CHAPTER THREE

Saturday June 24th, 1922

Day Shift, Station House No. 4, 2 Wilton Street, Toronto

Last night Murdoch had slept a few winks, insomnia being a regular state of affairs this was still unusual. He told himself the high-profile death he was now responsible for solving, on top of everything else, was the proximal cause.

To get relief, he exercised until the point of exhaustion in his Ontario Street cellar: lifting weights, doing pushups and riding his Ideal cycle on a stand he'd improvised until his housekeeper Mrs. Kitchen came down the stairs, making him ashamed of being so inconsiderate. He reassured her he was fine, got her settled back in her rooms and readied himself for bed, taking care not to wake any of his boarders.

He finally drifted off into a fitful slumber, only to be jerked awake before dawn by an unsettling dream where he was trying to save a woman from drowning - or maybe it was falling? - but was unable to maintain his grip on her. Just when he thought he'd caught her, she slipped from his grasp, and woke up before seeing who it was...afraid of who it might be.

It was just past 0600 hours when he walked into the station house to be greeted by news the other station houses had been more than happy to transfer their alcohol-related deaths to Station House 4. Last night the body count was six; this morning it was now eight.

He made a pot of coffee, a habit he acquired in the war to maintain alertness and to alleviate headaches - he was going to need it. Settling behind his desk, he read the two newspapers he'd picked up on the way into the Station. The Inspector was bound to be unhappy with the headlines.

He automatically refolded the pages and set the news rags aside on the corner of his desk. His eyes drifted up to the top of his green filing cabinet for closed cases where the photographic portrait of him and Liza, which used to occupy the desk corner, now rested. Even from this new distance, the two of them looked so young, so serious; him in his brand-new military uniform, her in a soft blouse and slim skirt, gazing at each other on a simple wooden bench. The poor photographer had been so upset with the two of us because we could not keep from laughing and smiling. He unconsciously fiddled with his wedding ring, caught himself, then suppressed a great sigh.

Getting down to work, he consulted his notes to begin a chart of all the victims who succumbed to alcohol poisoning since Friday. He filled out his entire blackboard with a chalk grid, listing the victims' names on the "Y" axis - six men and two women. Then across the top, the "X" axis indicated the date the body was found, location of the body, victim ages, occupations and address if known. He left several open areas for as yet unknown information. Even with such skimpy data, Murdoch could stand back and easily see the patterns, including that there was something about Conrad Landswell which didn't quite match up with the other victims. The others were day laborers and chronic alcoholics, found dead in or near their abodes or close to where they likely purchased and drank the illegal alcohol.

His theory of the case rested on a hunch. But hunches didn't result in convictions, so he sat in his office, reviewing his notes and hoping to find a connection that stood out. In the bullpen, the day shift constables were filtering in, getting ready for inspection and report. Crabtree was already there, looking weary, yet typing up a report at a furious pace, the clacking grating on Murdoch's nerves and head. Constable Higgins was nowhere in sight.

Shortly before 0800, the Inspector strode into his office, looking as vigorous as ever. "Do I want to know how long you've been here? Lie to me and tell me it's only been a half hour." The Inspector doffed his bowler hat and smoothed back thick red hair which so far had shunned any threads of grey.

Murdoch swallowed a retort, just sat his notepad down. "Promise sir, only a couple hours. I did go home and sleep."

"Better than nothing I suppose," Brackenreid muttered. "You were supposed to work on Landswell's death. Why all these others?" He put his hands in his trouser pockets and gave the blackboard a once-over, slinging a hip onto Murdoch's desk.

"The other stations sent them along."

"Of course, the lazy sods did. Find anything interesting?"

Murdoch rose to stand by the board. "I am concerned there may be many more deaths, reported to the authorities, or not."

Brackenreid studied the chart thoughtfully. "More deaths, you say? That means a volume bootlegging business, does it not?"

"Yes, sir." He knew his boss was going to share his worry.

"Which supposes money. Connections. Distribution. Logistics. If you follow the money you inevitably get to…"

"...Rocco Perri's criminal organization. Yes, sir, we do. He is reputedly capable of bulk production, but-"

Brackenreid cut him off with a huff. "'Canada's Al Capone'! Wish he'd have stayed across the border with the rest of his 'Ey-Talian' friends. We've never gotten the goods on him for rum-running, now we'd have to make a murder case stick. Eight of them, across four precincts!"

Murdoch thought Brackenreid didn't have to rub the difficulty in. "Sir. We don't have all the deaths linked yet to a single source for poisoned alcohol. A back-yard still is possible and if so, that rules out Mr. Perri. It will take time." He tried not to sound too impatient with the situation. "I am going to have Hodge and Worseley make sure all the notes and evidence from the other station houses get properly collected, particularly any used bottles of tainted alcohol. We will inquire into the victim's lives for where they acquired the drink."

"And find the common thread leading us back to Perri." Brackenreid insisted, narrowing his eyes. "Don't tip your hand to Perri. You know he's dangerous as well as slick. We must have a clean case, especially with the Mayor watching over our shoulders…Murdoch, this could be a huge arrest, make a name for ourselves if we catch him..."

He didn't share his boss' enthusiasm and started to protest.

Brackenreid shut him down with a slice of his hand through the air. "And make sure you keep the newspaper rabble from our door! Our official statement will be 'no comment', especially concerning Conrad Landswell and the unfortunate company he's kept."

"Sir...It's true they're all poisoned alcohol-related, but in my view, Mr. Landswell isn't like the others."

"You mean not like them in that these other blokes barely had a pot to piss in?"

He winced. "I don't know I would have put it like that sir, but yes." He wasn't ready to speculate out loud, not without more information. He reached for the newspapers, spreading the topmost out on his desk for his boss to read the lurid details in print. "Speaking of the press, you should see this." The article, in addition to excoriating the constabulary, presented itself as part public caution about consuming illegal alcohol, and part gleeful indulgence in salacious gossip about the deceased. Murdoch was revolted by the voyeuristic thrill the paper was selling. At least the by-line in the Star was not by Ruby Ogden - at least not yet.

"I find it hard to imagine how desperate someone needs to be to drink what they know has a good chance to kill them." He paused, tongue going dry, remembering. "But I also find it hard not to sympathize."

None of that was a secret to Brackenreid, who scoffed, grabbing the newspapers in hand. "You were stronger. Remember that too. As for this trash in the papers...forget it."

Brackenreid stood up and looked at the assembled men through the glass partition separating the office from the rest of the station house. "Hodge!" he yelled through the open door. "Assemble the men for inspection. Higgins! Put the coffee on!"

He watched Brackenreid bustle off, obviously under pressure to keep the Landswell investigation in proportion. Murdoch checked his trench wristwatch against the clock in the bullpen, satisfied they agreed: eight o'clock sharp. He told himself he'd wait at least a few hours before presenting himself to the morgue to check on how far the new coroner had gotten, hoping for the best.


Saturday June 24th, 1922

Toronto City Morgue

It was five minutes past ten when Detective Murdoch entered the morgue. Julia had been waiting impatiently for him to show up.

"Doctor Ogden," he greeted, walking down the steps into the autopsy bay, and removing his hat when he arrived opposite to her, keeping the autopsy table between them. Sans the haberdashery, she appreciated how thick, dark and glossy his hair was, with a tinge of auburn at the short sideburns.

Julia took in the detective's immaculate suit, thinking it was good timing - or more likely experience - on his part to arrive after the bits of blood and bone were no longer flying about. The corpse's chest was fully open, and the trachea, thyroid, aorta, heart, lungs and stomach were already removed, weighed and measured.

"Detective Murdoch." She nodded back as he stood there at parade rest with her elbow-deep in Mr. Landswell. She expected him to find fault with her performance, and she'd be damned if she'd give him the satisfaction. It was why she came in early, despite her late night, to get to work. Three hours later her feet already hurt, her arms ached from the effort and the space between her shoulder blades burned. It was morning still and she was already fantasizing about a long hot bath when she got home tonight.

"Any preliminary findings?"

Straight to the point, she noticed. She flung him a challenging look, flexed her shoulders, then began. "Mr. Landswell is a well-nourished male of approximately thirty-five years. Five foot, ten inches in height. One hundred eighty-one pounds. No gross abnormalities. No signs of recent outward injury. No birthmarks. And before you ask, there is nothing obvious to indicate he was an alcoholic such as yellow skin or eyes, although I will need to examine liver sections more closely." She cut more mesentery away from the intestines as she talked. While the detective did not appear to flinch at the autopsy proceedings, she thought he did look uncomfortable being the one observed. She motioned to the corpse with her right shoulder. "A dreadful way to go...imagine all you aim for is fun with your friends, enjoy yourself…" She looked at him again, assuming he'd agree with her.

"I suppose," the detective murmured in return, and then was silent for several minutes more while she worked. "Have you a cause of death?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Poisoned cognac, as I suspected last night. I am being thorough," she added dryly.

Detective Murdoch remained unmoved by her effort. "Poisoned with what, doctor? Wood-alcohol? Or an adulterant? Which one?" he asked, indicating the body. When she was silent, he went on. "Methyl alcohol? Acetone? Kerosene? Formaldehyde?..."

"...Or benzine, brucine, cadmium, or mercury salts, chloroform, camphor, or carbolic. Even gasoline. Yes, I am aware of the list, Detective. You do understand there are at least sixty to seventy different denaturing formulas being used which I have to sort through? And, no, I have not been able to do the complete lab work yet. In my opinion, he died too quickly for the usual adulterants, but as I have not completed all the other autopsies nor done comparative chemical analysis, I cannot speculate..." She trailed off pointedly, looking at the detective again. He was persistent, wasn't he?

Detective Murdoch shifted slightly, clearing his throat. "Agreed."

"Yes, quite. I'll perform the tests as soon as I can, Detective, but I will have to narrow it down first, starting with organic versus inorganic, I think. The keys you asked after are over there with his clothing and effects in that paperboard box. You can have the keys, but I need more time with the other items." She kept cutting inside the abdomen, detaching the intestines so she could weigh them. She brought them out to the scale, disappointed, instead of being impressed, when he did not blanche. She shrugged to herself and proceeded making her notes, then set the intestines aside for further examination. He retrieved the key, but did not depart, which annoyed her.

She went back to her dissection, talking while she worked. "I understand you are impatient for your answers, Detective, but look around you. The Toronto City Morgue was state of the art when it was built and furnished in 1886. I will remind you that was back when a physician treating an infant cholera patient prescribed sunshine in a hayloft so that the medicinal horse manure fumes did their work! Unfortunately, nothing much has been updated since then. I'd wager pieces of equipment here are older than either of us."

She slid a side glance at him. "Be glad for the ice-box we do have, or with the heat and the number of corpses I am dealing with, I'd be poking holes in them to burn off putrefaction, a barbaric practice of the last century, or so I am told. Although - each would look a bit like a macabre birthday cake!" She enjoyed seeing him finally squirm the tiniest bit, satisfied to crack his facade. "Also, the medical examiner's office is severely underfunded. There is nothing for paper chromatography, and I have no Stas's protocol to test for caffeine, quinine, morphine, strychnine, atropine, and opium," she told him, to see his reaction. His lips formed a thin line, making her wonder if it was news to him or not. "I only have enough reagents to perform about four tests. To that end," she continued, "yesterday I directed one of the attendants to a chemists' supply house to obtain more."

"You were able to find the money most quickly, Doctor."

"Not exactly…"

"Not exactly?" he asked, obviously confused.

"I was informed there was funding for tissue for the water closet, and that was about it." She tried to make a joke of it. "So, for now, the water closet is off limits."

"Ah," he said without inflection. "So how are you procuring what you need?"

"My own money, and I called in a favour at the University," she replied, gasping as her hair slid out of her chignon, and fell around her shoulders and into her eyes.

Sighing deeply, she looked down at her hands covered in blood and up at Detective Murdoch.

Seeing her predicament, he walked behind her. "May I be of assistance?"

She did not see a way around it. "Please."

Within moments he deftly gathered her hair, and with the pins still in her hair, clipped the coil into a bun. "I'm afraid it's not fashionable, but it is serviceable." He retreated to the other side of the autopsy table, just as a door clanged open and shut at the top of the ramp.

Julia jumped a little at the noise, getting her heart racing. "It will serve just fine, Detective. Thank you," she managed, as a booming female voice called out.

"Oh Julia. How dreadful what happened last night, I'm assuming that…" Mick's voice stopped abruptly. "Oh hello, Detective Murdoch."

Julia exhaled, smiling at her friend, who trotted down the ramp, dressed in a light brown linen suit, white shirt and green tie. Today at least, Mickie exchanged trousers for a skirt. Julia wondered what the occasion was. "Well, I would introduce the two of you, but you already know one another."

"We've worked together before," he nodded politely. "Good Morning, Doctor McDaniels."

"It's been a while, Detective, but I see some things never change. You're still hard on your pathologists." She stood where she could observe the autopsy. "It is not even, what, ten-thirty? And you are calling for results."

Julia thought she saw him stiffen, more, if that was possible.

"Perhaps, but Dr. Ogden appears suitably...enterprising. If you'll excuse me, I'll return to the station house."

"Detective...When will anyone be coming in to make an official positive identification?"Julia had to ask, since it was going to hold her up if it was not taken care of soon.

"Ah. Well. We have yet to find the appropriate person, to, ah, come down for that. But I will follow up. And you'll contact me when you know something...definitive?"

"I assure you, I will."

"I appreciate it. Doctors." He got his hat on, made a suggestion of tipping his hat in their direction, then turning sharply on his heel, he left.

After hearing the door close safely behind Detective Murdoch, Mick came around to see the autopsy and laughed conspiratorially. "So, I see you've become acquainted with the Detective Murdoch - already earned your first bit of praise from him. No small feat, Julia, and you've only just met."

Julia made a dismissive sound as she removed the last piece from Mr. Landswell's abdominal cavity. "We met last night. Calling me 'enterprising' sounds like damning with faint praise to me." She looked over to the other woman and moved her arms to indicate the white tile morgue with its sloping ramp and glass-walled office. There was a single porcelain sink, a wooden work bench for chemical testing, and an ice box for sample storage. Even the walk-in cooler still relied on ice.

"What in Hell have I gotten myself into Mick? This place is decrepit. I have only been here less than a week, and the more I know the less I like it. Inadequate electricity and lighting. An ancient spectroscope. The best microscope here is an unlighted Watsons and Son's dissecting microscope. The most recent text is Witthaus' Medical Jurisprudence, Forensic Medicine and Toxicology, volume three! How did you ever make it work here?" Julia heard herself becoming shrill. She did not even let her friend answer. "And now instead of four to six rotating coroners, I have nine corpses to autopsy. By myself!"

Mick assisted by turning the levers on the sink so Julia could wash her hands. "Mick, you have been my mother's chum forever and my mentor in all things. I have followed your career, went to Women's Medical College in London just like you did. You served as coroner here. However, did you do it? With that detective hovering! One more stiff in a room full of them."

Mick groaned. "You and your puns. I missed them! If he merely hovers, you are doing well. He ran the last coroner out of town, I'm told, because the old dear refused to go out in the middle of the night to crime scenes and was not up to standards as Detective Murdoch expects," Mick told her, handing over a towel. "Do your job. It is what you are paid to do. The Detective will be satisfied with that, and I know you can win him over. He also didn't mind standing so close to you either."

"My hair fell out, Mick. It was embarrassing. He was only kind enough to help me put it back up so I didn't have to stop the work I was doing for his autopsy."

"Already defending him, too, I see…" she laughed as she went to the far wall then opened a secret wooden compartment in the back of a white-washed cabinet. To Julia's astonishment, Mick fetched out a bottle of whiskey, pouring a generous dollop into two beakers. She smiled, handing over one of the glasses. Julia peered at the clock. Mick just shrugged.

"Sun is over the yardarm elsewhere. Relax about Detective Murdoch, Julia. He's not my type but he is a fine example of the species...Careful, though, if you think to enjoy him."

For Mick to encourage a liaison was positively outrageous. Julia nearly spit out her drink. "Not you too!"

"He's always been chivalrous, but I don't think he'd style the hair of just anyone."

Julia saw that smirk. "Mick! I've only just started here! You, Ruby, Mother, Father - you all want me boxed in and paired off!" she huffed. "I have defied my father's and society's expectations and made myself a free, independent, unfettered woman. Nothing less. I hardly need a man to be fulfilled - any more than you do!" While it was never expressly said out loud, Mick's preference for the company of women was a widely known secret in Toronto society, but as she was properly married, there was little scandal and there was always plausible deniability.

"All right darling...as you wish," Mick winked. "Tell me about what happened at the Crown. Had you been there long?"

"I didn't even have time to finish my first drink before…" Julia gestured at the corpse.

"Yes, Conrad Landswell has wrecked more than a few parties but never quite…. well..." Mick answered, shaking her head. "He certainly wasn't my favorite person, but no one deserves to go out like that. You don't suspect methyl alcohol, do you?"

Julia considered. "Actually, no, I do not, since it can take as much as thirty hours to kill and he complained of being unwell only that evening. Besides, an antidote for methyl alcohol is ethyl alcohol. No. I think Mr. Landswell consumed whatever killed him while he was at the Crown Club last night. The constabulary automatically assumes murder or some sort of crime. I actually hope it was an accident, just as I suspect the other deaths were."