CHAPTER TWENTY- NINE

1500 hours Saturday July 1

Toronto Street

Murdoch raced down a Toronto street on foot, his teeth jarring and snapping with each step. The difference this time was he was the pursue-ee and not the pursuer, an exceedingly rare occurrence, and he did not like it much. A sudden downpour made it tough going, more so for Hodge who laboured a few steps behind him, considering the extra years and stomach under the man's belt. He slowed, making a quick left onto the main drag, Hodge's chest heaving at his side. Desperate for an escape, Murdoch spied an open tea shoppe whose awning sheltered a collection of people hoping to avoid getting soaked. He pointed at the spot. "Hodge, in there!"

He pivoted right, finding a seam between two businessmen and pushed through, making a larger space for Hodge to follow. They got sworn at for rudeness, then the press of people closed in behind them while the rain came down even harder, obscuring two more men in dark hats and raincoats amongst the rest, as the men who chased them ran on by.

"Sir…" Hodge gasped.

"This way," he crooked a finger at Hodge, shouldering to the back of the store just as a crack of thunder shook the windows. "Two coffees please. One black, one with cream and two sugars."

Hodge found a table and two chairs, settling in with a smile after shaking his hat off. "Much obliged."

Murdoch fussed for a second with the sorry state of his own homburg, then shrugged, placing it on his lap. Hodge, he noticed, was positively gleeful at having outrun the hooligans who had started the chase. Both of them were dripping wet despite raincoats. "What did you think, Hodge? That was the last distribution point on our short list, all with small, regular supplies of illegal alcohol. Statistically, in order to have a result with mathematical certainty, I must know the absolute number of distribution points and then select a random sample-"

"Oh...here's our coffee." Hodge interrupted, taking the 'blonde and sweet' one for himself. "Sir, the inspector...well you know how he gets. He will be uninterested in your mathematical proofs, begging your pardon. We visited one of Rocco Perri's wholesale blind pigs in each of our nine precincts and found exactly the same thing in each place and the same name for each bad batch of bootleg liquor: John Salt. We only got our tails chased this last time because I arrested that barkeep so many times, we are on a first name basis!" He sipped his coffee with pleasure. "They get their liquor in growlers or gallons or small barrels and pour out what the customer orders. No questions asked. No matter how many we go to, it will be the same. You have your answer."

He reluctantly agreed. Running from the last place had gotten his blood pumping which the coffee was going to keep going strong. He blew on the cup and tasted it, relaxing into the chair. "I expect we will have even more answers when we get back to the station house. I have a good feeling about this today, Hodge." He shot a glance at the rain outside, disappearing as quickly as it arrived, blue skies already forming. "Finish your coffee and let's go find the motorcar. You may even be done in time for some Dominion Day festivities!"

John Hodge remained in a jocular mood the whole way back to the station house, and Murdoch rode along quietly, absorbed in thought, trying to decide how to make his two-way communication device lighter - and sturdier. Once at the office, Inspector Brackenreid gave him a high-sign from his desk, indicating he was on the telephone. He didn't even see Crabtree until he looked up from his mail. "Back so soon?"

"Sir! Let's just say between the weather and the holiday, there was some extra motivation amongst the lads. Worseley is the only one who has not reported in and already gone home," Crabtree said. "And speak of the devil, there he is now."

Murdoch turned to see the red-haired constable come in, an excited look about him. "Excellent. When Hodge comes back in, bring him, your results, and Worseley into my office."

Crabtree rushed about, blocking his way. "Sir. Dr. Ogden is waiting for you." He swept his eyes to the right as if silent communication was necessary.

He was immediately on alert. "Thank you. The inspector is impatient for his holiday. I'll see what Dr. Ogden requires and then take your report."

I'd forgotten all about her invitation to celebrate. He straightened his shoulders and walked a few paces to his office, seeing her sitting on one of his workbench stools, disturbing the carefully arranged layout of the tabletop. "Doctor…"

"Ah, Detective. What is this? It looks a little like one of the field wireless systems I saw in France-of course, it did not exactly look like...um...this." She pointed to the device Crabtree had pitched before tackling Jonathan Worcester.

"I call it a Dual Voice Sender and Receiver Apparatus. The Detroit Police Department is experimenting with radios in their police vehicles…" He tried hard not to physically remove her hand from fiddling with the wires. "I have made some modifications."

She kept admiring it from all angles. "Well, that's a mouthful to say. Your device is much more portable than anything so heavy a vehicle's got to carry it. What do you call it?"

He blinked. "Dual Voice Sender and Receiver Apparatus," he repeated. When she did not appear to understand he tried again. "My constable proposed an acronym, calling it S.A.R.A., which sounds out of place for a police operation."

"A woman's name is out of place?" She tilted her head. "You can walk and talk while using it? I can see the utility. Constable Crabtree says he imagines a time when it is possible to always have a wireless handheld radio or telephone devices with them. Sounds horrid. How would anyone get any peace and quiet?""

He had no answer for that as well as seeing nothing wrong about the descriptive name he chose for the patent application he was completing. "Doctor, may I help you?" He wanted to get off his feet because, although his raincoat saved his jacket from the deluge, nothing prevented his trousers and shoes from becoming soggy. He squeaked when he walked. He motioned her to one of his chairs so he could sit at his desk and get her away from his things.

She agreed, slinging herself down. "I have been doing some of my own investigation...oh, don't fret. Not one of your cases. You remember the woman who suicided? Jumped off the roof?"

"Yes," he said warily. There was enough on his plate without stepping on another detective's toes.

"I found her children myself in a St. Catharines orphanage today. It was appalling!" she said. He was transfixed by how her face and eyes burned with emotion. "The caretakers there are uninterested in finding the children's father or locating any grandparents. Do you know, most of them never try to get adoptive homes for the children? They rent them out, like indentured servants - no wonder there is no effort made to reunite the children with blood relatives. And, because it is a suicide, Detective Pearce has closed his investigation! I was hoping you could help me get her two children away from that awful place by finding family for them to go to."

He was torn. He saw her expression fall when he hesitated, aware of that cross-tug again. His fingers went to the rotary card holder he concocted which sat on his desk, spun it until he got to "P". "This is the name of a private investigator with excellent skills and credentials, more than capable for what you seek."

"Thank you, Detective. If this works, one more thing to celebrate." She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, stretching her fingers out for the information.

He copied it down and handed it over, happy to have satisfied her without entangling himself, just as Crabtree, Hodge, and Worseley presented themselves at his door, rescuing him from anything further with the doctor or making plans with her. He waved them in, expecting Dr. Ogden to depart.

Instead, she surprised him. "I'd like to remain, if it is all the same to you, Detective."

He gave her a hard stare, which she ignored. She does keep inviting herself along.

Try as he might, he had no polite reason to exclude her, and she had been useful in the investigation. "Hodge and I have good news from our work today. I will interview Jonathan Worcester with what you discovered. What have you George?" He asked, ready with his chalk board to collect the data.

Crabtree nervously gulped some air. "Sir, you'd better start with your telegram from Hamilton."

"Reading my mail?" he chided. He found the page and opened it.

Crabtree slumped. "I was here when Sergeant Weston took it. Thought you'd better see it first instead of the boss."

Murdoch read the communiqué. Line by line his good mood evaporated, replaced by desperation. "What about the rest of the timeline? Miss O'Mara's alibis?" Crabtree collected all the paperwork and handed over several reports and witness statements, which Murdoch scanned in frustration. He was speechless for a while, aware his men were waiting for a response, not to mention Dr. Ogden. "There it is. Our entire case up-ended."

"Er...a...again." Crabtree coughed. "Sir...who is going to tell the inspector?"

"Maybe it will be better after a good night's sleep, sir? You know, better perspective and all that," Hodge said as he and Worseley edged out of the room.

He held in a sigh. No one ever volunteered up to tell Brackenreid bad news. "Go on gentlemen. Have your day out. I have this." He gathered up the men's reports, formulating the best way to deliver the results.

"I'll go with you, sir. Just like old times," Crabtree offered.

He almost refused the company, debating with himself only briefly.

"Sir?" He called over to the inspector in his office. "May we have you over here for our report?"

Brackenreid came to the doorway, puffing a cigar, his face twisted into a bulldog expression. "Can we charge Worcester and Miss O'Mara or not? What? You think I don't know something's wrong when the two of you look like that?" Brackenreid's mood was tense, gesturing to the blackboards filled with names, charts and pictures. "I've promised Mrs. Brackenreid and me' boys a good look at the fireworks tonight, so hurry it up."

Murdoch appreciated Crabtree's look of support. He swallowed and started his recitation.

"Detective Travers positively identified Howard Knox coming away from St. Mark's where Father Doulton was killed and has a witness putting Knox on the train in Hamilton coming back to Toronto. It's a decent walk from St. Marks to the Hamilton station; after stabbing the priest, he'd get there in plenty of time to catch the train, exactly when and where the witness says he saw him." Murdoch handed over the telegram.

"So, we are back to Mr. Knox killing Father Doulton? Why?" Dr. Ogden asked a fair question.

He had forgotten she was there. "I am not certain of the motive, but yes. He did," he said. "You were right, Doctor, when you identified Mr. Landswell and Mr. Knox as being separate cases from the poisoned alcohol deaths. We should never have lost sight of that."

"Christ!" Brackenreid slammed his cigar out on the desk, so distressed he did not bother to apologize to the lady present. "No holes in this bloody time-line of yours?"

"Sir," he winced inside, placing six sheets on his desk for the boss to see. "The men have followed up on each day Miss O'Mara laid out for us. We have sufficient witness statements; even without an hour-by-hour accounting, her alibi is solid."

"And Worcester?"

"Mr. Worcester's photograph drew a blank in the neighborhood of Landswell's business. Neither of their photographs were recognized at the chemical supply venues."

"I have the witness statements Detective Murdoch asked me to get," Crabtree broke in. "We found no evidence of means or opportunity for them to have poisoned Landswell or Knox. On the day Father Doulton was stabbed, June 19th, both Miss O'Mara and Mr. Worcester were exactly where they said they were, here in Toronto at James, James, Jarvis and James solicitors. I spoke directly to Mr. Jarvis and have a signed affidavit."

Brackenreid grumbled harder. "Doesn't mean they did not have it done."

"And, as you have heard, we have good reason to believe Howard Knox killed Adam Doulton."

She looked from one of them to the next. "Over poisoned bootlegged alcohol?"

He thought about it - somehow it just didn't fit. "No."

"So, Knox did the priest in, and it is not connected to Cpl. Worcester and you don't think it is connected to Perri?" Brackenreid made it sound as if the theory was absurd. "What the blue blazes is going on here?"

All that police work to arrive back at the beginning was enough to give his boss apoplexy. "Separate cases, sir. Unrelated, as the evidence we have from Dr. Ogden shows."

"Then nothing about Father Doulton leads back to Rocco Perri? What about the Hamilton Constabulary's theory?"

"Sir. It's not all bad news today. Between what Hodge dug up and the rest I have uncovered, I believe Rocco Perri's operation is not a single big enterprise like Detective Travers speculated. Instead, I believe it is several, more moderate-sized, compartmentalized operations, so that batches of alcohol are prepared, in series, allowing for there to be continuous brewing from different locations, providing a steady supply of product, but in a way which is easier to disguise - or abandon. It makes it more difficult to track down a single source-"

"Ah...because there is none!" Crabtree said excitedly. "That's brilliant!"

"And it explains why there was only a single bad batch," Dr. Ogden exclaimed. "A tragic accident."

"Just so," he agreed.

"One which killed a lot of people." Brackenreid still hesitated. "What happened to the entire Royal Distillery, then?"

He had been working that out for the last few days. "It is not just alcohol from Canada which is in demand in the States. The United States War office is stockpiling strategic materials - including metals. There has been a steady stream of thefts from construction sites, copper piping mostly, aluminum and brass. I think the whole Royal operation was taken apart piece by piece and quietly, discreetly scrapped, then sold across the border in Buffalo or Niagara Falls. Much more doable than moving any of the huge copper vats, intact - and more lucrative."

Brackenreid fell silent. Crabtree and Dr. Ogden both looked nervous.

"As for the murders of Knox, Landswell and Doulton, I think we can release Miss O'Mara and Cpl. Worcester's brother," he suggested. "Constable Crabtree get Mr. Worcester to give you all the court-martial records he gathered on his brother's case. Look closely for another motive connected to that squad that might have caused enemies."

"Bloody Hell," Brackenreid finally said, looking spent. He roused himself to go to his own office. "Crabtree, see to it, will you? Let Mr. Swift know we no longer think Worcester is a danger to him - might make him feel better." Brackenreid didn't wait for acknowledgement, leading the way back to his own office.. "Come on, Murdoch, let's figure out the rest in my office. You too, doctor. Have a seat," he offered once he got behind his desk. Dr. Ogden took the chair.

"Do you think you have this mess sorted out, finally?" Brackenreid asked wearily, "because I don't think I can stand another reversal."

Murdoch took the settee. His odd, something is off, sensation was not pressing on him as it had been. "Sir, we were conflating the cases before, which blunted our investigation, especially into Rocco Perri. Now, having two clearly demarcated sets of murders, one for poisoned liquor with Rocco Perri as our primary target and one for poisoning two ex-army men with strychnine, which means we must find a new suspect with the means, opportunity, and a strong motive."

"But what motive did Mr. Knox have to kill Father Doulton? Then who killed Mr. Knox and Mr. Landswell?" Dr. Ogden objected. "If not rage or revenge - then, what, fear?"

He agreed. "Humans have been rationalizing their choices for millennia by claiming they were forced to do so, often citing fear. As for Rocco Perri - the motive is unmistakable avarice."

"But who kills their customers? That is not much of a business plan." She made it a joke.

Brackenreid grunted. "Speaking of Rocco Perri, I should warn both of you we have probably stirred the pot by asking after the source of Perri's liquor. It had to be done, of course. But the closer you get, the more dangerous this will be. Be careful." Brackenreid leveled his gaze at Dr. Ogden.

"Why me, Inspector? I have not been making any...direct inquiries." She sounded genuinely puzzled.

Murdoch thought it was naïve of her, but it was only the end of her second week with the city. Good Lord! Only two weeks? He was momentarily amazed.

Brackenreid stood, his words blunt: "By now Rocco Perri knows you are the new Toronto City Coroner. You have to testify to your findings at trial, Doctor. They are no good without you. Dismissed."


Julia shot to her feet to meet the Inspector's gaze, not wishing to be towered over. Who did he think he was, her father?

"Inspector…" she started hotly, then felt a hand on her elbow - a hand attached to the rest of Detective Murdoch.

"Thank you, sir," he said rapidly, deftly turning her towards the office exit. "Dr. Ogden and I appreciate your concern. We'll let you get home to your family."

She was so caught off guard she let him lead her several steps before twisting out of his grasp. "Now see here," she whispered. "Neither of you has the right to treat me like a child who must avoid the deep end of the pool!"

He dropped both of his hands, not looking apologetic in the least. "Doctor, he warned me as well. It is what you do when you are part of a team; watch each others' back."

Still no apology. He must be sincere, but why cut me off? She bristled. "I do not appreciate being silenced, Detective Murdoch. If I choose to speak my mind, that is my business."

Instead of responding, he gestured for them to enter his office. She kept her chin up and marched in ahead of him. He closed his door behind him, only then giving her a half grin and a shrug.

"I do apologize, Doctor. When the inspector stands like that, it means 'end of discussion.' You will learn, the more experience with him you have."

They stood inches from each other. Is he trying to be helpful, assuming he'd given me good advice, again? Slowly, she acceded to the point, deciding it was misplaced gallantry, yet gallantry nonetheless. So...my plan is working! Julia smiled at him, eliciting one from him in return. "Apology accepted. So, the inspector is off to be with his family and his entire command is off enjoying the holiday. How about you? You did agree to make plans for celebrating with me."

He shrunk back. "I have more work today. Someone has to mind the store, even in Toronto the Good."

"Why you?" She was immediately sorry she asked, because his face crimped.

"I volunteered. Most of the men have families, so I don't mind."

She heard him say that, but she guessed he did mind, at least a little, because there was a momentary sadness sweep across his features. She calculated if she asked him to ditch his work, he'd tell her an outright 'no', so she thought about another gambit. Being an upright man, she'd try working on his honour. "Nevertheless, a promise is a promise. How about I pick you up at, let's say eight thirty? That will let you work the rest of today plus a couple extra hours. We can go somewhere we can see the fireworks. I know absolutely the best spot in the city."

She gave him her most winning smile, the one which usually melted the hardest reluctance or resistance. "And, of course, you can drive my car again…" she added to sweeten the deal. She saw him waver - a good sign.

"Perhaps I will meet you?" he said.

Feeling triumphant, even if it wasn't solely her own charms which turned the tide, she pounced before he could change his mind. "I have rooms at the Queens Hotel. I will see you out front at eight-thirty - sharp! Toodle-pip." She stood and nodded at him, making her get away before he could object. Over her shoulder she could swear she glimpsed him with a droll half-smile on his lips.