The Truth of All Things Read online

  “I haven’t ignored it at all. And no, it’s not foreign. Quite the contrary—an indigenous tongue.”

  Lean felt his face wrinkle. “A what, now?”

  “A native tongue. The language of the Abenaki tribes of Maine and New Hampshire.”

  Dr. Steig grinned. “Well then, a wonderful coincidence that I called you here.”

  “Coincidence?” Grey appeared almost offended by the word. “No. More likely your mind held some faint memory of having seen the language. An inkling that made you think to summon me in the first place.”

  Lean edged forward. “So what does it say?”

  “Kia K’tabaldamwogan paiomwiji.” Grey studied the language for another moment. “I haven’t spoken it in many years. I’d say: ‘You … your reign, or maybe kingdom, has arrived.’ ”

  Within seconds it hit Lean. “ ‘Thy kingdom come’?”

  Grey nodded at Lean. “ ‘Thy kingdom come.’ ”

  “The killer is an Indian,” Ingraham declared.

  Grey held up a finger. “The killer can write in the Abenaki language. Nothing more is yet proved.”

  Lean gave a small snort. “The evidence is quite damning, Grey. You must be sorry to see that he’s one of your people.”

  Grey regarded him for a long moment, and Lean felt that, in some sense, his own measure was being taken. Perhaps he’d insulted the man somehow. “It’s no reflection on you, of course. Don’t let that concern you.”

  Grey turned back to the chalk writing once more and said in a detached voice, “At the moment my only concern is with the one glaring question that is truly confounding me.”

  “Just the one question, eh?” Lean couldn’t resist smirking at the effortless way Grey tossed out his conceits.

  “Yes. Given the horrific and sensational display our man has set out for us here … how is it that we have never heard any news of his first victim?”

  “First victim?” Mayor Ingraham called out from where he’d been standing aside, watching the proceedings with evident distaste.

  “What the devil are you on about?” asked Lean.

  “Tell me, Deputy, do you introduce the missus as your second wife?”

  “What? No, I’ve only been married once.”

  “Precisely. You simply don’t designate something as number two if there’s never been a number one.” Grey began to pace on a short course between the body and the metal sheet with the bloody lines. “He burned two candles. Left the stubs at the right foot and right hand. Two points of five on the body; hands, feet, and head splayed out in a pentagram. The angle formed by those two extremities matches those bloody streaks he drew.”

  “Like a star,” Lean said, picturing his young son’s drawings, crisscrossing pencil lines forming a warped, five-pointed figure in a paper sky.

  “Add to that he’s gone to the trouble of quoting the Lord’s Prayer. But only the second line. That makes three separate markings he’s left behind. All indicating a connection with the number two.”

  “What does it mean?” asked Dr. Steig.

  Grey shook his head. “A compelling puzzle. And once we have gleaned all we can from this location, I believe we will be forced to turn our attention to finding the first victim. Our man is going through quite a bit of trouble to paint us a picture. And right now we are missing half the canvas. We need to understand more of what he has done.”

  “Well,” said the doctor, his eyes alight, “I should hope to learn something more once I get a proper look at the body.”

  Lean paused from his frantic note taking. “I know you’ve got your own examination room, Doctor, but we’ll have to do this one by the book. Maine General Hospital.”

  The doctor nodded agreement as the sound of approaching carriage wheels grew louder.

  “Must be the photographer. You can take the body as soon as he’s done,” said Lean.

  “Then we can join you at the hospital after we collect one more piece of evidence and interview the watchman,” said Grey.

  “I thought you were otherwise occupied. Could only offer a quick review,” Lean said. “Why the sudden change? That Abenaki writing give you a personal interest?”

  “My willingness to take on this inquiry is born not of any personal interest but rather of pure and utter fear.” Grey stepped close and stared into Lean’s eyes. “Fear that the police department will conduct the investigation with the same lack of perception and imagination that they typically display. Fear that, given the complexity of this matter, the murderer will go free as a result.”

  The two detectives remained fixed against each other until Dr. Steig interrupted. “Lean, shouldn’t you see about the photographer?”

  “Yes,” Grey agreed, “you may want to go and safeguard his expensive equipment. There are criminals about, you know!”

  “Your man’s quite a charming fellow,” Lean said as he walked to the exit with Dr. Steig and the mayor.

  The doctor smiled. “He can actually be rather engaging, once you get to know him.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Outside, Dr. Steig’s driver was busy helping the photographer unload his cumbersome gear. Mayor Ingraham motioned to his own driver, parked across the courtyard.

  “Gentlemen, I shall gladly leave the postmortem and the rest to you. The vision of the body is already enough to trouble my sleep for some time to come. Good night, Doctor.” The mayor then turned his attention to Lean. “Deputy, I shall eagerly await word of your investigation’s progress.”

  Lean couldn’t mistake the mayor’s meaning. This was his investigation alone; neither Dr. Steig nor Perceval Grey would be held to answer for the failure to apprehend the murderer. Forty-five minutes later, Lean watched the doctor’s carriage rumble away into the darkness. The photographer had finished his work, and Dr. Steig was heading to the west end of town to conduct the autopsy. Lean glanced to his left, not yet seeing the first hint of morning at the far edge of the ocean. A few faint sounds drifted up from the easternmost wharves as the Portland waterfront stirred to life.

  Inside, Perceval Grey waited, pitchfork in hand, by the exposed circle of earth that had held the corpse minutes earlier. It had taken both men to wrest the grisly tool from the ground and free the body.

  “Say, standing there near a puddle of blood with a dark look in your eyes and a hay fork in hand—you remind me of someone,” Lean said.

  Grey handed the pitchfork over to Lean. “Such a wit for a police officer. Further proof that you have missed your true calling.”

  “Oh, and what might my true calling be?”

  “Anything other than a police officer.”

  Lean offered a weary smile. “Tonight I might just agree with you.” He brandished the pitchfork. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Here.” Grey gestured to the exposed earth where the woman’s head had been. “Away from where the blood has softened the soil.”

  Lean cocked an eyebrow.

  “I’ve marked on the prongs just how far into the earth our man was able to penetrate.”

  Lean noticed the white chalk line about five inches high on the iron prong. “Got it in pretty good, didn’t he?”

  “Especially when you consider that the dirt is hard packed and he had to get it through her neck. If my suspicions are true, we’re dealing with a man possessed of remarkable strength.”

  “And yet a little fellow by his stride and shoe size.” Lean had hardly slept in almost twenty-four hours, but the thought that this experiment might help draw the picture of the man they were looking for, as well as the prospect of being shown up by some murderous little runt, suddenly invigorated the deputy. He doffed his woolen coat and tossed it aside, spit into his palms, and practiced his grip on the long wooden handle.

  “Come now, Lean.”

  “A moment. Need to stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, and all that.” He swung his arms side to side, readying for a full-bodied effort. Lean jerked the pitchfork up with both arms s
o that the prongs loomed for a second before his eyes, then he drove it straight down with every bit of strength he could muster. A groan escaped him as the iron tips bit into the hard dirt.

  Grey knelt down to mark the same prong. “A valiant effort. But you’re an inch and a half shy of our man’s mark.”

  “Damn. I gave it my all.” Lean examined the disparity in the chalk marks and let out a low whistle. “What sort of fiend are we dealing with?”

  “Don’t be too critical. Your effort was fueled by curiosity and a touch of pride. Our man’s was motivated by something deeper and wholly more violent.” Grey set the pitchfork aside, then motioned for Lean to lead the way. “Now the side entrance.”

  “Broken glass underfoot,” Lean noted as they exited the machine shop by its side door. The top half held tall three-over-three glass panes. The right one in the bottom row had been shattered.

  Grey examined the panes from both sides before following Lean into the alleyway between the long machine shop and the shorter erecting shop that ran parallel. It was dark there; the electric light post set a few feet away was out. Grey held his lamp high, examining the scene around the side door.

  “This is where they entered.” Lean began to step forward.

  “A moment, please.” Grey edged sideways along the machine shop’s outer wall, then moved in a half circle around the door, eyes fixed on the ground. When he completed his path, he turned his attention toward the unlit streetlight.

  “Watchman said it went out tonight. A bird struck it,” Lean said.

  Grey made a curt noise in response. Lean thought it was a laugh, though there had been an element of anger in the sound. He watched Grey move several yards past the lamppost and kneel. His lantern revealed a dead pigeon.

  “Interesting.” Grey squatted, set the lamp down, and examined the dead bird from several angles. “Meant to look like it had flown into and busted the light.”

  “You suspect foul play?” Lean allowed himself a smile. “Perhaps the bird was a witness.”

  “An accomplice, actually. An unwilling one, but an accomplice nevertheless. See here, the neck was twisted. And it was originally placed closer to the streetlamp and side door.” Grey motioned to the ground nearby, where Lean could see several scuff marks in the dirt. “The watchman walks with a limp?”

  “Yes. You think he’s involved?”

  Grey answered only with a noncommittal tilt of his head before he stood, lamp in hand, and started walking down the alley toward the front of the Portland Company and the watchman’s shack. He paused briefly at a corner of the erecting shop where another, perpendicular alley ran away from the machine shop. Grey continued on, often bending down with the lamp inches from the ground, peering at some seemingly invisible object for long moments. Then he would spring up and stride forward or backtrack several steps and repeat the process. After several minutes he returned to the corner of the erecting shop’s building.

  “Here. The killer stood here. The watchman’s door is visible. Come, Lean, notice on the ground one set of firmer footprints, with scuffling all about. He waited for a long while, grew restless, and shifted his feet around. He was here long enough to smoke four cigarettes at intervals.” Grey bent down and picked up a hand-rolled cigarette butt.

  “There’s only three butts,” Lean noted.

  “Four matches.”

  Grey unwrapped the last bit of the cigarette and held the exposed tobacco to his nose. Lean thought he saw a flash of surprise on Grey’s face. He dropped the material and bent to collect the two remaining butts. He examined each, turning them all around to inspect them from multiple angles.

  “What do you see?” Lean asked.

  “It’s nothing important. He was still smoking the last when something occurred, caused him to move.” Grey dropped one of the cigarettes to the ground as the other disappeared into a jacket pocket. Before Lean could ask another question, Grey turned and moved down the narrow perpendicular alley with his lamp held low to the ground. “He dashed away.”

  Lean picked up the discarded cigarette butt and sniffed it. It had an unusual, acrid scent that was mildly offensive. He slipped it into his shirt pocket, then followed after, pausing wherever Grey had. He too could make out the occasional imprint of a foot. At the end of the short alley, the ground turned to cobblestone.

  “Well, that’s the end of that,” Lean said.

  Grey shook his head and handed his lamp to Lean. “Keep the light abreast of me but stay four feet from the side of the building.”

  Lean followed the instructions as Grey got close to the ground and proceeded, sometimes on hands and knees, his head bobbing and swaying this way and that as he moved along. Lean watched, totally perplexed, but dutifully holding the lamp closer when asked. Grey would pause to examine loose rocks or pluck strands of weeds from the earth, which he would then peer at and sniff. There was something almost wild about Grey’s behavior, and Lean became conscious of the fact that anyone observing them would have thought them both mad.

  “What exactly are you doing?”

  Grey answered without diverting his gaze from the ground. “Our man wishes to conceal himself in the night. It’s human instinct to move along walls. Moving quickly, he’s bound to leave traces. Like so.”

  Lean swung the lamp close and peered at Grey, who reached into the crevice between two cobblestones, his index finger now marked with a dark smudge. Grey gave it a smell.

  “Tobacco ash. The same mix.” He stood and brushed off his knees. “He came along here, as far as the corner, anyway.”

  They continued until they reached the corner, where they had a fine view of the Portland Company’s front courtyard, including the watchman’s shack. In the lit windows, they could plainly make out the watchman and the patrolman who had first responded to the scene. Grey walked ahead, stopped, stepped aside, and retrieved a half-smoked cigarette from the ground. He smelled it to confirm the contents, examined the external appearance, then slipped it into his pocket.

  “He’s trying not to be seen, yet he heads straight for the watchman?” Lean stared ahead at the outbuilding. “He’s mad.”

  “I suspect not. But the answer is waiting in there,” Grey said as he strode toward the small shack.

  “Tell me, Tibbets, how long has that limp of yours been keeping you from making your regular rounds?” Grey asked.

  “What? Not at all. I make my rounds like I’m supposed to. Every hour.” The stocky, balding watchman shifted about in his seat as his eyes darted back and forth between Grey and Lean, looking futilely for some safe harbor. Lean thought the man appeared drunk; his words were slow and careless.

  “Come now, your limp is pronounced. The night’s damp. Sitting here in your shack only stiffens the joints further. No one is blaming you for this.”

  “I’m paid to go every hour—”

  “Your boss doesn’t need to hear any of this,” said Lean, “so just answer the question.”

  The watchman rubbed his fingertips together, contemplating his options while staring into the dark gaze of Perceval Grey. “All right then, as you say. It ain’t so bad usually. Just this past week’s been worse than ever. I’ve been promising my wife I’ll go down to the druggist shop for them drops her sister’s always carping on about helping the rheumatism in her hands—”

  Grey held up his own hand to stop the unnecessary tale. “Just a week, then? Before then you were making your rounds timely?”

  “Yeah.” The man’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed, a combination of relief and defeat. “Been doing one roundabout soon as I get here and another before sunup. If I’d known that something like this would happen, I’d have said something, let someone else take my rounds. But I can’t lose the work, you know?”

  “You needn’t trouble yourself,” Grey said. “Walking your rounds would not have saved that girl. Now, let’s have a look at your bottle.” The watchman’s eyes went wide and his lips parted, but the protest of temperance died in his throat. With s
omething of an effort, he leaned down to an overturned wooden crate and retrieved a bottle from inside. Grey examined the bottle, removed the loose cap, sniffed the contents, and handed it over to Lean. “The closure is of interest.”

  Lean glanced at the bottle’s top. It was not the more common lightning-type closure that had a metal wire toggle atop the stopper. This one was a loop seal: a disk with a metal loop on top and a rubber convex bottom forced into the mouth of the bottle. It was favored by bootleg bottlers since it was cheaper, but it was only a one-timer, not reusable like the lightning type. Once it was yanked out by means of a small hook, the rubber stopper expanded, rendering it impossible to completely reseal. Lean also sniffed the bottle; it smelled of cheap beer, though a bit off. Unlike the stopper, the bottle would have been used many times over and might not have been cleaned after its last use.

  “It’s just beer, no booze. And you see I only drank half it anyways,” said the watchman.

  “Fortunate for you. You’ve been drugged. If you’d emptied the bottle, you’d still be unconscious. You bring the same kind every night?” Grey said.

  “Most every.”

  “You open it before your first inspection of the property?”

  “Nah, I wait till after the first walk round. Done about ten o’clock.” The watchman wiped his lips with the back side of his hand. “Work up a thirst and all.”

  “What time did you hear the bird crash into the lamp by the machine shop’s side door?”

  “Right about ten twenty.” He stopped short and stared suspiciously at Grey.

  “You looked at your pocketwatch?”

  “No, but the Montrealer gets in at ten past ten. And it was just a bit after that I heard a bunch of fellas wandering this way from off the train. Carrying on loud enough to get me up to take a look. Could practically smell the Canadian Rye on ’em all the way up here. They made it a few hundred yards from the station ’fore they seen they were heading toward the ocean instead of the city.”

  “So you noticed the light was out, went to investigate, realized that the bird had busted the lamp, and returned here. Then what?”