"Whatya readin' 'bout, Doc?" Chester asked as he stood close behind his friend, sipping from a mug of hot chicory-laced coffee. He had been bringing in firewood, and even the clatter of the several pieces he had dropped had not made Doc look away from the newspaper he seemed engrossed in.
"DOC! I axed ya a question, and ya keep on actin' like I ain't even here!" he exclaimed in a louder voice, bending over and peering at the newspaper.
"Huh? Oh, Chester! If there's one thing I hate is a man trying to read over my shoulder!" the doctor barked as he glanced up at the younger man. "If you're so interested in this paper, why don't you buy one of your own?!" Snapping the newspaper open wider, he snorted and resumed reading.
"Wal, Doc, jest whose paper da ya think that is?!"
"Oh. Well. I was reading here about another couple found literally DISSECTED, and this time right here in Kansas." Shaking his head slowly, Doc looked over at Chester who had slid into the chair across from him, his deep brown eyes open wide in a horrified interest. "And this time it was an older couple who had been happily married for thirty years. If you recall, I mentioned reading a similar story about two months ago when Kitty brought that newspaper back from Saint Louie? That time it was a story about a couple murdered back East."
"Doc…"Chester began before clearing his throat.
"And Chester, this obviously is of a deep, disturbing interest to me due to the possible medical connection. This…this…MAD MAN…must have some surgical training!" The riled man threw down the paper, scraped back his chair, and went out the door. Muttering to himself and running a hand through his greying, curly hair before shoving his black hat on, he walked thoughtfully back to his office home.
"This is so troubling," Doc thought aloud as he sat at his roll top desk, holding the clipping he had just cut from a copy of the newspaper he had gotten from Jonas. The General Store proprietor had been glad to give a free copy to the town doctor, but had been puzzled by his old friend's distracted manner.
"I believe that this latest couple brings the count up to at least ten victims. And who knows those that have not been found or reported?!" With a deep sigh, the older man closed his eyes and momentarily put his head in his hands, the clipping fluttering down to rest atop a small stack of others. A boyhood friend, Ambrose Gillette, had been a police chief in Boston for some years, and had written to Doc a couple of days ago, warning of this odd serial killer. Disturbing copies of crime scene photos and drawings had been included. Putting on his wire-frame spectacles, the unsettled man began to reread:
Dear Shorty,
I have been wanting to write to you for some time now, and hate for this overdue letter to be one drawing you into such a gruesome series of murders. You may have read about the second case, where a young unmarried couple was 'surgically' murdered in Boston a couple of months ago. I say 'second,' when in reality no one yet knows how many murders this maniac has committed. Since then, in order to avoid panic, the police department has managed to keep the subsequent murders and gruesome details hushed up. The Boston newspapers even cooperated when shown the latest local crime scene photos and drawings, but I doubt if the lid can be kept on much longer if those publishers ever find out how long this has been going on.
We have a fine police force here, as you know, and I have always personally prided myself on my own investigative abilities, but this has me stymied. The murderer must have a certain amount of medical training in that, forgive me for saying this, I have never seen such 'neat,' passionless crime scenes. He dissects his victims, paying particular attention to the chest, and leaves the bodies clean and blood-free. There is no bloody, rage-filled defilement, and the clinical arrangements of the bodies are almost more unsettling and unnatural. I say 'almost,' in that one detail only the police and our doctor know is that each body is missing its heart.
I am entrusting the enclosed copies of crime scene photos and drawings in that they speak much more affectingly than any words I can struggle to find. I know you will make only proper use of them.
I am writing this from my small hotel room in Saint Louis, where I have been for a week now after arriving to investigate a possible lead on 'The Surgeon,' as he is now referred to in the local newspapers, which have no such compunction for keeping this quiet. Unfortunately, another dissected couple was discovered eight days ago in this very hotel, down in the kitchen's cold storage room. I was in Chicago seven days ago following up on reports of another murdered couple, in their sixties, on a farm outside of the city. Those corn-shuckers up there said it was INDIANS, and there hasn't been any such event since before the Pottawatomies left back in 1835!
You may well ask why I, a Boston lawman, am chasing this murderer, but you know me well enough to understand how personal any murder in my city is to me. I will follow this maniac to the ends of the earth, if need be.
So the main reason I am writing, Shorty, is to warn you that this man, the so-called 'Surgeon,' seems to be heading West, your way. I plan on staying on here in Saint Louis another week, but if you need me to come, don't hesitate to wire me at the address on this hotel stationery, room 232.
I am hoping that all is well with you, my old friend, and that the next letter I write to you in the future will be of a lighter nature.
Sincerely,
Ambrose
Doc unhooked his glasses from one ear, then the other, slowly folded them back into their battered silver case, and slid the case into the left bottom pocket of his tattered vest. Sighing, he laid the letter on top of the stack of photos and drawings, and the clippings he had collected of any suspiciously similar murders, and closed his eyes. Opening them after a moment, he slapped his hand down on the stack and stood up. "Ambrose, I do believe your man may already be in Kansas and probably heading to Dodge, if he isn't here already. I need to talk to Matt about this." Gathering up the letter, photos, drawings, and clippings, he went to his coat rack, put the papers in a pocket of his black suit coat he slipped on, plunked his hat on, and determinedly headed out the door.
To be continued