"Sir?"Crabtree paused. He wasn't waiting for a response so much as the opportunity to properly frame his thoughts.
"Yes, George?" Murdoch replied as the pair walked along the now familiar corridors.
Crabtree frowned as they walked along the stark, sterile corridor. The walls were painted a bland off-white. There was nothing to distinguish one corridor for another except the room numbers placed roughly at eye level to the right of each door frame. The plain white squares with thin black numbers etched into them barely stood out and only served to emphasise the building's functional interior, which lay in stark contrast to the dramatic and almost overbearing exterior.
"Sir," Crabtree began again; uncertain of himself. "I'm finding myself somewhat disturbed by this case."
"That doesn't surprise me, George," Murdoch replied. "A sequential killer is the curse of a policeman's life."
"It's not the number of murders particularly. Although that in itself is shocking. It's..." He paused again.
"The ferocity?" Murdoch suggested helpfully.
"Not even that, sir. Although, again, it's certainly the worst sight I've ever encountered in my life. And if I'm honest, sir, I'm keen for it to remain so."
"Then what is it, George?" Murdoch asked with a kind, yet cautious, tone.
"Well, sir, it's the purposeless of it. There seems to me to be absolutely no motive."
"There is always a motive, George. We just haven't found it yet," Murdoch replied firmly and he hoped, reassuringly.
"Yes, sir. I've heard you say that on many occasion. But, I've also heard..."
Here it comes, thought Murdoch with a deep internal sigh.
"... that the employees - doctors, sir, all intelligent men. Well, sir, they think that it could be the work of some sort of demonic creature."
"It isn't, George," he replied with absolute conviction.
"Well, just a moment, sir, hear me out."
"Are you about to suggest that Doctor Frankenstein is real and has brought his monster to life in this very laboratory?"
"No, sir, but that is a very interesting theory."
"It's not a theory, George, I was..." he sighed, it wasn't worth explaining. "Tell me your theory."
"Well, I've been looking into this one, and there seems to be a creature called a Wendigo. Sir, it's a human possessed by an evil spirit. The demon, if you will, forces it to lose its senses and memory and behave in a terrible way. Sir, it tears at its victim and eats it. A cannibal, sir and when the demon withdraws into his eerie other world, the possessed person retains no memory of the dreadful events. Well, I mean, sir. The heart is missing, is it not?"
"And your point, George?" Murdoch sighed as he drew to a halt outside the building's security office.
"Well, sir..." George nodded meaningfully behind him. "Sir, the victim. He's been torn apart and the heart is missing. It all fits."
"We will look for clues, constable. Ask questions, check alibis. We'll do everything the way we usually do. We will gather the evidence in the same way and when we arrest the culprit, I promise you, George, he will not be a demon, a fairy or a spirit. We are looking for a man, George. An evil, strong, violent, crazed man. And we will find and arrest him, I promise you."
"Sir," Crabtree nodded, unconvinced.
Opening the door to the security office, Murdoch saw two men: one a tall, fresh-faced young man with blond hair with the beginnings of a moustache forming, the other, a middle-aged man, with dark but greying hair, paunchy with a round, lined face. He appeared sullen, or possibly tired. Murdoch concluded that he was probably the night watchman and the other, younger man, was taking the day shift.
"Which one of you is Mullins?" Murdoch asked. "The night watchman."
"I'm Mullins," the older man growled with a surly tone. "What do you want? You're keeping me from my bed."
"You watch your manners," Crabtree interjected. "Don't you know who you're talking to?"
"No, I don't and what's more, I don't care. The boss asked me to stay to talk to you and I've been waiting for nearly thirty minutes and all I want is my bed."
"I can offer you a bed at the station if you prefer, Mr Mullins?" Murdoch replied with a genial tone.
"Coppers," Mullins snorted. "You wouldn't talk that way to a toff now, would you?" He snapped accusingly.
"And a 'toff' as you put it wouldn't talk to me in the manner that you did, Mr Mullins. Now, as it stands you're wasting my time and more of your own. The faster we do this, the sooner you can take to your bed."
"What do you want?" He grumbled in reply, reluctantly accepting the detective's logic.
"I am Detective William Murdoch and this is Constable Crabtree. We are investigating last night's murder."
"And the others no doubt?"
"Those too," Murdoch nodded. "But at the moment I am interested in last night's murder. In particular, I would like to know how a horrific murder could take place and the room practically destroyed and yet you were unaware of it."
"What of it?" Mullins shrugged.
"You didn't hear anything?" Murdoch asked. "Nothing at all?"
"No, I didn't. Now is that all?"
"No, Mr Mullins, that is not all," Murdoch replied, growing increasingly irritated by the man's brusqueness.
"Charlie, tell him," the other man encouraged. "He's not just going to know is he?"
"Tell me what, Mister...?"
"Hollis," the young man replied. "Archie Hollis."
"And what do you think I should be aware of Mr Hollis?"
"Sir, you've seen the size of this place," he waved an arm to indicate. "I could walk around this place all day and not cover the same room twice."
"Isn't that something of an exaggeration, Mr Hollis?"
"Yes, a little but it's not much of one. We have routes that we follow. We do one circuit of the building then we check the yard to the perimeter fence and the outbuildings. Then we do another walk of the building. It was in that second walk that Charlie here found him and called you. If it happened while he was outside, there's no way he could have heard it."
"Then why not just say that?" He asked, turning a questioning stare at Mullins.
"You seemed to be accusing me," Mullins grumbled. "I didn't appreciate that."
"I'm going to need the log of your route of the building and the times when you were outside."
"Why?" He he asked indignantly.
"When Doctor Grace determines the time of death I will be able to check your whereabouts."
"There you go again! Accusing me!"
"Or ruling you out, Charlie," Hollis offered the alternative.
"Yes, well, I don't want to end up hanging on the end of a rope because some young strumpet says he was killed while I was here!"
"You just watch your mouth, sir!" Crabtree marched forward only to be held back as Murdoch stuck out his arm to block his path. "Sir, he can't..."
"If you want me to arrest you, Mr Mullins, I can do just that," Murdoch interrupted.
"Ha!" Mullins waved an arm dismissively. "You'll be wasting your time."
"No Mister Mullins, I'll be wasting yours. And as you so firmly pointed out, you are keen for your bed."
"All right, all right, I'm sorry, just make sure she gets it right, because I didn't do this! Can I go now?"
"Yes, Mr Mullins, you can go."
Murdoch pursed his lips and watched as Mullins left the room, earning a harsh glare from Crabtree as he passed. Following him out, Murdoch checked his pocket watch.
"I want to speak to Mr Brassett again, George, there's something I need to clear up."
"What's that, sir?" Crabtree asked.
"The identity of the victim. He seemed to think it was a man called Wilson but as you said, the name tag on his lab coat said Hamilton. I need to know if it was Hamilton, why did he think it was Wilson or if it was Wilson, why he was wearing Hamilton's coat."
"That is strange. Of course, it would make it a lot simpler if we could find the head."
"Or..."
Murdoch was interrupted by an intense bloodcurdling scream coming from further down the corridor. Both of them broke into a run. As they rounded the corner, they saw Mr Brassett with a man standing over him.
"Stay where you are! Toronto Constabulary. Identify yourself," Murdoch called.
"I... I didn't do anything!" The man stammered. "I just walked in and he screamed and passed out."
The man appeared genuinely concerned and confused and as Murdoch drew alongside him he could see why. Looking at the name tag on his coat, he nodded.
"Doctor Wilson?"
"Yes, what's happened?"
"I'm afraid there's been another murder."
"Oh no! Who?" He asked, eyes widened in surprise. "And why did..." He gestured down to Brassett's still prone form.
"We believe it was Doctor Hamilton," Murdoch replied, studying Wilson's face for a response.
"Hamilton?" He placed his hand over his mouth and shook his head slowly. "I can't believe it. The same as the others?"
"I'm afraid so," Murdoch nodded. "Mr Brassett thought that the victim had been you, hence his reaction."
"He thought I'd returned from the dead?" Wilson smiled his amusement despite the awful circumstances.
"It would appear so."
"But why did he think it was me?"
"That's exactly what I intend to find out, Doctor."
