Chapter 2

Julia was already on her way to the bedroom door when William awoke. "Where are you going so early?" he asked.

"I thought I told you—I have rounds today and Friday so I have to be there by 6:30. The teakettle is still hot and there are rolls on the table for breakfast. I will call you when I see Ruby so we can finalize plans."

He caught her hand and pulled her to the bed in an embrace. "But are you sure you have to go right now?"

She looked at his naked form on the bed and narrowed her eyes. She thought: In his-40's, scars and all, he is still a fine specimen of a man. "Yes, William, I do. And it looks like you may need a cold shower. I love you, Mr Murdoch."

"I love you Mrs Murdoch," he replied in their morning ritual. With that, Julie jammed the hatpin through her hat and went down the stairs to the waiting carriage.

William watched her walk away from him with a swish of hip and skirt, groaned, got up and went over to the bathroom. He did enjoy the shower nozzle he made for the bathtub, which had a fine invigorating spray. He got in and turned it on. Cold water had no effect at all on his ardor for Julia. He was no longer discomfited by his physical responses to her, and he accepted the low-level arousal he rather consistently experienced in the background of his daily life. Discovering she matched and returned his passion equally and completely had been a revelation to him at the start of their marriage. He always knew he would be the most loyal of husbands, but had never considered the physical aspects of marriage to be so…addicting. Julia tried to tell him about chemicals in the body and brain, but he knew better: Fate had rewarded them with sexual compatibility and he was going to take advantage until Fate intervened again.

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William picked up his mail from the sergeant and was at his desk precisely at 8:00am. When Constable Higgins came in a few minutes later, he called him over. "Henry, I need you to go to the court house and get all the records of drunk and disorderlies for these 3 months. We are looking for an overlap between when Mr Downs and Mr McCarthy were in the Don Jail, with any luck, in the same cell. If we find that, we have the proof we need."

With a "Yes, Sir!" the Constable donned his helmet and was off.

William turned back to his desk when he heard "Murdoch!" coming from the inspector's office.

"Yes sir?" he inquired.

"It's a right mess we have here. I need you to drop what you are doing and give this your full attention. One of Toronto's finest families has a tragedy to deal with and the Mayor himself has assigned it to our station house. Seems Mr Whitley was found shot to death in his house Tuesday night. Dr Grace has the body already and we are being asked to determine if there was foul play or not. Station House number 5 was on the scene last night, but that's not good enough for the gentry and the family is already arguing with the Chief Constable and each other, or so I am told." The inspector sipped more of his tea and gestured with the cup.

"What are the circumstances?" Taking a case away from one station house and reassigning it complicated the investigation and usually resulted in hard feelings, so it was not done without some thought as to the consequences.

"That's the problem. Two sons and the wife were in the house when it happened. He was apparently very, very rich, so there is an estate to inherit. There is also some insurance scheme money that only pays out under certain circumstances. And to top it off he was a Catholic, so the widow can't bury him in consecrated ground if it is a suicide. Dr Grace knows it was a gunshot to the head, but she can't determine if it was intentional, accidental, suicide or homicide. Go over there and talk with her. She's waiting."

"Yes, sir." He grabbed his hat and went across the laneway to the morgue and down the ramp.

"Good morning, Dr Grace. What have you?" He looked at the body on the table. He appeared to be about 40 with sandy hair, and was average height and build.

Dr Grace washed her hands, then pushed stray hair away from her face and stood to face him. She pointed to the head wound. "Detective. I note a single gunshot wound to the right side of his head. The angle of the wound is odd, but not inconsistent with suicide. I extracted the bullet. .22 Calibre, the same as the gun recovered. Unfortunately, family who heard the shot ran in and tried to stem the flow of blood, obliterating any gunshot residue or pattern. He did not die right away, but bled out, apparently copiously, over several minutes. When I arrived, the scene very disturbed, furniture and papers everywhere, apparently the aftermath of trying to save his life. Multiple family members and a neighbor, Dr Pratt, in fact were all over the body before the constables got there. There was no obviously helpful information from his clothing or hands." She grimaced. "The hands had been touched by family at the scene and I understand the widow had to be physically separated from him when they brought his body in here. Other than the bullet wound he seemed in sound enough health. I was here most of the night performing the autopsy. My phone has been ringing steadily since about 5 am with people asking me questions. A lot of people seem to have their eye on this case." She put the sheet back over the body.

"Do you have any other ideas about determining the cause—anything to rule in or out accident, homicide or suicide?"

"No, Detective, I am sorry. I will be getting his medical reports from his physician to compare with, and I will finish the toxicology today and consider other tests, but I am not able to give you anything else right now." She looked weary. "I would help if we had anything more of blood evidence."

He thanked her and went back to his office. He completed his notes from his interview with Dr Grace and collected the file of information from Station 5 the inspector put on his desk. The dead man's name was vaguely familiar. He read each piece of paper carefully, fanning them out on his desk. He looked at the photographs and when he was done, noted the address where the death occurred: one of the newer neighborhoods with similar-style homes built by speculators, but certainly not Buffalo's Delaware Avenue "Millionaires Row" or even Jarvis Street in Toronto. He wondered just how "rich" the dead man really was. Some wealthy people live rather modestly and he decided he would examine the finances carefully. He looked at his watch and decided it was late enough to call on the family. "Inspector, I am going to the house to view the scene. If I don't miss my guess, we will need to re-interview everyone who was there last night, but I will call from there if I need more constables."

"Right. But be careful. Someone has knocked over a wasps' nest and we don't need to get stung." Brackenreid waved William on.

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William found the street and identified the house as being the one being dressed in black crepe above the door. A workman seemed to be reattaching the house number to the wood frame by the door. No. 49. The houses were so new there was little landscaping, no mature trees, and the trim paint was the same white on most of the houses on the block. It was a rather busy street for all it was supposedly residential. The sidewalks ran close to the houses. All the sameness was a little disorienting. He supposed it would develop more character over time. He placed his cycle by the fence and rang the bell on the door, identified himself, and was admitted to the parlour. Mrs Whitley, the widow and two sons, Andrew and Christopher, were already there, and he noted they were arranged as far as possible away from each other in that room. He expressed his condolences and stated his business with them.

The widow seemed relieved that he was a co-religionist and assumed he might be more sympathetic to her concerns about a suicide verdict. In fact, she a said she had asked for him personally to be assigned to the case. He reviewed their statements with them individually and then brought them back together to see how they interacted. The gun was a souvenir from a trip Mr Whitley made to the States when he was a younger man, and he kept it out as a provocative conversation piece. As far as Mrs Whitley knew, her husband had never fired it. The sons were aware it was loaded, and he got the impression they were rather embarrassed by their father's memento. He was able to add some details but the stories were consistent with statements from last night but not consistent with each other's. All three were there and yet each had a unique take on the events. He obtained permission to interview the servants and look at the death scene. The room was unrevealing—it had been put into disarray last night, according to the photographs and Dr Grace's statement, but today was tidied and even the rug had been taken up. The desk was centered on the window—last night it had been pushed against the wall. He sighed. No one told the family to leave everything as it was. He asked the widow for a family photo of the four of them in happier days, and the family follow-up questions about the room and furniture orientation, and made a small sketch. He asked to use the telephone and requested the station house send 2 constables and a wagon to gather up what little evidence there was and bring it to the station.

He reported the same to the inspector when he returned. "Very frustrating. This is why adding forensic evidence classes to the police training will be so helpful. I can see…"

Brackenreid cut William off from going on again about that. He privately though it was an excellent idea, but now was not the time. "Figure it out, Murdoch. The man hasn't been dead 24 hours and it feels like a tug of war already for his bones. Shameful, really."

"Indeed," William agreed. "I think we will, as you say, follow the money on this one….and I think I will need a new chart." With that he trailed off to his office to wait for the evidence to come in or Henry to return.

Four frustrating hours later he was relieved to be told that Dr Pratt was here to be reinterviewed.

"Thank you for coming in. Please sit down. Did you know the deceased well, Dr Pratt?"

"No, no. I moved in to my house across the street the same day their family did. Was a bit of a mix up with all those conveyances and piles of household goods piled in the street. That's how we met actually, sorting out boxes. We were not friends, but we got on as neighbors. I was at dinner when the eldest son came to get me to tend to his father."

"Did you hear the gun shot?"

"No. I was in my dining room with my supper. My front window was closed. So I heard nothing."

"What can you tell me about his habits?"

"Well, I am sure I can't say, Detective. Seemed a regular sort, polite but not polished, if you take my meaning. He would by habit sit by the window and call out to friends who walked by to have a chat. That much I observed."

William reviewed the doctor's statement. "Can you add anything? Did you see anything odd in the room or about the deceased?"

"No. It was all odd—so much blood smeared everywhere and on all of them. Myself, also." He unconsciously looked at his hands. The doctor appeared shaken by the memory. "I told the housekeeper to clean it all up to spare the widow's sensibilities."

"Ah," said William. Maybe the lads at Station 5 were not so much at fault. The remaining questions went nowhere and he wrapped up the interview. "Thank you for your time. If I have further questions I will contact you."

Back in his office, the evidence was in boxes on the floor and Higgins was excitedly awaiting him. "What have you Henry?"

"You were right detective. The two of them not only were there but also shared a cell and were on the same work detail. They have been manufacturing alibis for each other for the whole string on robberies since then. I took some initiative and show both their pictures to 4 of the store clerks and we can now link the thefts. It's very clever, really. They took turns wearing the same distinguishing marks as they are about the same build and coloring. One robs the place in the guise of his partner, while the undisguised man flaunts himself is public. "

"Good work, constable. Do you want to do the honors and arrest them while I prepare the paperwork?" Take Jackson with you." Higgins was coming along, although he sorely missed George, at least most of the time. Detective Crabtree was making a name for himself in his own right. William decided that George might be the ally he needed to push forward the idea of forensic training. He thought he would bring it up at the next opportunity.