Chapter One
The scream that pierced the dull yellow November sky was
preternaturally high-pitched. Its sound carried
effortlessly, echoing through a neighborhood of Queen Anne
Victorians into the barren woods beyond, fading only as it
descended toward the Hudson River. Those who heard the sound
mistook it for that of an animal—perhaps the call of a
screech owl, maybe the shrill cry of a loon. No one believed
it to be human.
I did not hear it myself. I can only describe it as others
did, after the fact.
But memory can be an odd thing. The report of that inhuman
sound, relayed countless times, took root in my mind. It
played upon my imagination, creating an impression so vivid
it came to seem authentic. I know all too well that memory
sometimes refuses to let die what we most want to forget.
But now, I also know that memory can create something that
never really existed. That is why this particular scream
haunts me as surely as though I had been present, then and
there, to hear it with my own ears. And I cannot mistake its
origin: I know it is Sarah Wingate's dying cry, sounded just
before her brutal murder.
News of her death came as the oversized grandfather clock in
our office chimed five o'clock. My boss, Joe Healy, never
one to stay a minute late, was putting on his coat, ready to
leave for the day.
"You'll lock up when you're done?" Joe tucked his scarf
around his neck.
I was at my desk finishing the paperwork for an arrest I'd
made that morning. Thomas Jones had shown up for work at the
Conduit and Cable factory with a hot temper and liquor in
his belly, an unhappy combination that led him to sucker
punch his foreman.
"Of course," I said, turning over the final page in the
file. "Only Tuesday and our third assault this week." I
blotted my pen before I signed and dated the report. "At
this rate, the local paper will proclaim it an epidemic and
we'll have the women's temperance union on our doorstep.
Though I'd say it was lucky the assailant in each case was
drunk. Men who can't see straight rarely land a solid punch."
We were interrupted by the sound of footsteps clattering up
the short flight of stairs that led to our office at 27 Main
Street. I stiffened with a flash of foreboding, for no one
ever rushed toward our headquarters. After all, the sort of
serious crime that might lead anyone to need a police
officer in a hurry tended to circumvent the sleepy village
of Dobson, New York, at the turn of the century.
Charlie Muncie, the young man who served as village
secretary and had taken charge of the building's sole
telephone downstairs, brought a terse message from Dr. Cyrus
Fields. He needed our immediate assistance at the Wingate home.
"Mrs. Wingate's home on Summit Lane?" Joe asked, frowning in
puzzlement.
There was only one Wingate family in town but I understood
why Joe was perplexed. The Wingate home was in the estate
section of town, and Dr. Fields was not the preferred doctor
of Dobson's wealthier residents. One of several local
physicians who served in rotation at the county morgue, he
also treated the blue-collar factory workers in
neighborhoods along the waterfront. He partnered closely
with us on calls involving domestic disputes or drunken
brawls since, if the altercation were in progress, we could
intervene more effectively than the portly but diminutive
doctor. The affluent classes of Dobson preferred Dr. Adam
Whittier, who catered to their whims with absolute
discretion. While rumor had it their homes were not immune
to violent disputes, they tended to handle such matters
behind a wall of secrecy. The police, certainly, were never
involved.
"Did Cyrus say what's happened?" Joe asked. A stout man in
his early sixties with bushy white hair and a normally
pleasant, ruddy face, today he glared at the young man as
though it were his fault Joe's dinner would get cold.
"He says there's been murder done." Charlie whispered the
words as though he were frightened to utter them.
In an instant, I recalled the reason why. His mother had
worked for Mrs. Wingate as a house keeper for years. He
would have practically grown up in the Wingate house hold.
In fact, the one time I had met the elderly Mrs. Wingate,
she had come by the village offices to vouch for Charlie's
character and recommend him for the secretarial job he now
held.
"Who's been murdered?" Joe's voice thundered more loudly
than he must have intended.
"The doctor said it was a young lady. A visiting relative.
But he gave no details." Charlie's face blanched. For a
moment, I worried he might faint.
"He told you nothing more because your mother is fine. Not
to worry." I patted his shoulder and tried to smile
reassuringly. I knew Charlie was eighteen already, but right
now, he seemed little more than a boy. "And not a word to
anyone, okay? Not yet."
He nodded in agreement as I grabbed my coat and worn leather
satchel. Joe and I then sprinted to the corner of Main and
Broadway, where we hailed one of the waiting calashes that
hovered near the trolley stop. It was not far to the Wingate
house. However, it was situated at the top of a steep
hill—and we were in a hurry.
Once we were seated, I glanced over at Joe, the "chief" of
our two-man force. Tight lines framed his mouth as he drew
his oversized black wool coat closer to him in a futile
attempt to ward off the icy gusts of wind from the Hudson
River that buffeted the carriage.
"When did you last see a murder case in Dobson?" I asked. My
voice was quiet so the driver would not hear.
"Why? You're worried I'm not up to it?" He bristled and gave
me a withering look that I did not take personally. My
hiring five months ago had been the mayor's doing, part of
his plan to modernize Dobson's police resources by adding a
younger man with newer methods. I was thirty years old and a
seasoned veteran of the New York City Police Department's
Bureau of Detectives, specifically the Seventh Precinct. But
Joe had been Dobson's sole police officer ever since the
police department was first created. After twenty-seven
years on his own, he did not welcome the addition of a new
partner, believing I was the replacement who would force him
into retirement. His dark suspicions often strained our
relationship.
It was several minutes before he spoke again, and when he
did, his answer was grudging.
"In the winter of '93, a farmer was shot dead," he said. "We
never solved it." He shrugged. "But we also had no more
trouble of that sort. Always figured the culprit was someone
from the man's past with a personal score to settle."
Then he looked at me sharply. "I'm sure you've seen your
share of murder cases in the city. But maybe I should ask if
you're sure you're up to it? You look a bit out of sorts."
I searched Joe's expression, looking for some indication
that he knew more of my recent past than I had thought. But
there was no sign. His question had reflected his own
concerns; he had not expected it to hit a particular mark.
I swallowed hard before I said, "I'm fine," with more
confidence than I actually felt. I had a weak stomach,
especially for certain kinds of cases, and I feared this
would prove to be one of them.
What Joe did not know was that I had come here this past May
in search of a quieter existence with fewer reminders of
Hannah, a victim of last year's General Slocum steamship
tragedy. I was not alone in my grief; nearly every family in
my Lower East Side neighborhood had lost someone that awful
day—June 15, 1904. For almost a full year following Hannah's
death, she haunted me, particularly in cases where other
young women met tragic, violent ends. I had planned to marry
Hannah and build a life with her—but I had no desire to live
with a ghost. That was why this job in Dobson, a small town
seventeen miles north of the city, had seemed just the right
opportunity: I could grieve quietly and rid myself of
unwanted nightmares in a place where murders and violent
deaths were not to be expected.
But still they came . . . and this one would test whether my
rusty skills—and my weak stomach—were up to the task.
Behind us, the cragged cliffs of the Palisades loomed large
over the Hudson River, colored in the faded oranges and
yellows of late fall. The character of the neighborhood
changed with each passing block; "hill and mill" was how the
local townspeople described the division between the row
houses and apartment flats nearer the riverbank and the
imposing estates situated at the top of the village's rising
landscape. Church's Corner marked the dividing line, an
intersection with three churches—all Catholic, each
distinguished solely by ethnicity, with one church for the
Italians, one for the Irish, and still another for the Polish.
As the hills became even steeper, the homes became
noticeably more capacious and ornate, some characterized by
elegant stonework, others by latticed wood trim and dentil
molding. The Wingate house was one of the statelier of these
homes, situated on a particularly large expanse of land. It
was a magnificent stone Victorian with a pink and gray
mansard roof and an angular wraparound porch. On past
occasions when I had visited this neighborhood, I had
admired its majestic lawn and gardens. Today, it scarcely
resembled the place I remembered, for the scene surrounding
the house was one of complete chaos.
Dr. Fields was certainly inside, for Henry, the son he was
grooming to take over his practice, was keeping several
agitated neighbors off the Wingate porch. Two small white
terriers were leashed to a stake in the middle of the lawn;
they protested their restraints with ear-piercing yaps. And
Mrs. Wingate herself, now approaching eighty years old, was
seated on a straight-backed wooden chair in their midst. She
looked cold, despite the fact that someone had brought her a
warm wrap to protect her from the evening's increasing
chill. She repeated a series of questions to no one in
particular in an anxious, petulant voice. "Why can't I go
inside my own home?" "Won't anyone tell me what sort of
accident there's been?" And most frequently of all, "Where's
Abby?"
Joe and I rushed past all the confusion, hurrying toward the
main porch and front door, where Henry acknowledged us with
a brief, grave nod. Inside the entry hall, we found Dr.
Fields organizing his equipment. Cyrus Fields was a short,
middle-aged man who seemed to have boundless energy and a
remarkable enthusiasm for each case he encountered. His wide
face usually held a jovial expression, even when tending to
the dead or dying. But today he appeared unsettled. Heavy
lines marked his forehead and his full head of
salt-and-pepper hair was uncharacteristically mussed.
He looked up, and when he recognized us, his relief was
palpable.
"Thank God you're here," he sputtered. "In all my years,
I've never seen anything quite like it . . . I just can't
imagine why . . . or what kind of person . . ." And the
normally garrulous doctor trailed off for lack of words.
"It's all right," I said calmly. "Why don't you take us to
her?"
"Of course. Where are my gloves?" He didn't mean ordinary
winter gloves, but rather the cotton examination gloves he
used for each new patient. They were behind him, on top of
the black bag he had set on the floor. "Oh, yes, here they
are. Come then. We're headed upstairs."
We followed him as he began to ascend the giant staircase
that rose in a half circle above the entry hall.
"Is anyone else in the house?" I asked, adding, "We saw Mrs.
Wingate outside."
"Yes, and her maid should be with her," he said. "Her niece,
Miss Abigail, is resting in the library. I didn't want them
to overhear us, or worse yet, disturb anything. No one has
touched anything. I know that's always your preference even
with our, ah, less serious cases." He fumbled before he
found the words that would do.
We continued to climb. The stairs creaked under the weight
of our steps, despite the plush carpet runner designed to
cushion the wood. Upon reaching the first landing, I
detected an unmistakable odor—the sickly-sweet smell of
blood. I cleared my throat before commencing the next set of
stairs. But death's odor is a singular one that, once
detected, manages to pervade all the senses. With each step,
my awareness of it—and my revulsion to it—grew more intense.
I could taste it, feel it, almost see it by the time we
reached the top.
I had to pause for a moment. I gripped the banister,
fighting to suppress the wave of nausea that welled up,
threatening to overwhelm me.
Dr. Fields pointed toward the bedroom immediately on our
right, facing south toward the street.
We followed with hesitant, slow footsteps.
When he reached the door, he stepped aside, allowing me to
enter first.
I took two steps inside before I halted—for there she was.
I stared woodenly, at once repulsed and transfixed by the
scene of ghastly carnage before me. The victim lay propped
against the bed, her body precisely positioned, hands folded
together in a demure pose. Her head had been so badly
battered that I no longer recognized the features of her
face. Splattered on the blue toile wallpaper nearest the
bedpost, intermingled with red blood, was a gray substance I
knew to be brain. I swallowed hard, again fighting the
sensation of nausea that threatened to resurface.
"What is her name?" I asked.
"Sarah Wingate. She has been visiting since Friday," the
doctor said. His voice was even, but the beads of sweat on
his forehead and the way he averted his eyes from the figure
by the bed belied his apparent composure.
"And she is a relative of Mrs. Wingate's?"
"Yes. Her niece."
To refocus my wits, I forced myself to survey the
undisturbed portions of the room. It was apparent it had
been decorated in a tasteful and pleasing style—a fine dark
blue and red oriental carpet complemented a pale blue
bedspread and curtains, and two delicate Chinese vases
adorned matching mahogany tables at either side of the bed.
It was an atmosphere that suggested wealth and privilege.
Yet today, it was nearly impossible to see past this
senseless display of violence. I drew closer to the swath of
blood on the wallpaper. Not yet dry, I noted as I came close
enough to touch one stain, which indicated her death had
occurred within the last few hours.
I breathed deeply through my mouth, vowing not to be sick.
Such a response to the sight and smell of blood was a
liability in my profession, and I never failed to be
frustrated with my body's visceral response. The hollow pit
in my stomach was a familiar physical reaction, though it
had been nearly six months since I was last summoned to a
murder scene. That was in May, just before I left the city.
There, I'd seen more than my share of the squalor and crime
endemic to my native Lower East Side, not to mention the
official indifference to it. Yet my stomach had never gotten
used to it. Once again I forcibly willed my nausea to subside.
The doctor and Joe had already begun talking about the case.
"When I arrived, her face was covered by that blue cloth,"
Dr. Fields said as he pointed toward a crumpled,
bloodstained material that lay atop the bed. "I removed it
so I could check her identity."
"Is that cloth from her dress?" Joe asked curiously, walking
a wide perimeter around the body to get a better look.
It took a moment for the meaning of his question to
register, but I soon understood. The killer had slashed the
victim's dress in haphazard strokes from the bodice down,
and the bloodstained cloth was of the same material.
"How old was she?" I asked.
Dr. Fields paused before offering his opinion. "I'd say she
was in her mid-twenties. And, judging from the bloodstains,
her body temperature, and the fact that rigor mortis has not
yet set in, I'd guess she has not been dead long—two hours,
maybe three at most." He sighed and wiped his brow with a
knotted handkerchief. "I've lived in this town for thirty
years. That I should live to witness something like this . .
." He shook his head.
"Were the others home at the time? Did anyone hear
anything?" I asked, drawing his attention back to details
and descriptions. It was the doctor's analytical skills that
this victim required now, not his empathy.
"You'll want to speak with Miss Abigail, Mrs. Wingate's
other niece. She's the one who found her cousin's body." Dr.
Fields mopped his brow. "She told her aunt to call me before
she fainted. No one else is aware of the murder. We still
haven't told them. At this point, it's probably best if you
do so." His voice was soft as he added, "It has been quite
an ordeal for Miss Abigail. I for one can understand how
dif. cult it is to walk into this room unprepared."
But of course no one could ever be prepared for violence
such as this. As I tried to refocus on the important details
of the crime scene, one inconsistency stood out. The victim
had a deep throat wound and multiple slashes on her upper
arms, in addition to the battery done to her head. Yet there
was not a single mark apparent on her hands or forearms. I
knelt down next to her to check more closely. But no—there
was nothing. Had she even tried to resist? It would have
been a natural instinct to raise her hands to protect her
face from the crushing blows. And I did not think she had
been restrained, for in that case, her wrists would show
signs of bruising or chafing.
The only rational explanation—one the autopsy could
confirm—was that she had been incapacitated first, perhaps
by a blow to the head. In that case, my picture of her
assailant changed entirely. What sort of person would beat
and slash a woman who was certainly unconscious, possibly
dead? There was no fight in that; only brutal savagery. Was
her killer so filled with anger that he had lost all
control? Or had he been deranged by bloodlust? Just as I had
an instinctive visceral repulsion to it, I knew others
experienced a strange attraction to it. They enjoyed its
sight and smell, as may have been the case here, where
Sarah's cumulative injuries were more than was necessary to
kill.
I got up and circled to her left, where I noticed something
else so odd I could not believe it had escaped my attention
earlier. Part of her hair had been cut and—had it been
removed? I searched the room quickly to ascertain it had not
been placed elsewhere, but it was not to be found. I took
out my notebook and made careful notes of what I observed:
Sarah's long blond hair had originally been pulled back in
two neat braids; however, the braid by her right ear had
been cut off at the level of her earlobe. I examined the
shaft of hair nearest the cut and observed that while the
exterior of the braid was encrusted with blood, the inner
part was clean, which suggested her hair had been removed
postmortem. I had seen cases before where bizarre acts were
done to a corpse as a message or sign, but the missing braid
defied explanation.
Fortunately I had remembered to grab the camera as we left.
I breathed deeply and began to take slow, certain photos.
What my mind could not grasp now, I would revisit later,
when the black-and-white of the film had muted the red blood
that covered the room and overwhelmed my senses. I only
hoped the record would not be marred by the slight shaking
of my hands. As always, that shaking was made worse by the
aching pain in my right arm, which had intensified with the
first cold chill of autumn. Its dull throbbing these past
eighteen months was an ever-present reminder of Hannah's
death. Or perhaps more accurately, it was a reminder of the
incompetent doctor who had botched my treatment after I was
broadsided by falling timber from the collapsing deck of the
Slocum. As if I needed anything more to remind me of that
horrible day.
From every angle, and varied distances, I photographed the
victim and the scene surrounding her. At my insistence, we
had acquired a fine Kodak. Even though Joe had seen little
practical justification in this expense, he had reluctantly
allowed me to out. t the department with what I considered
to be an essential tool for recording forensic evidence.
While at the detective bureau in the city, I had become
fascinated with the latest technology, especially cameras
and basic fingerprinting equipment—though admittedly, the
latter remained controversial and was not yet accepted by
the courts. But earlier this year, London had sent two
murderers to the gallows after gaining convictions based on
fingerprint evidence alone. And our prison system in New
York already used fingerprints to identify inmates. So I
expected it would be only a matter of time before
fingerprint evidence made its way into New York's
courtrooms. Perhaps it would even be evidence I had collected.
Joe remained skeptical that Dobson had any use for all this
equipment, but after the mayor supported my request, Joe had
acquiesced. No doubt he feared his refusal would give the
mayor additional ammunition to force him into the retirement
he so dreaded. He waited patiently until I had finished
photographing the crime scene; then he and Dr. Fields
examined the body while I began dusting for latent prints.
I took out my kit containing the two kinds of fine powder
that would make invisible prints appear: black and gray. I
used the gray powder on dark surfaces, and the black powder
on light ones. Print after print appeared, most smudged and
partial, but a few were complete, with each finger ridge
delineated. I photographed them all, drawing as near as my
lens would allow. I stayed clear of Dr. Fields, though I
knew his initial exam would not take long. The bulk of his
work would be done at the morgue.
"Will you be performing the autopsy?" I asked.
"I expect to. While it's not my turn in the rotation
schedule, I suspect they will honor my request given the
circumstances."
To my relief, Joe announced he would go downstairs to break
the news to Mrs. Wingate, who remained unaware of Sarah's
death.
"We'd better call in help on this one," he said, explaining
he planned to call our neighboring police department in
Yonkers for additional resources.
"Do you want to telephone Mayor Fuller, as well? He will
want to hear about this," I said.
He scowled. "No. He'd only bother us with useless questions
that we've got no answers for."
I shrugged. "It's your decision."
But the repercussions would affect us both. The mayor and
Joe intensely disliked one another, and I had come to
understand why. When problems arose, Joe was practical in
his approach to tackling them; he had little patience for
the mayor's preoccupation with political expediency. For his
part, the mayor had long ago lost patience for what he
viewed as Joe's frequent insubordination.
We discussed how the Wingates might retrieve some personal
items from the house for their immediate needs this evening,
for I did not want them walking past this bedroom—certainly
not until we had finished a thorough examination, and the
more gruesome signs of death had been scrubbed away. Joe
pointed to the area at the opposite end of the hall by the
guest bath. "There's a back stairwell off the kitchen that
takes them up over there," he said. "I expect the family
uses it more regularly anyway, since it links these bedrooms
with the kitchen."
"Good. Then let's cordon off this room and the front
stairway; we can examine it again tomorrow, in first
morning's light."
We were lucky to have light at all this evening. The
Wingates had been among the first families in the area to
install electric lighting in their home, but each individual
light was placed so sporadically as to offer little real
advantage over the ever-growing darkness. Still, I continued
my work until well past seven o'clock.
After the county coroner's wagon arrived, and Dr. Fields
removed Sarah's body, I finished my examination of the room
in haste, for the blood splatters on the walls and bed were
almost as unsettling as her corpse itself. Her possessions
were spare, typical of a visiting guest. Opening the small
wardrobe, I discovered three shirtwaists, each plain with
large cuffs. They were next to two dark-colored skirts and a
pair of boots that buttoned up the side. There was a modern
Hammond typewriter at the desk, next to which was a
notebook. On its cover, Sarah Wingate had written her name,
as well as a title—THE RIEMANN HYPOTHESIS. Inside, line
after line was filled with mathematical symbols and
equations that resembled mere gibberish.
At the nightstand by the bed, there were two books: The
Ambassadors and Dracula. At the bottom of the stack was last
month's serialized installment of Edith Wharton's The House
of Mirth as well as the September issue of Harper's. Sarah
appeared to share popular literary tastes. Ten dollars was
shoved into the back of a drawer, as was a pamphlet entitled
Common Sense for Women's Suffrage.
I checked between the pages of each book, in each drawer,
and even in the pockets of each piece of clothing hanging in
the closet. But I found no letters, diary, or notes—in
short, no personal item that connected Sarah with anyone,
much less the person who had wanted to kill her.
I went on to explore the first floor of the house, checking
whether anything appeared to be amiss. In the kitchen, I
lingered a few moments; amid the odors of mulled spices and
baked fruit, I could almost forget the stench of death that
seemed to cling so tenaciously to my skin and clothes. I was
so preoccupied with my thoughts that I was startled to hear
Joe's voice calling me, insistent and loud.
"Ziele!" His voice echoed through the back hallway. "We need
you over here. You've got to take a look at this."
I followed the sound of his voice to a rear exit near the
back porch, where I became aware once again of the coroner's
wagon as it rumbled over the cobblestones of the Wingate
drive, departing for the county morgue. Through the door, I
saw a full moon gleaming in the stark November sky. A number
of glowing lights bounced up and down in the yard; they were
lanterns carried by our neighboring police reinforcements,
who had recently arrived and were searching the grounds
outside the house.
Joe met my gaze, and I noticed how his lined features
reflected the grim events we had endured this day. With a
flash of foreboding, I had the unsettling sensation that we
were being drawn into an even more complicated case than I'd
originally thought—one that would draw upon our every power
of deduction to unravel.