When Murdoch next awoke, he was extremely disoriented and his head was killing him. So much so that it felt like a horse had repeatedly kicked his skull until it had split open. He placed a hand to his forehead as if that would stop the world from spinning and found that there was a damp cloth there. Next he noticed that his body was freezing even though he was under several layers of blankets. On top of this, he felt very weak, like he hadn't eaten in days. Plus his mouth was extraordinarily dry. A severe fever would explain his symptoms so he decided that was what he suffered from.
Even though the pain became almost unbearable when he tried to remember what had happened, he still forced himself to. How had he gotten here? The last thing he could remember, he was at the morgue. He thought he had spoken with Julia but he couldn't be certain. Everything was all so cloudy. He hated it that he didn't know what was going on, after all, it was his business to know things.
Therefore, even in his delirious state of mind, he felt compelled to play detective. So he started to observe his surroundings. He found that he was in a small room he didn't recognize. It was sparsely furnished to be sure but there was a table with some white bowls and cloths on it. There was also a wooden chair next to the bed in which he lay, but it was vacant. Judging by the position of the sun, he estimated it to be around four in the afternoon. None of this was helpful in solving the mystery of his whereabouts. Mind you, the cross above the door told him he was likely in a hospital. Which made perfect sense given his condition.
Of course, being who he was, he wanted to know for sure, so he decided to go find someone. However, when he attempted to get out of the bed, the movement sent cascades of agony throughout his entire body, stopping him instantly and making him puke. Even though it had been more of a dry heave than anything else, he was still happy that he had managed to do that over the side of the bed. Maybe that wasn't the smartest idea after all. He would stay put for a while longer and then try again.
As more time passed, the pain in his head lessened until it became only a dull throb. Consequently, his mind began to clear. Slowly but steadily, he was able to remember what had happened. Not that it explained anything. He still didn't know why it had happened. For some reason he had been unable to leave the morgue when he endeavored to. This issue vexed him greatly because he couldn't come up with a rational explanation. And everything could be explained with logic. Supernatural events didn't exist. Anytime his cases seemed to be inclined in that direction, the answer was always something logical. One just needed to know where to look.
Before he could ruminate on this topic some more, the door to his room opened and a kindly looking elderly woman entered. She appeared to be a nun, which all but confirmed his suspicions of where he was. He was in the Toronto General Hospital.
When she saw that he was awake, she first looked surprised but then smiled serenely at him. "I'm glad to see you have awoken, my son. We had feared the worst. You were not responding to the treatment at all."
This was distressing news to hear. He tried to respond but all he managed to do was make a croaking sound.
"Oh, you poor thing," she said. "Let me get you something to drink right away."
She left but it was only momentarily. When she came back she had a big glass of water in her hand. Murdoch had never seen anything quite so beautiful in his life. If he had been capable of producing spit at that moment, he would have salivated profusely. Luckily for her, she was very observant, noticed the tiny barf puddle in time and avoided it. He almost grabbed the glass out of her hand but managed to restrain himself. Many greedy gulps later, he felt somewhat normal again. While he had been drinking, she had removed the cloth and felt his forehead. Apparently she was pleased because she smiled widely. With the soiled cloth in hand, she next went over to the table and deposited it there. Then she retrieved a clean one and began soaking it in one of the bowl's water.
"How long have I been here?" he asked, his voice still a little raspy. He had the sneaking suspicion that it was much longer than he originally thought.
"Four days, my child. I have never seen a fever act as strongly as it did in you. It's a miracle that you've recovered so quickly." She came back over and placed the fresh cloth on his forehead.
"I do feel pretty good right now. So the medication must have worked after all."
"It's quite possible that you are correct. Or maybe the Lord heard our prayers and answered them. Maybe he deemed that it was not your time yet."
He nodded politely at that.
"What caused my fever?"
"We ran several tests but were unable to determine the cause of your illness."
That wasn't what he wanted to hear, how could they not know? Any explanation would have been better than none at all. If Julia had run tests, he was sure that she would have located its cause. Unfortunately, not everyone was Julia. In fact, there was no one else quite like her.
"When can I go?"
Narrowing her eyes slightly, she said, "You are still unwell. It would be prudent to keep you here for another night. However, I believe you should stay here for at least another twenty-four hours for observation. We have no way of knowing if the fever will return, especially since your case is so strange."
It wasn't in his nature to argue with people, let alone a nun, so he let the matter go. Besides, she knew what was best for his health better than he did. Still...while staying another day wouldn't have been a big deal to others, it was to him. It meant he would have nothing to do for all that time and therefore would be confined to his innermost thoughts. Which is exactly where he didn't want to be right now. That's why he came back to Toronto. The murder investigation he had conducted in the Yukon had reminded him how much he missed doing his job. A large part of it involved keeping his thoughts focused on the puzzle at hand, so that they could rarely wander to the battered corners of his mind. He needed that distraction once again. But how could he work a case if he was trapped here? As a result, he decided then and there to sneak out at night so he could go to work in the morning. Before his nurse left, he remembered to ask her something else that had slipped his mind. "Can you please tell me who brought me in?" He already knew the answer but wanted to hear her say it.
"It was a woman, about your age. She stayed with you for several hours before she was called away. A constable came and told her that a body was found." She tsked loudly. "What a terrible business for a young lady to be in."
"Did she come back?"
"I'm afraid not, my dear." He must have looked extremely disappointed at this news for she said, "I'm sure she had a good reason. Your sweetheart wouldn't have abandoned you like that unless she did."
"She's not my sweetheart. She's married." The nurse appeared to be mildly shocked by this information. "What made you think that?"
"It's just...I saw the way she was looking at you and I just assumed...forgive my impertinence."
Her words made his heart hurt so badly that it was all he could do to hold back the tears. "No," he said quietly, "don't apologize. I'm sure it was an easy mistake to make."
She gave him a pitying look and then left the room. Only a small span of time elapsed before she came back carrying a tray laden with food and more drink.
"Thank you for bringing this but I'm not hungry," he said.
"You have to eat to regain your strength. Your body was severely weakened by the fever. Please at least try to eat something."
He sighed, picked up the spoon and began to slurp the tomato soup, for it was still too hot to eat outright. Although his original intent was to only pretend to eat so she would leave him alone, he soon found that the small amount of food ingested had awakened his digestive system up with a fury. His stomach growled hungrily and so he began to devour everything in sight. The nurse smiled and exited the room again.
Murdoch waited until midnight to make a break for it. He had never done anything like this before and consequently felt guilty about his actions. The nurse had been so nice to him and this is how he repaid her? It was too late for remorse now. He had already changed back into his clothes and was slowly making his way down the stairway out of there. He hadn't put his shoes on yet so he could avoid making any sound. So far this tactic had worked marvelously, for he hadn't been caught yet, even though he had been very close to the patrolling nurses on more than one occasion. Finally he had reached the main floor, undetected. All he had to do now was find an unlocked door and he was home free. The first few were no goes but eventually he found one that was somewhat ajar. He put his shoes on and opened the door fully.
Suddenly someone behind him yelled 'hey!' in the distance. He didn't stop to see who it was, he just started running away as fast as his legs and weakened state would let him. Which as it turned out, was not particularly fast. However, it was quick enough to outrun whoever was behind him, assuming anyone was actually chasing him. He didn't think so because he couldn't hear anyone. But it was hard to tell above his own heartbeat, breathing and footfalls if this was truly the case. While he could just look behind him to know for sure, he wasn't going to. That's how fleeing suspects always fell. When they tried to judge their progress, they just ended up tripping on something in front of them. He couldn't count the number of times this had been the reason he had caught a perp because there were just too many.
After half a minute of sprinting, he was completely spent and had to stop, regardless if someone was right behind him or not. Now he looked back and was able to confirm that there was no one there. He had been running away like a fool when there wasn't even any danger of being caught. Oh well, at least no one else had been privy to his idiocy. At least, that's what he thought until he noticed a couple staring at him strangely as they strolled by.
C'est la vie.
The next morning he awoke stiffly. This was something he attributed more to his jail break romp than to any lingering affliction caused by his rampant fever. Perhaps that was a faulty assessment but he didn't care. He wasn't going to allow any vestigial affects of his illness prevent him from going in to work today. So he dressed in a fresh suit, slicked back his hair and was on his way.
"Good morning, George," Murdoch said as he neared his desk.
Crabtree looked up from his typewriter and smiled warmly. He was very disheveled and judging by the bags under his eyes hadn't gotten much sleep in recent days. "Oh, sir," he responded, wearily. "It's good to see you out and about. Dr. Ogden told us what happened. I stopped by myself to see how you were doing." Here he looked guilty and rubbed his neck. "Well, truth be told, I had to go in order to fetch the doctor. But I wanted to stop by again but just didn't have the chance. There's been a slew of murders recently and-"
Murdoch smiled and waved his hand. "It's quite all right, George. What do you have for me today?"
Crabtree handed him several folders. Murdoch flipped through them and his eyes popped. There must be at least eight murders here! So this is why Julia didn't come back, not because she thought it was improper. At least, he hoped that wasn't the reason.
Crabtree must have noticed his reaction because he said, "I told you there were a lot."
"Do we have any suspects yet?"
Crabtree frowned. "Not a one, sir."
"Are any of the murders connected?"
"Yes," said Crabtree. "They all are." Murdoch raised his eyebrows. "Well, at least I think they are. But it's all very strange."
"Oh. How so?"
"All the victims died in different ways." Crabtree looked off into the distance.
Murdoch waited for him to continue and when he didn't said, "Why do you think they are connected if the murders are all different?" When this failed to get his attention, he snapped in front of his face.
"Wha-, sorry, sir. I was just thinking about a plot line for my next book. You see there's this ghost who-"
"Focus, George. The cases?"
"Right, right. What I meant to say before was that even though they all died differently, there was something similar about all of them too."
"Which was?"
"There was no evidence left behind at any of the crime scenes."
Murdoch was so bewildered that he didn't respond at first. In all his years on the force, he had never come across anything remotely as strange as what Crabtree had just said. How could someone be such a versatile killer but at the same time never leave any clues? The obvious answer was that they were dealing with a professional. Most likely an assassin. But from what he had glimpsed in the case notes, none of the victims would be likely targets. They were all just regular folk. So why would anyone want them killed? And why kill them all over such a short span of time? Doing it this way all but guaranteed that the connection between them would be made. Why would anyone want this to happen? Clearly he was missing something important and would need to investigate further. It was at this point that his head started to throb but he refrained from touching his forehead, lest Crabtree pick up on his distress. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to check out early after all. It looked like he was getting much more than he bargained for.
"You're sure that there was no evidence at all? Absolutely positive?"
"One hundred percent. We combed the areas at least three times a piece but came up empty handed every single time."
Regardless of what Crabtree said, he would need to take a look for himself. After all, detective Murdoch was renowned for seeing things that no one else did.