April, 1804
In early March the High Constable put Ichabod to work on the graveyard shift again.
Until the time when he returned to New York City with Katrina and Young Masbath the shift he worked was of no consequence to him. When he first arrived in the city it felt more ominous to him at night, for it seemed that people were more apt to engage in clandestine and dangerous criminal activities in the cover of the dark. But after working as a constable for only a short time Ichabod came to know that terrible things happened in this city at any time of the day; they were not limited to the night time. He returned home daily to a nearly empty house anyway, the only other living souls there being Anna, his live-in maid, and Little Red, the cardinal that he'd taken in when it was injured and who lived at the time in a cage in his attic laboratory. Whether he worked during the day or evening and slept over night – or worked over night and slept during the day – made little difference to him.
Now he had a wife, a young daughter and an adopted teenage boy. It would be a little more complicated but in the month since his shift had been changed he'd already managed to make some adjustments in his routine. In the mornings he played with little Elizabeth for a short time before going to sleep after the long night of work. In the evenings he ate supper with everyone. He took turns with Katrina putting Elizabeth down for bed each night and reading to her. Then husband and wife would spend a couple of stolen hours together before he had to set off for his duty shift.
At least his beloved wife and daughter weren't in the house alone during the night; Stephen Masbath was nearly as protective of them as Ichabod was and he trusted that the young man would look after them, just as he had looked after Katrina when they were in Sleepy Hollow.
Ichabod sighed and walked the streets of the area to which he was assigned, his lantern swinging gently with every step he took. Despite the fact that it was spring already it was fairly chilly on this early April night. This shift was the least desirable for most of the men and the High Constable was aware of that, which is why, Ichabod knew, he'd reassigned him to it. His superior didn't like him and considered him a nuisance. No doubt he wanted him out of his hair. But Ichabod had made up his mind that he would use the quietude of these hours of the night to his advantage. In the event that he discovered another victim during this shift, or on any other night, he intended to at least superficially conduct a thorough examination of the corpses. With his superiors gone for the night, not returning to the Watch House until the morning, he would be on his own for the most part and free to do as he liked.
In the past two months they had discovered at least one fresh corpse early in the morning each and every day. The deaths were not confined to one area of the city, turning up in the north, south, east and west side neighborhoods. Bodies had been found in alleys, in the rivers, in the parks, outdoors and indoors; in several cases family members discovered that their loved ones had passed during the night in their beds. Nor were the deaths confined to any one class. The homeless, the poor, working men and women, landed rich; no one appeared to be exempt from the odd plague that was sweeping the city.
At first no connection was made between the various deaths. Then they began to notice that many of the deceased were young, healthy citizens who lived well, their deaths sudden and inexplicable – and freakish. It was then that the authorities began to look more closely at how they might be related.
Yellow fever had struck the people of New York twice in the last few years, and both the court and the upper echelons of the constabulary immediately attributed this new wave of deaths to yet another yellow fever epidemic. The constabulary was working overtime once again, not only as patrolmen but as public health officials charged with disposing of the bodies in a manner that would at least slow the spread of the disease.
Ichabod, however, was never convinced that yellow fever was the cause of these deaths. He suspected that something was amiss.
"You're a physician now, Constable Crane?" the High Constable demanded sarcastically on the morning he finally presented his case, after his shift had ended.
"I've worked with the constabulary during two yellow fever epidemics," Ichabod insisted, standing his ground. "I'm not claiming to be a physician, nor am I an expert on the symptoms of yellow fever. But I do know that in the past the bodies of the yellow fever victims were jaundiced. Not one of the corpses that I've discovered these past weeks had any signs of jaundice."
"Perhaps those deaths were caused by something else. Or perhaps the yellow fever killed them before it reached that stage where their skin yellowed. There are people dying every day in this city, from all sorts of illnesses, from starvation. Neither you nor the other constables found any blood on the bodies or at the individual scenes."
"No, not a trace of it," Ichabod admitted. "But that may be another hint that this is not yellow fever…"
"What makes you believe that murder is involved?" the High Constable interrupted before he had a chance to finish his thought.
"I don't believe that there is definite evidence for murder yet either," Ichabod stated firmly. "But I believe that it is an avenue that ought to be pursued and investigated, along with several others. Perhaps it is a new disease that we've never seen before. Why am I the only one who sees that this should at the very least be researched? Or perhaps it is murder and the bodies were moved from the scene of the crime long after the wounds had stopped bleeding. If I could only examine…"
"Constable Crane," the Burgomaster cut in sternly. "I'm growing tired of having this argument with you, as is the High Constable. There is no reason for you to start cutting up corpses."
"But…" he began, but his superior immediately interrupted him.
"You are not originally from New York, Constable."
"No," he replied, taken aback and bewildered by the question. He wondered in what direction the man was taking the conversation.
"And no doubt you arrived here after the doctors' riots."
"Doctors' riots?" Ichabod echoed blankly.
"Several years ago there were riots outside of the medical school. Some…citizens…of the city decided to spy on the medical students there one evening and discovered that they were dissecting corpses, corpses that had been dug up from the cemetery. I'm certain that these…post-mortem examinations, as you call them, were part of their studies. But word got round immediately and rioting ensued for the next twenty-four hours. We had to call in the military. I will not have a situation like that on my hands again simply because you imagine yourself a great scientist and you're seeking to indulge some fantasy…"
Ichabod felt his cheeks growing hot with anger and humiliation, and he cut off his superior indignantly. "I am not seeking to indulge any fantasy, nor is this some sort of vanity project…I merely believe that there is something to be learned from these examinations. At the very least we could possibly rule out certain things. During the last two epidemics doctors examined many of the early victims and confirmed that it was yellow fever. There have been no confirmed cases this time…"
"The answer is no, Constable Crane."
"If you will not allow me to examine the bodies, will you at least allow a physician to do so? I believe that it would be helpful if we had confirmation by experts as to whether this is yellow fever or not. The public is already in a frenzy of fear of this disease, and perhaps it is needless."
"Doctors in this city are overwhelmed with a sick public, Constable Crane, and their attention for now must remain focused on those that are still living. Not to mention that if word gets round that a corpse is being cut up, even by a physician…the doctors' riots are proof that the citizens do not care whether it is done in the name of medicine…however, if you can find a physician who is willing I'll then take it under consideration."
Ichabod was dismissed peremptorily and he left the court feeling frustrated and discouraged.
That was two weeks ago. Unsurprisingly he had not found a physician willing to perform a post-mortem exam, and more victims were being claimed every day since then.
Ichabod pondered the facts as of now. The one thing that every victim had in common was there was not a drop of blood on them, or at the scenes where they died. But he just didn't believe that these deaths were related to yellow fever. There had been no confirmed cases. And the lack of blood in every case seemed to indicate that something else might have been causing these deaths. Yellow fever was a haemorrhagic disease; during the advanced stage victims often bled from their eyes, nose, mouth and gums, even their stomachs. The ramifications of these symptoms were that there should have been some blood on the victims' bodies or clothing, if not at the scene.
Of course there was no way he would ever convince his superiors to allow him or anyone else to engage in any meaningful fact finding. He would have to take matters into his own hands when the opportunity arose.
oooOooo
It was three-thirty in the morning when Ichabod stumbled across the latest victim, in a tiny alley off of Wall Street, near the eastside wharf. He spotted the person in a sitting position on the ground, about halfway down the dark and deserted narrow street, leaning against the brick wall of one of the warehouses along the pier. Assuming at first that it was a drunkard he walked over, discovering when he drew nearer that it was a woman. Kneeling beside her and setting his lantern down on the ground he peered at her, noticing immediately that her eyes were open and unblinking, her skin ghostly pale. As a matter of routine he placed two fingers against the carotid artery in her neck, confirming that there was no pulse.
Beneath his fingers were two small palpable bumps. He withdrew his hand, picked up his lantern and held it close to that side of the woman's face while he studied her neck. On the left side were two small perfectly round, identical holes, probably not even a quarter of an inch in diameter, set in the skin about an inch or so apart from each other. The edges of skin around the curious wounds were slightly raised and pinkish. There wasn't a hint of a bluish tint to her yet, and he found when his fingers pressed against the skin of her neck again that some warmth lingered, meaning that she had probably died not long before he found her.
Ichabod opened his overcoat and withdrew his ledger, pen and ink. He opened the book to a fresh page, wrote the date and time at the top and began to write his observations of the body, starting with the location and exact position of the body, and the general attributes. She was a young woman, most likely in her twenties, with blue eyes and disheveled long blonde hair. Noting her low-cut dress and the neighborhood he deduced that she was probably a prostitute. The east side, near the river, was a convenient area for New York's brothels to spring up as there were many taverns and it was here that the sailors from the old world and the Caribbean islands arrived.
He made detailed notes about the two odd holes in the woman's neck and the edge of skin surrounding it, specifically highlighting the distinct lack of blood on her person or clothing, or anywhere around her, particularly the peculiar lack of blood around the odd wounds. Knowing the size of his fingers he used them as a guide to estimate the distance between the two holes and the diameter of the holes then wrote the measurements down.
Setting his ledger and pen aside momentarily he then lifted his lantern again and began a thorough external examination of the woman's body. Other than some bruising on her arms – and the odd wounds on her neck – she appeared to have sustained no other injuries. He was about to set the lantern down so he could make additional notations in his ledger but something made him stop and look into the woman's face. Her lips were slightly parted and Ichabod shivered as he took in the odd expression that was frozen on the woman's face the moment she died. It appeared to be a combination of fear, shock and ecstasy.
His hands were shaking as he set the lantern down and took up his ledger again to make further notations. When he was done he read over his notes to be certain he hadn't overlooked anything. Then he put his ledger, pen and ink away, took up his lantern and began to ring his bell as loudly as he could.
After a few minutes he heard footsteps running toward his position and voices calling out. He hollered loudly to draw their attention and a few moments later another constable appeared at the northern end of the alley.
"I found another one," Ichabod informed Constable James when he approached.
oooOooo
Katrina stood at the large circular window on the top floor of the white four-storey house, pushing it open and anxiously peering out for the tenth time in the past half hour. Numerous carriages drove back and forth down along William Street and several pedestrians passed by, but there was no sign of her husband yet.
Usually Ichabod was home from his shift by nine o'clock in the morning, ten o'clock the latest if he appeared in court before the Burgomaster. It was already eleven o'clock and she hadn't a message from him or even a word about him.
Ever since Ichabod's superiors had forced him to work the night shift last month she hadn't had a good night's sleep. She tossed and turned for hours every night before finally drifting into fitful sleep, only to wake shortly thereafter, jolted into wakefulness by some terrifying vision that remained just at the edge of her consciousness. Then she would sit up, her heart beating, and try to remember in vain what she had dreamed, to pin down the terrible premonitions that seemed to grip her soul. She hated the night shift. Anything could happen to him at night, when the streets were empty and isolated. Every morning she paced nervously, her stomach in knots, wondering if today would be the day she received word that he would never be coming home again. It wasn't until the front door opened and she heard his footsteps and his voice that she finally relaxed.
Strains of Elizabeth's chatter and laughter drifted up to the room and Katrina smiled lightly. The little girl loved playing with Stephen Masbath, who treated her as if she were his own flesh and blood little sister and it was often a pleasure for Katrina to let him take over while she enjoyed the luxury of a much-needed break. Elizabeth was as lovely and sweet a child as ever, but she could also be quite exhausting. Bright and curious, and clearly endowed with her father's great intelligence, she was always exploring, always active, always asking questions.
A light tapping on the door drew her attention and she turned away from the window. Anna their maid stood in the doorway of Ichabod's laboratory where Katrina had retreated so Elizabeth wouldn't be subjected to her fretting and worrying.
"Anna. Has Ichabod returned? I didn't hear him come in yet…"
The petite raven-haired young woman stepped into the room. "He is not home yet, Lady Crane. Would you like me to bring some food up for you now? It's already quite late and you have not even breakfasted. I know that you are anxious. We all are. But it will do you no good to skip meals and become weakened."
"Thank you, Anna," Katrina replied with a kind, appreciative smile. "I'll come downstairs. I think I will ask Stephen to run over to the constabulary now. Ichabod has enough to worry about, and I don't want him to be burdened with my own fears about him. But his shift should have ended over two hours ago. I think it is not unreasonable for us to ask after him at this point."
oooOooo
Ichabod had gone directly to the medical school at nine o'clock that morning, as soon as his shift ended, but Doctor Jessop had attempted to brush him off, claiming that his class was beginning in a matter of minutes. Upon seeing that Ichabod intended to persist until he had his interview he reluctantly agreed to meet with him at lunch time and asked him to return at noon.
It didn't make sense to go home to sleep. By the time he settled down to bed it would be nearly time to get up and make his way back to Columbia College. Instead he went to the Watch House to write up a detailed report of the body he'd found, in hopes that maybe someone would finally pay attention.
At eleven o'clock he set off for Columbia College again. As he exited the front door of the Watch House and made his way down the stairs Constables Grey and Wiggins passed him, heading in the opposite direction on their way inside. Two workmen were with them, dragging a wooden cart with a body on it. Ichabod approached them.
"Just a minute," he ordered authoritatively and they stopped.
He seized the edge of the blanket that covered the body and pulled it back to reveal the face and neck. He bent down and examined the side of the man's neck, discovering the exact same type of marks that the woman had on her neck. With his finger he measured the diameter and distance apart, concluding that the measurements were very close if not the same.
"What are you doing, Crane?" Constable Grey exclaimed.
"Look at these wounds."
The two constables came around to look at what it was that Ichabod found so interesting about a corpse. He pointed out the marks to them.
"Have you ever seen anything such as that?" he inquired.
Grey and Wiggins both shook their heads, looking perplexed.
"Never," Grey said, emphasizing his agreement.
"Neither have I, until a few hours ago when I found these same exact marks on the neck of another victim I discovered, a woman."
Ichabod went back into the Watch House with them and brought this new evidence to the High Constable's attention.
"These marks, in common on both corpses, are bound to be important. At the very least all constables should be told to look for the same wounds on any new victims they find."
The High Constable loudly heaved a frustrated sigh. "Your shift ended hours ago, Constable Crane. Are you now determined to infuriate me even during your off hours?"
For a minute there was silence. Then Constable Wiggins spoke up. Much to Ichabod's complete disbelief it was to agree with him.
"With all due respect, sir, I've never seen wounds like this before. I don't know what it means but perhaps it is important…"
Both Ichabod and the High Constable gaped at him, stupefied. Then the High Constable sighed again and waved them off.
"Burn the body. I'll put out the word for everyone to check any bodies they find for the same marks," he conceded in a low, grudging tone.
"I've already written a description of the wounds," Ichabod told him, indicating the report he'd handed up a few minutes before. "It's in the report I gave you."
His superior glared at him then turned his gaze back to the other two constables, who were still standing there with the wooden cart and the two bearers.
"What are you waiting for? Carry on," he snapped at them and they moved off toward the furnace to dispose of their burden.
Ichabod turned and left the Watch House again, feeling vindicated and a little smug. He made his way back to Columbia College.
Doctor Jessop was a tall gentleman of middle age, with small features and a slim body. His dark hair and beard were peppered throughout with grey, and his manner was somewhat stiff and snobbish. He was a senior professor who had been working at Columbia College's Medical School for over fifteen years.
They sat in his office, a drab cluttered room with a desk and a large chair behind it, and another smaller chair across where a guest could sit. There was a window behind the desk and the walls on either side were covered with shelves filled with large medical volumes and journals. Papers and charts of the human body were scattered all over the desk. His framed diplomas hung on the wall behind him on either side of the window. He'd attended and received honors from several colleges.
"We met last week, didn't we?" Doctor Jessop said, eyeing Ichabod closely. "You're the constable who has been attempting to hire someone to perform a post-mortem."
"That's right."
Ichabod knew from the man's undisguised expression of disdain during their first meeting that the doctor considered him a poser and a lunatic.
"Have you come to ask again?" he chuckled.
"I actually had a question concerning something I found on the body of the latest victim several hours ago, and then on another body brought to the Watch House just before I came here," Ichabod replied undeterred. "I know that you are busy and I appreciate whatever help you can possibly give. I shall endeavor to keep this interview short."
Ichabod withdrew his ledger and opened it, thumbing through the pages until he found the page he was seeking. He turned the book around so that the doctor could read it and pointed to the diagram he'd drawn of the neck with the two holes.
"Have you ever seen wounds such as this before?" He described the coloring, the size and the fact that the two holes were exactly identical in shape and size. As he spoke he could see the doctor's look of condescension slowly morph into something close to respect.
The doctor stroked his beard thoughtfully for a minute or so after Ichabod had finished speaking. "Were these lesions of some sort?"
"They were more like…holes. The edges of the skin around them were pink and slightly raised. There was no chafing or abrasions, no bruising, not even a trace of blood around the wounds. I cannot imagine any weapon in existence that would leave such marks as that. Could it possibly be a lesion caused by some sort of disease, or perhaps a bite from an insect that we've never seen?"
"Judging from the size of the holes I would say it would have to be an enormous insect."
"Then perhaps another type of parasite, or an animal?"
"It's possible, of course, but I have never seen anything like it in my career."
"If you do by chance come across it, please contact me at the Watch House on Broad Street. Ask for Constable Crane. I work at night. If I'm not on duty you can leave a message for me."
"I will. Constable Crane, I'm wondering one other thing. Did you find these marks anywhere else on the body, or only her neck? Perhaps you didn't examine…"
"Yes, I examined the first body I found externally from head to toe. There were only the two holes on her neck. I did not have the opportunity to examine the other body, but there were wounds on the neck, in the exact same place."
He nodded. "I'll contact you if I have anything else to tell you about it."
Ichabod rose and reached out to shake his hand.
"Thank you. And thank you for your time."