CHAPTER NINE

12 noon, Sunday June 25th, 1922

City Morgue

Julia placed the needle on her new Gershwin recording, letting the acoustics of the morgue architecture fill with up-tempo music. She set up coffee to brew in her cherished glass Silex, placed coffee in the percolator, filled the round bottom flask with water, then lit the spirit lamp, snacking on a few cold cuts she picked up on her way back from the Smalls Hotel. Thus ensconced, she checked her reference books, listing the most commonly used adulterants in legally distilled liquor which were alkaloids, as well as common alkaloid poisons on her chalkboard. Without the proprietary formulae, it was the best she could do.

But so many deaths? Death never respected one's class or station in life...it eventually came for all.

She remained annoyed Detective Murdoch gave unequal priority to all of the cases, but she grasped it was not necessarily his own choice, and didn't envy him his job, that was for sure. Since she wanted to win convictions of those responsible, she decided to ask Mick to help her prioritize.

Munching on some cured meat lest coffee hit an empty stomach, Julia recalled Detective Murdoch's question about someone deliberately trying to kill as many people as possible. What motive could there be? To spread terror in the population? To hide a single murder amongst many deaths? For pleasure? Nursing in the war and her time as a medical student had stripped any illusions she had about the evil to which men would go to achieve a selfish end.

Sighing, she poured a finished coffee and walked back into the autopsy theater where the Jacksons' bodies lay, took a sip, trying to choose who to begin first. Besides the Jacksons she had an additional 10 bodies now, awaiting her investigation.

"Ladies first," Julia announced as her young, lanky attendant, Jack Lester, stepped into the room to help her wheel Mrs. Jackson's body over.

She undressed the body and set the clothing aside to review later. She combed hair for foreign debris, examined under fingernails for tissue samples, and looked over the body for any wounds or puncture marks, finding none anywhere in the skin or mucosa. She repeated the process for the husband, getting similar results. That confirmed for her the most likely cause of death was poison or a freak coincidence of natural causes. She set Jack to washing and preparing the bodies for full autopsy the following day. She also gave him permission to leave when he was done, as not much else was going to get accomplished today. "Your Sunday might as well be better than mine - or the Jacksons," she joked with him.

Going back to her office, she settled in with another cup of coffee and her reference manual. "So, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson...what has befallen the two of you?" she asked herself sotto voce, watching her assistant sluice water over them through the panes of her office window. Deep into a chapter on arcane toxins, her musing was interrupted by a constable from the Station House next door with a delivery.

She accepted the box, surprised at how heavy it was, and that it made noise. She slid her reference aside and peeked into the box - delighted to find it full of reagents and testing materials.

She proceeded to tear into the box, scribbling notes on the flap of the box as she examined each bottle and packet, calculating what was possible now with the quantities available. There was less in the box than she hoped. Her day was going to be longer, but this was going to give her a jump on the mountain of work on her plate.

"I have no idea which string got pulled for these, but it is brilliant! Thank God this box did not get stuck at the station house!" she announced aloud. Catching herself, she hoped that talking out loud did not become a habit when the place was empty.

Satisfied, she rose, calling out to Jack as she came down the office stairs. "Before you go home for the day, please set the Jacksons aside and roll out two of the suspected alcohol victims, whoever is closer to the door is fine." She brought her chemicals down to the workbench and laid them out, helping Jack slide the gurneys into place. "I will see you in the morning; I will clean up, don't you worry."

Approaching the bodies Jack pulled out, she got down to work, first extracting tissue for later laboratory examination. Then she set up her blood samples and her reagents. After waiting impatiently, she got the results she expected: Both of the so-called bootleg-booze victims were negative for inorganic compounds and positive for methyl alcohol - in lethal quantities. She checked the livers under her microscope: evidence of cirrhotic changes for both.

She sighed in frustration, she counted the corpses on ice a few feet away. Not enough chemicals left for the remainder of the victims - not if she wanted to know for certain what killed Conrad Landswell.

Julia opened the cooler, accepting a waft of cold fog against her skin. Was it wrong for her to find the sensation so lovely? Straightening her shoulders, she began jockeying gurneys until she could grab and extract Mr. Landswell, bumping the metal edge of the gurney into her thigh as she rolled it over the threshold. Then the door slammed shut.

"Damn!" she yelped. The back of her skirt was caught in the heavy cooler door, making it impossible for her to reach around behind her to pull the metal handle to release herself. She twisted right and left to no avail, grunting in vexation, unable to snake one of her arms at the correct angle to grab the handle and pull. "This is what I get for sending Jack home!" she muttered. After thinking about it, she loosened her waist band, turning her body inside her skirt until she managed to reach the large cooler door lever, getting it open and liberating herself.

Julia batted at her dress, seeing a large greasy mark on the blue fabric where the door had the material in its jaws. Good thing she learned how to get all sorts of stains out of fabric back when she was nursing. "At least no one witness this embarrassment." Her voice created an echo, she noticed. Getting herself properly clothed again, she laughed out loud, enjoying the sound's reverberations.

Deciding talking to herself was the least of her worries, she portioned out the remaining reagents, gathered what she needed to test and began on Mr. Landswell…

By four o'clock she had the last of her answers. Pushing back from her chair she exulted, immediately forgetting the cramping in her arms and neck. With a giddy heart she reached for the telephone. "Yes, operator, I am trying to call Detective Murdoch, can you find the number for me?...Thank you."

Her excitement was not dimmed when she found out he was not at home on a Sunday. She supposed she should not have assumed he was the domestic sort. She decided to try the station house, in case he was there. "Detective Murdoch? It's Dr. Ogden. Yes…. yes...I have partial results for you. Well, I can give them to you now. Do you have paper and pencil?" On the other end of the line, he declined, telling her he had news for her and he wanted to hear her report in person.

Less than two minutes later, he came down the ramp.

"As you can see, I've become quite popular here," Julia joked as she saw him take in the crowded state of her morgue. "Luckily, I managed to land a few testing supplies from the University, so I ran lab work for you this afternoon," she added, gesturing towards the racks of test tubes. "I have done preliminary liver slides and toxicology on two poisoned-alcohol victims; both were alcoholic as evidenced by their livers, both had methyl-alcohol in their systems - enough to kill."

She thought he almost made a comment, then just nodded, taking a seat by her desk. He gave her a pained smile. "Have you anything on the Jacksons?"

"Only preliminary information, such as there are no external wounds or needle marks; I have collected blood and tissue samples but not processed them yet."

"I have information about the Jacksons' evening meal. They sat down about five-thirty, six o'clock. Chicken stew. I have a sample from the kitchens."

"It will help when I look at stomach contents to confirm the time of death. But that is not why I called you over, Detective."

"Mr. Landswell?" he asked.

Julia gave him a brilliant smile, planning to win him over with her results. She flipped the next page to retrieve her typewritten report. "Mr. Landswell's bottle of cognac appeared to be legitimate, with the toxin added after it was opened. Death was due to an alkaloid, which I have now identified as strychnine."

"Strychnos nux-vomica. Wouldn't he have tasted it in the drink? May I ask how bitter strychnine is?"

"To answer your questions, Detective...it depends. It's possible the taste of the strychnine would be masked by the cognac, considering it is less bitter than Brucine, but it would depend on whether or not Mr. Landswell had much of a palate - or any taste buds. There are certain medical conditions which result in ageusia, the loss of taste functions of the tongue. Such a loss can include the inability to taste bitterness." She shrugged. "Short of finding evidence of a stroke or brain injury, perhaps a brain tumor, there is not much I can look for in terms of autopsy to answer that question. As regards to the liquor, it does have a strong flavour. I suppose it's possible if Mr. Landswell kept hearing about the hints of coffee or woody, or smoky tones of the brand, he might have thought that's simply how it was supposed to taste. I could ask around if Mr. Landswell was a cognac aficionado."

"That's... not necessary… Can you prove it was added deliberately?" he asked.

She reviewed the facts. "Well, I doubt it is part of the bottler's proprietary distillation recipe... But, actually, no I can't. Not if he mistakenly combined illegally re-distilled alcohol with the cognac bottle's contents. I assume you thought of that … Brucine, C23H26N2O4 is used by legitimate distillers such as Toronto's own Gooderham and Worts to add to alcohol in the denaturing process because it is so bitter. It is similar in action to strychnine C21H22N2O2 , a cousin if you will, and usually found in association with strychnine. These two CH-3-0 molecules make up the difference in chemical structure." Julia showed him the sketch she made, unsurprised he understood the chemical formulae.

"So, it can be a deliberate poisoning or an error somewhere along the way, allowing strychnine into the denaturing formula rather than brucine." He made furious notes as he spoke. "Time of death?"

She turned the page over. "The autopsy time of death is medically consistent with the witnessed time of death of eight forty-five last night."

"Strychnine has a long history of causing deaths," he said, almost as if he was talking to himself. "It has been used for centuries in suicides and murders. Alexander the Great…"

She smiled, could not help herself interrupting him to update his list. "Christiana Edmunds, the Chocolate Cream Poisoner, or the Lambeth Poisoner, Thomas Neill Cream…" she teased, thinking the play on word about cream was funny. He did not appreciate the pun. "Detective, brucine is used as a deliberate adulterant to alcohol because it will make you sick, but is not as lethal as strychnine."

He looked up. "We must determine how the strychnine was acquired and how, and when, it got into the cognac. How much will kill a person?"

"One grain if ingested."

"How much of the adulterated cognac would he have to consume for it to kill him?"

She had already anticipated this calculation. "Considering the amount of strychnine in the bottle, I think about two to four ounces at most."

He inclined his head. "Which is consistent with witness statements. How long until one feels ill and dies?"

"Contact with strychnine can make you ill fairly quickly, death is within two to three hours at most after lethal exposure," she explained.

"That is also consistent with witness statements. Is there any chance you'd be able to test to see if Brucine is also present? To substantiate the theory the brucine was impure - excessive strychnine still associated with it?"

Of all the...! Julia nearly swore. This demanding bastard will be the death of me! Instead, she put a stiff smile on. "I shall put it on my list."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"By the way Detective, as much as I have enjoyed Mr. Landswell's charming company, he has run out of stories to tell me, and it is perhaps time for him to find more permanent lodgings?"

He did not even smile at her polite euphemism. "I assure you we are trying to locate a person to make the identification… It's Constable Higgins first task tomorrow morning." He nodded once. He gave her a quick twist of his lips, uncrossed his legs and started to get up before pausing. "So, some of it comes down to whether or not Mr. Landswell knew about the adulteration or the poison, or not. I have to consider the possibility he committed suicide… even though it's an unusual way to go about it…" He sounded doubtful.

"What is it they say about adultery? What you don't know about can hurt you?" she replied, laughing before her braid once again fell down. This is embarrassing, she griped inwardly as she accepted a pencil from him to hold her hair in place.

He hadn't laughed along.

"Speaking of which, do you have anything else on the other presumed poisoning victims? Anything to tie all of them, including Mr. Landswell and the Jacksons to a single source of poison?" he asked.

"I cannot report anything definitive, yet one way or the other. When I get more testing materials, hopefully tomorrow, I will have to test if there is strychnine in their systems as well. It is the only way to know with scientific certainty if the same toxins were present for all including the Jacksons or if Mr. Landswell's death is similar or dissimilar. One cannot rush the scientific method, Detective, and you will not rush me."

That got half a smile from him. It is harder than I thought trying to scrape an acquaintance in the middle of a murder investigation. Yet, Julia was emboldened. "Detective, speaking of bitter brews, I happen to know where one can have a French roast café. Perhaps you could join me in a cup, later?" She saw him hesitate only slightly, almost as if he found the question foreign to him, then recover well. She guessed he did not get out much.

"When the case is over, yes, Doctor, I'd be delighted." He smiled and bade her goodbye.

When he'd departed, Julia told the white-tiled room: "Well, I think that went well..."

Murdoch checked his watch: 4:30. If he was quick about it, he'd be able to get to St. Paul's before supper. He wasn't hungry, not unusual when he was deep in an investigation, but he knew it necessary to refuel, and Mrs. Kitchen was going to be disappointed if he did not eat. His thoughts were so absorbed in sorting the facts of the case, he nearly ran Inspector Brackenreid down as he left the building.

"Oi, Murdoch. Watch it. I have been looking for you, and you're not even looking where you're going."

"Oh. Sorry sir. What are you doing here?" It was unlike Brackenreid to quit his family on a Sunday unless it was serious.

"What are you doing here?" he countered.

"Dr. Ogden called me over for an update."

"There is a lot of that going around."

"Sir?"

"Chief Constable Samuel Dickson called me himself for an update."

He was shocked. If Dickson, a career policeman who worked his way up through the ranks to the top, is giving into the politics, then it is profoundly serious. "What did he want, sir?"

"The Powers-That-Be have decided I am to forgo my sons and Margaret's summer salad and spend my day off in their company!"

Brackenreid positively growled that out. Murdoch's alarms were at full volume now, because whatever it was it had to be near a national emergency to pry him out of his vow to his wife on the subject. After three years away in the war, he'd come back to a son who did not know him - worse yet, was afraid of him. He'd never missed a Sunday since.

"I have been summoned to a five-thirty meeting at the Mayor's office no less, for an update on the progress of your case. Or make that, cases. Did Dr. Ogden give you anything?"

"Yes, but only preliminarily. I can fill you in…"

"Nonsense. If she is here, she can explain directly to me so I can take it with me to my meeting. Tell them it is straight from the source."

Murdoch pulled the door to the morgue open for his boss, letting him enter and following behind. Brackenreid greeted Dr. Ogden, who expressed surprise to have such a visit, especially after the purpose was explained to her.

"We all work for the city, Doctor Ogden. I suspect Mayor Maguire is getting pressure from certain Aldermen and control board members to wrap up this business with Conrad Landswell and give them an excuse to go to the heart of the bootlegging organization. Now we have Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, who dropped dead. What the hell is going on?" Brackenreid quickly removed his bowler. "Sorry, Doctor."

Murdoch noticed her eyes storming in anger. "Inspector, it's been less than two days!" she argued. "I have nothing to report on Mr. and Mrs. Jackson other than they were not stabbed, shot or strangled, and I can find no injection marks to indicate death by that means."

"So, poison like Landswell, then? Was that Italian fellow - Lojacono was it? - serving them at the Crown Club again?" Brackenreid leaned forward. "I don't trust 'im."

"No. The Jackson's have no connection to the Crown Club." Murdoch saw how intent his boss was on getting an answer his masters expected, so he spoke up. "Sir. There is nothing which indicates the Jacksons' deaths are related or un- related to Mr. Landswell or the other deaths as of yet."

"So, what about Landswell and the other alkies?" Brackenreid pressed the issue. Dr. Ogden handed over the written analysis she just completed. Brackenreid found his glasses, put them on his nose, scanned the sheet and grunted. "Doctor, this is all well and good, but I am sure the Mayor did not get his degree in chemistry. Can you put it in plain words we can all understand?"

"Inspector Brackenreid, Mr. Landswell was poisoned with strychnine. It was put in his bottle of cognac along with a small amount of methyl-alcohol. I have examined the blood work on two of the so-called bootleg booze victims. Their blood analysis indicated the presence of methyl-alcohol as well, in quantities large enough to be fatal, as well as what appears to be properly distilled spirits, but not expensive cognac."

Murdoch appreciated how clear her explanation was.

Brackenreid returned his glasses to his jacket, furrowing his brow. "So, Doctor. The liquor is not exactly the same. The type of poison is not exactly the same. Is there strong evidence or not? Can I tell the Mayor and the Powers-That-Be that the Jacksons and Conrad Landswell's unfortunate demise are not part of these 'bootleg booze' deaths the papers are going on about? Move the scandal off the front page?" Inspector Brackenreid leaned in, making it less a question and more of a plea for her to rule in his favour so he can avoid telling bad news to powerful men.

"Perhaps...I... I can't be certain. Not without more analysis...I have more tests to run to render a scientific…" she stopped, appearing to consider. "But, I suppose my guess is there is not a direct relationship between the Jackson's and Mr. Landswell's case and the rest of the presumed bootleg booze cases."

Murdoch was familiar with that sort of pressure from his boss, but Dr. Ogden had just gotten done telling him in no uncertain terms she was unable to make such a determination, so it surprised him she equivocated.

She shrugged, presenting an irritated face. "The well-connected ones like Mr. Landswell and the Jacksons keep rising to the top, while the others are used to being forced to the back of the que and are patiently waiting their turn." She gestured with her chin to the sheet covered bodies on the morgue platform. "That one there from Station House five's jurisdiction, was found behind Givins Street with his pants down in the garden. He's been my patient before." Dr. Ogden pointed to one of the covered gurneys.

"He's been on a slab in the morgue before?" Murdoch stared at her.

Dr. Ogden laughed, obviously thinking he'd told a joke. "No—England, during the war."

"Pants down in the garden…?" Brackenreid asked.

"Not all citizens enjoy indoor plumbing yet, Inspector. Not in the poorer parts of town."

"You recognized him?" Murdoch was still not following her.

"Not at first. But I did recognize his scar from an open compound fracture which became infected. He almost lost the right leg. A lorry accident if I am not mistaken. Cpl. Howard Knox of the Canadian Expeditionary Force."

It was Brackenreid's turn to be surprised. "That can't be!" He went over and pulled the sheet back, revealing the corpse's head.

The small movement of cloth sent a waft of putrid gas circulating in the room. Murdoch did not bother to steel his stomach, not after serving in France. The overwhelming stench of war was stuck forever in his nose, the most enduring, horrific reminder of his time in uniform. Nothing in the present was ever going to unseat that memory or disturb him, now.

Brackenreid studied the craggy features on the slab, close cropped hair above a high forehead, thin nose like a knife edge and thinner lips ending in a long chin, before settling the sheet back down. "Bloody Hell – Knox was in our unit. Knox mustered out just before you joined me. Doctor, is Knox one of the bootleg booze deaths?"

She joined him by the gurney. "It is my theory, he may in fact have been one of the first to die. I've only done the preliminary and I do not have the bottle from which he drank. By the state of his liver, I'd say he'd have drunk anything which came his way. Maybe he was one of the first to get his share and couldn't wait until Friday or Saturday night to down it?"

Brackenreid shook his head sadly, still looking at the white-draped form. "Poor old sod - didn't know him long but all in all he was a soldier, good head on his shoulders when he was sober. Too bad to see him come to such an end." A fierce look darted from his blue eyes. "Murdoch, make Knox's death matter. He was one of us and I want Knox avenged."

"Understood." He reserved skepticism about accomplishing all of that to himself.

"See if Knox can lead you to that infernal mob of bootlegging criminals so we can nail that rat bastard Rocco Perri for this. Conrad Landswell is out of the mix. That's what I am going to tell the Mayor and the Chief Constable!"

Murdoch was more cautious, despite his own suspicions about Landswell's death. He followed his boss up the ramp not wanting Brackenreid to take what Dr. Ogden told him as proof-positive of anything. "Sir, is it wise to go so far?" he whispered.

"It's good news, isn't it? Our Mr. Landswell wasn't done in by drinking off-brand moonshine. Not linked to any of the other alkies. No scandal."

"Sir! That might mean he was murdered or killed himself!"

Brackenreid's laugh was bleak. "Those are scandals of a different kind, Murdoch, no taint of illegal rum running or mob connections which can rub off on the gentry. Go home, Murdoch. All hands-on deck first thing Monday."

With that, Brackenreid tipped his hat again to Dr. Ogden and left.

Murdoch and the doctor both watched the inspector march out of the morgue. He was familiar with the determined way his boss was moving, because it usually meant Brackenreid was going to be intransigent if he did not get his way. During the war, Brackenreid's men always knew their captain had a clear idea of what was to be done; for good or ill, he brought that attitude back with him to Toronto. Murdoch thought civilian life occasionally required a different skill set.

Inside, he sank a little bit. City administration was watching this case and invested in the outcome meant a wrong step on his part, or Dr. Ogden's, could result in disaster. He doubted she understood any of the politics of it. She hadn't been in the job long enough - and was unlikely to be in it long enough - to lose her professional naivete.

At the moment, he just wanted to get out of there. "I will bid you good day as well."

"Detective," she stopped him. "I will finish the preliminary autopsy on Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, and I add a test for strychnine for all the victims once I have enough of the materials to do so. But you must understand the volume of work, and the state of this place…"

"I am aware, and sympathetic," he said, going for the exit.

"You had the last coroner run out of here, didn't you?" she demanded, tugging at his sleeve. "Did you even take the conditions here into consideration?"

He was surprised, quickly suppressing any defensiveness. "The reason for Dr. Lloyd's departure is not for me to say. As for your work as pathologist, you will do yourself no favours by being indirect or prevaricating with the Inspector, or anyone else, about the facts of the case. Part of your job will be to testify in court, and you must be able to be firm and support your conclusions with evidence, not succumb to bullying or leading questions. Men's and women's lives are at stake. If you cannot do that, especially when you are right, you should reconsider your position here." When he bet himself she wasn't going to last the week, this wasn't the way he imagined things were going to go.

He was aware as he spoke he was going to offend her. Her attitude hardened and an angry blush crept up her neck, then her hands came to rest on her hips in a position he knew came from defensiveness - or defiance. He guessed the offer of coffee was probably rescinded. He started to soften his words when she cut him off sharply with hers:

"That will be quite enough. Good day, Detective."

Julia glared at him as he slid out of the morgue, outrage burning upwards from her gut. She yanked his pencil out of her bun and threw it on the floor, allowing her hair to fall. "I'll be damned if I take anything from that man, including a pencil. Ever!" She grabbed a hank of her braid, and pulled, yelping out loud.

"Ouch! I have got to do something about this hair!"

Putting away her tools, she decided she'd had enough for the night, and quickly cleaned the remaining items in the morgue after calling Ruby to have her meet at their mother's home.

Ruby was sitting on a porch swing reading a book with a cup of tea when Julia arrived.

"You look like you have a mad on, sister. Whatever is the matter?" Ruby asked, dropping the book.

"My hair. I'm taking your advice and I'm finally going to cut it, Ruby. Are you helping or not?"

Clapping her hands, Ruby jumped up and walked inside. "Come with me. I have a pair of shears in my old room. This is so exciting!"

Upstairs at her childhood dressing table, Julia pulled the tie from her braid and brushed her hair one last time, staring at her reflection in the mirror at the waves of curls pouring down her shoulders. This was the image she saw each morning since she was a little girl. As cumbersome as it had become, she'd been taught to prize her long hair as a sign of femininity. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Ruby returned, brandishing the scissors, waiting for Julia's cue.

"I'm ready, Ruby."

Smiling, Ruby quickly got to work, putting the hair back in a loose again braid to begin with, then winked when she grasped the hair in her left hand and the shears in the right. Julia studied the portrait of the two of them in the mirror, and momentarily balked at having her sister do the deed.

"Well?" Ruby challenged.

Julia recognized the glint in her sister's eyes. Behind Ruby's cherubic outward facade and smooth temperament was a devilish pixie, full of outrageous ideas. Was this a good idea or not?

She reached to the flask she put on her dressing table and took a swig for courage, then decided it was a celebration after all. "Out with the old, and in with the new!"