CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

7:30 PM, Tuesday June 27th, 1922

Station House No. 4

Julia took long strides directly towards Detective Murdoch's office before catching on that, like the rest of the building, it was empty. Oh, yes, that's right, the day shift leaves at six. A peek over to Inspector Brackenreid's office showed her the detective was there engaged on the telephone for some reason. The inspector himself was nowhere in sight. Nodding at the desk sergeant, she walked into the detective's office to wait for him.

Eschewing a seat, she gave herself a discreet tour of his office, hoping to add to what she had already learned from Constable Crabtree and Mick. A quick glance at his bookshelves immediately told he was well-read on an astonishing variety of topics, with references on astronomy, history, geology, geography, botany, chemistry, physics, and biology - including a well-worn copy of Grey's Anatomy. Scientific American magazines were piled next to Popular Mechanics on one side of the worktable. He even had a bound copy of Locard's paper, L'enquête criminelle et les methods scientifique. There were three volumes on physics, one on math formulae and two slide rules - just what she hoped for! Two days ago she was so angry with him she wouldn't accept a pencil - right now she was relieved he was capable of helping her- assuming he was willing, that is.

Pleased, she slowed down and savoured her reconnaissance.

Pride of place was taken up by a nice twelve-volume Universal Cyclopaedia and Atlas. She found herself smiling; Constable Crabtree explained about the 'game' they played, testing the detective's knowledge.

On his work bench was a spirit lamp, tongs, an impressive set of graduated glassware beakers and flasks, a Barnstead distillation set-up, and a vacuum coffee maker. The chemical analysis bench was revealing: if she was not mistaken, he had a quantity of Benzidine, to test for blood, and an organized area for reagents.

Turning to the table behind her, she immediately spied a new and modern microscope - A Carl Zeiss binocular compound with Köhler illumination to be exact - nicer than she'd ever seen, and quite out of place in a police detective's office. In fact, his entire set up was in some ways better than hers.

Mick was right - he does double check!

A jab of jealousy surprised her. Running her finger along the ocular piece, she wondered if he'd let her use it some time.

Placed around and behind the microscope were electrical wires and radio components, tubes, a soldering station and what looked like bicycle gears, all carefully laid out. She wondered what sort of device he might be working on, because it looked like something from a Jules Verne novel. She pushed a green curtain aside: a small alcove proved to hold a darkroom. Her jealousy flared again. She looked around for an x-ray machine, happy there was none. That would have been unforgivable.

Sighing, she stepped back to the worktable and spotted a framed photograph on top of a file drawer. So many of those portraits were taken before soldiers went off to war - a paper memory just in case the soldier did not return.

A poor substitute for a living, breathing lover.

His desk held nothing personal, no family photos, only a ship in a bottle and a brass desk lamp with green glass shade. The photograph itself testified to a happy couple, but unlike the Inspector's family photos and those of most other men, it was not in a prominent spot on his desk.

Was it a matter of propriety, or privacy as Mick suggested? Or something else? Despite the plethora of items in his office, the whole effect was one of order...she'd even say sterility.

She was no detective herself, but something wasn't adding up.

In the Inspector's office, Detective Murdoch remained on the telephone, looking unhappy. Her eyes back on his desk, she flipped open a notebook. Inside, in immaculately beautiful penmanship - would he have something else? - were notes on various scientific experiments the detective had undertaken complete with dates, times, hypotheses, and conclusions. He continued to make notes and observations throughout the war. Interestingly, they stopped around July 1919, and she wondered why he had so abruptly abandoned his research.

Turning back to the notebook, she tried in vain to find any more clues about him when she heard a door slam shut behind her. Guilt made her jump... She smiled as she turned around, knowing she had just been caught and decided to brazen it out.

"My apologies, Doctor," he offered stiffly. "I was not expecting you."

Wanting to deflect from what she'd been staring at, she decided the microscope was a safe topic. "That's quite the instrument you have there," Julia motioned towards the worktable. "I must say, I am quite envious," she added approvingly.

He walked towards the device, tapping his own fingers along its polished side. "I persuaded the Inspector to purchase it with special funds a few years ago."

"Persuaded? I imagine he was not happy when he discovered what he'd been tricked into buying," she joked, seeing a wince on his face which made her think she was not wide of the mark. "I shall have to endeavor to get something similar for the morgue." She tried her most beaming smile on him to soften the sting.

Silently, they stared at one another, unsure what to say before he broke the impasse. "How can I help you?"

There were a few things which sprang to her mind unbidden, but she clamped down on those unprofessional thoughts. "Well, I have information for you, and a request of you. Which do you want first?"

He blinked. "Um...Ladies first. What is it you need?"

"I am trying to determine if someone fell or was pushed from a roof, suicide versus homicide, by determining the arc of the fall, if that is possible. It was suggested to me you might have experience?" She wasn't going to explain it was actually, incredibly, Ruby who eventually made the suggestion to ask him. Against her will, she flushed. "Math is not my area. I have photographs, the measurement of the building height, and where the body landed. However, I have to calculate the…the...?"

"Trajectory. You are looking for trajectory. And I do, unfortunately, have… experience. Is this Detective Pearce's case?"

"Y…yes. A woman found on the pavement Monday morning. Does that matter?"

He scratched his brow, thinking it over.

She heard him sigh before tugging at his cuffs and reaching for a piece of blank paper and a pencil. She took the seat he gestured to and he sat behind his own desk. "May I see your photographs and have the measurements?"

He took a ruler and compass to the photographs, then she saw him quickly enter a formula on the page, consulting a slide rule, talking the whole time as he worked. "Being pushed will produce more forward movement. Over a longer drop that will place the body farther away from the wall. Were there any abrasions on her hands, broken fingernails, tears in her dress?"

"No," she said, curious why he asked. "Nothing I cannot explain from the fall itself, why?"

"If she was climbing up or down a rope, or holding on to it, it could affect the arc of her descent, although she'd more likely come off backwards."

Julia shrugged. Apparently being a detective meant you had to become familiar with the most awful things.

"In my experience, homicides who are pushed to their deaths tend to go over backwards, unless they are snuck up on from the behind, landing on average more than twelve feet away from the base of the wall. If the person was already dead and the body is being dumped, it will end up close to the wall, less than five feet. Also, a suicide will fall nearly straight down, hitting the ground feet first or in the anterior position. There are exceptions, of course." He gave her back the measurements and photographs plus his page of calculations, which included three examples with relevant formulae. He pointed to the last photograph she took which he marked with measurements. "Your body landed more than five feet and less than twelve feet from the edge, at about thirty-eight miles an hour."

Good God! So fast! It was unthinkable. "So," she said softly. "A suicide?"

He smiled at her. "I do not know what was in her mind, only what physics tells me. Detective Pearce will be able to use your report to help him with the manner of death. And, if you don't mind, please just take these calculations with you as your proofs, and do not mention my help in any way to Detective Pearce. I do not wish to have any involvement, however tangential, in his case."

"Of course. I understand." Sadness overwhelmed her. "Thank you. Now, Detective, I have a little something for you. I have completed tests on the blood, stomach and liquor samples and I have some results for you."

"Oh, and what might that be?"

She definitely had him now. "It appears Mr. Knox is not in fact connected to the other bootleg booze deaths. But he is connected to someone else. Interestingly, he died in the same manner as Mr. Landswell...high end cognac tainted with Strychnine," Julia finished, waiting for the shocked look she hoped for.

She got it too, rewarded with a stunned expression for a moment before he schooled his features back into a calm mask...except for his eyebrows, which were still arched quizzically. "Are you sure? I mean…" he fumbled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to question your findings."

Smiling, she nodded, handing him the report. "I was quite surprised myself, Detective, which is why I ran the test a second time. It's irrefutable."

Exhaling sharply, he tossed the report onto his desk and crossed his arms, pursing his lips.

Julia nodded in sympathy. "I'm afraid you probably won't be making it home at a decent hour tonight," she murmured, nodding her head towards the photograph of him and his wife. Julia figured it was a safe enough statement, wondering how he was going to respond.

"It won't be a problem," he snorted, then seemed to be sorry he did so. "Anything else, Doctor?"

"Given the recent findings, you should know Mr. Knox's death is confirmed as Wednesday, not as early as I first supposed, but still well before Mr. Landswell's death on Friday."

He seemed disturbed by her news, pivoting towards his chalkboard then back to her, seemingly torn between politeness and need to get back to work. "Thank you. I do appreciate your regard for detail and your commitment to the job."

Smiling at his praise, she held out another set of files. "There's more," she laughed.

"Oh?"

"I took the liberty of contacting the medical examiners in some of the surrounding communities. They'll be sending over the lab reports to see if the chemical composition matches." Julia beamed, pleased with her work. "If the evidence links all of those deaths, then it means we have a single bad batch and a single supplier."

She saw him change again. "That is most excellent, Doctor!"

She guessed he had more to say and waited for it, slightly disappointed when nothing was forthcoming. "Well," she told him, "I'm afraid I've done all I can do there, but I'll let you know as soon as I can speak conclusively."

"Thank you again. I don't suppose you'd care to be the one to apprise Inspector Brackenreid of your findings tomorrow, would you?" he asked.

A crinkle at the edge of his mouth she took for a sign of amusement. "Are you telling me a man such as yourself is afraid of Inspector Brackenreid?" she teased. "I didn't think you were afraid of any man," stopping herself before she added she'd seen him handle a suspect or accidently embarrassed him.

"No." He stood politely as she did and walked her towards the door.

On her way out, she paused at his set of encyclopedias, emboldened by the urge of curiosity. She pulled one down and opened it randomly, catching his eye in the process. Making a show of refusing to be shooed out of his office, she stabbed her finger at the left-hand page and read: "An apparatus for measuring delicate electrical or other attractions and repulsions. The attract…"

"What is torsion balance," he interrupted. "Doctor...?"

She interrupted him right back. "Correct." She nodded and smiled a challenge at him, pulling her finger further down the page. "In English law, such an unlawful invasion by one person of another's rights which are created by law as remediable by common law action."

"What is Tort," he sighed. "I see Constable Crabtree has introduced you to his pastime."

"I see he was right that you are never wrong. Isn't it boring for you?" She saw his face freeze, unsure if he was self conscious or irritated, but he didn't deny it. Fearing she went too far, she chose flattery. "I think it is a clever way for you to teach your constable all sorts of facts he'd never encounter except for the game. You make it entertaining for him as well as stimulating. I look forward to my own rematch with you." She reached for the door. "Good evening, Detective."

She swept out of the station house in high spirits, thinking she made the slightest inroad with her quarry: they were taking each other's measure. He was handsome, intelligent, and a challenge - and she always found it so difficult to decline a challenge.

She was almost all the way home before having second thoughts about winning her bet with Ruby. He was a married man with a wife who was...what? Absent? Or had Mrs. Murdoch passed away in the Influenza epidemic? The idea she was trying to seduce a grieving widower gave her pause.

But only for a moment. It was time for him to rejoin the living, and who better than her?

#######

Dr. Ogden is a decidedly confounding creature!

Murdoch said to himself as the doctor closed his office door on her way out, aware such thoughts were wholly inappropriate for him to have towards a colleague. She was not a 'creature' of any kind and had just given him two important new facts to work with, both of which indicated her initiative and competency. Dr. Ogden was on her way to proving to be a better medical examiner than her predecessor. For this he was pleasantly surprised and grateful, although it meant his murder case was much more complicated.

So why does she have to spoil it by being...what? Flippant? Forward?

Her behavior was maddeningly inconsistent: one minute sober, precise and scientific, the next, almost... provocative. Then he remembered how possessive Dr. McDaniels had been toward her.

Idiot! He chastised himself again for being distracted, deciding to put it down to her exuberant personality or the fact he was unused to female company other than his motherly housekeeper.

His chalkboards were covered with notes, arrows and lines - all of which he was obliged to revise again since learning Howard Knox and Conrad Landswell were poisoned the same way. He had a whole new theory of the case to construct. He consulted his watch - plenty of time to redo it all before his next appointment, and to get a grip on himself.

He picked up his eraser, using long sweeping arcs to clean the slate. His mind cleared as soon as he put it back to work.

What if...?