Chapter I
"In Nineteen Twenty-Two, one hundred and one Americans hung themselves. Four hundred and four died in car accidents. Twenty were crushed in elevators. There were two hundred and thirty seven fatal shootings and thirty four stabbings. And that year, nine hundred and seven New Yorkers died of poisoning."—The Poisoner's Handbook.
A Grand Picture
Nobody had died of unusual circumstances in the year of Nineteen Twenty-Two. The great city of New York must have been most doubtlessly grim, for every death to be recorded was—by nature—suicide. The most gruesome and grisly of deaths, and the most bloody and horrific of bodies left in alleys, were too the morose cases of the despondent individuals who claimed their lives. This business of classifying and recording the dead, which was not at all the senseless business of "forensics" carried out in Europe, was seen through by the benevolent and completely valid Alfred F. Jones. Alfred F. Jones had great renown at the age of Twenty-Two for his innovative work of breaking the record of most suicides documented in any preceding year. Ever since he had taken up the job of a coroner, he found that his greatest talent was not in the laws of science, but that of taking creative liberties in the pictures painted before him if there was no obvious conclusion. And that conclusion was most definitely always suicide.
It was a particularly cold day when Alfred F. Jones was called out once more to diagnose the mystery surrounding the death of Miss Porter. Eleven o'clock of the Thirteenth was the time she left the earthly plane, but her vessel went undiscovered until there was a most vile smell escaping her walls. Decidedly, none of her gracious neighbors had taken the liberties to discover the origins of the stench, and instead they took it upon themselves to flood the mayor's office with a dozen complaints a piece. So Alfred F. Jones, being called out at Three o'clock of the Twenty-Fourth, concluded that indeed Ms. Porter was dead.
The Press celebrated Alfred F. Jones' accomplishments, titling him "The Detective of the Century" in their latest story regarding the now completely solved mystery surrounding the death of Miss Porter. The question lingering on every New Yorker's mind was "how does Alfred do it?", and that was an unsolvable mystery upon itself. If he was not a Magician, God only knew how Alfred F. Jones was capable of solving such arduous mysteries.
Upon returning home with feelings of self-flattery, Alfred F. Jones dreamt of the many ways in which people could die but never did. The air outside was cold and unforgiving and a storm by the sea was brewing. The city lights never slept with the millions of people who rested their restless heads on feathery pillows, but were people who lay awake with the blinkless lights and prowled the city streets with fervor. Alfred F. Jones knew not of these creatures, but soon his occupation would lead him to prowl the streets with intense fervor himself.
The air was still dark, and cold, and ever present were the shadows that haunted Alfred's dreams. Shadows, present in the minds of all men, made residence on every street, corner, road and home in the modern wonder called New York. So persistent were these phantoms that every creature had their own shadows lingering from the surface of their skin to the deep crevices of their souls. With these shadows endured the hardship of life, the pains of human fragility, and even (though not in every case) the complexity of the mind's madness. And with this endured secrets. Secrets were prevalent in the brick roaded, dust fluttered, grease ridden cities that never once blinked an eye, but in a smaller scale (or in a larger scale depending on the view) secrets could be found in the natural world of the country, the forests, and the mountains and every creature that resides within them. Doctor Kirkland, of former occupation, found that these secrets, natural in composition, were the most interesting topic in the dismal day-to-day life.
Doctor Kirkland was a man of science. He never took a word of the world as law, and instead he questioned anything and everything that he found to be worthy of questioning. His hobby of asking questions ran him into trouble with those who disliked "whys" and "hows", and so Doctor Kirkland found that he no longer could exist within the religious clique. It seemed a great many "Free Thinkers" as they were called, were ostracized for uttering the blasphemous phrases of "why" and "how". Like many others of this new cult, the Doctor of former occupation departed the protestant land of England and journeyed to a land far more proficient in the philosophy of questioning. As the Doctor entered the crowds of New York, he found that, especially here, there were many issues worth questioning. The "Free World"—as many boasted Her to be—was not entirely free, or at least that is what the invalid Doctor presumed.
There were ample opportunities pouring out of every building and crevice of the city, and it was only a question of which one he would take up. He, of formal renown, was a great candidate for any odd business that required the work of any odd person. The Doctor was exceptionally odd, and believed that the great expanse of the great city of New York was no match for his odd wits. And so, early that odd morning of November's Twenty Fifth day, Arthur Charles Kirkland sauntered the streets in search of a job.
The streets of New York echoed that of London, though both were distinct in their own right. New York, with towers that scraped the sky, was bustling with emigrants and new ideas. London, with buildings new and centuries old in Her wake, was lively with the people that had persisted there for centuries and the ideals that were just as outdated. Though thoughts England were still haunting this emigrant's mind, he braved New York like She was instead the antique country of Albion. Great machines lurched forward in the city's veins like great waves oozing from dreadful wounds, while the plasmic hordes of people flooded and fluttered into and out of traffic with little accordance to order. Arthur, doctor of former occupation, entered and exited these throngs until he was just as faceless as the next.
One particular surge brought him to a part of the city gloomier and grimier than those he previously trailed. The air was thick with the smell of cheap alcohol and excrement and the walls were layered with soot and grease and the floor enclosed pools of static, soiled liquid. None of this came to the attention of the Doctor. In the shadows that enclosed the path stood two men, who, in hushed voices observed the body of a man once a husband and once a member of the living race. These men, one a coroner and the other a thug, were being observed, but not knowingly. It did not come to their attention that any soul other than them had witnessed the transaction that took place in the shadows of Dimless Street. Arthur had seen the murdered, mutilated body of a man who should have woken up the next day to see his children's faces. Arthur had seen the bribe so willingly accepted by an authority of the law. Arthur had also seen the young, blue-eyed face of the American who had taken the money from a cold-blooded killer.
"I hardly find this operation to be lawful…" perceived the Doctor. Both men upon hearing his words jumped in startled fright and turned to see the face of the phantom speaker. "…though I could be mistaken."
"Sir, I suggest you leave." hesitated Alfred F. Jones, turning from the shadows. His greedy hands hastily pocketed the money. "This ain't the business of a civilian like yourself."
"Well, then at least answer me this. This man, in whom you accepted a bribe, is he of lawful intents? Is this all a misunderstanding of inconvenience? Or is this man, now dead and unable to see another day of his family or the world he cherished, the ill doing of a criminal?"
"That is a matter of confadility. Now be gone before I'm forced to remove you myself." Said he with bravado. The other man, who still lingered in the canopy of shadows, shared an apprehensive glance with his client. The Doctor moved not a centimeter from his place.
"I wonder if those bold words are met with anything to back them. Confidentiality. Now, tell me. What of this transaction is sufficiently under the eyes of the law to gain the right to 'confidentiality'? I don't suppose you have an answer for that judging by your inclination to flee. Keep your eyes on me rather than your nearest escape route, please. It's rather rude not to look at me when I am speaking, do you not think so?"
"I don't think—"
"—Obviously not. Now answer me the question." He interrupted, growing increasingly weary of their exchange. Alfred F. Jones, who could talk a person out of words any other day, could admit to being at a loss of that very substance. The man of the shadows dared not share a word similarly and looked upon their conversation as one looking for answers.
"Confidentility." Alfred F. Jones repeated once more, making it, in effect, increasingly valid. "Now be gone as I already said. Or—Or…. Or I will take up and leave myself. Yes. I find that a practical course of action. If the fool won't leave himself then I'll pick myself and leave."
"That is not necessary. I will be on my way so long as you state the name of your authority."
"Why? So you can rat me out? No thanks, sir. I'm not stupid"
"Without a doubt. I didn't intend to imply such slander." Arthur promised tacitly. "I simply wish to inform your authority of your zealous work ethic. I am truly astonished by your obstinate will."
"Again, I'm not stupid. But if you really want to know, any man with half a brain would know that I work for the mayor. It ain't like he'd do nothing 'bout it anyhow."
"We can see about that. Be warned that you may find yourself looking for a new job very soon." he promised this candidly. Alfred appeared to take light of his threat, but something in his eyes betrayed his confidence. Alfred let the man of good intentions leave untouched, but he could not help but wonder what would end up presenting itself.