Murdoch in the Jungle

by Romantic Nerd

In 1904 Detective Murdoch and Constable Crabtree investigate a murder involving the the meat-packing industry. Undercover as hobos, they encounter Upton Sinclair who is researching his novel, "The Jungle." Sinclair helps them with their investigation and to learn how to survive in this, dark, depressing and soul-torturing world of the early twentieth century JUNGLE.

5. Chapter 5Getting Hooked

Murdoch in the Jungle_Getting Hooked

Fortunately, it was still dark when William awakened. It was early December, and he knew sunrise would accompany his trip to the stationhouse, that is if he were not late. Lying still and quiet in the dark, in their new bed, in their new house, next to his beautiful wife, he chuckled to himself as he imagined the ribbing he so commonly received from the Inspector, and even an occasional constable, for being late now that he was a married man. The teasing always had an air of sexual innuendo which served to render him both embarrassed and proud. There was one undeniable fact though, he was immensely happy.

The alarm had not yet rung, he thought, so they had at least a little bit of time until they had to get up. As he rolled under the covers to move closer to Julia, the feel of his naked skin as it slipped along the gentle fabric of the sheets reminded him that they were both naked, for they had made love to each other before falling asleep last night. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the dark, and he could make out her figure as she lay sleeping. She was on her side, facing away from him, her broad hips curving high above the rest of her. "Spooning it will be," he thought gleefully.

She felt him, his sweet presence warming her. "A dream?" she thought. A smile formed on her face as he melted in closer, his breath at her ear, his sturdy hand and rugged arm across her belly – embracing both her and their child, his firm body and smooth skin sliding along her backside. "Mmm," she moaned.

"Mmm, indeed," his perfectly-tuned voice vibrated in her ear, then penetrated deeper, touching a chord.

Soft kisses as his hand glided across her, moving up to find the luscious place between her breasts, then his calloused, manly fingers tenderly lifting her breast to hold the bulbous weight of the pliable tissue in his hand. His thumb slipped over her nipple… breath flared and cascaded over her… mouth captured her ear. He released her breast, exploring for its match, discovering the locket nestled there, between her creamy, supple orbs. His fingers grasped the locket, treasuring it. Such beautiful images flowed through her mind, of their secret photographs tucked away together, face-to-face, inside the locket, and the memory of him placing it around her neck, taking her chin with his fingers, lifting her face to his, and such a delicious kiss. The love glowing inside of her threatened to bloom, so quickly it almost ached.

"William," she said, her voice still sleepy, the utterance shaped by her large smile. Soon, he would roll her over onto her back, and their kissing would grow more passionate. In anticipation, she already felt her womb tightening with lust.

"Mm-hmm," his warm breath flooded over her as his mouth nuzzled into her neck.

She opened to him, giving him deeper access. His lips wide around her skin, then his tongue, "My God, so soft," and he sucked her in, rough and greedy, and her head spun with the delight of it. Rolling her onto her back, she felt his hand securely cover her swollen belly.

His mouth released her tortured flesh, "I'll keep the baby safe," he reassured, and then he was over her, his weight pushing heavy into her chest, his bare knee sliding over the sensitive mound of hair covering her most precious, ragingly hungry, spot. His mouth devoured her face, piece-by-piece, ravenous and sensuous with lustful need.

"I want you," she promised into his ear, then taking his earlobe into her mouth as she so wished she could take him in lower, drowning him, throbbing with yearning for his scrumptious taste.

"Then you shall have me," he whispered as he began his torture, kissing, and nibbling and slurping down her body – lower, and lower, and lower, until his breath hovered, and she soared to such heights that there was no air, helpless against the impending fall that would come when he finally touched her.

"He's pushing… my thigh… My God…" the thoughts spiraled away. "William, please," she begged.

Her familiar scent tugged at him. "Slow down," he reminded. He pushed her thighs wider apart. His heart raced so. He breathed the steam of her in, so humid and lush. "Mmm," his hot breath poured over her, before the delectable, warm, buttery pressure brought heaven to Earth, or Earth to heaven – it was hard to tell.

The bed sheets suffered her wrath, as she hung on for dear life and pleasure engulfed her. Their rhythm pumped, hypnotic and entrancing, wild and deeply primitive, hurling her over the edge. The subtlest gasp announced ecstasy's inevitability, before robust wave, after wave, after wave, of delight gushed through her.

Quiet now, the luring beat of her labored breathing called him back up to enclose her in his arms and shower her face with kisses. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her husband covered her, keeping her safe as she spun recovering and vulnerable.

"William," she whispered. "My God, I love you," she said. She would show him how much – in a moment. For now she still needed him to love her, and hold her, and promise to never, ever let her go.

By the time the alarm went off, the couple lay cuddled together, contented and melty-soft, sharing in their profound love for the tiny baby in Julia's womb, their Susana or William Jr.

"It's time," William said with a sigh as he rolled over and shutoff the alarm.

Riding the wave of his movement as he stretched to reach and hush the tolling ring, she waited for him to come back. It was time, but they weren't ready to move apart – not yet. Julia slid her thigh over him as she nestled her head into her favorite spot on his chest, the baby inside of her now laying warm over his belly. She cherished the muscles of his chest with her fingers, pleasing them both.

The smells of Eloise's cooking from downstairs melded with the muffled clanking sounds of utensils against pots, reminding that today was her first day working for them, and that William had to go to work, and the enticing aromas prompted Julia's stomach to growl so loudly with hunger that it seemed to startle the baby into a powerful kick, which pounded against both mother and father, bursting its parents into joyful giggles.

# # # # # # # # # #

William took Julia's arm at the bottom of the stairs and they headed for the kitchen. They each saw it at the exact same moment, halting in their tracks. Their eyes met, wide and worried.

"Oh my!" Julia declared.

"Indeed," William answered.

There was a fluffy, thick layer of soapsuds all over the kitchen floor. Eloise had taken the approach of ignoring the problem. Thus, the older woman worked away lavishly preparing their breakfast, her back to the couple, her shoes and ankles cloaked by the cottony-white suds, rising from the floor like a dense mist.

William took a deep breath – it was almost the first Monday he had not been late for quite some time. He cleared his throat, alerting Eloise to their presence.

Julia spoke first, as the woman turned from the stove to face them. "My goodness, Eloise," she declared, "What an exciting first day!"

William and Julia made their way into the kitchen, Julia holding up her skirt, to what would be considered a somewhat scandalous height in other circumstances. William hesitated at the boundary between soap-covered shoes and not. The bottoms of his trousers would likely get covered too. He would be even later in arriving to the stationhouse – he would need to change. He sighed and removed his shoes, and stepped in. This was his mess to fix. He had best get to it.

Wearing a frown that bordered on a pout, the expression reminding both women of that of a little boy with broken toy, William walked over to the dishwashing cupboard. All along the edge of the appliance, there was a dried, soapy scum. He sighed and glanced sideways at Julia, who couldn't help herself but fall into laughter. Quickly, William's eyes darted over to Eloise, who barely managed to turn away, her hand rushing to cover her mouth, her eyes dancing with laughter above her hand, giving away her stifled giggling.

"Oh William!" Julia cried, then giggled some more. She playfully kicked some of the fluffy suds into the air.

Eloise had regained her composure and comforted, "Don't worry detective, I will clean it up after you and the doctor have eaten breakfast."

Sighing again with disappointment he said, "Perhaps I have the water coming in too fast… Or the drain is not large enough…"

Julia took his hand and pulled him towards the table. "I do believe I have a better idea about what is wrong, husband," she claimed.

Allowing himself to be led, "Oh?" he asked skeptically.

He pulled out her chair for her and held her arm as she sat, not only acting as a gentleman, but also as the father of the child that was currently rendering her sitting, and particularly standing, so difficult. He took his seat and Eloise served them. Not yet knowing the detective's preferences, but having worked for the doctor for a very long time in the past, she had prepared coffee, for the doctor, and tea. William preferred tea.

He looked so pleased as she brought him the small pot. "How did you know, Eloise?" he asked.

"I didn't detective," she replied, hiding her smile, "But I do now." Eloise made every effort to present herself as professional, and thus non-emotional, but she had always liked him. Of course, he had no way of knowing she felt this way, and she had no right to her opinions in the matters of the doctor's love life, but she had always been in the detective's corner. Not so much because she had good feelings about the man particularly, though she had found herself enamored and trusting of him the few times they had encountered each other. No, it was more so because she could tell that the doctor was so in love with him, even though it seemed at times, especially at very important times, the doctor herself could not. Eloise had followed him in the papers, even after the doctor had gone to Buffalo, and then married Dr. Garland. She remembered her thrill when reading that the doctor and the detective had each publicly declared their love for each other, during the doctor's trial. And for the rest of her days, she would be grateful and marvel at the fact that the detective had saved the doctor from the noose.

"Well, I am very impressed," William said. He gave her a small bow, "And I thank you," he added.

He looked back to his wife. "You had an idea – about the dishwashing cupboard," he asked as he raised the teacup to his lips and his delightful brown eyes, framed in their thick lashes, twinkled at her from above the rim. The air of skepticism had passed.

Julia bounced gleefully in her seat. "I do!" she declared.

Eloise placed their plates down in front of them. She knew her mistress' favorite breakfast was French toast and bacon. Not yet knowing the detective's, she had decided to prepare the dish she was confident would be received well, at least by one of them.

"Eloise!" Julia exclaimed, "Magnificent! My favorite… you remembered."

All business, brushing the compliment aside, Eloise asked, "And you detective? Do you have a favorite dish?"

William started, "I…"

But Julia answered, "You will find that William's tastes are quite simple Eloise and that he is also happy with just about anything." She smiled at him. He nodded. "I have seen him order fried eggs, scrambled eggs, omelets, pancakes – and even French toast… It seems for breakfast his choices run the gamut."

"Very good," Eloise replied. She seemed to wait for a moment, hoping for a bit more.

Julia continued, looking to William as she said, "I can fill you in on more, later." She smiled at him and added, "But I know that coconut cream pie is a favorite dessert."

"Yes," he agreed, even the thought of the delectable treat making him happy. The lovely, deeper feeling he had, he attributed to being so well known by his wife.

"Very good," Eloise said and headed back to the stove, her feet rustling up the suds on the floor once more.

William found Julia's eyes, with the quick thought about how beautiful and blue they were sparking before he asked, "You have a solution to…" his eyes strolled the mess all over their floor, "…this?"

They shared a look, both certain they had heard Eloise chuckle.

Julia took a sip of her coffee, preparing. "I believe the problem is chemical rather than mechanical," she claimed.

"Oh?" he asked, enthusiastically taking another bite of French toast.

"As I am sure you know, soap works because one end of the molecule attracts lipids while the opposite end is attracted to water, thus separating the oil and dirt from the water," she explained, receiving a nod from him. His face showed his optimism. "Well, the added agitation and motion of the water flowing into the machine…" she paused and looked at him, "Do you suppose we will have the same problem with the laundry cupboard as well?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm," he agreed, finishing chewing and then swallowing, "Even more so."

"Well, what we need is a surfactant that will still lower the surface tension of the water but that also has no ionic charge, so the polar ends on the water molecules do not get flung about so," the doctor continued.

Eloise was listening in – it was all gobbledygook to her, but the detective truly seemed to understand. "The man is bright," she thought.

"And do you have such a compound in mind?" William asked, intrigued.

Julia smiled. Nodding first, giving her time to swallow, "I will conduct some experiments. I have some ideas," she said, thinking of the ethoxylation of alcohols and … "I read an article about some uses for silicone," she said. "That might work?" she wondered aloud. She put her fork down and reached over to caress his cheek. "I will use the lab you built for me," she said, bringing a proud smile to his face.

"My God," Eloise thought shaking her head, "It truly is a match made in heaven."

# # # # # # # # # #

William rode his bicycle to the station, despite the fact that doing so would make him even later for work. Although it was already December, and it was cold, there had been no snow to speak of yet, and further, he enjoyed the exercise. A memory of being with Julia flashed through his mind, from when she plastered him to the wall, and then she rubbed and admired the muscles of his chest. He heard her voice, raspy with arousal, say in his head, "Thank you for the weights," prompting him to chuckle out loud in response once again as he pedaled, hurrying. "I will have to keep up lifting the weights as well," he thought. Then he remembered finding the locket between her breasts this morning in the dark. Love – immense, warm and powerful – surged through him. But then, so quickly it was followed by the image of the victim, Ieva, lying dead behind the brothel, and William's own gloved hand turning over the opened locket hanging around her neck. As usual, time away from the case- with Julia – had healed him, but now… he was going back in.

His mind started to plan for the day, to work on the case. Dr. Kingsley's postmortem results would likely be on his desk – he would go over it, go over to the morgue and speak to Miss James about the post-mortem as well, as she would have been in attendance. He would need to call Kingsley too. Also, the constables likely had some preliminary results from questioning over the weekend with the victim's and her husband's photographs, and he would send them out to do more today as well.

A nauseous, anxious feeling arose in his gut as he remembered he planned to call Ettie. He pushed it aside. It was ridiculous to let concerns about Julia's jealousy interfere with his investigation. He knew Ettie posed no threat to their relationship. "Besides," he thought, "Julia had even been the one to suggest it." He frowned to himself as he rolled his bicycle into the stationhouse stables, "Albeit quite sarcastically," he reminded.

As per his routine, Detective Murdoch picked up his messages at the front desk first thing upon arriving at work. He smiled as the constable at the desk handed them over, hoping to avoid drawing much attention.

The Inspector's voice bellowed across the station, "Oh look everyone, Detective Murdoch has managed to pull himself away from the lovely doctor and grace us with his presence."

William frowned as he turned to face the man standing in the bullpen. It was noticed that the detective had not turned his usual red color, taking some of the fun out of the game. "Sorry I am late sir," he said.

The Inspector's mind contemplated the man's calmer reaction, "Oh… Perhaps he and the doctor are finally cooling off," he thought. Quickly he considered another possibility, "He's not upset enough for it to have been a fight…"

The detective offered up an explanation, "Some of the… Well we moved into the house this weekend, sir. And there was a problem with a… um, I made a dishwashing cupboard and…"

"Oi, Murdoch! You and your inventions," the Inspector charged. "Did the contraption blow up," he teased, earning some laughter from the men. However, for the briefest moment he worried that it actually it had exploded based on the disappointment on the detective's face.

"Fortunately, it wasn't that bad," William replied. He seemed to brace himself and said, "It seems there is a problem with the amount of suds produced..."

All minds present filled with images of fluffy suds pouring out of a contraption and filling the house.

The detective added, "It required I change my pants," unintentionally sending the stationhouse into sputters of laughter – everybody somehow finding the remark alluding to the sexual act in the end after all.

Shaking his head, having had his fun, the Inspector barked, "Alright you useless bunch of scallywags, back to work!"

William reached up and rubbed his forehead. Although his crimson color was fading, it felt like his head had suddenly taken a pounding. His eyes dropped down to the messages in his hands.

It was Crabtree who managed to relieve the pressure and change the mood. "I have the results of the fingermark tests, sir," he said.

Detective Murdoch was clearly grateful to be back on track. "Wonderful, George," he said, "What have you?"

The constable started his report as he followed the detective into his office, "Well sir, the locket had some fingermarks that match the victim."

"As expected," the detective said.

George stood up taller, "Ah, but on the inside, under where one of the photos would have been, there was a mark that did not match the victim."

The detective celebrated their success with a slight knock with his fist on the desk. "And what about the garbage-pail lid?" he asked.

George's eyes lit up, "There we have something sir," he declared. "The mark on the lid and the inside of the locket match," he said. "And sir," he excitedly added, "the same mark was found on the bucket with the animal blood!"

"Likely our killer," William concluded.

"Yes, sir," George replied, "I have started comparing the mark to our records. I have Higgins on that too. No luck so far I'm afraid."

William sat, lifting Dr. Kingsley's report.

"Wouldn't it be a shame if it matched her husband?" George asked. "It is not uncommon for a woman's killer to turn out to be her husband," he explained.

William lowered the report momentarily. In his mind he saw the St. Valentine's keychain. "I don't think so this time, George. They seemed to be very much in love." William seemed to drift off, seeing in his head himself and Julia sitting at their kitchen table, sharing a warm cup of hot chocolate. "You identify with them," he heard her voice say. His eyes jumped to meet George's. "Of course, we must remain open to all possibilities," he said with a shrug.

He opened the postmortem report and seemed to begin to study it, asking, "Did the constables find anyone who recognized the victim or her husband over the weekend?"

George found his eyes, too, were drawn to the report. His voice slow to start, "The lads um…" William looked up at George. He needed the man to better focus. "Sir, no one recognized the victim or her husband at any of the brothels near where the body was found, nor where she was staying," he hurried to reply.

"As I suspected," William thought, "not a prostitute."

George said, "It seems you were right sir – about the wedding ring."

"We should still keep looking – check the brothels near the docks and the Stockyards," William instructed. "Did they get to the places where the husband might have worked, at the factories and slaughterhouses?" he asked.

"Again with no luck, I'm afraid," George answered. "Oh, but young Constable Hogan noted that he had the impression a worker at Davies slaughterhouse recognized the husband when he looked at the photo… But just kept his mouth shut about it," he said rifling through the small sheets of papers in his hands.

"Did he get the worker's name?" William asked.

George found the constable's report and skimmed the notes quickly. He shook his head, "No. No sir, it seems he did not."

William settled, facing the postmortem report once more and said, "I will need to talk with Constable Hogan."

"I'll call him in," George responded. "Is there anything else, sir?" he asked.

William rubbed his head again. "George, we both think it is likely, or at least highly possible, that the husband has been killed…"

"Mm-hmm," George agreed.

"And his letters to Ieva stopped after July 15th. Let's look into deaths of men between then and now," William said, "We can narrow down the search by age. He would have been about the same age as the victim, thirty or so… Lithuanian too. And he was big," William instructed.

"Right away sir," George said taking his leave.

The detective turned his attention to the report. The postmortem showed that the damage to the surface tissues in the victim's back was extensive, and could only be made by receiving pressure delivered with extreme force. The rips and tears in the skin showed that the weapon was not sharp. The path of the wound traveled directly up into the kidney, an organ with extensive blood flow, so damaging it in such a way would be fatal and relatively quick. There was no semen present, so she had not had sex within a day or so of when she was killed. The evidence could not rule out that she was a prostitute, because there were many wounds and scars, of the type that often accompany, "sex play," as he tended to call it.

William considered whether they could have been made by Ieva's husband, hoping not. He checked to see if the report said whether they were from longer ago than three or four years, the age of the boy in the picture on her shrine in her room. It turned out that some of the wounds were only a few months old. If he was right, then the husband was already dead when they were made. William noticed he was fiddling with his wedding ring again, with a sigh. "You need to stay objective," he scolded himself.

When William called Dr. Kingsley, the doctor said that he questioned whether the weapon was actually a knife at all. It would have been very dull. From the observations he had made, and from the Jello-mold Dr. Ogden had made, he could conclude that the murderer would have to be very strong and have good knowledge of anatomy in order to use such a weapon fatally. "Miss James did quite well her first time out," William thought.

During the conversation, William had spotted the letter-opener on his desk, prompting him to ask, "Doctor, do you think a letter-opener could be the weapon?"

The man replied, "Very possibly, but to be honest Detective Murdoch, the possible objects is quite boundless. I mean it could have been a pair of scissors for God's sake…"

Suddenly, William found himself hurled rapidly into a memory, a part of himself noting to be grateful that the doctor seemed to be a long-winded man and was talking incessantly into the phone. This particular memory had grabbed William quite hard. He hadn't noticed, but he was holding his breath. Ironically, the images didn't actually start with the pair of scissors rammed into Orgill's chest. No. It started with finding Julia in the morgue, curled up in the corner in the dark. He had been so grateful, his dizzying panic slowly starting to dissipate, upon finding her alright, after discovering that Orgill was the killer, and was impersonating Detective Scanlon, and having figured out that his victims were always working women.

My God, he had almost lost her, all those years ago, by being blinded and manipulated, unable to see what was right in front of his eyes, forgetting to look at the important connections – like when Detective Scanlon had been so horribly rude to Julia – and that she herself was the epitome of this particular man's favorite victim, a rare woman, such a successful, confidant and competent doctor, who had dared to think contrary to him. He remembered that she had been so shaken-up, unable to really speak, the crazed killer's blood all over her. He nearly fell to his knees thanking God for making Julia strong enough, smart enough, to find a way to save her own life when he had failed to protect her…

"Detective Murdoch! Are you there!?" the doctor's voice hollered from the phone receiver, pulling him back with a foggy gasp.

"Yes, yes doctor. Go on, please," William nearly yelled in his rush to make it appear that he was paying attention.

The doctor huffed, "It seemed odd that the carpet fibers were only on the body and not the clothing…"

William hurried to catch up, turning the pages of Dr. Kingsley's report to find the section about fibers. He interrupted, "That would be the … green fibers?"

The man's tone impatient, William wrinkled the corner of his mouth because he knew he deserved it, and the doctor continued, "Yes, yes, as I have already explained, the green carpet fibers were only found on the body, largely in her mouth and nasal passages... But there were no such fibers on her clothing…"

"I see here that burlap fibers were found on the clothing and in her hair, even in her eyes. Would you conclude that the victim died while lying on the green carpet, but whatever clothing she was wearing at that time had been removed, before she was wrapped in the burlap to move the body?" William asked.

The doctor took a deep breath, "Yes that would fit with the evidence detective," he agreed. "Or perhaps the body was moved twice…" he added into the phone, "Or it's even possible that only her head was on the carpet, perhaps a small rug?"

William explained his theory, about the body being moved to a second location where the clothes were changed and then using the same burlap, brought to the scene where they had found it. Dr. Kingsley agreed that that theory fit best with all of the evidence.

"The location with the green carpet is the place where she was actually killed, if you can find it detective," Kingsley concluded.

By the time he had thanked the doctor and hung up the phone, William had mostly recovered from the emotional potency of remembering when Julia had been attacked by Orgill, and had killed the disturbed man with a pair of scissors in self-defense. Still, he decided to give in to his urge to make sure she was fine, picking up the phone and calling home.

Eloise answered. She explained that Julia had gone out to purchase some chemicals to make the special soap for the dishwashing and laundry cupboards. She asked him if he liked meatloaf.

"Now that may be my favorite!" William exclaimed into the phone.

"Oh, Dr. Ogden told me it was beef stroganoff," she replied, "Or maybe beef stew."

William chuckled, "As usual, my wife is right. I guess I have more than one favorite," he explained.

After he hung up the phone, he reminded himself that he had promised to never stop courting Julia, and he made a plan to buy her flowers, or even better, some sweet treat or other. He checked his pocket watch. "Almost ten," he noted. He would not call Ettie this early. Winnipeg was two hours behind Toronto time, and he knew Madam Weston's habits, she was not an early riser.

He was getting ready to head over to the morgue when Constable Hogan arrived. "Please come in constable," the detective said, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. Constable Hogan was very young, in his first year in the Constabulary.

"Thank you for coming in on your day off," William said, sitting in a chair next to Hogan's, not wanting the formality of an interview. "Please tell me about the worker at Davies slaughterhouse, the one you wrote in your report that seemed to recognize the husband of our victim," he asked, getting right to the point.

Swallowing first, Constable Hogan tried to calm himself down. He had always been very impressed by Detective Murdoch. The man was a marvel, a hero to him of sorts. Hogan had been so excited when offered a chance to work under the famous detective that he chose Stationhouse #4 over Stationhouse #5, even though he lived farther away from here. "Yes sir. Um, do you mean like a physical description of the man?"

William opened his arms, offering a, "Sure."

"Well I would say the first thing that stood out about him was that he spoke with an accent. But sir, nearly every worker I spoke to at the slaughterhouses and the factories also spoke with accents," he explained.

The detective considered the value of the information so far, reminding himself to be patient. "Alright," he said, "Was he large or small, old or young…" he asked, twisting his face as if pulling information out of the young man.

Looking more confident, Hogan said, "Quite old… and average size…" Suspecting the detective was about to ask him to be more specific he blurted out, "Like you."

William blinked a few times…

"I mean, not old, old, obviously, if he was like you… sir," Hogan rambled.

Leaning forward, hoping to stop the blubbering by re-focusing on the witness, William asked, "So he was slightly above average in height, average weight, and about 40 years old?"

Hogan rushed to nod, "Yes, yes, yes, that's right sir."

"According to your report, you did not get the man's name…"

Constable Hogan fidgeted uncomfortably.

"That is not an accusation constable. I am sure you know that the name is an important piece of information to get when questioning people to find witnesses. What happened… so you didn't get this worker's name, in this case?" William reassured.

Hogan nodded, rapidly and repeatedly, "That's right sir. Err, he wouldn't give it to me, sir. Actually, he wasn't the only man I questioned who wouldn't, particularly in the slaughterhouses and even in the meatpacking places. They seem to be a very closed-lip bunch, sir."

"I see constable," William said, placing his hands on his knees, preparing to stand. "Constable, would you mind coming with me to Davies slaughterhouse?" he asked, adding, "I would appreciate it. I know it is your day off."

"Sure sir," he eagerly replied.

They took the police carriage rather than bikes because William wanted to take as little of Hogan's time on his day off as possible. It was not the first time William had gone deep into the stockyards, and yet it always managed to surprise him. The place reeks. It is a smell that is so dreadful that even the worst morgue he had ever been in could not compete with it. The closer they got to the slaughterhouse itself, the worse the smell became. And there was an awful noise, that started as an unidentifiable, almost a… roar, that somehow your brain slowly registered as being made by the animals, mostly the cattle. Davies slaughterhouse specialized in pork, and if you arrived at the right time of day – particularly in the morning, the heart-choking squeals of the pigs as they were hung up and slaughtered screeched through the air, both devastating and disgusting. William had always found the sounds echoed in his brain, mixing with his guilt. The nausea was palpable. So it was today. Hogan was green, William noticed, but the young man forced himself to toughen up, managing not to vomit.

The man Hogan had questioned was not at Davies' slaughterhouse, at least not that they could see. None of the workers were willing to say much, about the man Constable Hogan had questioned, or about the photos of their victim, Ieva, or her husband. Sometime after they had arrived, the manager, a Mr. Mulligan, showed up and offered to answer their questions. Mulligan was a very large man. William noted that this was a similarity to the killer, "but of course, there are quite a few large men working in such places," he reminded himself. In response to William's comment about it being uncommon for men in management to be so big, Mulligan explained that he used to work for Mr. Davies years ago carrying and loading carcasses before he was taken under his wing.

Mulligan looked at the photographs, saying he did not recognizing either the victim or her husband. He started to give them the names of men who were not at work today, but then explained that, "There are shifts here, detective. Our day starts very early, and there is work going on in one part of the business or another till past dark. But if your constable here questioned the man around this time on a Saturday, then it would have to be either Banus or Soulis or O'Connor."

"We will need their full names and addresses," William said, hoping to be brought to Mulligan's office.

"Sure thing, detective. Always willing to help the Constabulary," Mulligan replied. "Kempsey," the manager hollered up the stairs, "Get me Tadas Banus' and Herkus Soulis' and Tommy O'Connor addresses. They're in the book."

"Right away Mr. Mulligan," a very Irish sounding bloke called back from out of sight somewhere up the stairs.

Names and addresses in hand, the detective and Constable Hogan went back to the stationhouse. Someone on duty would accompany Hogan to see if any of these men were the worker he had questioned. He also asked George to look into the backgrounds of both, the manager, Mr. Mulligan, and the owner, Mr. Thaddeus Davies.

Once in his office, William closed the door and called Ettie Weston. A woman answered the phone and informed him that Miss Weston was not there and would not be returning until evening, probably around six PM. That was Winnipeg time, so William figured he would need to call after eight o'clock. He contemplated making the call from home this evening. The thought brought him a twinge of nausea. He didn't want Julia to listen in, he realized. He reached up and rubbed his forehead unconsciously, and sighed. He started reasoning through his reaction and decided he wanted to protect Julia from feeling jealous needlessly. "No meatloaf," he thought, picking up the phone to call home.

It was on about the fifth ring that he began to feel the worry. Flashes and flickers of his memory from earlier, of Orgill attacking Julia, accompanied the sickening feeling. "Eloise could be out. We planned for her to have the afternoons off," he told himself. "And remember," his own voice advised in his head, "Julia is quite pregnant. She's likely in the lab in the basement. It could take her a long time to get to the phone… If she heard it at all from down there. We should put a phone down in the basement… Come on Julia…"

"Hello, Murdoch-Ogden residence, Dr. Julia Ogden speaking," her magnificent voice said into the phone.

William exhaled some of the pressure, through pursed relief, "Thank God," he thought. "Julia," he said.

"William," she replied.

He could hear the smile on her face. All of a sudden he remembered the flowers.

Excitedly she told him about her experiments. "I believe I have made a soap that will not oversuds, William. I was planning to test it out before you got home," she explained.

"That's wonderful Julia," he exclaimed, "Once again, you are brilliant!"

"Well, thank you detective," she replied. "Eloise is making meatloaf. She told me you called," she said.

"Yes, yes I did… I'm so sorry Julia, I'm going to be late tonight…" he said.

There was a pause. "Well, I can't deny that I am disappointed… How is the case going?" she asked, making an effort to be a good sport.

William filled her in, glad to get off of what felt like a sticky topic, but also because there was no one in the world he benefitted more from when sharing his cases than Julia. He told her about his discord with the, "sex play," marks on the victim's body. He had wanted to believe that the woman had not prostituted herself – at least not after she had married. Telling her about his feelings, he also encountered an uneasiness within his own skin, for he knew he was struggling with remaining objective, and he was completely aware that his inability to do so would likely harm his performance in solving the case. William trusted Julia, not to judge him poorly, and to offer wisdom and insight when he himself was feeling lost – he trusted her so profoundly, and he spent a moment thanking God again for bringing him such an outstanding woman. "Do you think such marks provide fairly solid evidence that she had… Uh, that she was prostituting herself?" William asked.

Julia couldn't see him, but she pictured him in her mind, rubbing his forehead, troubled. A part of her replayed their discussion over hot chocolate, when he had been unable to sleep. William Murdoch truly was a good man, the best she had ever known. And it was his compassion for others that was a big part of what made him so. This case seemed different though, because he had seen himself so directly in the victims' shoes, or should she say in their wedding rings and their locket. Yet, he was still Detective William Murdoch, and what he seemed to need right now was a way of looking at all of this evidence that made sense – to him.

Her delay prompted William to speak up, "I mean, do you think that is the best explanation for such marks, for…"

"Well, we would have to consider the other possible causes," she paused deciding how to start, "You say some of the marks were only a few months old, and we know that her last letter from her husband was from longer ago than that… And you know she came to Toronto looking for her husband. So it seems very unlikely that her husband made the newer marks, and I would also venture to say that tends to lower the chances that he was the one who made the older marks as well," she reasoned into the phone."

William sighed, feeling a modicum of relief. He had not wanted to believe a couple that seemed to be so deeply in love would harm each other so. His efforts in trying to accept it had brought to mind images of marks he had left on Julia's body – even this morning he had left a lovebite on her neck. An odd sense of pride was associated with such marks, he had to admit, although the thought of him feeling this way made him uncomfortable. But his aversion to even considering making marks on Julia like the ones left on this victim, using something like a whip, had served to be so extreme that he had found it had been impossible for him to even imagine doing so.

Julia knew that what she intended to say next would be hard for him. "Start with his mind, then help his heart," she thought. "William, perhaps she was a prostitute before she married her husband…" Julia suggested. "And then… You told me she had built a shrine – you thought to her young son who had died…"

William adjusted his position in his chair, almost as if he were trying to adjust his perspective. His brain worked, "Prostitution before marriage could explain the older scars, and the boy is related to the more recent wounds… but how?"

Momentarily stuck, Julia hesitated, "Um, well… It would seem that the boy's death would not have been very long ago – if she still was praying so… formerly as I believe the shrine indicates. Perhaps the boy was sick, William… And she needed money…"

"And you think she might have gotten that money through prostitution?" he spoke the thoughts out loud.

"Yes. Yes William. Maybe, well… perhaps there would be nothing she wouldn't have done to try to save him, and her husband was not helping…" Julia said, her emotions high.

"A mother's love knows no bounds," William said into the phone.

Julia replied, "I have to say William, there are probably quite a few fathers that that is true for as well," at first thinking of him, but then considering the victim's husband. "Perhaps her husband also would have done anything he could to get the money they needed for their son… Even something very dangerous," she suggested.

William sighed. His heart sunk with the sheer desperation and pain the people they were discussing had likely experienced. Yet, the pieces fit, and he felt there was progress on the case. "Thank you Julia. As I have said plenty of times, you never cease to amaze me," he commended.

"I try," she responded. If they were together she would have nudged him.

Wishing she could do so, missing their physical closeness, William took a deep breath and told her he would likely be home sometime after eight o'clock. And with that, they said good-bye.

He felt troubled after he hung up the phone. "Guilt?" he asked himself.

Constable Jackson knocked on his door. "Sir, I came to tell you that there is a phone call for you. Should I send it through?"

William nodded, "Thank you constable," he replied.

It was the Lithuanian woman from the Catholic Church where the victim had gone when she first arrived in Toronto. The woman had remembered something that might be important, telling him, "The woman you were asking about, that beautiful young Lithuanian woman in your photograph, well she also asked how to get to Davies Slaughterhouse."

"Too much of a coincidence!" William's mind screamed. "Thank you Mrs. Tursius," he said excitedly, "That could turn out to be quite helpful."

He hung up the phone and quickly grabbed his coat and hat. He ducked his head into the Inspector's office, asking him if he could take Jackson with him to follow up on a lead.

"Good idea, Murdoch," he said. The Inspector reminded himself how much more concerned Margaret had been about his safety when she was pregnant with John. He added, "I suppose your wife would think so too."

"That she would sir," William agreed. He turned to Jackson and asked him if he would mind if they rode their bikes. The Inspector heard Jackson say he thought it was a good idea, the air would do him good.

# # # # # # # # # #

By the time Detective Murdoch and Constable Jackson pedaled up the sun was low in the sky, and Davies slaughterhouse was much quieter than it had been earlier in the day. Reaching this hour in the afternoon, all of the pigs had usually been slaughtered… the nearby cattle too. The stench however, still filled the air and permeated their nostrils. Noticing there was no one around in the pigpens, they headed for the buildings. Finding the front buildings empty, they headed towards the central area and offices. The sounds of workers and machinery attracted their attention.

They followed the noise and came upon a large building further back. Looking inside the factory-sized opened door, they could see a steam-powered hoist that connected up to an overhead assembly running around the ceiling along the perimeter. Some of the meat hooks on the overhead assembly held complete pig carcasses – weighing a good 200 pounds. There was a dreadful whirring sound at the opposite end of the area where workers made the first cut in the butchering process, slicing the carcass in half along its spine. Watching the next carcass in line, both policemen cringed as two big stirrup-like attachments caught the back ankles, holding them in place, the machine trudging onward to pull the carcass into a chute that aligned the middle of the tail-end of the carcass with a huge rotary saw. (William had worked with similar rotary saws in the sawmills, when he was a lumberjack. He had even nearly been killed by one himself when working undercover as a man down on his luck, to investigate the murder of a journalist at the House of Industry). Both men turned away as the carcass made contact with the huge whirling blade, blasting up the volume, ceaseless spinning, and cutting the carcass into two.

"Quite a sight," a man behind them said, bringing both men turn around.

Jackson, looking a bit green, commented, "One I would have preferred not to have seen."

The man gave out a belittling chuckle. "So, how can I help the Constabulary?" the man asked.

Pulling back his jacket to reveal his badge, William identified himself and asked to see the manager. The worker said that the manager had left to go see a client, and that the owner was out of town – in Winnipeg. Claiming he had already been questioned about the photos of the victim and her husband, as had every other man on the site, he asked to be allowed to get back to work or his pay would be docked.

As William and the constable walked back towards their bikes, William told Jackson he wanted to get a look inside the manager's office, hoping to see if it had a green carpet or rug. They had to pass back through the central area on their way out anyway. They headed up the stairs, trying to be stealthy. It was nearly dark in the hallway as there were no windows and the whole area seemed to be deep in the bowels of the entire complex. The detective stopped at the first door and strained to read the sign as his eyes adjusted to the murky, shadowy darkness. Not Mulligan's, he tried the next one. Making out the title on the door, "Manager," he turned the doorknob, finding it was locked. He eyed Jackson. He was considering picking the lock. He should have known better, he would later use this decision as evidence that he was too personally involved with this case, but he decided to do it anyway. He reached into his pocket searching for his pocketknife.

"Creak," the tiny sound came from behind them. Hands, handkerchiefs, chloroform over their mouths and noses. Each man spun to face their attackers, fists already swinging. William felt a powerful blow land to his mouth. More than two men! Pain at the back of his head… Again the handkerchief with the sickening sweet smell of chloroform. Gone – dark – silent.

# # # # # # # # # #

Unsure if it was a dream, so dim and vague, the pain in his shoulder prompted him to moan, and William became conscious. Perhaps he had been shot, he stirred to touch the source of the stinging pain, surging with panic upon discovering that he could not move – he could not see, unsure whether he was blindfolded or it truly was that dark! The terrible stink registered, and he tried to move his hands, producing the slightest motion of his fingers, then, even more dire, he failed in moving his legs. Quickly, he determined that he was bound and gagged, his body wrapped like a mummy from head to toe, in a cloth of some type held tight within a sturdy mesh of thick rope. Nowhere could he feel a floor, not a single part of him was able to touch the ground. He was dangling – the cloth and rope around his shoulder that was binding him bearing the brunt of his weight – but his shoulder had been sliced in the process of being hung there – that was the pain, not a bullet. The putrid smell, the memories of being attacked form behind, and then everything had gone blank. He was hanging in the air, from a meat hook that had been pierced through the rope and cloth he was wrapped in, high up on a steam-powered overhead assembly, between two humungous pig carcasses.

Jackson! Constable Jackson! His mouth gagged, thus reducing the volume as he tried to call and stifling his ability to speak, he located Jackson, who was in a similar predicament based on the sounds he heard, seeming to be a few carcasses behind him. He did not know what time it was, how long he had been unconscious, but he remembered seeing the machine he now hung from before they were attacked. He knew a worker would come in in the morning, turn the machine on, and it would jerk into motion. The machine would eventually bring him to the rotary saw. First, it would clamp on to his feet and pull him into the chute and then slice him in half within a few seconds. Death would be painful, yet relatively quick.

William's mind ran through scenarios, searching desperately for a way, any possible way, to get free. He tried bouncing, hoping to tear the cloth or slip the rope over the edge of the hook, to no avail. Not even close. However, he had been able to swing from the hook. "Perhaps I can swing high enough to get my feet up on the pig carcass in front of me, then lift, taking weight off of the hook, and pull myself forward and thus pull the cloth and rope up, off of the hook," he thought, optimistic with the chance. He realized that if his plan worked, he would end up falling to the floor. He would have to hope to avoid landing on his head. Once on the ground, he would still be fairly immobile, wrapped and bound as he was, but he could hop. Perhaps he could get close enough to the saw blade, use it to cut the rope bindings to get free.

He took a moment preparing, picturing in his mind the motion required. A deep breath, then with a grunt, a big kick backwards… momentum – and pain as the movement caused the lacerated flesh at the top of his shoulder to gouge deeper into the metal curve of the hook… and then a swing forward… bend as much as possible to pull back farther on recoil… and a higher swing… pull back once more… and now UP!

He knocked against the middle of the nearest pig carcass, unable to get high enough because of the tight, mummy-like bindings. He pushed the carcass into a metronomic swing in opposition with his own. Dominoes, it hit the next carcass sending it towards the next, before it swung back towards him, each subsequent bump lowering in intensity. Seconds after William had swung back and banged into the carcass behind him as well, he heard Jackson call out in pain as the jerky wave traveled down the assembly on the ceiling.

Disappointed, his mind worked to find another solution. He remembered the manager had said there were workers at various places throughout the complex into the night hours – "perhaps they could make enough noise to be heard?" Accepting the risk that their captors might also hear, he tried screaming out as loud as possible through his gag and covered face, with Jackson quickly joining in. They tried kicking the carcasses near them about, producing thuds and clanging as the hooks bobbed and swung to and fro. Eventually however, all energy drained, they stopped, figuring either there was no one there to hear them, or the men who had attacked them chose not to come silence them.

After a time, William's mind moved. "Someone will come. Julia will have called, alerted them." Perhaps it was not the end. But, he remembered, he had called her and told her he would be late – so that he would be able to call Ettie. William's heart sunk with the memory, with the realization that maybe no one was coming. "When do the workers start the butchering in the morning? he questioned himself. He grew silent, listening intently. He heard it then – the grunts, and occasional squeals – the trainload of tomorrow morning's pigs had already been delivered and the animals stammered about in the large pigpens outside. "They start early," he remembered the manager saying, "Perhaps five or six… I wonder when the trains with the livestock arrive – if it's close to starting time now? So dark – still night?" …

…It seems so long... "Is it just the pain and exhaustion, causing such dizziness, or perhaps the blow to my head, or the remnants of chloroform on the gag?" he asked himself…

…Brain still foggy… Hoof beats, a snort… Human voices?… Door shut, the sound far off… "The time is close now!" he thought, nausea and fear taking hold. He had fought against it. But it was at this moment that he failed to hold it off any longer – in his mind he saw HER… crying. "Julia!" his mind bellowed. Such emotions drowned through him, soaking him in despair and regret, for he would never see her again. And his death would cause her such pain.

And then the flashes – the glowing, magnificent, beautiful, heartbreaking bursts of waves of memories – came, flickering in his mind, lightning bolt after lightning bolt, one after the other in such rapid succession that they defied memory. His mother, with him nestled in her lap, reading to him from the Bible. Susana, hiding behind him when their father was throwing things around in an alcohol-induced rampage. Him, startling when his father slammed the door, drunk and hollering, causing him to drop firewood all over the floor. Him, running to his mother's lifeless body in the water, turning her over to see her ghostlike face. Susana, watching from the carriage that would relocate them to their aunt's home, as he cried on his knees, hugging his dog Duke good-bye forever. Father Keegan, reassuring him that he had nothing to fear from the dead. Him, as a lumberjack, scrambling up to the top of a tree, winning a race to cheers from below. Him, as a ranch hand, galloping on a horse and roping a steer. Ettie, crying over Alice Black's body. Him, a constable, testifying to the truth, then finding Ava Moon, her face cut to shreds, and bleeding from deeper wounds, after the charges had been dropped and Cudmore had attacked her. Him, standing over Liza's coffin as it is being lowered into her grave. Then, HER, looking into his eyes for the first time, over a body at a crime scene, taking his breath away for he knew SHE was the one. HER, glancing sideways at him as she lifted a stitch of thread high over the corpse she was working on in the morgue. HER, bouncing on the park bench next to him, considering sharing some excerpts from her diary from Prague. HER, walking into the dance studio and then whispering to him that she wanted to be held.

And then the streaks of images came faster, and faster. HER, on the picnic blanket, her fingers in his hair, their lips growing closer, then touching, moving the Earth with their first kiss. HER, dangling above him in the hot air balloon, right before he took the leap. Him, kissing Ana, then seeing HER image in his mind and calling out HER name. HER, hugging him in the carriage, her locket – his badge, locking together with a "click." Him, sitting and staring into the midnight darkness in his lonely room, trying to find a way to go on without HER. HER, at the bottom of the stairs, back from Buffalo, engaged to another. Susana, telling him that she was dying, as they stood in the chapel of the convent. Him, unlocking the jail cell, setting Constance Gardner free. Him, secretly gazing upon HER in the morgue, now Darcy Garland's wife, as she sat so gracefully organizing her chemicals. Him, shooting and killing the man from the Black Hand who was going to shoot Ana. HER, in his arms after they had dug out the coffin, having been buried alive. HER, soaring him with hope, in a beautiful red dress, walking into the ball. HER, being taken away in the courtroom, looking back at him, destined to be hung. Gillies, in the film on the wall on the other side of his cage, removing his mask, after impersonating HER.

AND then the flashes came even faster. HER, lifting the cover off of the cage of butterflies. HER, caring for him on the river shore, after he had failed to find Gillies in the river. Him, with his men at his side while on the waterfront docks, ordering George to send them forward into a gang of armed and dangerous men. HER, walking into view, stunning in her wedding gown, taking the Inspector's arm. HER, weeping softly, being comforted in his arms, after passionately making love. Father Keegan, pretending to fall while in pursuit, allowing Father Lebel to get away.

And then faster still, now seeming beyond the speed of light. HER, wrapped as his sexy Christmas gift, surprised upon seeing he had walked in with George. James Pendrick, jumping out of the hot-air balloon before him, and spreading his wings of his suit to fly. George, on the ground being attacked by a guard dog. HER, rolling over to be tucked underneath him this morning, so beautiful in the darkness, before he made love to HER. HER, draped over him in in the afterglow, as he felt the 'bump' of their baby in HER womb.

…And then he remembered it… and his ears began to ring… piercing louder, and louder, and louder… with such beauty and such pain… as if the thunder had caught up with the lightning… …that SHE was pregnant, with his child – whom he would never know. And the tears started to fall, so hot and so salty, down his muffled face.

And then one final memory appeared… Of him, watching through the leaves from afar, while his physical body was back in the Time Machine, and seeing his beautiful eight-year-old son, and standing next to their boy, SHE looked so earth-shatteringly beautiful… and he watched as their eyes followed the small balloon being lifted by the candle, after Julia had released it and it floated away… and he noticed… that he wasn't there.

Weeping overcame his existence – wrenching the essence out of his core, for he would miss so very, very much, and his son would have to make his own way in the world without him, and his child would never know how very much his father had loved him.

And there came a time, when exhausted and spent from crying, his tears had run out. And that is when he prayed, for God needed to be thanked, for bringing him such a rare and remarkable woman as Julia… and for bringing them such a vast and powerful love. And he had loved HER with everything he had. And he believed he always would. He thanked the Lord for bringing him a child, and hoped that the child would help lighten the heartbreak SHE felt with his loss. SHE would be a good mother. He knew she would. In that, his baby would be blessed. William took a deep breath as acceptance tried to sink deeper, searching to bring peace to his soul…

Hanging two pig carcasses behind William, bound and gagged and bleeding, Jackson had overheard the detective fall into quiet sobbing, the sounds breaking his own heart, reducing him to tears as well. He had tried to offer comfort, producing only smothered vocalizations, unable to reach through the gag in his mouth or the cloth covering his face or the other man's pain.

# # # # # # # # # #

When the Inspector's carriage arrived at the Davies slaughterhouse it was dark, but he could see the movement of the constable's lamps as they searched, some of the lights moving about around the various buildings, others glowing from inside the structures. "Come on Murdoch! Be here – Be alright!" he pleaded inside his head. He was not sure which frightened him more, his own grief or facing that of the man's wife, but whichever it was, it made imagining finding the man dead insufferable. His worry drifted over to consider Constable Jackson, remembering that it was he who shrewdly recruited the man from Stationhouse #5 to win a baseball game, and filling with the dread of calling the younger man's wife. He had a big family…

George hurried towards him, emerging out of the darkness. "Sir!" he called. Their bicycles are here, by the pigpens, and the lads have found their clothing in some bins behind the central buildings there…

"Oh, that is not good," the Inspector thought, feeling a familiar fear creep up from his belly, threatening his heart. He had to consider where they were, and how animals were turned into meat here…

George continued, "We have conducted an initial search of all of the buildings. There are quite a few workers in the canning building, sir. The manager there reported no unusual disturbances this evening. But he did mention that he had not seen the night watchman…" Crabtree wrinkled his face, suggesting this was an important fact to consider.

"Get to the point Crabtree! Any sign of the detective or Jackson?!" he demanded.

George's disappointment answered the Inspector's question before he replied, "No, nothing yet sir."

"Where are the offices?" the Inspector asked. He would find the owner's number and call… the manager too. As George and the Inspector made their way to the offices the Inspector instructed him to find where the butchering was done, and to, "look for evidence that our men were there."

George braced himself, pushing aside the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him, and pointed out the location of the building that the Inspector was referring to, and then left the Inspector to make the phone calls while he gathered up some men.

So much activity… Perhaps it's the Constabulary – come to save us! William excitedly began making an effort to be heard. He heard Jackson join in! "MMMmmm, MMMmmm," they called out as best they could, and they resumed their efforts to send the pig carcasses flying about from their locations hanging from the ceiling. "LIGHT!" he noticed, peering in through the stitches in the fabric and from around the edges of the blindfold! "LIGHT, Thank God!" Louder they called. Harder they swung and kicked against the carcasses.

A Constable's whistle!... Piercing the air. Pure weakness overtook William with the realization that they would be alright.

"Detective Murdoch! Detective is that you?" young Constable Tandy's voice asked, receiving active wiggling and muffled noises from the burlap-wrapped body hanging from the ceiling. Jackson too, squirmed and called. "Jackson!" Tandy cried, running to stand below the large man, touching his legs.

The sounds of footsteps could be heard running, from seemingly all sides of the building. "They're over here!" Tandy called. It was dawning on him that it might be difficult to get them down.

"Detective Murdoch and Jackson are up there, sir," William heard a constable report.

Then he heard the Inspector's voice, "Murdoch!?"

"Mm-hmm," he replied.

"Jackson is there behind him sir," Tandy added.

"Thank God," the Inspector answered, relieved, so very, very relieved.

Noticing that there was blood on each man around where the hook entered the encasing burlap and rope mesh, he decided to investigate further how best to free them. He had a constable try to lift each of them, hoping to lower the strain on their flesh from the weight of hanging, but quickly discovered that doing so actually increased each man's pain, as it raised their bodies, pushing their wounds closer and deeper into the metal hooks that rested just above their cuts. This was actually good news, for it meant the hooks had not been poked through the flesh. Murdoch and Jackson could either be cut loose, or lifted off over the ends of the hooks.

The Inspector instructed two smaller men to get up on another bigger man's shoulders and cut the detective and Jackson loose, while other men held their wrapped bodies to keep them steady and keep them from falling once cut free.

Soon, they were laid out on the floor and their mummifying coverings cut away, setting them each free. Everyone present was relieved to find their captors had left both men relatively unharmed and they each had their underwear on as well. The building was surprisingly warm for a December night, probably as a result of the slowly cooling pig carcasses, but with the doors now opened and the passage of time since the pigs had been killed, a chill was slipping in. The two men were in shock and they were quickly covered in their own coats.

"There were about four or five men who attacked us, sir," William said. "It was dark and we were taken by surprise. I doubt I would be able to recognize them," he added.

"Jackson?" the Inspector asked.

"Same for me, sir," Jackson replied.

William quickly added, "They used chloroform. They could have killed us, sir, easily. It seems they intended to," he said, gesturing to the rotary saw. "I don't understand…"

"You're being warned off Murdoch," the Inspector replied. "This meatpacking bunch is a nasty lot that sticks together, tough, like the O'Shea's crew down at the docks," he explained.

"I see," William answered.

"You're going to need stitches – a trip to the hospital…" the Inspector said.

Crabtree's voice called from the doorway, "Sirs, this is the manager, Mr. Mulligan."

Now standing, wearing only his underwear under his coat, barely aware of the fact that he was still in shock, William said, "Yes, we met earlier Mr. Mulligan…"

The Inspector interrupted, "Mr. Mulligan, it seems your establishment does not take very kindly to be questioned by the Constabulary. And seeing as a fish rots from the head, I would like to know why you and Mr. Davies wouldn't want my detective here nosing around about our murder victim."

Mulligan had been staring and gawking at the bloody burlap wrappings on the ground, and the two wounded and unclothed men, seemingly stupefied. However, now he had been jolted into defense. "Inspector," Mulligan said, "Mr. Davies has been out of town for days. He would have no idea about any of this! And I…"

"Oh, I'm sure you were far from here when all this went down," the Inspector charged, "But your men know what is expected of 'em, heh."

William interjected, "We want names of all the men working here this afternoon, for questioning. George…"

"Yes sir," George replied. "Mr. Mulligan shall we," he said gesturing to the door.

Mulligan stood his ground and said to the Inspector and the detective, "You are assuming this was done by my men. You have no proof of that! This could be the work of anybody who wants your detective dead. Besides, Burns is out to get me closed. He could just as easily be behind this. He's got spies here – do 'in his dirty work. Could be them that did this."

"We will need you and Mr. Davies to come down to Stationhouse #4 for questioning, Mr. Mulligan," William said, "You can tell us all about that then… When is Mr. Davies returning?" he asked.

The Inspector answered, having had spoken to Mrs. Davies when he called the home, "He is leaving Winnipeg tomorrow morning, according to his wife, Murdoch."

William instructed, "George, we will need Mr. Davies to come in once he arrives."

"Yes sir," George said. "Oh, sirs," George remembered, "It seems that there is usually a night watchman on duty, but," he said shaking his head, "There was not one here tonight according to the manager over at the canning building."

"Oh," William replied, turning to Mulligan.

Mulligan shrugged. "No one called me. I didn't know," he answered.

"George," William added, "Let's looks into where this night watchman is. He'll need a call…" William looked around and then said, "He could be injured… Let's have the lads continue searching until we know his whereabouts."

"Right away sir," George replied. Then he went with Mulligan to get the list of names and call the night watchman.

# # # # # # # # # #

In the carriage on the way to the hospital, William and Jackson rode with the Inspector. The Inspector informed them that it had been a call from Julia that had alerted him to the fact that they were missing.

William asked the Inspector to call Julia and tell her he was alright. The Inspector said he would call Jackson's wife as well.

It was quiet between the men for a while before William spoke up, his mind working on the case, "I wonder which picture set this all off, sir – our victim's, Ieva, or her husband's?"

"Murdoch, it could be this lot just plain doesn't want the Constabulary around at all. Have you considered that?" he asked.

"But sir," William replied, "There is evidence that there is more to it than that. The woman from the church, who helped Ieva when she first arrived in Toronto – from Winnipeg sir, that may be relevant as that is also where Davies has been…" He paused, his mind trying to travel down too many avenues at once. He pulled back to his original thought, "This witness from the church called today and said that Ieva asked her for directions to Davies slaughterhouse. And Constable Hogan questioned a worker at Davies who, he thought, behaved like he recognized the photos."

The Inspector considered it, then replied, "Not much, but…" he nodded, "Worth looking into. We should talk to a judge, we're going to want to look at their books, I think. Follow the money."

"I don't know if we have enough to convince a judge right now," William replied.

The Inspector nodded, "Let's see what we get from our questioning tomorrow."

"We should try to get everybody's fingermarks as well sir, we have fingermarks from the killer," William said, then thought for a moment and added, "Or at least from whoever placed the body behind the brothel," now aware there may be more than one man involved in this whole mess.

It wasn't until William stepped out of the carriage that he started getting an inkling of how thrown-off he was by what he had been through. There was an odd dizziness in his brain, and a strange sense of being outside of everything somehow. Through it all, he found himself turning in his mind to the one thing that grounded him in this world – Julia. He asked the Inspector to find him after he called Julia, to reassure him that she knew he was fine and would be home after he had been treated for "only minor injuries," he had asked the Inspector to call them. The Inspector left him and Jackson sitting in the waiting room to make the calls.

As soon as they were alone, Jackson, his voice sounding distant and dull, monotone, said, "I thought that was it, sir."

William responded in the same way, "As did I constable." He wrinkled up a corner of his mouth and caught the man's eye, admitting to his suffering and fear. At that instant, he remembered hearing Jackson try to console him when he had been weeping. A sudden flood of love for the man, and embarrassment for himself as well, parted and spread through him. He blushed with the emotions, and quickly turned away.

He realized that hearing Jackson's murmuring had helped, for because of it he knew he was not alone… He also remembered it had stirred within him a surge of guilt, although he barely noticed it because he was drowned in grief. William cleared his throat, and staring down at his shoes, he said, "Your kindness…" but stopped, not able to continue, unsure what to say. He took a deep breath. Jackson did the same. William was pretty sure he didn't want Jackson to say anything about hearing him cry, about knowing he had fallen apart, so he quickly spoke up to stop him from doing so, saying, "Thank you, for accompanying me into danger…" He swallowed again, feeling his throat drying up remembering his choice to sneak upstairs to look for the manager's office, and then to try to pick the lock, and added, "And I am sorry I took such a risk." Again he clamped his lips together and braved a glance.

"You're welcome, sir… I hope you know that I am honored, to work with a man such as yourself," Jackson replied, giving William a quick nod.

William wrinkled up a corner of his mouth and gave the man a quiet smile of appreciation.

The two men sat quietly waiting after that. Soon they were each taken into the back to be treated. The Inspector found William and told him that Julia did not answer the phone. He wanted to know if he should go over to their house to check on her.

"She was probably in the bathroom – had the water running so she didn't hear the phone, sir. I'll just go home…" He wondered how late it was, realizing he didn't have his suit on, not to mention his watch. The bundle of his clothes rested over at the side of the room. He asked the Inspector the time.

It was the doctor treating him who answered, telling him it was almost midnight. William figured it was not unlikely that Julia had stayed up that late, worried… and then had decided to take a shower. "I'm sure she is fine. I should be home soon," he said, both men looking to the doctor for confirmation.

The doctor replied, "We should be done here in about 20 minutes." With that, the Inspector took his leave.

# # # # # # # # # # #

When William arrived at home it was nearly one o'clock in the morning. He found Julia asleep. Her lamp was on, and there was a glass, "Probably a sleeping draft," he thought, on her night table. Deciding not to wake her, he quietly walked over and turned out the light. He undressed in the dark, placing the heavily soiled and now quite stinky suit and other clothing in the laundry basket in their closet. He would need a bath – he reeked of the odors of the slaughterhouse. Not wanting to awaken Julia, he used the hall bathroom – managing to clean himself, and even wash his hair, while keeping the stitched up wound on his shoulder dry under the bandage. She was still sleeping when William put on his pajamas and crawled into bed next to her. Expecting to be plagued by thoughts of the long and traumatic day, he advised himself to recite a prayer. He wouldn't even remember lifting the covers over his body before he was asleep.

When he suddenly awoke sometime later, with a quick jerk – he had been dreaming of being hung from the ceiling in the slaughterhouse, and he had been using his muscles in the dream to swing higher, trying to reach up to the top of the pig carcass in front of him, causing a real-life twitch that startled him out of his dream – he found that Julia was not in the bed.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Julia stood at the stove stirring a pan of hot chocolate, with her back to the entrance when William came in behind her. Not wanting to startle her, he cleared his throat before he walked over and added some milk and chocolate to the pan. She sighed and took a sideways glance at him. She noticed a cut on his lower lip, it was pretty bad. She wondered what other injuries he had, under his pajamas, tucked away out of sight. Frozen in silence, in between wanting to leap into his arms with joy and wanting to smack him for frightening her so, she went and sat at the kitchen table, with her back to him, while he stirred their hot chocolate.

She watched him in the window reflection, still stuck, unable to speak, unable to find words. She saw him reach up into the cupboard and bring down two cups… But at the same time her mind ran an old memory, from when he had gone missing, for such a long, long time, without any word, without a clue – he had ended up in Bristol, all the way across the Atlantic Ocean, had lost his memory, and in true Murdoch fashion, he had even saved the Queen. Sitting here now, it felt so real, like a hallucination more than a memory. She was sitting at her desk in the morgue, staring into the window that looked out over the autopsy theatre. Like now, she could see herself in the window – but she could also see him – see him tip his hat to her, see him standing and writing on the chalkboard with his hand in his pocket, see him when he kissed her on the picnic blanket, even hear him laugh. The flashes of him were so beautiful, so sweet; they caused her heart to soar with love, while at the very same time pangs of soreness from what seemed to be the inevitable loss of him, stirred in her chest. How did she ever survive it then?

Suddenly, beckoning her out of the trance, he was standing next to her, the warm, white cup breaking the silence as he placed it on the table in front of her. He sat at the end of table, in the chair just around the corner from her. Watching, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him raise the cup to his lips, take a slow, warm sip. She felt his eyes on her. Dropping her eyes down, she focused on the hot chocolate, taking a sip for her. A soothing sense of gratitude sank into her as the warm, smooth feel of the thick liquid washed away some of her fear. She swallowed, forcing it down, steaming it away. Her big sigh broke the quiet, making a first step to connecting with him.

His voice was tender when he said it, "I'm sorry, Julia."

But his effort to take responsibility for her suffering surged regret through her, causing her to choke up, her eyes becoming hot and swollen with tears. She knew she couldn't let him do it – He had done nothing wrong. She knew who she had married. A tear escaped, slid down her face, for such suffering was inevitable, unavoidable – came with their love, was destined.

The sight of the glistening liquid pearling and flowing down her cheek tortured his heart. The pain pushed him to build up a defense against it, a spark of anger and indignation surprised him with his thoughts, "What does she want me to do? Quit my job? Become an accountant?" his brain argued.

She took another sip of hot chocolate, using it to clear her throat, and said, "You have nothing to be sorry about William…"she offered, certain she saw his chest heave with relief out of the corner of her eye. She lifted her eyes, caught the sight of him, his cup to his lips, his beautiful eyes glancing at her sideways, through their dark, long lashes, offering hope, hinting at playfulness even when the mood seemed so dire. She marveled at the power that this particular look of his hand over her body, somehow sending her womb, her heart, and her brain into a whirlwind. So quickly the tears had gone. She went on to explain, "The Inspector told me you expressed concern for safety … That, because of me and our child, you had wanted to bring along a constable…"

William took a deep breath, twisted his face a bit with doubt and regret and said, "Yeah, nearly got two people Ki…" He abruptly stopped, his eyes betraying his concern over saying it, over telling her how close it had really come.

She saw it though. She knew. They both dropped their eyes away from each other quickly. Silence loomed momentarily, disturbed only by the sipping of hot chocolate and the placing back down of the cups.

Julia broke it first. She inhaled deeply, drawing his attention, and she slid her chair over closer to his. Moving the two cups out of the way, she placed them on the nearby counter. She reached up and fiddled with the collar on his pajama top, creating a stir in him, sending his eyes into a sparkle. With her eyes down on the boundary between his skin and the red fabric, watching her fingers slip dangerously along the edge, she started, "Detective William Henry Murdoch…" Her eyes lifted to meet his. The connection was strong, flirtatious. She unbuttoned the top button, sending a lustful jolt of electrical urges down to his groin. "I fell in love with all of you – the whole package … including the detective part," she said, then with a shrug she added, "And I think the detective part is very sexy, really … a hero who fights the harshest elements to save people…" Her fingers moved up, slipped into his hair, scratched enticingly along his scalp, "I fell quite hard … head-over-heels … I still am, madly in love with this man … this detective," she said with her eyes honing in on his mouth. She tilted her head, brought her lips close.

There they were, flickering and flashing across his mind, the urgent, demanding, fantasies … of what to do with her, where to put her, what to take off of her, and what to leave on. They were particularly strong tonight –rushed, insistent – not uncommon after having faced death. They made wild, primitive, hungry love to each other, there in the kitchen, sometimes on the table, others against the wall. Their biggest challenge seemed to be restraining themselves from making love the way they both so desperately wanted to – the way they most commonly made love before they had had to rely solely on Plan C because of the baby. William had been particularly rough – struggling to control the vigor of his movements, having placed Julia between himself and the wall during his most burs tingly eager and rewarding moments, causing her to suffer a cut lip. Surprisingly, William had not yet revealed his injured shoulder to her by the time they were done, having kept his pajama top on and managing to keep from calling out in pain whenever he had used his left shoulder, or she had pushed against it.

Thoroughly exhausted, feeling loved through and through, they lay together on the kitchen table in the moon's luminous glow. Julia broke the quietude. "I think it was so wild and passionate tonight because you were in danger earlier – because we almost lost you. It is so frightening, William, to imagine it, to think of losing you…" She sighed, coping with the feelings once again stirring within her chest, "And I guess it makes being together so much more valuable when we are confronted with the ever so present and real recognition, that life is fleeting. There is an urgent need to get as much love out of it as we can, while we can," she said as she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him closer.

William's experience earlier on the meat-hook, of seeing his life in rapid images darting across his awareness, suddenly loomed large again in front of him. He so wanted to tell her about it. He knew he would do so, but not now, for after their lovemaking, he was finding he was beyond exhausted. "Mm," he agreed. With Julia feeling sleepy too, they headed up to bed.

Now, in the darkness of their bedroom, she placed her head on his chest and she draped her leg over him – once again putting their baby close to its father. Julia told him that she hoped he had enjoyed their last night of lovemaking anywhere they wanted in the house for a while, for tomorrow night her sister Ruby would be arriving, and she had invited her to stay with them. As they had yet to furnish either of the servants' suites in their house, Ruby would be sleeping in a room down the hall. "Mm-hmm," William had acknowledged as sleep took him. She decided she would tell him about the Baby Shower Margaret Brackenreid was throwing for her tomorrow. As her fingers strolled along his muscles through his pajamas, the pleasant stroking soothing him even as he slept, she did not discover the bandages up on his left shoulder. This was fortunate. It meant that he could put off until tomorrow all of the problems he had to deal with, that they would have to deal with, as a result of him having gotten hooked – literally and figuratively – on this case.