CHAPTER TWO

Murdoch let himself in the back door of Station House Number 4 and made his way through the jail cells to the bullpen, removing his hat as he did so. As he headed for his office, he heard his name bellowed across the busyness of the station. He glanced up to see his immediate supervisor, the redhaired Glaswegian Inspector Thomas Brackenreid, motioning to him from across the office. The inspector's son, John, was already waiting inside. Murdoch changed directions and entered Brackenreid's office, closing the door behind him. "Sir," he greeted Brackenreid politely, moving to take a seat next to John.

"Murdoch. So, what did you two find out this morning at Parkington's?"

Murdoch turned to John. "Go ahead, John," he told him.

"Oh, okay. Um," John stammered, fumbling for his notebook. "Okay, well, we arrived at Parkington Whiskey this morning and made our way to the storehouse. One of the workers, a Mr. O'Neill, discovered the body of Brendan Walsh buried in the barley pile. I was told that he thought it was strange that Mr. Walsh hadn't shown up for work, and then they found him in the grain."

He looked over at the detective. "Ah, sir, if you want to take over with the postmortem results?"

"Of course. Dr. Ogden's official cause of death is asphyxiation. Mr. Walsh was knocked unconscious and then buried in the grain pile." Murdoch didn't miss the wince on John's face. The young man was still fairly new to the constabulary and hadn't quite gotten his feet wet yet, though Murdoch couldn't blame him. It seemed the people of Toronto were constantly coming up with new and creative ways to kill each other. "What did you glean from your interviews of the workers, John?"

John flicked a couple pages in his notebook. "Well, I didn't get to everyone before Mr. Martin forced everybody to get back to work." He shook his head. "He didn't seem terribly upset that one of his men was dead."

"No, he certainly didn't," Murdoch agreed. "Neither did Mr. Parkington, for that matter."

"Anythin' else, John?" Brackenreid asked his son. Whether it was the talk of the distillery, the murder, or the fact that it was past nine in the morning, Murdoch watched as Brackenreid got up from his desk and poured himself a finger of scotch from the bottle on the mantle.

"Well, there was one, sir, I spoke to Mr. O'Neill-Connor, is his first name-and he was telling me that Mr. Walsh has a wife and twin boys at home. I thought maybe, well, maybe it would be beneficial if I went to talk to her, to see if he had any enemies…and to let her know about her husband," John finished.

"Good idea," the Inspector said. "Did we get an address?"

"I've got that one, John," Murdoch said. He leaned forward and wrote it down on a pad of paper, then handed the address to John. "Mr Walsh's widow, Violet, lives on Bay Street. Please tell her, also, when she has a moment, that we can release the body upon proof of identification from her."

John nodded as he stood up. "Yes sir, will do." Helmet tucked under his arm, John took his leave, leaving the detective and the inspector in the office.

"How's he doing, Murdoch?" Brackenreid asked him.

Murdoch leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs. "I believe that once he gets his legs under him, Inspector, that he'll be a fine constable. Might even give George a run for his money. He's got good instincts."

"I know Margaret's still not sold on the idea of two coppers in the family," Brackenreid confessed. "See that you or Crabtree keep an eye on him?"

Murdoch smiled. "Of course, Inspector." He stood up. "I think I'll speak to this Connor O'Neill," he decided. He stepped out of the Inspector's office. "George," he called. "I need your assistance."

George Crabtree glanced up from his typewriter and stood up quickly. "Sir, if this is going to be another incident like the one at the morgue," he began, holding his hands in the air, "then I'm going to have to decline!"

Murdoch laughed. "No, George, it's nothing like that, and I apologize for the morgue. But thank you, for helping me prove a theory."

George frowned. "…You're welcome?"

"George, I need you to develop the photos on my camera. They are of a bootprint we found at the crime scene. See if you can match that boot to a particular brand."

"Of course," he said. "Let you know what I find out."

Murdoch clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man." He set his hat back on his head and straightened his tie, checking the clock. If he played the time right, he could perhaps catch Connor O'Neill on a lunch break. And then I won't need to worry about his bosses hovering over his shoulder.

The Ward was a striking contrast to where John Brackenreid resided. Laundry hung between rows of skinny brick tenements. Children rolled balls down the street or played swordfight with sticks. As John walked down the street, people stared. Uniforms weren't a completely uncommon sight in The Ward; however; uniforms in broad daylight were. I stick out like a sore thumb, John thought, keeping one ear and both eyes on the activity around him.

He doublechecked the address the detective had written down for him and looked around. It should be…here. He spotted the correct home and crossed the street. He stood on the doorstep and knocked hard, twice.

The door swung open and two ginger-haired boys with bright green eyes stared up at him, their mouths in identical o's of awe. "A policeman!" one gaped.

"Mama, there's a policeman here!" the other announced.

The door slammed shut in his face. John took a step backwards to keep it from hitting him in the nose. On the other side of the door, he heard someone scolding the two boys. The door opened again, and in front of him stood Violet Walsh. She came up to the middle of his chest, brunette, with bright green eyes like her boys. "I'm so sorry about that," she apologized, her Irish lilt prominent in her voice, an embarrassed smile on her face. "They've not seen a constable up close."

"That's all right," John assured her. "Um, ma'am," he began, pulling off his custodian's helmet, "my name is Constable John Brackenreid. Are you Violet Walsh?"

"Aye, that's me," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," John said, "there's no easy way to say this, Mrs. Walsh, but…" How do George and the Detective do this? he wondered. Mrs. Walsh looked at him curiously. "Uh, well, ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you that your husband Brendan was found dead at Parkington Whiskey this morning."

Her smile fell instantly. "What?" She shook her head. "No, no. That…he-" She faltered, and John grabbed her by the arm, guiding her into the house and into a chair. The boys had stopped wrestling on the rug and were now watching the two adults expectantly. John stayed silent, waiting for Mrs. Walsh to regain her composure. She was breathing slowly, deliberately. After a few moments, she said, "Tommy, Daniel, why don't you boys take your game and go on outside, please?"

The boys scampered out the front door, and John reached over and pushed it closed behind them. He turned to Mrs. Walsh. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Walsh," he told her.

"I wondered, when he didn't come home last night," she whispered. She looked up at John. "He rang me up, said he was goin' out with Connor for a drink or two after work…but then he never came home."

"He was with Mr. O'Neill last night?" John clarified, and she nodded. "What time is he normally off at the distillery?"

"I have supper ready 'round half six," Mrs. Walsh told him.

"Is going out with Mr. O'Neill a common occurrence?"

She nodded. "Connor and Brendan are…were…great friends. Connor's practically a brother to him."

"Mrs. Walsh, was your husband having any issues with anyone at the distillery? Someone who may have wanted him dead?"

Her eyes widened. "He was murdered?"

John mentally kicked himself. He could've sworn he'd said that already, but apparently not. "We believe so, yes," he said.

Mrs. Walsh swallowed. "I-I don't…I can't think of…" She slumped forward and John caught her before she hit the floor. Carefully, he rested her against the table and took a seat in another chair. Guess I'll be staying awhile. Damn it, good going, John.