CHAPTER NINETEEN

9:10 AM, Wednesday June 28th, 1922

Station House No. 4

"Forty-four deaths? Good God!" Inspector Brackenreid exclaimed as he handed Julia a cup and saucer.

"Thank you, Inspector." She was desperate for the caffeine considering how late she got to sleep last night and how early she rose this morning. Aside from being short on rest though, she felt elated, telling herself it was because her contribution to the murder investigation was about to get wider recognition.

Detective Murdoch provided the beverage - awfully proudly -- from his own personal Vector Syphon. The brew in the cup smelled right, so Julia took a sip of the coffee - which in her opinion proved undrinkable. Since the Syphon was not to blame, she figured it was the coffee itself which was not up to standards. The two men she sat with relished their cups; why she couldn't imagine. She placed hers on the edge of the inspector's desk, flashing a polite smile at Detective Murdoch who sat next to her in chairs in front of the inspector's large desk.

Pleased to be included in the meeting, instead of drinking the coffee she took her time to observe the office - inspector and detective - particularly how those two men interacted with each other. Viewing them side by side, she guessed Inspector Brackenreid was straddling forty or a bit beyond.

Inspector Brackenreid was slightly thick in the chest, with a net of creases at the corners of light blue eyes. He wore a light grey, summer-weight flannel suit cut in the typical British fashion with a sophisticated deep maroon scarf tie. Detective Murdoch, on the other hand, wore a modern American cut in the dark tropical-weight wool he favoured. His fashionable white shirt had an attached collar, encircled with an exquisite blue silk tie in a subtle damask pattern.

Both men were fit, as was necessary for their jobs.

She smiled to herself. Of course, she knew exactly how fit this particular detective was, considering the manhandling he gave her last night. She had no trouble at all remembering his muscled arms and chest against her own frame when he carried her out of that warehouse as if she weighed nothing, prompting a quick return fantasy about what getting between the sheets with him might reveal - it had made going to sleep a little harder last night and she was all warm inside just thinking about it.

His hand where she bit it, she noticed, remained covered by a sticking plaster.

The detective, so stiff and serious, and his superior, broad and voluble, appeared comfortable with each other despite their differences in rank and backgrounds. She had seen the same affinity between the detective and his constable. The three of them were an odd trio, based on what little information she had scraped up: George Crabtree had been destined to be a chimney sweep, William Murdoch a priest and Thomas Brackenreid a Yorkshire factory worker. If not for the war and their jobs, these men would not ever cross paths, let alone be trusted friends and comrades. It struck her these very differences contribute to their success in solving crimes.

While she looked them up and down, both men studiously avoided looking anywhere south of her shoulders, since she herself was in trousers again in anticipation of a busy, physical day at the morgue. Fortunately, they were smart enough not to comment, she observed with satisfaction.

Detective Murdoch set his cup down next to hers to explain her findings to his boss. "Yes, sir. Forty-four deaths that we know of. Dr. Ogden took the initiative to contact coroners' offices in the surrounding areas. She obtained the complete results and I thought it was only right the doctor report it to you directly."

Julia acknowledged the privilege. "The deaths range from Rochester to Toronto, including Buffalo, Niagara Falls, Welland and Hamilton. The first reported death from poisoned alcohol was in Hamilton last Tuesday, the last being in Rochester two days ago. I believe there are likely more - victims who were only sickened and did not die, and those who died and were buried without coming to the notice of the authorities."

"All poisoned the same way?" Brackenreid asked.

Julia almost said yes, before recalling the admonition Detective Murdoch gave her about overreach. "I have alerted the coroners or medical examiners in each jurisdiction what to look for. I asked to be informed as soon as toxicology is confirmed."

"Good," he said, giving her a wide, approving smile. "One step closer to nailing Rocco Perri. Well done, Doctor. I told you we had the right coroner, Murdoch."

Julia sent a look to the detective, asking herself what his comment meant. Detective Murdoch refused to meet her gaze. "I have new information on Howard Knox..." she explained.

"Do you?" The inspector actually chuckled at her. "Finally! Murdoch has not been all that forthcoming." He looked at her expectantly.

Beside her, she heard the detective inhale, probably to defend himself. She glanced in his direction, but all he did was press his lips shut. Julia waited for him to say something; when he remained silent, she turned to Inspector Brackenreid for her report.

Too bad they were about to puncture the Inspector's good mood.

She faced him to speak. "Yes...well. Unfortunately, inspector, Mr. Knox, is not one of the so-called bootleg booze deaths, poisoned by methyl alcohol. He was poisoned by strychnine - the same way as Mr. Landswell."


Murdoch saw the inspector's attitude change from avuncular to furious. "Chuffin' hell!"

"Sir…" he objected, sending his boss a warning glare about the blue language.

Dr. Ogden just shot a withering look in his direction. "Exactly, Inspector," she countered. "I have toxicology and physical evidence that both of them were killed by a large dose of Strychnine laced in cognac."

Brackenreid launched himself out of his chair. "What do Knox and Landswell possibly have in common? Murdoch! I thought you were investigating a spurned lover motive - that red-haired woman sniffing around Landswell?"

"Yes, sir, we are," he said as evenly as he could.

Meanwhile, his boss paced. "Are these murders or accidents? What would an alkie like Knox be doing with something as rare and refined as cognac?"

"Sir. The next step is finding a connection between Knox and Landswell: the cognac; the poison; this red-haired woman; the timing of their deaths; known associates. More legwork for the men today, I am afraid, but we will find a connection." He inhaled. "If the first of the poisoned-alcohol deaths occurred in Hamilton…"

Brackenreid cut him off. "Hamilton is where Rocco Perri holes up, isn't it? If the first death was in Hamilton, does it mean the alcohol did not originate in Toronto?"

"Not necessarily sir," he answered, quickly glancing in Dr. Ogden's direction. They agreed not to reveal her and her sister's surprise encounter at the distillery. "Constable Crabtree and I witnessed a clandestine meeting last night at Gooderham and Worts. We, er… were unable to identify the participants, however we confirmed rumours that G&W may be the source of at least some of the alcohol which ends up in the bootlegging operation."

"So where does Hamilton fit in?" His boss loomed over him, beefy arms crossing his chest and glowering.

Dr. Ogden appeared interested in the answer as well. She sat up and crossed her own arms, imitating what the inspector was doing. Two against one...Murdoch found the sight oddly intimidating.

"This morning, Hamilton authorities told me that a vocal anti-alcohol, anti-bootlegging priest was recently murdered." He pulled the telegram - which had been waiting for him when he arrived at work - out from his breast pocket and handed it up, only to have Brackenreid grunt and grab it from him. His boss fetched reading glasses to peruse the note.

"I thought Catholics were not so fond of prohibition, present company excepted of course," Brackenreid continued to scan the page. "So, are you saying all roads lead to Hamilton? Lead us to Perri? What's your theory about the Eye-talian scourge over-running the province?"

He didn't have one...not yet at least, so he temporized. "As you say, Hamilton is where Rocco Perri centers his operation, sir." He knew better than to ask for permission to extend his investigation into Hamilton. He'd have to either do it on his own time, and probably his own dime, or he'd have to get Brackenreid to think it was the inspector's personal idea to send his detective there. He nodded politely to Dr. Ogden and stood as if the meeting were adjourned.

He was at the door when his boss voiced a frustrated surrender. "All right. One day in Hamilton. Discreetly. While you are there, get a more recent likeness of our Mr. Rocco Perri. You make a mess of this, it'll be your hide!"


She followed him across the bullpen to his office and waited, pointedly, until he ushered her inside. She closed the door behind her. "Is the Inspector always so...so...parochial? Are all police the same?" She could see she caught him off guard.

His answer came swiftly. "Do not be concerned. His statements do not reflect my own opinions and, despite his rhetoric, they do not colour his implementation of police work. Ever."

She remained skeptical. "By the way, I've seen you interrogate a suspect, Detective. Does the Inspector know you just manipulated him?" He looked at her blankly to give nothing away - which of course confirmed it for her. "I thought so," she smiled. She was learning to read him.

"Doctor Ogden, I hardly think-"

"Perhaps you can call me Julia? At least in private?" She walked towards the center of his crowded office, taking time to read and appreciate his blackboards full of information, something she did not attend to in her last foray here. Her impression was that this was an example of how the interior of his mind worked - busy but orderly, multi-faceted, visual, logical, seeking connections. "Now, how are you going to link Mr. Landswell's and Mr. Knox's deaths to each other? They appear so dissimilar: one alcoholic, one not. One successful and prominent, one scraping the bottom of society. Then there are all the rest of the poisoned alcohol deaths."

He seemed to hesitate, weighing his words. "The previous coroner would have missed the crucial details which got our investigation this far forward, Doctor."

"It's Julia."

"Julia, then. But at work it is preferable we stay professional."

He used my name. That is some progress. "Thank you."

"Of course, your late-night skulking is not what I'd recommend for the future. Next time you have information pertinent to a murder investigation, please inform me before you go off on your own."

"I was with my sister…" she objected.

He tried another blank look. "And look how well that turned out," he said.

"I discovered that Gooderham and Worts use Brucine in large quantities to denature alcohol, and that warehouse we were in last night had barrels of it. It was also full of methyl-alcohol which is used in their blend. We were both there for the same reason - W&G products are being diverted for the illegal alcohol trade." Why does he get my dander up so easily?

"Information I already possessed. Please. I must insist you leave clandestine investigation to the professionals. Your skills as a pathologist would be hard to replace."

"William," she said as sweetly as she could, unable to resist baiting him, if only mildly. He had not offered her his Christian name, but she knew it nonetheless. "You must allow me my methods. However, from now on I promise to do all my nocturnal adventures with you. And you are correct, I am certain I am the best pathologist you will ever have the privilege of working with. Speaking of which, I must get back to the morgue."


She called me 'William.'

He hadn't heard anyone say his Christian name in ...years. To have Liza call to him again had been his greatest hope for so long….

But 'William' was a husband, a hoped-to-be father, a son, a brother. All of that was gone... He'd been 'Murdoch' since Catholic Grammar School. 'Murdoch' at every job he ever had. 'Murdoch' in the army. After so many years on the force, he'd begun to think his first name was 'Detective'.

He watched Dr. Ogden - Julia - leave his office, finding her flirtations...unnerving, and amused by her brashness, much as he disapproved of her recklessness.

He shook himself, tearing his eyes away from her departure, to gather the men under his command. "Hodge, when Worseley gets off the telephone, will you bring him, Crabtree and Higgins to my office?"

Murdoch took a closer look at his chalkboards, making a few adjustments. He was dusting his hands off when Crabtree arrived with his helmet in his hands, deftly flipping it to show his good mood. "Yes, Constable?"

"Sir, I have one for you." Crabtree got a slip of paper from his tunic pocket just as the other constables entered. Higgins sniggered and elbowed Crabtree. Worseley and Hodge were happy to play along.

Murdoch was certain there was betting on when he'd finally get stumped. He withheld a sigh. Brackenreid was probably their bookie.

Crabtree began. "A term for groups of fishes which include pike, carp, salmon and trout. I am doing you a favour by not listing the Latin names. Exceptionally long and tongue-twisty..."

This one he had to think about. "What is... Abdominales? Still with the "A's?"

"Another point to you, sir." Crabtree looked crestfallen. "I am working my way back through the alphabet. Last one...for today. The act of renouncing or rejecting something, especially something which gives pleasure or satisfaction; self-denial."

Murdoch's mind strayed to Julia Ogden. He answered quickly. "What is abnegation?"

Higgins snickered again. "Why does anyone need an old four-dollar word? And who does that, anyways, reject pleasure? Why not enjoy life if it is for the taking?"

"Oh, I don't know Higgins," Crabtree answered grumpily. "Maybe some people want to save themselves up for the better things in life."

Murdoch intervened before the two of them started sniping. "Gentlemen, I have your next assignments. Hodge, take a team of men and beat the bushes again for more leads on local bootlegging. This time widen the search. Constable Worseley?" He examined Lorne Worseley up and down, satisfied this was going to work.

"Aye, sir?" Worseley said in his cracking Scot's accent.

"Constable, how are your thespian skills?"

"Me' what?" Worseley shifted his feet and darted his eyes towards Crabtree.

"Acting skills," Crabtree explained.

Murdoch smiled. "You are going on a special assignment with one of the female morality officers, Miss Sweets. Get into your civvies and take another look for this mysterious red-haired woman. We only know what Miss Virgil said about her hair colour and that she is fresh from the farm and was last seen June 19th outside Mr. Landswell's office. But we also know we do not want to scare her away."

Worseley wrinkled his brow and poised his pencil over his notepad. Murdoch then turned to his Toronto street map pinned to the wall, gesturing with his fingers so Worseley would understand the plan. "We have already done this one way, officially, now we will do it, un-officially, out of uniform. You and Miss Sweets begin at Mr. Landswell's office and work outwards street by street in a spiral, like this." He traced the pattern with his hand. "You are to ask at all the female boarding houses for your sister. Since this red-haired woman appears to have been on her own, it is logical she'd have taken rooms in one. We'll call her Mary; that is safe enough. People might recall the police were looking for her- we can use it to our advantage. If someone had seen her on or before June 19th, then you tell some tale about your mother saying all is forgiven and she can come home. That will hopefully elicit more information, and more sympathy than when the authorities asked after her. You two can even disparage the constabulary if it helps."

"Aye, sir. There aren't many boarding houses. We'll ask at the Young Woman's Christian boarding house on Elm and the cafeteria on Yonge as well."

"Excellent. Just remember to play the part of an older brother and sister sent to fetch their wayward sibling." He heard Worseley's hearty guffaw.

"I have six sisters sir, all younger. Me' mam was always having me fetch 'em!"

Murdoch had no trouble at all imagining what that must have been like. "You can use your experience, then. Crabtree, Higgins, get each and every piece of paper Conrad Landswell ever owned or touched. Go over them again. You are looking for evidence of a woman contacting him, making threats, asking questions-anything at all. Concentrate on dates before June 19th."

"And you, sir?" Crabtree asked.

He went for his hat on the way out. "While Hodge and the rest of you are knocking on doors, I am going to work on how and where Rocco Perri gets his product into our fair city."


Julia's office telephone was ringing, with Jack nowhere in sight. She raced for the receiver, out of breath by the time she answered. "Dr. Ogden, City Coroner."

"Detective Pearce here. Thank you for information on my female victim. An attorney named Mr. Albert Rosen will be coming down to the morgue to formally identify her as Sarah Olive Routledge, known as Olive. He was able to account for her presence at the Sullivan Building. Good work, Dr. Ogden. Station nine can close this tragic case."

"Detective, wait!" she said, worried he was going to hang up before giving her what she needed. "Does this attorney know where she lived and where her children are?"

"Mr. Rosen gave an address in St. Catharines. Local constables found the children cared for by neighbors. I am surprised the woman was never arrested by the authorities in St. Catharines for indecency - being an unmarried, pregnant woman - she would have if she'd lived here in Toronto in my precinct." He sounded offended. "Don't worry, Doctor. The children are safe and sound with the local Children's Aid Society by now."

At least he did not call them bastards. "Will they go to an orphanage if relatives do not come forward?"

"Yes, I assume so. There are no records of where their father is or who he - or rather they - might be, although obviously the men exist somewhere. There was nothing informative in her flat, according to the St. Catharines constables who investigated."

Incensed by his attitude, she kept a tight grip on her tongue. "What about the man on the roof? Did you find him? What do you know about him?"

"No need to pursue that when you ruled it a suicide, doctor. Now, thanks again for your help, but I must move on to what's next on the pile on my desk."

"And her remains?"

"Unless someone claims her in two weeks, you can send her to Potter's Field. Unless you think she won't, er...keep." Detective Pearce hung up in her ear.

"Well, that went well," she told the telephone.

She sent the earpiece to its hook with a sharp snap of her wrist. Damn. Did no one care about Olive? She had no idea how she was going to contact the 'Roof Man' when, and if, she discovered anything, and was uncertain even if she should. Station House No. 9 certainly wasn't going to devote any energy into it.

Maybe I can put something in the Star.

She looked around for Jack, belatedly recalling she'd sent him on an errand. Rolling up her sleeves, she went down the steps to the morgue cooler and yanked on the handle, swinging the heavy door open. Yep. Still full. She slammed the door shut, went up the stairs to her office and sat back down at her desk, fidgeting with the old brass ink pot which some previous coroner left behind.

As a nurse she was known for her problem-solving and audaciousness in a crisis. A grueling medical school education trained a lot of that impulsiveness out of her, but recently she felt some of that urgency to DO something coming back. If she could not use her position as City Coroner, why have it at all? She had a couple ideas about that.

She pulled the phone towards her. "Operator, I'd like to place a long-distance call, please."