CHAPTER TWENTY

0600 hours, Thursday Morning, June 29th, 1922

Union Station, Toronto

Murdoch lurched with the train coach just as he claimed his seat amongst the throng of morning commuters. Men jostled for window seats or read the morning papers, while a handful of through-travelers to Hamilton or Niagara Falls or beyond shot them weary looks. Fortunately, he found a seat to himself to spread out and review his notes, something he'd not be able to do if he drove. He was therefore annoyed when another passenger settled next to him, causing him to pull his legs into a tight cramp. "Pardon me," he uttered automatically without looking up.

"An apology is unnecessary."

Her voice. His blood pressure spiked. "Dr. Ogden. I saw in this morning's Toronto Star personals, a line or two about Detective Pearce's suicide case, looking for information. That was your doing?" Try as he might, he was unable to keep a tinge of displeasure out of his tone.

"Perhaps," was all she admitted to, but he thought she preened a little at the mention.

"To what do I owe the honour, Doctor?"

"Why, I am coming with you! After we spoke, I called the Hamilton coroner and Dr. Stanwix agreed as professional courtesy to let me examine his findings and autopsy records for the murdered priest, and look at other patient records he suspects are associated with poisoned alcohol - persons who sickened but did not die - because Dr. Stanwix has privileges at the Mount Hamilton Veteran's Hospital. He will meet me this morning." She gave him a grin. "I thought we agreed to a first name basis when we are not conducting business…William."

He noticed her self-satisfied expression out of the corner of his eye; she smelled of sandalwood. "Your initiative is outstanding...Julia," he said, and meant it. At least she knew enough to wear orthodox lady's business costume in a sober navy blue, complete with hat and gloves today, if she was going to conduct an official inquiry on behalf of the City of Toronto.

In his own pocket, however, was a pared down list of who he was scheduled to see while in Hamilton. Nothing on it included shepherding her around. He started to object while she continued to breeze forward.

"Thank you; I have more," she said excitedly. "My dearest friend, Prudence Carter, lives in Hamilton and is quite up to date on Society there. She explained that, instead of Roman Catholic, Father Doulton was Anglican and a leading proponent of prohibition - of the fire and brimstone variety - having quite the public notoriety for his sermons on the subject. I am told he was not above shaming those who indulge, whether from the pulpit or in the newspapers. He offered individual counseling to remove the devil from your soul if that was what it took to achieve abstinence. By all accounts, a true believer."

She sounds as if she does not approve. He flipped through his notes, trying to focus. Her gossip source was as accurate as the report in his own hands. "Detective Travers of the Hamilton Constabulary concours with the opinion Father Doulton's murder is linked to his anti-alcohol activities, considering there was no robbery and no other known motive. Detective Travers is bothered by the coincidence of this murder at the same time of so many other poisoned-alcohol deaths."

"I have heard no police officer believes in coincidences."

He wondered if she was teasing. "No, we do not," he said firmly. "The good Father would have made such mass tragedies part of his anti-alcohol campaign, putting pressure on consumers, suppliers, distributors, City Hall - perhaps even Mr. Perri directly or indirectly. Detective Travers theorizes Father Doulton came into knowledge of the origins of the poisoned alcohol through the church."

She leaned towards him. "An assassination?"

He slid as far away from her on his seat he could manage. "That may be going too far. However, Detective Travers and I agreed the timing of Father Doulton's death in Hamilton, coinciding with the spate of "bootleg booze" deaths, warranted assuming a link until we are convinced otherwise."

"Hardly a scientific approach. I was given to understand your methods always follow scientific principles, at least that is what Constable Crabtree informed me. What about your null hypothesis?"

This time he knew she was teasing him. He studied his notes harder before addressing her, needing to clear his head. "Dr. Ogden-"

"Julia. I insist…"

He coughed lightly. "Since I am allowed only one day's grace to investigate the Hamilton angle, I wish to be as effective and efficient with my time as possible. I have mapped out my interviews and the locations to visit on a tight schedule." For an insightful woman, she did not readily cotton on to subtleties.

She laughed. "I suppose you used Taylor's and the Gilbreth's engineering principles for time and motion to make your route."

His eyes widened. How did she know? "Well, actually…" He stopped when he recognized she'd merely made an offhand joke. He groaned inside - it was going to be a long day. "Ahem...I plan to meet with Detective Travers first thing. Then I will be combing their records, interviewing some of the constables, and getting a tour of Rocco Perri's suspected operations, so I don't think..."

"Excellent! I am going to start at the Veteran's Hospital this morning, have luncheon with Prudence and wind up at the Hamilton Morgue. You can meet me there; shall we say four o'clock? It will give us time to share our findings and come to conclusions about Father Doulton's murder before catching the return train."

She said this so confidently as if it were a settled matter, which annoyed him. He had his own agenda. Shaking his head, he tried again. "Dr. Ogden...Julia…Perhaps-"

"Julia. That's better. Now, what do you think about Mr. Roy Giles' series of articles in Scientific American this year on criminal behaviour? Safe-Breaking? Opium and Hash-Eesh? Stamp Frauds and their Detection? Have you kept up?" She bestowed a brilliant smile on him. "I was fascinated by his most recent offering on planning a robbery. I'd be most interested in your professional take on the subject." She crossed her hands over her pocketbook expectantly, crochet-gloved fingers intertwining. "Unless you wish to play Constable Crabtree's word game until we reach our destination? How about the fear of the number six-six-six?"

He was nonplussed. "What is Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia?" he answered.

She just kept looking at him.

He noted an odd sensation in his chest - ridding himself of it by taking in a great gulp of air. Then he shrugged. He so seldom got to discuss anything of scientific interest with anyone... "Well, Mr. Giles does posit a certain larcenist talent, which uses cleverness, duplicity and corruption to achieve criminal ends…"

Without realizing it, by the time the train finished accelerating and the movement smoothed out, Murdoch was engaged in stimulating conversation, his murder cases all-but forgotten.


The Taggert Mansion Queen Street South, Hamilton

"Dennie, this is delicious! You say it is called an Alligator Pear? How exotic!" Julia loved the formal dining room of Prudence Carter's grandfather's red-sandstone house with its stained-glass, wall of oak built-ins, and miles of trim work. It was beautiful, solid and enduring, just like her friend. The smooth, silky green bite of fruit in her mouth - or was it vegetable? - was so firm yet delicate. Also, just like Dennie.

"I knew you'd be game for it, Jules. I am told they are originally from Mexico. These came from Cuba with the last shipment of tobacco. My grandfather won't touch them, but I couldn't resist." Denny sat at her right dressed in a man's trousers, shirt and waistcoat, her jacket flung over the back of her chair. The aroma of cured tobacco permeated her clothing, announcing she ran her family tobacco manufacturing business from the center of the action. The only nod to femininity, besides her unmistakably beautiful features, was her long dark hair pulled back and fixed in place with a dragonfly hair ornament. "Now, what gossip can I tell you about our fair city? On the telephone you said you wanted to know more about our most infamous bootlegger..."


1400 hours

St. Mark's Anglican Church, Hamilton

In an airless heat, Murdoch and his companion manoeuvred around each other.

"This photograph was taken after we moved the body…" Detective Benjamin Travers, a barrel of a man with rough sandy hair and square hands, handed him the last crime scene photograph taken in Father Adam Doulton's office. "You can see the blood where it was underneath the body."

He nodded, accepting the sheet. "Thank you."

Murdoch compared the photograph to the actual room, which was tucked behind the altar and apse of St Mark's Anglican Church. In less than a week since the priest's murder, the parish completely stripped the place to the bare walls, and re-paint it a crisp white, as if to exorcize the evil conducted there - returning a cross to the walls for good measure. The floor was bare, the carpet having been removed to get blood out, he suspected. Only a wooden desk and a single chair remained, both showing the effects on their finishes of removing any stains of death.

He flipped back to the previous photograph. Even in black and white it was obvious Father Doulton had bled out. No photographs showed the entire layout of the room nor the extent of blood spatter, which was frustrating, and the whitewashed walls were no help now. He noticed there were two doors in this relatively cramped office, presumably so a parishioner might enter or exit confidentially.

"Dr. Stanwix's estimated time of death was eleven-thirty a.m. Monday the 19th. Your investigation reports no reliable witnesses." Travers was silent, which was fine, because Murdoch was mostly talking to himself. He examined the space, comparing the written reports to the physical scene, noting the placement of each object and of the corpse. As far as he could tell from the pictures, there was no sign of a struggle. He went through the photographs a third time. "Are you assuming a sudden attack? There is hardly room in here for a fight."

Travers nodded. Murdoch thought it was hard to tell, but in the photograph, it looked like nothing was disturbed on the priest's desk, no chairs were overturned.

He motioned to the second door, got a wave from Travers, then opened it, following it to a corridor and back to the sanctuary. The church had an unusual set up, with the main entrance at the side of the building facing Hunter Street where he and Travers entered. He counted three other exit doors: one more on the Hunter street side, one to the rear of the pews and one to the side alley. He crossed in front of the altar rail, genuflected out of habit, and went back around to rejoin Detective Travers in the tiny office.

Travers stood up, motioning around the room. "The church doors are always open, a real Christian ministry, full of pious people - never had problems before from the street. The Reverend Adam Doulton was devoted to the church, beloved by his congregation. He had no appointments that day anyone knew about, nothing in his calendar. No threats in his direction, overt or implied, despite how he beat the drum about alcohol. As far as anyone knows he was supposed to be here working on the next Sunday's sermon."

Murdoch imagined the priest writing at his desk, then looked at the photographs. "I don't see any paper or notebooks on the desk. If he was writing, where are they?"

Travers frowned, deep lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and mouth. "Maybe the Reverend was waiting for inspiration?" He leaned against the wall. "Murdoch, it's like I told you, we got nothing. We have not scared up a single lead. The best we got is a vague report a man maybe came out of the alley on the side of the church, parallel to Hunter Street, maybe around lunch time. He was only noticed because someone thought he was wobbling down the street too fast. You saw how busy Bay Street or Hunter are; all sorts of people about. It could have been anybody on a short lunch break trying to get back to work before the boss reamed him out. No motive, other than the priest's stand on the evils of alcohol, which we speculate made him a target. Problem is... I got no weapon, no fingerprints I can use. Nothing! That is what makes me think this was deliberate, well-timed and well-planned."

An assassination, which is what Dr. Ogden suggested on the train. Murdoch could easily visualize it, from multiple angles, seeing the priest welcome a visitor, perhaps raise his arms to greet him, getting impaled by a quick, sharp jab of the knife - the shock and surprise, perhaps disbelief in Father Doulton's eyes as he collapsed and the assailant pulled the knife out, leaving him to bleed out, alone in this space.

"And Rocco Perri has the only organization capable of getting away with murder?" he asked.

Travers splayed his large hands out in front of him. "Who else?" He clapped one of those hands on Murdoch's shoulder, steering him out of the office. "If Father Doulton knew facts regarding so many dying from poisoned liquor, he'd have never kept it to himself. That is something everyone knew about the priest. Getting him alone to do the deed would have been easy. All someone would have to do is ask, and Father Doulton would have invited his killer back for some private talk..." he swung his chin back over his shoulder towards the office. "Or just walked in…"

"...And gave his killer the perfect location for a murder," he finished the sentence.

Travers grunted. "Now let me take you to the reason why…"

He followed the other detective back onto the street, blinking at the brightness. Travers piloted the police car to their next destination a few blocks east: the main office of the sprawling Royal Distillery complex at 16 Jarvis near King Street. The car pulled up onto the sidewalk into a spot of shade. Travers cut the noisy, battleship of a Ford Model "T" engine, put the parking brake on and got out, waggling a hand to Murdoch to follow him into the maze of buildings. The place reminded Murdoch of Gooderham and Worts with a jumble of brick buildings connected by gravel roadways, except, unlike G&W, Royal was no longer in operation.

"Most whisky made in Ontario has always been Rye. Royal petered out after the Great War then closed, unable to keep up with the big five: Seagram, G&W, Hiram Walker, Corby, and Wiser." Travers lectured as he guided them. "Most of the bootlegging here in Hamilton is of the small-operation type, selling from pre-prohibition stockpiles, or homebrewers with a still. Slightly bigger operators make mash, add burnt sugar, some other oddments then slap a high-end label on it. They can get six dollars a go. Large operations buy alcohol destined for export or skip the purchasing and just divert it from the wagon or train for resale - a theft of an entire train car's worth of liquor, some of it unadulterated, has happened. The retail price goes up for the genuine stuff. We think Perri's operation is of a different stripe."

He let the man prattle on, getting confirmation for what he had accomplished in his own investigation yesterday.

Travers reached their destination, one of the large red brick buildings with a gabled roof fronted by two huge sliding doors, which hung on wheeled tracks. Travers took the right-side door and asked Murdoch to handle the left. He grabbed the handle and used his strength to start the door moving, sending a metal-on-metal screech echoing in the complex while the door sent out a shower of small particles. He squinted to keep them out of his eyes. Once the door banged open, he entered the dark warehouse, wiping some sweat off with his handkerchief. The building was hot and gave off many kinds of sweet and earthy smells - definitely overpowering. Travers promised him a revelation once they arrived at their destination, but as far as he could see, the entire, cavernous structure was empty. He waited for the eyes to adjust, in case he was missing something.

There was a wall-to-wall open floor. "Detective Travers, I thought you were going to show me Rocco Perri's bootlegging operation," Murdoch complained. "There is nothing here."

Travers walked to the center of the building, his footfalls sharp on the concrete, his arms wide like a carnival showman. "Exactly, Murdoch! In here used to be the original Royal distilling operation. All the tubing, three enormous copper kettles for their best label - the whole show. It wasn't sold off when the distillery closed. Wasn't requisitioned for the war effort. Where did it disappear to?"


1600 hours

Hamilton Morgue

Murdoch was still thinking about Detective Travers' demonstration as he mounted steps into a grey stone building where the Hamilton morgue was housed. Where does one hide an enormous bootlegging operation? Especially if distilling from scratch or redistilling is part of the illegal business? He had worried the problem all last night and all day today, without coming up with an answer he liked.

Unsurprisingly, Dr. Stanwix's pathology domain was in the basement. He was directed to another set of stairs which led downward, taking the right hand turn to a set of double doors at the end. He pushed one open, revealing Dr. Ogden studying papers which were laid out on what looked like two metal gurneys. She was so intensely focused she did not hear him behind her.

Tired and hungry, he was no further ahead in this investigation at four o'clock than he had been at six this morning. Murdoch looked again at Dr. Ogden, bent over a stack of papers with a magnifying glass. Much to his consternation, he was now hoping it was she who was going to give him a break in the case. He waited a moment before scraping his foot on the hard floor to herald his presence.

The signal did not help, because she jumped about two feet and yelped.

"Detective!" she scolded, her cheeks becoming a shade of pink as she whirled around. "Didn't anyone tell you it was rude to sneak up on someone?" Her voice rose an octave and her eyes flashed.

He smiled, what he hoped was apologetically. "Sorry, Doctor. You were quite engrossed. May I ask what has so captured your attention?"

She considered him, then turned her back again, inviting him to see what she was looking at. In front of her was an autopsy report, including a set of photographs he had not seen before of Father Doulton's wound. "The murder was not particularly brutal, as murders go. A single stab wound to the chest..." She gave him one photograph to study while she read the report. "But effective."

He brought the crime scene photographs back to mind. "Was there evidence of a struggle on Father Doulton's body?"

"Other than the gaping knife wound, of course?" She laughed.

He thought the sound was out of place in this hall of death. "Of...of course. Or anything which ties this murder to Landswell or Knox, such as strychnine?"

She shook her head. "Nothing in the autopsy report. Murder weapon was a single edged blade, six inches long, a slight upward angle under the ribcage…"

"Does Dr. Stanwix estimate the height of the assailant? Or if not, can you?" he asked hopefully.

"Dr. Stanwix opines that, considering Father Doulton was above-average in height at six feet, the assailant was anywhere from five feet six to six foot himself. Although…" she hesitated. "If Father Doulton had his hands raised, like so…" she demonstrated, holding her own arms, "that is a variable Dr. Stanwix did not consider."

"So, not much force is necessary to get the blade in." He was already visualizing the knife piercing clothing and penetrating the priest's chest.

Dr. Ogden nodded distractedly. "Certainly less effort needed than for a duller weapon, like a letter opener or screw driver." She kept turning a second photograph around and then consulting the companion report. She paused again, tapping the black and white image. "I have been staring at this photograph since I got here. What do you think of this?"

Brushing his hand against hers, he ignored the tingling sensation he felt, and seeking better light, he brought the photograph in his hand closer under the over-head bulbs. He saw the marks on the priest's chest which concerned her, bracketing the stab mark. They bothered him too. "From the knife?"

"What do you make of it?" she insisted.

"An odd entry angle? Or an asymmetrical hilt on the blade?"

She nodded. "Yes...but...Doesn't it look familiar somehow?"

He had seen plenty of stab wounds before - all on corpses. A knife - if long and sharp enough - was going to hit something vital, ending a life when it went in, or if not, making more damage as it was retrieved. The photograph revealed someone shoved it hard enough to get the whole blade in the body, right to the hilt. He had personal experience with how much force that takes. He shuddered, putting that war memory away. It had no place in domestic matters… He snuck a look at Dr. Ogden, to make sure she did not see his momentary weakness.

She appeared to be oblivious. "I wish I had the body to look at -"

"Doctor! We will not be exhuming Father Doulton's earthly remains!" he warned, assuming she was serious and not teasing this time.

She sighed. "I suppose not. If we can identify the knife it might be a clue. Dr. Kockel in Leipzig has written on striation matching and the geometry of knife edges for forensic identification," she murmured, reabsorbed in the image.

"Yes!" He was immediately energized, in his mind seeing how math might help the case. "Dr. Kockel identified how the geometry morphs as the angle of the blade changes during an attack. We can work backwards from the wound to the blade." He imagined doing it...until he realized he'd need the actual wound, so they were back to exhuming a body. "Well, it might not stand up in court…" he told her quickly.

"Are you sure? Look at this again with me. I have seen this before." she insisted, pulling at his jacket until he came beside her to look at the same image together. "Doesn't it look familiar to you?"

He peered at the black and white image. "Possibly…"

"Look, Detective...I have been coroner a week. So, I cannot have encountered it on the job. And certainly not during my rotations at medical school. So, it must be from the war when I was nursing. What about a military knife?"

Gooseflesh swarm over him, as all at once he was back in France feeling hot blood flow across his hand, frightened eye to frightened eye with a German soldier as life pulsed out of the enemy and all over both their uniforms. Murdoch's hand automatically jerked, remembering pulling the knife out of the man's throat, surprised how little resistance the tendons and flesh had put up as he pulled it out.

He turned his back to her to escape, orienting himself to his surroundings, naming to himself what he saw or what was under his fingers now - the floor, the lights, the instruments, the hard, cold edge of the gurney - as if they were a lifeline to a drowning man.

"Nahkampfmesser.' he rasped, then cleared his throat trying to steady himself. "It's a German trench knife. The common soldiers had them, suitable for stabbing and slashing. Lots of our boys brought them home as souvenirs."

Murdoch's pulse raced. He'd fought to the death with his German prisoner, throwing the knife away in disgust after what he'd done. The idea of keeping it as a souvenir was nauseating and abhorrent, yet his memory refused to let go of it. He sketched the hilt to show her: an 's' curved hilt, which explained the bruise marks perfectly. With effort, he turned to her. "I imagine you saw wounds caused by trench blades in soldiers you cared for. You did say you seldom forget a wound you treated. It is how you identified Mr. Knox for us."

"Goodness. We are looking for a soldier as our killer?" Dr. Ogden sounded shocked, and sad.

"Not necessarily...Hundreds of these knives must be in circulation."

She bit her lip, turned abruptly away to rifle through the pages on the gurney, lifting one up as if it were a newly discovered treasure. "What if I were to tell you I think Father Adam Doulton served in the war, just like you and I did? He has a maple-leaf military tattoo."