Chapter 1
Chapter One
Toronto - 29th, August 1925
It was the third such body that Detective Murdoch and Detective Watts had been called to investigate. Despite the early hour, it was already hot - the air stifling and humid, particularly in the narrow alley behind the distillery that dead-ended in a brick wall and a stack of worn wooden crates.
It had been a stressful few weeks in Toronto during what should have been a relatively quiet and lazy time of year. First there were the random acts of destruction; calls would come in to Station House Four about walls collapsing in bursts of brick and mortar. The lads were met with scenes of devastation in the streets, huge segments of buildings demolished, food carts torn to shreds, shops decimated, windows blasted apart and walls tumbled down. The scenes appeared as if bombs had gone off, but witnesses claimed there was neither smoke nor fire. The constabulary found no traces of explosives or shards of devices. It was as if a giant invisible fist had been randomly smashing apart sections of the city. The newspapers had had a field day...Miss Cherry in particular took great pleasure in it - “Bombless Bombs Bewilder Bumbling Coppers.” The Bombless Bombs mystery, as it was being called, drove them crazy for weeks.
Watts and Murdoch (with the help of Murdoch’s wife, Dr. Julia Ogden) had spent countless sleepless days and nights of experimentation and investigation. They’d called upon numerous experts in the fields of science, chemistry, physics, medicine, biology...even weather. They searched for patterns or explanations, yet despite all their efforts, they’d gotten nowhere.
Then they began finding bodies.
William Murdoch crossed himself as he reached the victim and recited the Requiem Aeternam under his breath.
Llewellyn Watts scratched at his neck and shifted uncomfortably in his suit jacket as he felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. It was brutally hot. Pulling out a handkerchief, he patted down his face, then used his hat to fan himself. Murdoch stood seemingly unaffected by the heat, watching pathologist Dr. Julia Ogden as she worked.
Even after working together so closely for so many years (and being married for a couple of them), he never grew tired of watching Julia at work. Her movements were always so precise and methodical yet carried a grace and a compassion for the victim that warmed his heart.
She pulled a billfold out of the man’s jacket and handed it to Detective Watts. Watts put his hat back on and flipped through.
“Money’s still in here - this wasn’t a robbery…”
Murdoch nodded. “I imagined as much. The previous two victims also showed no sign of robbery...then again, we’re assuming the connection because of the strange markings.”
“So you think it to be the work of a sequential killer?”
“I think it’s too much of a coincidence to believe otherwise.”
Watts nodded, then paused as he pulled out a card. “Reverend Ebenezer A. Winters. I wonder what he was doing in this part of town,” he said handing the card over the Murdoch.
Murdoch looked it over. “Have you anything for us, Julia?”
Dr. Ogden sat back on her heels and looked up at the detectives with a sigh.
“Well, there’s not much to be said...the cause of death appears to be the same as the other two victims - though we’ve yet to determine precisely whatcaused their deaths. In any case, he appears to exhibit the same thin lines of scarring to his face and hands as the other two victims. By my estimation, he could have been killed between two and six this morning, unfortunately, with this heat, that’s about as accurate as I can get at the moment.”
She got to her feet, and straightened her crisp blue dress.
“I hope the post-mortem will provide more information. I’ll get started straight away.”
“Thank you, Julia,” said Murdoch, though he still looked rather troubled.
“Yes, thank you, Doctor,” added Watts, looking up at her from his careful examination of the victim’s wallet.
Julia nodded to the morgue attendants who began to collect the unfortunate Rev. E. Winters.
She smiled sadly at Murdoch. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Murdoch sighed, “It’s just this case...it is proving exceedingly difficult. First the “bombless bombs” and now three suspicious murders, with no apparent cause of death…”
Julia kissed him chastely on the cheek. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’d be you and Detective Watts.”
She shot a smile at Watts, “Good day, Detective Watts. William, I’ll send word as soon as I have more for you.” She followed the morgue attendants up the alley to the waiting wagon. Murdoch turned to Watts and found him standing where the body had lain, carefully examining the wall with a pocket magnifying lens.
“Have you found anything of interest?”
Watts leaned away from the wall, and turned to look at Murdoch. “Take a look at this.”
William approached taking the glass and looking carefully at the soot-stained brick wall. Faint markings - thin lines that looked almost like lightning were spread across the wall. Murdoch’s stomach sank.
He looked at Watts. “These are the same markings as those on Reverend Winters and...”
Watts nodded emphatically, “And the other victims.”
Watts traced his finger along a section of the brick pensively, “It almost reminds me of jellyfish stings...like electric tendrils…”
Murdoch still looked flabbergasted, a look that was new for the stoic detective. “What on Earth could have caused this? To cause the same markings behind the victim...”
“Sirs,” came a voice. Constable George Crabtree approached with his notepad in hand.
“I spoke to the man who discovered the body - Mr. David Jones. He's a labourer at the distillery back this way. He was just starting his shift, bringing some supplies round back, when he stumbled upon the victim half an hour ago. He phoned it in - Mr. Jones was quite shocked, he thought perhaps it was a drunkard sleeping off a night of drink.”
“Did he recognize the man, George?” asked Murdoch.
“No, Sir.”
“Thank you, George. We’ll need to question everyone, see if we can find any witnesses.” He handed George the card. “The victim appears to be a Reverend Ebenezer Winters. We’ll need to find a next of kin to identify him, and find out what he was doing here in the wee hours of the morning.”
“Of course, Sir. The lads are already canvassing the area, trying to find if anyone noticed anything last night.”
“On the ball as usual, I see George,” said Watts with a crooked smile. George smiled and ducked his head. He paused a moment then cautiously looked up at them.
“Sirs, I think…” he stopped himself again, took a breath and started, “I realize that the information didn’t come from the most trustworthy source…”
Murdoch barely stopped himself rolling his eyes. Of course George would latch onto that ...the only “witness” that had come forward during their investigation of the previous body they’d discovered had been a man who was clearly mad with drink...or worse - he had been only vaguely coherent when he described the perpetrator who (he claimed) had murdered his drinking companion...
“George, if you’re referring to the drunkard who reported a ‘smoky ghost cloud’ ...”
“Sir, I know it sounds absurd, but please, hear me out! We’ve never seen anything like this! Your scientific experiments haven’t been able to explain-”
“Just because we haven’t been able to find an explanation yet doesn’t mean that one does not exist. It doesn’t mean we should resort to chasing ghosts . We are men of reason , Constable.”
“Plenty of rational men believe in ghosts, Sir! Look at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle!”
“Constable Crabtree,” huffed Murdoch, “Before we waste any time following the advice of such a questionable witness , I suggest we look for more reasonable explanations .”
George looked to Watts, who seemed to have difficulty containing his amusement.
“Constable,” Watts said finally, “I admire your enthusiasm and your desire to leave nary a stone unturned. In your inquiries, make notes of any odd detail that witnesses might have noticed, terrestrial or otherwise.” Placing his hand on Crabtree's shoulder, he deftly led him away from Murdoch and back up the alley. “Be careful not to ask leading questions however, we must be impartial as we collect information. Let your conclusions be derived from the facts rather than seeking facts to prove your conclusion.” With one last pat on the shoulder, he sent Crabtree on his way.
“Thank you, Sir!” called George, as he took off with a spring to his step. Watts turned back to Murdoch who looked entirely unimpressed.
“You shouldn’t encourage him, Detective Watts! George is a great policeman, and would make an excellent detective if he could keep his mind on this realm of reality .”
Watts merely shrugged, “George can get quite fantastical, yes, but in a case such as this where we have precious little to go on, any clue, no matter how absurd might prove to be of value. It was Bertrand Russell who said, ‘Whoever wishes to become a philosopher must learn not to be frightened by absurdities.’ I try to keep an open mind. Everything seems irrational and outlandish until proven. Think of the ridicule and condemnation Copernicus and Galileo faced when they presented the Heliocentric model of the Solar System. We are rational, yes, men of reason, and it’s likely that the inebriated chap is seeing things-”
Murdoch scoffed, “Quite likely.”
“But we also don’t know how the attacks are being perpetrated. For all we know it could be caused by-”
“A smoke monster?” said Murdoch sardonically, with raised eyebrows.
“Or, some sort of...toxic chemical cloud that could cause such hallucinations...a new weapon perhaps, an elaborate hoax to frighten the residents of Toronto and cover up a series of crimes...Whoever is perpetrating these crimes by whatever means...any details, no matter how outlandish or trivial-seeming, could paint us a broader picture.”
At this Murdoch paused. “Perhaps you may have a point.”
Watts smiled, “Come, Detective, let’s track down this alleged Smoke Monster .”
* * * * * * *
A few streets away, a boy with black hair stood anxiously at an upstairs window. The glass was grimy, the sill weathered and in need of a fresh coat of paint. He tried to distract himself with the tiny details, like counting the striations in the wood of the sill but to no avail. His heart was hammering loudly in his chest, though not loudly enough to drown out the noises from below. He felt something swirl inside him.
He could hear shouting from downstairs in the chapel. Then there was a sharp slap and he heard a young voice cry out in pain. Then he heard the sound of more strikes land and a soft wailing cry. He began to shake.
All too soon, he heard the squeak of the noisy floorboard just outside the door of the tiny, bare and impersonal room he shared with his siblings. As the door creaked open, his breath caught, and he tried to ready himself for the inevitable, his body still sore from his last beating.
* * * * * * *