep.

Editorial Review

No Editorial Review Currently Available

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Sarah—Monday, October 11, 1909, 9:00 a.m.

Dr. Sarah Kennecott scanned the dead girl’s naked body. The corpse had a small bullet wound near the heart. The right side of the forehead had a one-inch gash over a swollen, purplish bruise, and dark material clustered under fingernails of the right hand. A shallow quarter-inch cut marked the top knuckle of the left index finger. The upper lip had a slight bulge.

Sarah knew exactly how to proceed with the postmortem examination—if she were in charge. Which she most definitely was not.

With difficulty, she broadened her awareness to include the three men also standing around the autopsy table. Do make eye contact, she told herself as her pulse sprinted. Do control the tics. Do not offend the men. Stay out of trouble.

Bare electric bulbs lit the body chamber of the Baltimore city morgue with brutal efficiency. The dead girl’s blue-black lips contrasted with the bright white autopsy table, which had rust spots from where tools had chipped the enameled surface down to the iron base. Saws, drills, chisels, and knives lay ready on a scratched steel counter below shelves of organs floating in murky glass jars. A harsh chemical stink mixed with the odor the dead hung in the dank air. None of the sights or smells disturbed Sarah’s focus.

“Old Horace Shaw went and killed himself this pretty little high-kicker,” rasped the coroner with a blast of whiskey breath. He was an older man with broken capillaries exploding across ruddy cheeks. A fine thread of what looked like maple syrup ran down one side of his chin whiskers and over his cravat.

“Just another day in Baltimore,” said the medical examiner, whose gray handlebar mustache dominated his gaunt face. “Shaw and the rest of those damn politicians have let our city become a playground for fallen women. Every slattern south of New York has flocked here to make a dirty dollar.” He shot a sharp look at the scribbling male attendant. “Don’t put that in the notes!”

The attendant jumped. “I-I-I was only j-j-jotting the time and date, sir.”

“Why can’t we get a clerk who can speak right?” The medical examiner turned his cold gaze on Sarah. “And to top it off, we’re forced to have this twitchy little girl standing in our way. Things are going to hell in a handcart around here.”

Unlike with the dead, Sarah was uncomfortable with the living. Experience had taught her the best way to cope with people was to concentrate on the work at hand. She picked up a nearby clipboard holding the police report along with four photographic prints. One print was of the dead girl lying naked on her back in a bed against a wall. Someone had placed a towel over her chest and groin. The gain in modesty came at the expense of concealing how much blood was on or under the body.

Another photograph showed the whole room, which was in an extreme state of disorder. The final two photographs showed both sides of a small pistol; one side had “H. Shaw” engraved in bold lettering. The weapon was also covered with dark, swirly markings—the police had processed the gun for finger marks.

“There’s no mystery here,” said the coroner. “Police Commissioner Lipp wants us to work fast and get Shaw arrested. That will also have the benefit of knocking the commissioner’s main competitor out of the mayor’s race.”

“Amen to that,” said the medical examiner. “Commissioner Lipp is a godly man and the only one tough enough to clean up this city—he’s got to be elected. All right, then. Let’s get started.”

“Her name is Lizzie Sullivan, a showgirl, nineteen years of age.” Sarah read aloud from the report. “Police found the body in the deceased’s boardinghouse room, along with a discharged pistol. A feather pillow with powder burns and a bullet hole was also found.” The only sounds were the coroner’s wheezy breathing and the drip of melted water from the corpse iceboxes. Sarah lowered the clipboard. “Where are the bedsheets from the crime scene?”

The medical examiner flicked a speck of dust off his white medical gown. “You’re here, missy, strictly to observe. Stop your annoying prattle.”

Sarah pressed the clipboard to her chest. “You must address me as ‘Doctor.’” She forced herself to stop rocking back and forth on her feet. “You know my qualifications. I graduated from the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine this spring with a specialty in pathology. And let me remind you I am here at the request of the mayor to learn the truth behind this murder. That is my job with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.”

The two men rolled their eyes. “Political shenanigans,” said the medical examiner. “The mayor must be in the pocket of the Pinkertons for him to send you instead of someone who knows what they’re doing. What kind of physician works for a gumshoe firm?”

Sarah hesitated. He had a point—the Pinkerton Agency was not her preferred employer. She should be working as a pathologist.

“No sheets. All we have is the body,” said the coroner. “The report says there was blood on the bed. It’s safe to assume she bled out.”

“The report fails to specify how much spilled blood was present at the scene. We are missing a key piece of information.” Sarah looked at the girl’s body. “The victim is not, however, drained of blood.”

The coroner’s jaw tightened. “How do you know that, Doctor? We haven’t even opened her up.”

“Observe the lividity pattern.” Sarah pointed to the pronounced purple patches along the visible edges of the girl’s back, rear end, and thighs.

“Lividity is present even after severe blood loss,” said the medical examiner with a deep sigh. “Guess your fancy school didn’t teach you that.”

“If she suffered severe blood loss, the lividity would be much reduced and would present as more pink than purple,” said Sarah. “Also, let us consider the cut on the right side of the head. Surely it occurred before death.” Sarah was swaying again, and her extended finger moved closer to, then farther away from the girl’s head as she spoke. “The area is swollen and discolored, indicating the blood vessels had time to expand. There are signs of healing.”

The coroner and the medical examiner glowered in silence. Sarah’s shoulders clenched tighter and a bead of sweat rolled down her spine as she struggled to assess their reaction. It was reasonable to suspect they viewed her behavior as difficult. And, for unknown reasons, they were ignoring her valid points.

The men turned the body over on its side. “No sign of a bullet exit wound or any other trauma to the back,” said the medical examiner. He rolled the body back and sliced into the abdomen. After a quick check of the stomach and other organs, he cut open the chest, using long-handled cutters to snip the ribs. Dipping his hands into the cavity, he conducted a perfunctory examination of the heart and lungs, splattering fluid onto his apron.

“Right. Here’s the bugger.” The medical examiner plunged forceps deep into the chest and pulled out a small bullet. “I say this is a homicide with death due to a twenty-five-caliber gunshot wound to the heart. That’s consistent with the discharged pistol and the hole in the pillow. Will that make the commissioner happy, Mr. Coroner?”

“Yes,” said the coroner. “It’s the perfect finding.”

“I disagree about the cause of death.” Sarah blurted the words out. “The gunshot wound must have occurred after she died. The bullet pierced a coronary artery. If alive when shot, she would have bled internally and perhaps even jetted blood externally. Yet there is little internal hemorrhaging, and from the crime scene photograph it is apparent there was no blood spray on the bed or adjacent wall.” Sarah forcefully gestured at the photo on the clipboard.

“Lower your damn voice, girl.” The coroner snatched the report from her hand and flung it onto the nearby counter. The clipboard skittered over the slick surface and fell onto the floor, coming to rest under a cadaver ice chest in a puddle of water.

“Why are you unwilling to acknowledge obvious evidence? And you have not even examined the brain. This is not a competent examination,” she said, small hands slashing the air.

“That’s enough sass out of you.” The coroner pointed a sausage-like finger at the door. “Get out.”

“Ah, she’s not worth your breath,” said the medical examiner. “Let’s get out of here and leave her to the sputtering clerk.” The men laughed coarsely as they ambled off to the dressing room.

“Miss—I-I-I mean, Doctor—do you wish me to enter your comments into the notes?” The morgue attendant stood poised with his pencil.

She slammed her palm on the workbench. “Do not mock me.” He shrank away, Adam’s apple bobbing. A pang of regret hit her for browbeating the man, who must have truly meant what he had said. She tried to relax the discomfort in her shoulders as she stared at a cockroach scuttling across the greasy tile floor. “No. Nothing I said is official, but I offer my gratitude to you for inquiring.”

“You’re more than welcome, Doctor. I have a daughter who’s interested in nursing. She’s a good student and sometimes has notions about becoming a physician. We tell her to be realistic. Still, it’s wonderful to see a woman working in the health field.”

“Your daughter’s ambition is the most encouraging thing I have heard in days.” Sarah stepped to within inches of the man. “There is a book your daughter must read. I will bring it to you.”

“That’s very kind, but please do not trouble yourself.” The clerk took a step back as he spoke. “I-I-I can’t be asking you to come back to this unpleasant place on my account.”

“It is an excellent book in memory of Mary Putnam Jacobi. Dr. Jacobi won a Harvard University prize for her essay ‘The Question of Rest for Women during Menstruation,’ which refuted the notion that women had to rest during their monthlies to avoid damaging their reproductive organs.” The clerk took another step back as Sarah kept talking. “Dr. Jacobi is a wonderful model for any girl considering medicine. And it is no bother for me to come back. I am at ease around the dead. We can understand with precision why they are, in fact, dead. I—”

“Thank you, Doctor. If you will excuse me, I-I-I need to suture the corpse and finish my report.”

After washing, Sarah removed the white gown, ignoring the lint adhering to her jacket. She lifted her broad-brimmed hat, piled high with lace and silk flowers, from the coatrack and, with a complete absence of fuss, plopped the millinery on her head and anchored it with a single long pin.

Stepping outside, she put her hands over her eyes to escape the midmorning sunshine. She was at the edge of the harbor and engulfed with the smell of brackish water, raw sewage, and dead fish. An occasional warm breeze carried the smell of rotting oysters dumped outside a nearby packing plant, causing her to gag.

Harsh sounds came from everywhere—steamboat whistles, longshoremen shouts, sawmill shrieks. The noise forced her to clap her hands over her ears. Slowly Sarah adjusted to the full sensory experience and began walking.

The cabdriver who had brought her said he would wait at the nearby President Street Railroad Station, but she wanted to avoid the man at all costs. His crude sexual comments had been the worst she had endured in days.

She headed up East Falls Avenue toward Pratt Street, where she could find another cab. The fetid stream known as Jones Falls ran along her left. A silent procession of worn men shuffled by on the right, all bent under massive loads of freshly cut lumber.

As she walked, Sarah thought about her difficult time in the morgue, which was just the latest in a long line of confusing, often frustrating, encounters. She could never grasp why some people appreciated her ability while other people held it against her. At school, the instructors were fond of the girl they called “little miss professor” for her habit of talking in detail about a few favorite subjects. Classmates, on the other hand, called her a teacher’s pet and relentlessly teased her social awkwardness.

She had excelled academically at Vassar and Hopkins, and then won a prestigious postgraduate internship in pathology at a major out-of-town hospital. But the internship supervisor, citing disobedience, had forced her out just last month. Somehow, she must find a way to fulfill the promise, made over the side-by-side graves of her father and older sister Grace, to focus her life on catching murderers.

Sarah’s most immediate concern was getting back to the Pinkerton office as quickly as possible to write a report on Lizzie Sullivan’s autopsy. Her boss would complain the report was too long and complicated. No matter—her only care was uncovering the truth.

A motorcar roared past and splashed foul liquid across her skirt from ankle to thigh. She looked at the stains in disbelief. Everything was so hard. She wanted to do good, but things kept going wrong.

Looking out over the sludge-brown Jones Falls, she saw mottled seagulls screeching and squawking as they jockeyed for bits of bobbing offal. Across the muddy flow, her eye went to a great blue heron standing in a shallow spot, elegantly dipping its beak and pulling out one waggling fish after another. She watched until the bird had its fill and took flight toward the harbor, and beyond that, the open waters of the Chesapeake Bay.

She continued walking and reached a spot where the entire width of the street was covered by a pool of water so big the breeze stood up little waves on its surface. Sarah hitched her long skirts and kept going. At the halfway point the pool was two inches deep. Just then, the breeze stopped and an oily rainbow spread on the water before her.

She remembered how her dear sister Grace used to say that seeing a rainbow meant happiness was coming. As much as Sarah wanted a change for the better, there was absolutely no valid reason to think that colors on a puddle promised her anything.

Chapter 2

Jack—Monday, October 11, 1909, 9:00 a.m.

The Monumental Lunchroom was all about location. Near the intersection of Baltimore and Charles Streets, the joint sat in the heart of the city, wedged between the business and government districts.

It was the perfect spot for a guy with a load of bad beef to pass cash to a health inspector over a plate of scrambled eggs, or for a city councilman blocking expansion of a burlesque hall to share a cup of coffee with the hall owner and discuss what a showgirl could do to solve the problem. It was also the ideal place for a private dick to snag clients driven by the typical mix of fear, desperation, greed, and revenge.

Jack stood on the sidewalk in front of the beanery, wincing at the sudden clack and screech of a passing streetcar. People glanced at him as they came and went. They saw a tall, clean-shaven man in his late twenties, lean as a wolf, a battered derby pulled low over his eyes. Despite his threadbare suit, frayed shirt, and scruffy necktie, his black leather shoes gleamed.

Nobody looked at him closely enough to detect the paralyzing dread that made it hard for him to take a breath. And he had good reason to be afraid. He owed Jimmy “Knuckles” Vogel nine hundred dollars, plus the 20 percent vig, with no way to start paying the marker when it came due Saturday. If he didn’t come up with a two-hundred-dollar payment, Vogel’s gorillas would come visiting. But that wasn’t driving Jack’s panic.

He forced himself to go inside and find a table with a view of the front door. Black coffee showed up, but as the burned, bitter liquid hit his lips more of it slopped onto the saucer than into his mouth. He poured the brew back into the cup, willing his hand steady as the homey smell of hot grease stirred a faint interest in breakfast. Looking back to the door, his stomach flopped and his fists clenched. These were the kind of people he was truly scared of—thankfully he saw them first.

The man was big, with a neatly trimmed dark beard. Pulling at the guy’s hand was a boy about three years old. The child looked calm but could start bawling any second. A week ago, the last time he was in this place, a squawking brat had conjured Jack’s ghosts and sent him into one of his violent blackout fits. He could only hope today’s kid would keep his yap shut.

“Should I be mad or glad to see you, hon?” The waitress, unlike himself, remembered all the details from his last visit.

“Be happy as a June bug, darling. I’ve got nothing but joy in my heart.”

“And nothing in your wallet.” She was an older woman with a humped back and a mass of wrinkles framing deep-set eyes. “Mr. Top Hat was in a couple of days ago looking for you about a job of work he needed doing. He’s given up on you, I reckon.”

Lady Fortune was really giving him the cold shoulder. The man with the top hat had paid top-dollar last month to cover up a congressman’s habit of cheating at high-stakes poker. Jack delivered a payoff to the cardsharp, who was threatening to blab. But the guy was greedy and wanted more. Jack countered with a threat to spread word about the sharp’s ring with the hidden pin used to mark cards. That shut him up. “Sorry to have missed the man. I was showing some visiting English nobility the sights.”

“Flapdoodle. The only dukes you know are your two ignorant fists.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Joke if you want, but everybody knows you’ve got real bad nervous trouble. Get both your oars in the water, boy, or nobody’s going to hire you to get a cat out of a tree.”

“Doing great. Honestly, I’ve spent the last week strolling around our fine community.” That was true if walking feverishly twelve hours a day counted as strolling.

He took the same path every time, about twenty miles, from his room near the Fells Point waterfront out Dundalk Avenue past the eastern city line to the smoke-belching steelworks at Sparrows Point, then back along North Point Boulevard and west all the way to the seven-furlong oval of Pimlico race track, then back through Druid Hill Park and along the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad tracks to his starting point. It was the only way to manage his relentless agitation and tortured thoughts. And dodge his ghosts.

“Get ahold of yourself.” She punched his arm, leaving it numb. “Where’s the man who understands people like nobody’s business? There’ve been times when you’re more like one of those clairvoyant mind-reader types than a private detective. Like when you figured out where they hid that kidnapped boy.”

“That was almost a year ago.”

“Sure. But you saved a kid. Some soft-headed types went all swoony and thought you were a hero.”

“Yeah, and it did make me all warm inside. Too bad it didn’t make me any money.” The family had hired him to get the kid back, promising a fat bonus. He’d quickly tracked one of the kidnappers to a speakeasy over in the Canton neighborhood. The guy loved to blab, and three rounds of whiskey later, he let slip where the boy was.

Jack got lucky later that night when he found the kid’s two minders drunk. He was less lucky when one of them managed to grind a broken bottle into his calf, but the kid got home safe. He ended up with no luck at all when the family stiffed him on the bonus.

After that, he drifted toward fixing problems for a certain kind of rich man. The type who would pay well for hushing up a scorned mistress, shutting down an extortionist, or paying off a cop to dismiss this or that charge. Stuff that Jack justified to himself as only borderline crooked.

The work centered on assessing two things about the person who could make the client’s problem go away. First was sensing an emotional soft spot—such as the mistress’s lingering affection, the extortionist’s secret fear, or the cop’s particular greed. Second was knowing how much cash it would take to leverage the sentiment to his employer's advantage. He had no shortage of work. When he could do it.

The waitress shook her head. “Do you have a nickel for some apple pie? Might as well make some money off you before you don’t have a feather to fly with. Or get killed.”

“Yes, ma’am, please. And another cup of your best black misery.” She ambled off with her skewed gait. He glanced around again to size up the crowd. The bearded man and the kid were busy with big dishes of steaming grits. Good.

Jack had come to Baltimore two years ago, fresh out of the army. The seventh-largest city in the country with half a million people offered anonymity—and the place was alive with money.

Baltimore’s harbor, on the Atlantic Ocean, generated cash from shipping everything from fresh seafood, to chemical fertilizer, to manufactured goods. The city was a railroad hub, and steel rails moved freight practically everywhere. Streams of travelers packed luxurious new hotels and fleabag flophouses every day of the year. Cash lubricated local politics, and there was the bonus of even more government-related dough flowing just forty miles down the road in Washington, DC.

He’d also come to appreciate Baltimore’s mad energy. People poured in from the countryside to make more money, grab more freedom, and have more fun than they ever could have dreamed of back on the farm. A supercharged culture carried everyone along on a current of change that left the old days and the old ways in the dust. The relentless focus on the hustle-rush, brand-new, right-now sometimes helped him forget about the past.

“Copper’s here looking for you about a murder.” The waitress approached with her veiny hands shooing. “I don’t know what you’ve gone and done, but get yourself out the back fast as you can.”

Jack had no memory of a murder, but it didn’t pay to take chances. The cops might just be in the mood to knock him around for the heck of it. Give any set of men uniforms and badges, and it was a sure bet they’d push people around just because they could. He ran into the alley behind the lunchroom. It was blocked at both ends. Men were rolling barrels off a freight wagon to the left, and two cops stood in front of a patrol wagon to the right, their tall leather helmets making them look like big bullets.

“Harden,” said a beefy sergeant with a patchy red face and drippy mustache. “You must think we’re galoots.” The man yawned extravagantly and smacked his lips. It was as if he’d just woken from a nap, which maybe he had. Cops were notorious for cooping—bedding down during their shifts in the cozy back room of some cooperative store owner or saloon keeper.

“Thought never crossed my mind,” said Jack, walking toward them. “Just trying to get away from a gal with a bone to pick. You know how that goes, right? If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re coming with us.”

“Why should I, boys?” Jack heard the blood pounding in his ears as he looked at the cops in their long blue coats with the shiny brass buttons and the gleaming badges, slouching with the easy arrogance that comes from authority.

The sergeant spit a long stream of tobacco juice at Jack’s feet. “Listen, lowlife, if you know what’s good for you, just do what I say. Or we’ll let the locust wood do the talking.” The other cop, his pointy nose veering brokenly off to one side, walked up and poked Jack with a nightstick.

Jack turned to the guy. “Lay off.” He tried to keep his voice level, but there was an edge to his words.

The cop took a step closer. He smelled of cabbage and beer. “Aw, that weren’t a good poke. This is.” The nightstick rammed into Jack’s ribs and almost knocked him over. Time slowed as he staggered and then straightened up. Jack looked at the cop and saw it would be duck soup to throw a right cross into that bent nose. He imagined the satisfying feel of the impact flowing up his arm as the cop went down. Satisfying but stupid.

“Come on now before we beat you like a darkie,” said the sergeant. “And hand over that Colt you got.”

Jack was fond of the Colt Army Artillery revolver, but not so much to get knocked around over it. He presented the piece butt-first. Twisty-nosed cop looked so disappointed Jack almost smiled before they hustled him into the Black Maria, slammed the wagon door, and threw the bolt.

Today’s roll of the dice was a crap-out, which was nothing new; he was on an endless losing streak. For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind: it hath no stalk; the bud shall yield no meal: if so be it yield, the strangers shall swallow it up.

The voice in his head spouting scripture was a new problem. Jack banged his skull against the wall for a few seconds before the voice quit. The wagon rattled and rumbled for a while and stopped. Then—nothing. Thirty minutes—an hour? —dragged by. He sat in the dark listening to the passing thump of hooves and grumble of metal wheels on the granite paving stones. The street whir was almost soothing.

With no warning the rear doors flew open and the cop sergeant grabbed Jack’s arm to hustle him along the sidewalk. They were on Baltimore Street, outside the Continental Building. At sixteen stories, the place was the tallest skyscraper in the city. They went into the grand entrance under the spread wings of two huge black brass birds—eagles, or maybe falcons—perched on columns four stories up. The cop stopped in the middle of the marble-clad lobby, plush with Turkish carpets and potted palms. A well-dressed gent with an upturned collar and silk cravat took a wide arc around them on his path to the door.

“Sarge, how about letting go of my arm? Promise not to run away. And it’s the least you can do for making me cool my heels for so long in your club car.”

“Shut your trap. Someone’s meeting us.”

A small, plain young woman approached them. Tendrils of mousy hair hung carelessly down from her upswept coiffure. Her well-cut clothes, erect carriage, and deliberate stride led Jack to peg her as high-class. But after noticing the lint, stains, and chemical reek on her long navy skirt and gray tailored jacket, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her.

“Is this the guest for the Pinkerton Agency?” she asked the space between the two men.

“Yes, miss,” said the sergeant. “You got something for me?” She handed him an envelope. He opened it and riffled through a wad of cash. “Good day, miss.” The policeman tipped his helmet and turned to leave.

“Forgetting something, aren’t you, Sarge?” Jack stuck out his hand. The cop pulled the Army Colt, shoved it at him, and stomped off. Jack stuffed the pistol into his waistband and turned to the woman.

She looked past Jack’s left shoulder as she spoke to him. “Mr. Jack Harden. My name is Sarah Kennecott. I am to escort you to the Pinkerton offices.” Her flat voice struck him as snooty and stuck up.

“Sorry to be a bother, Lady Pinkerton, but I don’t trust people who shanghai me.”

The only change in her impassive expression was a slight twitch of her left eyebrow. “My name is not Lady Pinkerton. My name is Sarah Kennecott, as I informed you previously. I do not understand your reference to a city in China.”

“Come on. You paid that cop to kidnap me.” Jack glared at her while she stared off into the distance. “Forget it. ’Bye.” He turned to leave.

“Mr. Jack Harden. Wait.” He turned around. Her hands were fluttering and flapping in front of her like little birds. “We need you to investigate a murder. I must bring you up to the office.” She spoke quickly, her unblinking brown eyes skittering away from his gaze.

He’d worked with the Pinkertons in the past, although they had never dragged him into a meeting like this. Still, they paid well. “All right. But only if you call me Jack. And I’ll call you Sarah. I prefer that to Lady Pinkerton.”

“No. We are not nearly well acquainted for such informality.”

“The only time I get called ‘Mr. Jack Harden’ is when I’m hauled in front of a judge. It’s plain Jack or nothing, Sarah.”

Her hands jerked even faster as she pondered his demand. “Very well . . . Jack. Let us go to the elevator.”

“Hell, no. I don’t ride in those death traps.” He broke into a sweat. “Let’s take the stairs.”

“The office is on the top floor. It is a time-consuming climb.”

Jack spotted a placard mounted on an easel:

Attention all Guests! We wish you to know the Results of the latest test of our Safety Air Cushion Elevator System! Bobo, a Circus Monkey, was dropped from the sixteenth floor in our Elevator Car. Bobo is fine!

He pointed at the sign. “You think that if this elevator contraption is safe for a monkey it’s safe enough for me, right? Nuts to that.”

“What you say does not make sense in my ears.” Her face remained an immobile mask.

An elevator car opened with an emphatic ding. “Going up,” called the operator.

She stepped toward the car and turned around. “You must come with me.”

Frenzy had him by the throat. He wanted to run out of the place and was ready to knock down anyone in his way. Instead, he reached out to her with a nervous laugh. “Listen, lady, I don’t like those things.” She shrank away, resting flat against the marble wall. The elevator closed and whooshed off without them. “I wasn’t being fresh, honest,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just hate elevators. They spook me.”

She stared at the floor. “I cannot stand to be touched.”

“Touched by the likes of me, you mean.”

“My senses are keenly susceptible to stimuli from all individuals.” Sarah stepped away from the wall. “You should have stated initially that you fear riding in elevators.”

“Jeez, read between the lines. You can’t expect a guy just to admit being scared.”

She stared past his right shoulder. Jack weighed the need for a job against the difficulty of dealing with this odd gal, and the job was losing. He was also still real sore about how the cops had dragged him here. Screw the Pinkertons for making his life even harder—he’d take a chance at getting work elsewhere.

“I will take your arm, which may reduce your anxiety concerning the elevator car.” Sarah was now standing uncomfortably close.

The offer was so charmingly sincere that Jack’s fear and irritation ebbed just as a new car opened. “Okay, I’m game.”

She took his elbow firmly and led him into the car. He gave a tight smile, amused that she was fine with touching if she was the one doing it. Jack thought about making a joke about how the princess had to kiss the frog rather than the other way around but terror blotted out everything as the operator slammed the metal safety gate shut.

A scream began crawling up from his belly as the car shot skyward. Then something close to miraculous happened—Sarah gave his arm one squeeze and he stopped shaking. He remained terrified, but no longer felt like he was jumping out of his skin. “You must be an expert stenographer to work for the Pinkertons,” he said as they walked into the sixteenth-floor hallway. “They hire men for all their secretarial positions. Maybe it’s your skill getting guests up to the office.”

“I am not trained as a stenographer.”

She’s got no business working for this outfit, thought Jack. Probably just a peculiar girl parked here as a favor to her family. Maybe her only talent is handling a nutty uncle. After a short walk they were in the office of the Pinkerton superintendent.

“Sarah.” The superintendent had a thin mustache curled at the tips and a stripe of whiskers down his chin. His manner was one of oily overconfidence, much like a second-rate magician. “I told you to have one of the men bring Harden up.”

“It was more efficient to escort him myself.” It dawned on Jack that she used the same voice—a monotone without emotion or inflection—all the time, regardless of whom she was addressing.

The superintendent gripped his forehead and swept his arm down in a show of irritation. “Remember, darling, you’re here to take notes. I’ll tell you if you need to contribute to the conversation.” He turned and pressed a moist palm into Jack’s hand. “Harden, glad to see you. Sorry for the abrupt invitation, but we have an emergency, and I figured the police could find you quicker than anyone. Meet my close friend Horace Shaw. He owns a big oyster packing plant on Henderson’s Wharf down in Fells Point and is a sure bet to be our next mayor.”

A brawny man of about forty-five stepped forward. His meaty face was sunburned and scarred. A carefully groomed mustache sat awkwardly out of place between a lumpy nose and thick, tobacco-stained lips. The suit was new and expensive, the fine cloth straining against his bulk. A diamond stickpin glittered from a pricey necktie, and a chunky gold ring hung off his right pinky finger. Despite the clothes and jewelry, the man came off as seedy. Jack knew the type. Born dirt poor, the guy had brawled and hustled his way to success. And while Shaw wasn’t entirely comfortable fitting into his elevated station in life, he had no intention of sliding back down.

“I’m told you’re just the man I need.” Shaw spoke with a politician’s phony warmth.

Jack shook the offered hand, which was rough as a rasp. “Need for what?”

“Let’s everybody sit down,” said the superintendent. Jack avoided the plush sofa in favor of a hard-backed chair. He noticed Sarah sit in a matching chair, back straight and shoulders pulled back like a cadet at drill. “Horace is a fine man with deep interest in local politics. He’ll be an excellent, excellent mayor.”

The superintendent’s reverential tone shifted to one of mild distress. “He has a problem that demands your special skill, Harden. The police have the absurd notion that Horace was involved with the death of a dancing girl. She was killed late last night or early this morning. Name’s Lizzie Sullivan.”

“Why do the cops suspect him?”

Jack kept his eyes on Shaw, whose stuffed armchair groaned as he shifted his bulk before speaking. “Shot with my pistol. Thing has my name engraved on it. Someone’s trying to frame me.”

“A pickpocket stole the pistol from Horace,” said the superintendent. Shaw gazed silently off into space, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere other than here—even clinging to a capsized boat in the middle of the Patapsco River.

In Jack’s experience, the less a guy talked in this kind of situation, the more trouble he was in. “Can I assume Shaw knew the girl and that he doesn’t have a respectable alibi for the time of the murder?”

“I didn’t know the little slut.” Shaw’s voice was now devoid of bonhomie.

Sarah looked up while still scribbling notes. “What is your alibi?”

“I’m not going to be grilled by a girl who smells like an undertaker.” Shaw waved her off with a thick hand.

“I cannot possibly smell like an undertaker. Morticians use arsenic-based embalming fluid. I have just come from the city morgue, which uses liquid formaldehyde to preserve bodily organs. Each chemical has a distinct odor.”

The superintendent shot Sarah a dark look. “Horace, the girl is a doctor, believe it or not. I pulled in a big favor from the mayor to have her observe Lizzie Sullivan’s autopsy for anything useful.”

Jack glanced back at Sarah with a mix of dread and curiosity. He hated doctors but had never seen one of the lady variety, even though he knew they were around. Her work for the Pinkertons made even less sense than before. Surely she could earn a lot more money pretending to patch people up—and deal with a better sort than the three men in this room to boot.

“What the hell good does it do to have her involved?” asked Shaw.

“While the coroner has listed the cause of death as a gunshot, I have some doubt,” said Sarah.

“You have some doubt, do you now?” Shaw tromped his foot. “Who’s going to believe you? I’d look like a weak fool having a woman bang the drum for me. Anyway, there’s no need for that. I’m innocent.”

“We should insist upon a reexamination of the body—”

“That’s enough out of you, Sarah. Be quiet.” The superintendent turned to Shaw with an apologetic look. “Horace, let’s get back to giving Harden what he needs to know.”

“I get the picture,” said Jack. “Shaw’s the prime suspect. When’s the coroner’s inquest?”

“Tomorrow,” said the superintendent.

“What inquest?” Shaw sloshed a wad of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other.

“Coroner has to get a jury to look at evidence about a suspicious death,” said Jack. “If the jury decides it was homicide, the cops make an arrest. Mostly the jury does what the coroner wants them to do. If you’ve got anyone to vouch for your whereabouts last night and early this morning, you’d better have them testify at the inquest.”

“Let them talk to my real good pal the governor. I was with him and a gaggle of associates on a steamboat excursion down to Newport News. Got back Sunday morning in time for church and spent the whole rest of the day canvassing for votes in Ward Three—probably where I got pickpocketed.”

“I assume the governor wasn’t with you when the cops think you killed that girl,” said Jack.

Shaw stared at the floor sullenly. “Told you I didn’t do it.”

“You need someone to vouch for you or—”

The superintendent interrupted. “Harden, you’re making Horace uncomfortable. He says he didn’t do it, and that’s good enough for me. I’m sure there’s a way to resolve this matter without accounting for every second of the man’s time.”

“A good resolution depends on who needs what kind of compensation. And if the cops don’t have any more evidence against Shaw other than that gun.”

“We’re counting on you to persuade the authorities to leave Horace alone. He’s in a spirited election and doesn’t need any distraction.” The superintendent offered an envelope. “Here’s fifty dollars to get started. If you can help Horace out of this jam, there’s a lot more in it for you. He’s offering a five-hundred-dollar bonus.”

“My, my,” said Jack. “That’s a lot of money. But it should be, considering you’re counting on me to swing a big-time bribe.”

“Don’t put it so crudely,” said the superintendent.

“Whatever you say.” Jack took the envelope and tucked it into his jacket. He wasn’t eager to help a murderer get away with it. Still, five hundred iron men would go a ways toward covering his gambling marker. “Shaw, I need to ask you a couple more questions.”

Shaw made his chair creak for its life as he crossed and then uncrossed his tree-trunk legs. “What for?”

“If you didn’t kill the girl, who did?”

“Who cares? Just get me cleared.”

“That’s not so easy. Cash doesn’t always make the police forget about a murder. It might also be necessary to point the cops to a handy suspect, like someone who might want to set you up. Who’s your worst enemy?”

“Police Commissioner Adolph Lipp. My main opponent in the mayor’s election.” Shaw heaved himself up, walked over to a brass spittoon near the door, and let loose a long squirt of dark brown tobacco juice. He ran the back of his hand across his lips and then across the seat of his trousers.

“I know Lipp,” said Jack. “He’s the Bible pounder who raids Sunday liquor sales with a pistol in one hand and a hymnal in the other. Loves to see his name in the paper.” Lipp was a sanctimonious sort who was, even by Baltimore standards, a raging bigot. His campaign slogan was something like, “The saloon ruins righteous character, while the Negro and the immigrant ruin racial purity.”

“He’s the bastard who’s lined up most everyone who hates me,” said Shaw as he crashed back into his chair. “Pardon my French, miss, but I’m in a state. Lipp’s got all the teetotalers, immigrant-haters, and churchgoing types locked up. There’s more of them than you might think. Lipp’s meaner than a snake and wants his boot on my neck. But I’ve got the votes to smash him like a bug.” Shaw pounded his fist into his palm like a sledgehammer hitting steel.

“If Lipp’s out to railroad you, it’s a problem.” Jack saw that Shaw was in more trouble than the man was willing to accept.

The superintendent sniffed. “I’m told the commissioner is a man of integrity who lets his men do their jobs without undue interference.”

“In other words, the superintendent believes the cops will put their money hunger ahead of whatever the commissioner wants,” said Jack. “Who’s the lead detective on the case?”

“A cop named O’Toole questioned me,” said Shaw.

Jack smiled broadly. “Snake Eyes O’Toole. The dirtiest city dick there is. That’s good news for you. But we need a patsy other than Lipp. Who else has it in for you?”

“There’s a third man running in the election—he hates me, too. Name’s Lucas Patterson. A joke of a candidate. Soft rich boy.” Shaw gave a rude snort. “He’s called the millionaire socialist. A real radical dynamiter that hardly nobody’s going to vote for—just the good-government bleeding hearts. Patterson supports all sorts of goo-goo nonsense. Coddling bums. Giving coloreds special rights and women the vote. Putting child labor rules on the backs of businessmen. I can’t run my oyster packing business without using kids. Patterson don’t care that families would starve without their kids’ wages. He thinks those ignorant brats should waste everybody’s time going to school. Patterson’s a traitor to his class and his race. He’s only running as a gadfly.”

“A rich man isn’t a useful suspect,” said Jack. “Who else can you give me?”

“That’s enough for now.” Shaw scowled and looked at his watch. “I know I’m in deep horse—forgive me, miss.” He stood up. “Superintendent, Harden, I’m counting on you to do whatever it takes to keep me out of jail.” He looked at Sarah with a frown. “Don’t want anyone to know the girl’s done anything for me, hear? I’d never live it down. I want her off the case.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said the superintendent in his butteriest tone. “You can count on that.”

“Good. I know how this kind of thing gets fixed. Just tell me who I got to pay and how much.” He put on his ten-dollar hat and left.

“Harden,” said the superintendent as he waved a sheet of paper, “here’s the Sullivan girl’s boardinghouse address. The only other thing we know is that she worked as a dancer at different theaters around the city.”

Jack stood and took the paper. “Anything else?”

“We need you to keep a clear head, so don’t blow what I just gave you on a wild bender. Save the loony, liquored-up brawling until after you finish things. Got it?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Sure, sure.” The superintendent gave a tired wave. “Just keep your focus on the assigned task. Don’t make me regret doing you a favor by giving you this job rather than using one of my own operatives.” He picked up the telephone receiver. “I’ll call someone to escort you down to the lobby.”

Jack bridled, knowing that he was the one taking the risk. The Pinkerton Agency contracted out dirty work that might besmirch the firm’s well-crafted reputation for ruthlessness that stopped just short of breaking the law. If Jack landed in hot water for offering a bribe, the superintendent would claim astonished innocence and disavow any role in the matter. Jack was easily expendable, unlike a regular Pinkerton dick. “Forget it,” he said. “I want Sarah. She knows how to handle the elevator.”

“No,” said the superintendent with a forceful shake of his head.

“I do not object,” said Sarah. “I helped him cope with his morbid fear of elevators earlier. It is logical to assume he needs additional help to return to the lobby.”

“Let’s go, Sarah,” said Jack, striding for the door with the superintendent guffawing behind him. Jack turned to her in the hallway. “Why’d you embarrass me like that? Now he thinks I’m chicken-livered as well as a boozy nutcase.”

“It was not my intent to cause embarrassment. I merely mentioned what I learned from you earlier.” She abruptly veered her gaze past one side of his head to the other while both her hands wagged.

Sarah tested Jack’s ability to size people up. She was willful and blunt, as well as brainy. But her behavior was beyond stiff—she didn’t seem to know how to deal with people in a natural or even normal manner. And what was the deal with that poker face and those fluttery hand gestures? He had never run across anyone remotely like her. “Let’s go down to the lobby,” he said. “I want to talk with you.”

Once again she took his arm and held it just the right way to keep him from coming apart as the elevator dropped to street level. She let go as soon as they stepped into the lobby. “Where’d you learn that arm trick?”

“I worked with nervously disposed invalids in a lunatic asylum. Some patients were victims of an inherited disorder, others suffered from a shock or mental trauma. Patients responded well to touch—it relieved their anxiety.” There was no hint of bragging.

“So—even crazy people can’t avoid doctors these days.”

“At Johns Hopkins Medical School I studied all aspects of the medical sciences, including psychology, anatomy, surgery, and obstetrics. I had a particular interest in medico-legal pathology, which covers toxicology—”

Jack held up his hand to stop the torrent of words, most of which meant nothing to him. “You said you doubted Lizzie Sullivan died from a gunshot wound. How can we get that checked into before the coroner’s inquest?”

“A second autopsy is difficult to obtain. The authorities require a compelling reason.”

Jack was in a hurry to go see the person in the best position to kill the case against Shaw, but it was always good to have another angle to play. “Can you get the superintendent to talk with his pal the mayor? Seems like you can provide a good enough excuse.”

“I can provide an excellent rationale. The bullet hit a coronary artery, but there is no evidence of extensive bleeding. That almost certainly means the gunshot occurred postmortem. If administered prior to death, the wound might even have caused exsanguination, as the heart would continue pumping at pressure adequate to—”

“Sarah. You’ve convinced me. You need to talk to your boss.”

One of her eyebrows jerked faintly. “The superintendent has instructed me not to annoy him with verbal details. I am to communicate with him in writing only.”

“Shaw made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want you involved, but maybe you’ll just have to make the boss listen about how best to help the client. Look, I’ve got to run. Let me take you to dinner tonight, and we can discuss how to handle this.”

She held up a hand. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

“I have three reasons. First, accepting a male escort may lead to a misunderstanding on his part with regard to physical intimacy. Second, I must write my report. Third, I do not approve of your mercenary role in this case. You are willing to subvert justice to collect your fee. I find that offensive.”

“Wait a minute. We both work for The Eye.”

“Who or what are you referring to by that term?”

“Those creeps.” He jerked his thumb up. “You know, ‘The Eye that never sleeps.’ Same devil that pays you. How come I’m a mercenary and you aren’t?”

“My only goal is to pursue the truth. I will stay here tonight to write a thorough report for the superintendent about what I observed during the autopsy. Lizzie Sullivan deserves justice.”

He noticed that the more she talked, the louder her voice became. It was as if she were unaware of the need to regulate her volume in the course of a conversation. “You’re kidding yourself, sister, if you think your hands are clean as long as you’re working for the Pinkertons. Or that your little report is going to amount to a hill of beans in terms of getting that girl justice.”

Sarah looked at the backs of her white-gloved hands and then the palms as her cheeks turned bright pink. “I want this conversation to end,” she said.

Jack jammed on his derby and walked out of the Continental Building into the rainy afternoon bustle. No one had ever called him a mercenary, although the word had floated through his head a time or two. Truth and justice—she seemed to believe they were real. The path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day. Jack pressed both fists over his eyes until the voice faded.

He needed to work off some agitation and didn’t mind walking in the rain. As he strode east on Baltimore Street, fat raindrops pounded his hat and jacket.

The rain brought out different smells as it gurgled in the gutter. There was a mineral tang from the paving stones and a pleasant animal-plant scent from the manure and vegetable waste scattered everywhere. He liked how the clip-clop of the passing horses was different in the rain—the sound was clearer and richer. After a few blocks he came to the awareness that he’d be chilled to the bone by the time he got to the Silverstrike Hotel at High and East Fayette Streets. He dug in his pocket and was glad to find the change needed for the streetcar that groaned to a stop just ahead.

Jack jumped on the trolley, and as he dropped onto a bench, the Colt poked into his ribs. Maybe it was a warning. The guy he was going to meet was a violent brute with a badge that let him get away with anything. Jack gazed at his hand and saw that the tremor, while bad, was less than it had been at the lunchroom.

Chapter 3

Sarah—Monday, October 11, 1909, 2:00 p.m.

Sixteen favorite books lined up precisely on her desk at the Pinkerton Agency provided a welcome distraction from a blinding headache. She arranged the books alphabetically by title, then rearranged them from thinnest to thickest. As she worked, she stroked their pebbly, reassuring covers and fanned creamy pages to release a soothing inky scent. Handling the books reminded her of joyful childhood memories.

She had been born into a world of overwhelming sensory anguish. Everything was too vivid, too intense. People especially terrified her with their big, alarming faces and loud voices. Her panicky tantrums eased only after she’d managed to shut down her emotional reactions and withdraw into a private world.

She eventually grew tolerant enough of her environment to appreciate select surfaces, such as the cool smoothness of her blanket’s satin edging and the faint woven feel of the wallpaper in her room. Certain people—her father, her sister—gradually seemed less scary. After learning to walk, she discovered her father’s library. Her favorite activity after that was pulling books off the lower shelves and exploring their wonderful smells and textures.

When she was three and a half, she found a colorful piece of paper haphazardly folded into a series of uneven squares. Her sense was that the object needed fixing, and she presented it to her father.

He smoothed the paper open to reveal an outline divided into shapes of different colors. Great black lines ran across the shapes. Her father told her it was a map of the United States, with railroad lines connecting cities. He pointed his finger at the text while sounding out the title of the map: “The Eastern Span of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Highway of the Continent, from Great Rivers and Lakes, across Prairies, over the Alleghenies, down the Valley of the Potomac to the Sea.” In the days that followed, she loved sitting in his lap as he named the cities and towns along the rail lines. Within a few weeks she was able to read everything herself.

On her fourth birthday, her father gave her Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He read it to her and Grace many times while they snuggled close. Sarah began to read other books on her own, and by the time she was seven, she had devoured dozens, including Black Beauty, On the Origin of Species, and The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Sarah forced her attention back to the present and found herself calmer. A small knot of pain remained behind the center of her forehead—lingering tension no doubt arising from Jack Harden’s statement that her work would not reveal the truth about Lizzie Sullivan’s murder. It was true that the Pinkerton Agency’s role in the case did not center on justice. Still, she would finish her report tonight and press it upon the superintendent. Helping their client surely was his paramount interest.

She needed more evidence for the report, compelling facts that would force people to understand how Lizzie really died. The best way to get those facts was to examine the dead girl’s body as soon as possible—right now, in fact.

Sarah glanced back down at her books and pulled out In Memory of Mary Putnam Jacobi. It was the slimmest volume in the row, with a marvelous ribbed cloth binding. She had intended to buy another copy for the morgue clerk’s daughter. Gently stroking the book’s cover, she decided giving it up was worth the loss.

* * *

The two-story red brick morgue perched at the very edge of the harbor, as if to keep the dead as far away from the living as possible. Near the side loading dock, a man struggled to drag an oblong form wrapped in dirty canvas from the morgue’s dead wagon. Two men, dressed in white, watched idly from the dock. A steam-powered saw obliterated every other sound as it screeched somewhere in the vast commercial lumberyard that surrounded the place. Sarah stood outside the front door, gathering her courage.

Saying anything untrue was nearly impossible for her. But, through experience, she had learned that people often preferred to skirt or obscure the truth. If someone appeared worn and tired, you were supposed to say “You are looking well.” If someone asked how you were doing, you were supposed to say “Fine, thank you,” even if you felt horrible. If she absolutely had to lie or overlook some rules to examine Lizzie’s body, so be it.

The morgue reception area was a stark, unwelcoming space that smelled of mildew with a hint of acrid cleaning solution. Yellow paint peeled from the dirty walls. A single electric light in a chipped green metal reflector dangled from the ceiling next to a curled strip of adhesive flypaper dotted with small bodies.

The clerk Sarah had met earlier in the day sat behind a large desk piled high with papers and boxes of equipment. A calendar advertising “Stafford’s Rib Cutters, Skull Chisels, and Bone Saws: We Open Up a Whole New World for You” hung behind him.

“I am interrupting your lunch.”

“It’s no problem at all, Dr. Kennecott.” The clerk stood and came around to the front of the desk. “How can I help you?”

“I have brought you the book we discussed this morning. For your daughter. It has some of the most positive words ever written about a woman physician. I want to give it to her—to encourage her studies.”

His eyes bulged at the proffered volume. “I-I-I don’t know what to say.” His Adam’s apple did its vigorous dance again.

“You could say ‘I will give it to her.’” The clerk dropped his gaze to the floor and attempted to speak, but the only sound he made was a string of puffs. “Sir,” she asked, “are you feeling well?”

He shifted his weight from side to side. “I-I-I am ashamed to have offended you with my impolite response, Doctor.”

“Do not concern yourself.” She took a step toward him. “I require no expression of gratitude. All I want is you to take the book from my hand.”

The clerk took the book as if it were a rare volume. “Thank you so much, Doctor. It is so very, very kind of you. My daughter will read it with interest.”

“Yes. That is what books are for.” She stepped closer. “I wish to take another look at the body we examined this morning. I need some additional information for my report.”

“That’s a bit unusual, Doctor.” The clerk was now bent backward over his desk, with Sarah about a foot away from him. “The coroner usually decides who can view the bodies.”

Sarah tilted her head forward to stare at a dark blue stain on the right lapel of the man’s dingy white lab coat while trying to think of what to say. She needed to construct a lie to the effect that the coroner had given her his permission, but forming the words was a mighty struggle.

"I-I suppose just this once will be fine,” said the clerk with a jittery laugh. “I’ll get the porters to retrieve the body from the icebox.” He slipped quickly out of the room, leaving the book on his desk. Sarah took off her gloves and lovingly stroked the book’s cover. She felt tightness in her throat and pushed away the rising grief. This was a worthy sacrifice. The clerk returned with two big men. “We’ll lay the body out while you get ready, Doctor.”

After hanging her hat and getting into a gown and apron, she went back into the body chamber. Lizzie Sullivan was again stretched out on the table. Sarah lifted the right hand and peered closely to see strands of dark fibers clotted with blood under the nails. She used fine tweezers to remove the material. “Do you have a small paper sack?”

The clerk cleared his throat nervously. “I’m not sure y-y-you should take anything, Doctor. It’s against the rules.”

“The coroner is finished with his examination. And the body will be washed soon for burial. Think of me cleaning her fingernails for that purpose.” Stars and shimmers floated through her vision. Sarah willed her legs firm to counter a profound urge to start rocking.

Muttering to himself, the clerk found a paper bag and gave it to her. She placed the fibers from under the nails into the sack. Looking at the girl’s face, Sarah again noticed that the upper lip appeared unusual.

She pried open the mouth, revealing decayed teeth and irritated gums. Peeling back the upper lip revealed a narrow strip of what looked like wadded paper molded around the upper gum line. Some gentle tweezing was enough to lift the slightly damp paper away, revealing badly recessed gum tissue—the mottled roots of the front teeth peeped between bits of swollen, inflamed flesh. Lizzie Sullivan was not a practitioner of good oral hygiene. The bit of paper joined the clotted fibers in the bag.

Sarah looked again at the cut on the girl’s forehead. It appeared to have come from a straight-edged object. She glanced at the floor where the clipboard had fallen earlier—it was still there, lying in a puddle of ice melt. She picked up the clipboard and glanced at the dripping-wet contents.

The photographic prints were badly curled but still clear and sharp. The photo of the girl splayed on the bed showed no sign of anything that could have caused the head trauma.

Sarah grabbed a scalpel and quickly cut away the flesh around the bruise on the corpse’s upper right forehead. Next, she used a drill and bone-cutting forceps to cut a two-inch-square in the girl’s skull. This was not the typical procedure, but there was no time to saw open the skull to do a proper examination of the brain. Most of her anxiety fell away as she focused on using the instruments.

“Wait! You can’t do that!” The clerk rushed to her side and raised his arms up and down frantically. Sarah ignored him and lifted the cut piece of bone to reveal a large mass of clotted blood under the first layer of tissue beneath the skull. It had the appearance of an acute subdural hematoma—the blow to the head had caused internal bleeding, which in turn placed great pressure on the brain. That, more than likely, was what had killed Lizzie Sullivan.

“I am finished.” She replaced the piece of cut bone and stepped away from the table.

“I’ll say you are. I’m reporting this right now.” The clerk rushed off, white coat flying behind him. Sarah put the bag with the newsprint and fingernail scrapings in her purse, then glanced at the police photographs. She stuffed them into her purse as well, then hurried to wash her hands and get out of the gown and apron.

As she walked through the reception area, she heard the clerk shouting into the telephone about how some crazy woman had hacked open a skull. Sarah was offended—she did not like her technique referred to so crudely.

She walked quickly to the President Street station, hailed a cab, and set off to Johns Hopkins Hospital. The evidence presented a clear picture, but it was good practice to seek another opinion.

* * *

“Good day, Dr. Kennecott.”

Sarah froze on the sidewalk outside the Pathological Building on the grounds of Johns Hopkins Hospital. She was in a rush to consult with someone other than the professor of psychiatry who stood smiling before her on the building’s steps. He was a muscular man with a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard, Homburg hat, red necktie, and dove-gray suit jacket. “Dr. Norbert Macdonald, I do not have time to converse.”

Macdonald nodded. “Aye, we’ll talk this afternoon.” He spoke with a thick Scottish burr.

“I must cancel our appointment. Something urgent has arisen.”

“That is disappointing.”

“Excuse me.”

Macdonald clicked his heels and stepped aside, still smiling. “Remember that I hope to cure your mental issues and to write a case study.”

Sarah wordlessly walked past him up the stairs and into the building, knowing she had violated a social rule by abruptly abandoning the doctor. That was unfortunate because she did not object to his company.

Recently returned from work with world-renowned figures in psychology, he had been hired to head a new psychiatric hospital the university was building. Macdonald had advance word about Sarah and invited her to meet soon after settling into his temporary office in the Pathological Building two weeks ago. She willingly accepted his invitation, drawn by the man’s fluent German.

During their meeting, Macdonald produced photographs of individual faces and asked her to identify the emotion each person displayed. It had been a difficult, painful task. She always had trouble looking at faces—eyes, in particular—as they broadcast overwhelming emotional signals. She could only bear to examine each photograph for a few seconds.

She was not surprised to hear that nearly all her guesses at the emotional state shown in each photograph were wrong. She was, however, nettled when Macdonald described her in passing as cold and unfeeling. The opposite was true. Sarah felt joy, anger, fear, and more with great intensity. But she had concluded that, in addition to having difficulty identifying the emotions of others, she had at least as much trouble communicating her own.

Macdonald had offered to provide psychoanalysis to help improve what he called her “psychopathic emotional disorder.” The doctor recounted his own success with analysis and explained that he kept a detailed journal about his thoughts and actions to help him dig into his subconscious. He also wanted to explore Sarah’s personality as the basis for a published case study. She wanted nothing to do with what he proposed, but had agreed to meet with him again as a courtesy.

Hurrying down the hallway, she rounded a corner, and nearly collided with the man she had come to see.

“Sarah, hello.”

“Greetings to you as well, Dr. Frederick Anson.” Her pathology mentor was short and bald but for a three-inch tuft of hair rising from the top of his head. His thick spectacles greatly magnified his eyes. The man was also extremely fond of brightly colored clothing. Some unkind students called him “the horned chameleon,” although she failed to grasp why.

“I hear you are . . . consulting with the Pinkerton Agency,” he said.

Sarah was mildly infatuated with the man. Not a romantic desire—it was more a longing to ease her isolation. More than once she’d wondered if she could tolerate having his arms around her like her father had done, but had never considered testing the idea. “Yes, that is correct. I wish to confer about a recent murder and discuss my reasoning as to the cause of death.”

He pulled a watch from his scarlet waistcoat with a bandaged left hand. “I can give you a few minutes.”

Sarah quickly explained how she came to make two trips to the morgue and gave a rapid overview of what she had observed. Anson removed his glasses and wiped them on his shirtfront.

“What is the dead girl’s name?” He squinted at her.

Sarah hastily skated her gaze across Anson’s unfocused eyes, curious that he would ask such a question. “Her name is Lizzie Sullivan.”

Anson put his glasses back on. “When do you estimate the time of death?”

“I had hoped to consult with you about that. Based on my observations, I estimate that she died late last night or early this morning. But I believe she received the fatal head injury many hours prior, given that the tissues had time to bruise and begin to heal.”

“Do the police have a suspect?”

“Doctor, given your limited time, I wish to discuss the condition of the body rather than review the broader facts of the case.”

He looked at her closely. “Was there a fracture of the victim’s skull?”

“No. The modest appearance of the cut and the lack of a fracture drew attention away from the head injury during the initial autopsy. I learned more during my return to the morgue.”

“Going back without authorization to examine the body was wrong. You could face serious consequences.” Anson spoke softly, but it was unlike him to show such deference to bureaucratic rules.

“Truth is what matters, not protocol,” she said.

“I say this as your friend, Sarah. You absolutely must—must—learn to obey the men in charge. If the coroner has ruled the gunshot wound as the cause of view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Sarah’s awkward first meeting with Jack shows how her autism makes it difficult for her to communicate and connect with others. But Jack manages to gain her trust in a way that few others have. How does he manage to do that? To what extent is it Jack himself versus Sarah’s own desire to pursue the murder investigation?

2. The early years of the 20th century featured rigid gender roles and firm rules that highlighted distinctions between classes. Sarah has no intuitive understanding of social expectations or how to meet them. To what degree does her “social blindness” hinder (or help) her as a woman, a physician, a detective, and as a nominal member of Baltimore high society?

3. Jack is a tough, street-smart guy who makes a living taking money to fix shady problems for shady characters. Despite this, do you think he has an admirable moral code overall? Do the circumstances of his life and the era force him to undertake dubious work? What role, if any, does his emotional trauma (what we call PTSD today) play?

4. How do class, money, and prejudice (racial, as well as how “neurotypicals” view those who are neurologically diverse) influence the different relationships throughout the book? Consider Sarah, Jack, Mayor Lipp, Dr. Macdonald, Margaret Bonifant, Bob Foster, and Clara Sullivan.

5. The story is told from Sarah’s and Jack’s point of view. Were there other characters whose perspective you wish you could see? How would a widened perspective change the way the mystery unfolds?

6. Did the depiction of 1909 Baltimore as corrupt, lawless, and full of chaotic change surprise you? What about the accounts of racial discrimination? Of low wages for women in the workplace and the prevalence of prostitution? Did the story challenge any of your ideas about American cities in the early 20th century?

7. The book embeds contemporary neurological issues (autism, PTSD, schizophrenia) into a historical mystery. Did you like the focus on these issues, the historical setting, or both? Why?

8. There are several villains in the book. Were any of them sympathetic, or were they consistently evil? Did you find any of them especially interesting? Which ones?

9. Would you have chosen a different ending for any of the villains? What would you like to have seen happen to them?

10. Into the Suffering City has a sequel, Murder in the Haunted Chamber, in which Sarah and Jack again partner to find a killer. What would you like to see happen? How do you think Sarah and Jack should develop as characters, both individually and together?

Weblinks

»	Author's website
»	Follow the author on Facebook
»	Follow the author on Twitter

Book Club Recommendations

Recommended to book clubs by 0 of 0 members.

Member Reviews

Rate this book