A/N: I know the first chapter was a bit confusing, but it'll make sense in the coming chapters. For a more not-so-confusing chapter, here's chapter 2.
Disclaimer: see chapter one
Toronto, Ontario 1895
"Detective Solves Puzzling Murders. Joseph Collins Set To Hang" read the front page headline. Detective William Murdoch set the paper down on his desk and leaned back in his chair. Another win for the Constabulary. Another criminal dead. Another family's lives ruined. Murdoch sighed and rubbed his tired, burning eyes. It had been a difficult case; and a personal one. A Constable from Station House Four had lost his life while in pursuit of a killer stalking his neighbourhood. Three women were dead; single women from well-to-do families. The killer had made it look like a home invasion gone wrong.
It turned out that Joseph Collins lived in the same neighbourhood and that he was a bit of a Peeping Tom. But, his urges grew to be too much and he snapped when the first victim shot him down when he made an advance on her. However, catching him wasn't as simple as everyone thought it to be. He had left a mess of puzzles for the Toronto detective to solve, leading Murdoch from one suspect to another, including the Constable that had lost his life when Collins pulled out a gun and started shooting up the street when the Constabulary finally closed in on him.
Now, Collins was sentenced to hang for his crimes. Justice had been served. However, Murdoch started harbouring feelings of paranoia in the last few days since the trial. In the court room, when the judge had delivered the guilty verdict, Collins started yelling that he would have his revenge; that William Murdoch had not seen the last of him and that his time with the noose would soon be at hand.
Brackenreid had of course told Murdoch that it had just been the crazed ramblings of a doomed man. And, though Murdoch was not by any means a superstitious man, the threat had left him with a cold chill running down his spine. He had learned through his time with the Constabulary to take threats seriously, crazed or otherwise, for they always seemed to have an air of truth in them; especially if they involved his safety or the safety of someone he cared about.
Murdoch jumped when there was a knock at his office door. Higgins stood in the doorway; a somber look on his face. Murdoch instantly knew what had happened, even before the Constable spoke the words.
"You're needed, sir," Higgins said.
Murdoch walked up to the crime scene on shaky legs, though it wasn't from the bike ride. The lack of sleep was starting to get to him. He couldn't shake the nightmares; the feelings of rough rope pulling against his throat, strangling him. Though he would never perish. He awoke every night in a cold sweat and a crushing fear of what awaited him.
Constable George Crabtree met him halfway. He looked pale, like he was about to be sick. Murdoch knew from that look that it was a bad one.
"What have we, George?" Murdoch asked, his stomach lurching in anticipation; though he never showed his unease.
"Muriel Hart," Crabtree replied. "Twenty-three. A young lad found the body on his way down to the river to go fishing."
As the men walked up and when his eyes fell upon the young woman's mangled body, Murdoch crossed himself and forced himself to keep his breakfast down. The poor woman looked like she had been the victim of a savage animal attack. Her torso had been completely torn open. Murdoch looked over to see Crabtree off to the side, bent over and heaving. Murdoch didn't blame him. George often got a queasy stomach when it came to overly gruesome crime scenes. Experience had taught Murdoch to keep an iron stomach, though at this point he was finding that the iron was starting to melt and the bile was beginning to creep its way up his throat.
Swallowing down the bile, Murdoch walked over to the body where Julia Ogden was examining the body. She had a handkerchief over her mouth and nose and from the stench that wafted up from the body in the scorching heat, Murdoch knew why.
"Is it pointless to ask cause of death?" the detective asked.
Julia looked at him then at the body and then back up to him. Her expression said it all. Murdoch nodded.
"What could have caused this kind of damage?" he asked.
"A bear, perhaps?" Julia guessed, briefly removing the cloth to speak before placing it back into place.
Murdoch looked around at the scene. High grass, heavily wooded areas. A bear attack was a good possibility. Though, he knew from experience that he was never called in for an animal attack. Murdoch glanced down at the ground. He tilted his head to one side when he noticed something clenched in the victim's hand. He lifted up the victim's hand and carefully pulled out a piece of paper. Julia watched in curiosity. Murdoch opened the paper and read a crudely written note.
"Three more will die. Then I'm coming for you."
There was that chill again. Murdoch folded the paper up again. "Time of death?" he asked, his voice stiff.
"I would say three to four hours ago," Julia replied. She studied the detective's expression. "William, what's wrong?" she asked. "You look pale. Are you ill?"
Murdoch shook his head. "Just tired," he answered.
"Have you not been sleeping well?" Julia wanted to know, her doctor instincts kicking into overdrive.
Murdoch considered telling Julia about the nightmares, but he didn't want her to worry. Instead, he gave her a reassuring smile.
"I'm sleeping fine, Julia," he told her. His smile faltered. "I just keep thinking about the Constable we lost."
Julia nodded in understanding. "Yes. I know you all took it extremely hard," she said.
"But, he received justice. Just like this young woman will also receive justice," Murdoch said, getting to his feet.
Julia nodded to two Constables who were waiting nearby with a stretcher. She got to her feet as well. As the men took the body away, Julia turned to face Murdoch before she accompanied the body to the morgue.
"I'll have postmortem results for you as quickly as I can," she said.
"Thank you, Julia," Murdoch said, turning to leave.
"William," Julia replied, making him turn around again. "If you ever need to talk, you know my door is always open."
Murdoch gave her a grateful smile, but couldn't bring himself to say anything. He turned and walked away, leaving Julia to go back to the morgue with the corpse. Murdoch walked over to where Crabtree was finally getting control over his heaving. The Constable cleaned himself up, cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure.
"Sorry about that, Detective," Crabtree apologized.
"No need to apologize, George," Murdoch told him.
"It's just...after Constable Gates..."
Murdoch nodded. "Yes, George," he politely cut in. "I, myself, have been having a more difficult time coming to crime scenes since Constable Gates' death."
Crabtree looked at him, surprised. "You, sir?" he asked. "You're always so composed. I find that hard to believe."
Murdoch knew Crabtree had said "composed", but with his sleep deprived mind, the detective could have sworn the Constable had said "cold".
Cold composure, Murdoch thought, grimly.
"Detective Murdoch?" Crabtree asked. "Are you feeling all right?"
Murdoch blinked back to reality, giving George a tight smile. "I'm fine, George," he said, knowing it was a blatant lie and he hoped that Crabtree wouldn't pick up on it.
George nodded. "Very good, sir," he said. "I'll begin taking statements."
"Thank you, George," Murdoch replied, inwardly sighing in relief that the Constable hadn't noticed his lie.
It seemed he had taken a liking to the concept of lying, lately. Murdoch knew it wasn't right to lie, but it was also no one's business what he was feeling. He knew George and Julia were being concerned friends, but this was something that Murdoch felt that he needed to figure out on his own. He wasn't going to hide behind other people and put them in the line of danger. He had never been the type of person to put his life before the life of someone else.
If someone was coming after him, Murdoch was going to face his assailant head on. He opened the paper and read the note again. It was unmistakably Joseph Collins' handwriting. Or was he just being paranoid? No, Murdoch was positive that the note was written by Joseph Collins. Folding up the note, Murdoch tucked the paper into his inside jacket pocket and headed back towards his bicycle. Maybe the ride back to the station would help clear his mind.
By the time Murdoch walked into Station House Four, his mind was racing and his stomach was so knotted he feared he was going to be sick. He had been threatened before, faced impossible odds and had always come out on top. What was it about this case that had him so nervous and uneasy? There was something in the way that Collins had yelled at him in the court room; the way the note had been worded.
Three more...then him.
Murdoch sat down at his desk and unfolded the note on top. He glanced up and looked through the open office door into Brackenreid's office. The inspector was sitting at his desk gulping down a glass of whiskey. Murdoch blinked in surprise at the thought that just passed through his mind.
Something was definitely wrong if he was considering asking the inspector for a drink.
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