Page 2 of Equalizer (Sharps & Springfield #2)

Chapter 2

Owen

N o one saw the bodies being moved?” Owen focused his attention on the coroner while Calvin looked around the Cook County Morgue. Calvin bumped a corner of the desk and knocked a fountain pen on the floor, which he picked up and replaced in its spot after a momentary hesitation only Owen was likely to notice.

“I would have told the police if they had,” Dr. Parker said sharply. He was a thin man with a prominent nose and pointed jaw, adding up to a hawkish appearance. “I’m probably more concerned than anyone over the sanctity of the bodies we handle here. But if you’re thinking someone’s pulling another ‘Burke and Hare,’ I believe you’re wrong.”

The two London body snatchers had their heyday seventy years before, but they remained infamous, synonymous with their crime and a boogeymen tale to frighten children.

“Why?” Calvin came back to stand beside Owen. They traded a wordless glance that Owen took to mean Calvin had seen something interesting but didn’t want to comment in front of Parker.

“I’m still tied into the academic medical circles,” Parker said. “If someone was supplying illicit dissection bodies, I’m pretty sure I would have heard. And after that big scandal forty years ago that the Pinkertons cleaned up, no one legitimate would dare deal with body snatchers.”

Owen had heard of that case. The police and the city government at the time were so corrupt that the city sexton himself had been found complicit in the crime.

“People will do just about anything if the money is good enough,” Calvin remarked. “They always think they won’t be the ones that get caught.”

“I don’t have any leads on the recent disappearances,” Parker said. “But I did recognize the name of the guy they said had gone missing after the gas line explosion. Marvin Cobb, a reporter. He had been doing a story on the bodies that went missing.”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Interesting coincidence.”

“Did you ever meet Mr. Cobb?” Calvin asked.

“More than once. The guy was relentless, which I guess is good in his line of work, but I’m betting he went poking the wrong people,” Parker replied. “Polite enough, but he was like a dog with a bone. I didn’t have anything to hide, but I got tired of him showing up with questions after every incident. If I knew anything—and I didn’t—I’d have already told the cops, not a reporter.”

“Do you have any idea of who else Cobb might have spoken with?” Owen believed Parker but couldn’t shake the hunch that they were missing something.

“There’s the city morgue and ours,” Parker answered. “We’re the big ones. But every local hospital has to have a place to keep the dead until the bodies can be sent on, even if they aren’t equipped to do autopsies. The same is true for the big institutions like sanitariums, orphanages, and the mental asylum. People die, and either families claim them, or they’re sent to the potter’s field.”

“You think Cobb made the rounds?” Owen asked.

“He seemed like a thorough guy, so I figured he would. I don’t know all the people who run the other morgues—we don’t have a secret coroner club—but I’ve met some of those men, and they don’t seem the type to make an easy buck off the dead,” Parker said.

Owen withdrew a card from his wallet and handed it to Parker. “We’ll be in town for a while, so if you hear anything you think we ought to know, you can contact us here.”

Parker took the card and frowned. “Why is the Secret Service so interested in missing bodies? No one famous or important has been taken.”

“National security,” Owen fibbed. “Until we know what the body thief is doing with the corpses, we don’t know the extent of the criminal activities involved. Best to nip the problem in the bud.”

The coroner pocketed the card. “I doubt I’ll come across any new scuttlebutt, but I’ll let you know if I do. This sort of thing is bad for everyone. Erodes confidence in the system. Bereaved families shouldn’t need to worry about such things.”

They thanked Parker and headed back to their rented carriage. Despite being a cold, gray day, the sun made Owen squint after the cellar morgue.

“You think he’s telling the truth?” Calvin asked.

“Yeah, I do. There’s clearly something organized going on, but I don’t think Parker is part of it,” Owen replied. “Did you read anything from his pen?”

Calvin wasn’t a medium like Owen; his ability was psychometry, the ability to read the history of objects by touching them. “He’s generally grumpy, thinks he’s overworked, and resents his boss,” Calvin replied. “I didn’t pick up any of the nervousness I’d expect if he were involved in something illegal. I don’t think he’s a risk-taking kind of guy.”

“I guess there are worse things to touch in a morgue than a pen,” Owen remarked.

Calvin rolled his eyes. “Much worse.”

Owen and Calvin entered the carriage, where Winston waited as their driver. He had a city map spread out on the driver’s seat next to him.

“Where to next?” He gave the horses a gentle tap of the reins.

Owen thought for a moment. “If the body snatchers can spirit corpses out of the largest morgue in the city, what have they been doing with the smaller ones that are probably less well-organized?”

“It begs the question of how many bodies they need and what they’re doing with them,” Calvin pointed out.

“There aren’t a whole lot of options,” Owen replied. “Either we’ve got a crazy necromancer raising an army of the dead—which I think someone would have already noticed—or they’re being used for some sort of experimentation.”

“So many?” Calvin asked. “We’ve heard of ten so far.”

Owen shrugged. “Bodies don’t keep, even if someone puts them in a refrigerator. And unless the thieves have taken to doing murder, people might not die at convenient times when a new corpse is needed. Which would explain the grave robberies.”

In addition to bodies disappearing from the City Morgue, Calvin and Owen had caught whispers of recent incidents at the paupers’ cemetery, where the thieves might have figured no one cared enough to investigate.

“Let’s check out the institutions and then the smaller hospitals,” Calvin suggested. “They probably don’t have the same level of security.” He gave Winston the name of the next place to visit.

Owen also suspected that the residents of the asylum and sanitariums might not have any family to notice their deaths or the means to raise a fuss if they did.

“I’m curious to see what use the bodies are being put to since the robbers don’t seem to be picky about the cause of death,” Calvin said as they jostled along. “For a medical school, they could make a lesson out of whatever the poor bastard died from. But usually people want their raw materials in good shape.”

“Raw materials? God, Calvin.”

“Think about it,” Calvin persisted. “Maybe it’s a crazed chemist trying to distill the elixir of life out of brains and livers or some such. I’ve heard theories that someday doctors could take an organ from one body and put it into another and have the receiving person improve.”

“From a dead body?” Owen echoed, horrified.

“Some fellow took part of a thyroid from one person and stitched it into someone else, and the guy who received it lived—and did better,” Calvin replied. “That was more than ten years ago. The research raises all kinds of uproar from the Church and plenty of ethics worries, but it’s clearly possible.”

“Damn. So what do you think? Rich people finding a match and stealing parts from poor blighters?”

Calvin shrugged. “Could be. Wouldn’t be out of character. They steal everything else.”

Owen frowned, thinking. “If there’s money involved, the Mob is usually quick to find an angle. Do you think they’re tangled up in this? Think about it—some desperate rich guy hires a mobster to find a match for whatever he needs, and the Mob delivers. Mobsters do worse than rob graves on a daily basis.”

“That’s an angle I hadn’t considered,” Calvin said. “But you’re right—the Mafia doesn’t usually miss a trick if there’s a business opportunity. If that’s true, then we need to watch our backs. They won’t like us butting in on their venture.”

They headed for Dunning Asylum. “Hold up,” Owen said sharply. Winston paused as the massive, rambling structure came into view.

Calvin gave Owen a worried look. “What’s wrong?”

Owen winced at the press of spirits around him, reaching out with empty eyes and grasping hands, warning them away and clutching at their warmth.

“So…many…ghosts,” he managed.

Calvin pressed a small bag of salt into Owen’s hands, and the ghosts receded, giving him a chance to catch his breath. “They’re warning us away,” he said a few minutes later. “Telling us that if we come here, we’ll never be allowed to leave. They weren’t.”

Everyone in Chicago had heard of Dunning Asylum. It had grown from a poorhouse to include a tuberculosis sanitarium, a hospital for the mentally ill, and a large cemetery where unclaimed bodies from the general public were sent for burial, as well as the asylum’s dead residents. Conditions were rumored to be abysmal, and adults often threatened children that they would be sent to Dunning if they misbehaved.

“That’s certainly cheery,” Calvin said. “Your call—go on or go back? The press of souls is likely to get worse.” He reached over and took Owen’s hand, hidden beneath their heavy cloaks.

Owen appreciated Calvin’s concern and took a moment to sort his impressions. The ghosts frantically cautioned them but made no move to cause harm.

“We need to talk to the asylum’s coroner,” Owen said. “This would be an ideal place for bodies to be stolen. People end up here because they have no one to look after them. No one would be asking for their remains to make arrangements when they die, either.”

The massive Kirkbride-style hospital stretched across the ridge of the next hill, with Richardson Romanesque towers and turrets like a dark mage’s castle.

“The original idea for the design was noble,” Owen mused aloud. “Trying to maximize light and air to the rooms and hallways instead of a big box. The hospitals were considered enlightened and revolutionary—but according to the reformers, the reality hasn’t lived up to the ideals.”

Winston drove them up to the front entrance. “I’ll be over there.” He pointed to an area for coaches. “In case we need to make a quick exit.” He patted the broad sweep of his cape to indicate his gun.

“Hoping that’s not needed,” Calvin said under his breath. Owen had a strong suspicion otherwise.

They were dressed in suits and cloaks, so their appearance gave no pretext to turn them away, and they walked in through the main doors as if they belonged. Signs directed them to the morgue, although even without them, Owen would have guessed the basement.

His mental shielding kept the ghosts at bay, although it didn’t mute them completely. Those who didn’t try to speak to him flitted past them in the hallways, still trapped even after death. Most of those pale revenants were repeaters, wispy images that no longer retained much of the spirit’s personality or memory.

Newer, stronger ghosts watched them pass with baleful glances and flashes of erratic energy. Thanks to the salt and silver they carried, as well as protective charms and the matching warding tattoos Owen had recently talked Calvin into getting, the ghosts didn’t try to harm them, but Owen couldn’t imagine how the hospital workers faced spending their days within the haunted halls.

“This is a huge building,” Calvin murmured. “Like a castle of the damned.” Owen noticed that Calvin kept his right hand clasped on his left wrist, doing his best to avoid touching anything.

The ghosts are bad enough. I wouldn’t want to know what the walls remember.

“Good intentions gone horribly wrong,” Owen replied. They found the morgue, and Owen opened the door.

The smell of formaldehyde and decay assaulted them when they stepped inside. This morgue was easily as large or larger than the one at the county hospital, reminding Owen of how many people were sent here and never left except in death.

At the moment, no one was in sight. Calvin and Owen seized the opportunity to have a look around, taking in the number of slabs and drawers and the general condition of the space. It wasn’t quite as tidy or organized as the County Hospital, making Owen wonder whether that spoke to the professionalism of the staff or the burden of a constant influx of the dead.

“What are you doing here?” A florid-faced man with thinning gray hair bustled in from the next room. He wore a white lab coat, and his expression of righteous indignation suggested to Owen that they had just met Dunning’s coroner.

“We’re investigating the recent disappearances of bodies from morgues, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.” Owen left out sharing their credentials for the moment.

“I don’t know anything about that. You’re not authorized. Get out,” the coroner snapped. “You can’t just barge in here.”

“This is public property,” Calvin pointed out. “And the public has a right to know if their family members’ remains are being treated with respect.”

The coroner gave a bitter laugh. “You think they care? Those families didn’t give a damn about these poor bastards when they were alive. They’d probably thank someone for Burking the body and saving them burial expenses.”

Owen hadn’t expected quite such a cold assessment, even if he suspected it might be true for many of the patients.

“Do you think that’s what happened?” Calvin picked up on the coroner’s slang term for body snatching. “Families offering the dead to someone who will take the corpse off their hands?”

“That’s not what I said,” the doctor protested, going pale. “You’re twisting my words.”

“We asked about missing bodies. You brought up body thieves. We’re just looking for answers,” Owen replied levelly. The doctor’s agitation made him wonder whether the man just took umbrage to having his reputation tainted or had darker reasons for fearing investigation.

“I don’t have anything to tell you,” the doctor maintained as his initial discomfort morphed into rage. “Get out, or I’ll have security throw you out.”

Calvin and Owen exchanged a look. “Sounds like you’re covering something up.” Owen hoped to provoke the coroner into revealing something useful.

“There are over one thousand patients here, nearly all of them in a bad way. Tuberculosis, scurvy, mental problems, all the things that come with too much alcohol and too little good food. They have one foot in the grave when they’re sent here. We do the best we can. The last thing we need is a couple of muckraking reporters stirring up trouble. Get out.”

Calvin and Owen exchanged a look, and Owen gave the man an inscrutable smile. “Suit yourself.”

“What does that mean?” As angry as the coroner was, Owen saw a hint of uneasiness in his eyes.

“We were going to give you a chance to provide insight into the story. It will go on without you—and we’ll note that Dunning was uncooperative. People will come to their own conclusions about why,” Owen said with a shrug.

Owen understood the man’s reticence to talk with reporters, but the missing bodies story had gotten a lot of press and was practically tailor-made for gossip.

The man swallowed like a gigged fish, managing to look even more pale. “I don’t know anything about missing bodies.”

“You’re in charge, aren’t you?” Calvin cocked his head inquisitively. “Even if it didn’t happen on your watch, you should get reports, right?”

“I’m not here twenty-four hours a day,” he protested. “This is a big complex. People come and go. When a death happens, the body is brought here. The next shift takes care of it. We only have one person on staff at night. They can’t be everywhere at once.”

“And no one told you that five bodies have been reported missing in the last two months?” Owen picked up the questions.

The coroner wiped a hand across his sweaty forehead. “Maybe. It gets busy here. What was I supposed to do about it? Cops don’t care any more than the families do.”

The man’s complete lack of concern for the humanity of the hospital’s patients made Owen angry, forcing him to tamp down on his reaction before he took a swing at the coroner.

“How about launching an internal investigation to figure out who is stealing corpses?” Owen replied. “Did you even ask around? Or did you figure someone did you a favor because there were five fewer bodies to bury?” He hoped his pointed comment would goad the coroner into saying more than he intended.

“A janitor got fired, so I heard. Didn’t know the man. He worked the night shift. That’s all I heard. Why he did it and what became of the bodies, I have no idea,” the man retorted. “Now get out of my morgue.”

“Thank you for your time,” Calvin said as they departed, managing a civil tone that Owen couldn’t have mustered.

They didn’t speak until after they were in the carriage, and Winston headed out of the institution’s gates.

“Well, that was interesting,” Owen said in a tart tone.

Calvin gave a dark chuckle. “I guess you can call it that. There wasn’t anything handy for me to read by touch except the mortuary tools, and that’s a hard no.” He shivered. “The coroner certainly didn’t give a damn about the missing bodies until he realized the situation might reflect badly on him. Do you think he’s involved?”

Owen paused to think for a moment, then shook his head. “No—he’s too lazy. He might accept a bribe to look the other way or be out of the morgue at a particular time so the theft could happen, but he doesn’t strike me as industrious enough to come up with the scheme himself.”

“Hmm. I guess you’re right. It’s bad enough that he’s like that at Dunning, where no one seems to give a rat’s ass about the patients, but I hope he isn’t the standard for hospital morgues,” Calvin replied, his feelings clear in his tone.

“Not that it’s an excuse, but I would imagine that to be a tough job for someone with empathy,” Owen grudgingly admitted.

“Your patients aren’t ever going to get better. At most you can bring closure. When the families are involved, that might be gratifying, feeling that you helped them let go. But a place like Dunning? How do you work somewhere that houses one thousand people no one cares about? I’d think you’d have to learn not to care as well, or it would be overwhelmingly depressing,” Owen said.

Calvin took his hand, threading their fingers together, and let their knees bump in a gesture of reassurance. “All the more reason for us to get to the bottom of the thefts. And we will.”

Owen squeezed Calvin’s hand, appreciating the support.

“It was like that back in Boston…” Calvin looked out the window instead of at Owen. He rarely spoke about his rough younger days, and Owen watched him closely as he talked. “People talk about how awful the street gangs were—and they definitely were bad—but the gangs formed because no one else cared.

“The cops couldn’t be bothered, so when there were thefts, or someone got beat up, the gangs handled it. But no one hears about how they got food to people who were hungry or took up a collection if someone needed medicine,” Calvin went on. “The Church didn’t take care of everyone, especially the people it didn’t consider to be deserving. Neither did the aid societies. We did what we could.”

Even if the money passed on as charity was stolen. Like they say, needs must when the devil drives.

Owen looked at their joined hands, running his thumb over Calvin’s enlarged knuckles. Calvin flinched. Owen understood. No matter how much he dressed up or how fine his clothing, one look at his hands marked him as a brawler. That was another reason Calvin fancied thin leather gloves in the winter, which hid his damaged hands and helped him avoid getting a psychic reading from everything he touched.

“Had to learn to hold my own in the gang. At least when I went into the Army, I knew how to fight. By the time I came back, a lot of the guys I ran with were dead or in jail. I was lucky my father gave me an ultimatum about going into the military, or I probably would have gone the same way,” Calvin added.

Owen raised their hands and pressed a kiss to Calvin’s. “I’m glad you got out. You did the best you could with the cards you were dealt. There’s no shame in that.”

“Not to you, and that’s one more thing I love about you,” Calvin replied. “But a lot of other people aren’t so charitable. I was lucky I didn’t have an arrest record when I mustered in. I deserved one—I just didn’t get caught.”

Owen watched Calvin closely. “What you saw growing up, it helps you see those patients at Dunning as people. That’s a good thing to come out of a bad situation.”

Calvin sighed and squeezed Owen’s hand again. “I guess so. But it makes it all the harder to get to the bottom of the thefts when the cops and authorities aren’t going to care more than that coroner did. They don’t want the bad headlines, so they’ll have to look like they’re doing something, but if it weren’t for that, they wouldn’t bother.”

“Then we’ll embarrass them into it with the help of our muckraking reporter friends.” Owen tried to cheer Calvin. “Get them to do right in spite of themselves.”

The Dunning campus sprawled over one hundred and sixty acres. That included the poor farm where residents grew crops as well as space for the buildings and a large cemetery to accommodate the dead no one else claimed.

“The cemetery serves the whole county,” Owen pointed out as Winston pulled up to the modest gates. Unlike the large stone entranceways at Chicago’s private cemeteries, the Cook County Cemetery had two brick pillars with a wrought iron sign between them, probably erected with labor from the residents.

“All of the other hospitals, foundling homes, and halfway houses send their unclaimed dead to be buried here, as well as the Dunning corpses,” he added, remembering his research. “They might not be quite as fresh as stealing them out of the morgue, but there have been several recent graveyard thefts as well, so whoever wants the bodies doesn’t care.”

Calvin frowned, looking out the carriage window. “No headstones or mausoleums—or statues. Not even a cross or an angel. Hardly any trees or bushes. It’s just empty. That’s sad.”

“I imagine there are plot records somewhere—but maybe not,” Owen said. “For the John Does, there’s no name to record. The Tuberculosis sanitarium probably used mass graves at the worst of the plague.” The emptiness of the cemetery seemed a final indignity, making the plight of those buried here even more stark.

“I’d hope that even grave robbers have higher standards than taking plague bodies,” Calvin replied, wrinkling his nose. “I can’t imagine they’d be good for anything. Certainly not for stealing parts to reuse, if we’re right about that.”

“Let’s walk around and see if we can spot recently disturbed graves,” Owen said. “There should at least be records to indicate when new bodies are interred. If it’s not in the records—it’s unofficial and probably a robbery.”

Another carriage pulled in behind them. Calvin and Owen exchanged a glance. Up front, Winston shifted so that one hand was on the gun beneath his cloak.

Owen nodded and opened his door as Calvin did the same. Four cops spilled out of the other carriage.

“How can we help you, officers?” Owen came around to stand beside Calvin. Winston slid to one side, no doubt to have a better shot if it came to violence.

“Heard you were causing trouble at Dunning. You’re still on their property. You aren’t welcome. Leave,” the man in front, a burly bloke with a boxer’s handlebar mustache ordered.

“We wanted to pay our respects to the departed,” Calvin said. “The cemetery is open to the public for that purpose.”

“Troublemaker reporters excluded,” the man said, and the other three officers moved to flank him.

“How about government agents?” Owen’s voice grew frosty. “Because we’re Secret Service.”

“Bullshit,” the tall man spat.

“We’ve got badges—and a direct telegraph connection to the Department of the Treasury in Washington, D.C.” Owen’s calm seemed to fluster the man as Owen slowly reached into his vest pocket and brandished his badge.

“One telegram and this area will be swarming with agents who will turn over every stone to figure out what you’re hiding. Probably haul your chief back to Washington to interrogate him. I’m sure he’ll be very happy with you when he gets back,” Owen said.

“They know we came to Dunning today,” Calvin added. “If we don’t check in on time, they’ll come looking.”

That part was fiction, but Owen would have bet money Mustache Cop didn’t have a clue. It also was designed to make him think twice if he thought the easy answer was just shooting them and burying them on site.

“We want to drive through the cemetery and see the grounds,” Owen said. “Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. You and your boys can wait right there and watch us. Or…we send that telegram, and the next thing you know, there’ll be government agents crawling all over the hospital and the grounds, asking awkward questions. Your choice.”

Mustache Cop looked like he had an ulcer. “Fine. We’ll watch you—and then you leave and never come back.”

“Pleasure talking with you,” Owen said. He and Calvin made sure they didn’t turn their backs as they got into the carriage, and Winston’s stance suggested he had his gun trained on the cops the whole time beneath his cloak.

“What do you make of that?” Calvin asked as they drove farther into the cemetery, following the circular road that took them around the perimeter.

“I figure the coroner raised an alarm, and someone higher up panicked,” Owen answered. They could see the cops standing beside their carriage, not moving out of position.

“Think they were going to jump us?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if that was their plan. I didn’t want to mention the Secret Service just yet, but I figured it beat being shot and buried in an unmarked grave,” Owen said.

Calvin shuddered, and Owen placed his hand on his arm to steady him. “I wasn’t going to let that happen,” Owen assured him.

“I knew folks back in Boston who had no family to claim their bodies and ended up in the Potter’s field. At the worst of times, I thought I might too,” Calvin admitted.

“Those days are over.” Owen leaned toward him to meet his eyes, emphasizing his point. “That’s not something you need to worry about. Our work is dangerous, but we have friends and the family we’ve made of them. You’re not alone, and I’ll do everything in my power to keep you from ever being alone again.”

They finished their circuit of the cemetery and drove past the cops, who glowered as they passed but did not try to interfere.

When they returned to the stable, Calvin and Owen climbed down from the carriage.

“I’ll return the horses and the rig,” Winston told them. “And I’ll check on our horses while I’m there. It’s a short walk back to the train from here. I’ll meet you there.”

They traveled with three riding horses, which were stabled while they were stationary for any length of time. Owen knew that Winston ensured the horses had better accommodations than most human travelers and appreciated his care.

Owen kept a sharp eye out, but it didn’t look like the Dunning administration had sent any additional cops after them. Then again, he didn’t know how the police would have known where to look since he and Calvin hadn’t provided their names, let alone the location of their train car.

The train station was just around the corner, quiet this time of day. Owen startled when the ghost he had asked to keep an eye on the car popped up in front of him, and Owen put a hand out to stop Calvin.

“What?”

“Ghost.” Owen listened to his spectral snitch. “Several men have been watching the Pullman all day. They haven’t tried to get in, but they don’t have a reason to hang around.” He silently thanked the spirit as footsteps sounded nearby.

“Don’t run.” A man’s voice came from behind them. “We just want to talk.”

“An invitation delivered by messenger is the usual process,” Calvin observed in a dry tone.

“Yeah, well. Witches do things their way,” the man answered. “We’re going up the street to Barone’s Restaurant. They’ve got the back room ready for us. Don’t cause a ruckus, and you’ll be on your way in no time.”

The ghosts had vanished, making Owen wonder who the witch was and why the spirits had fled. He and Calvin exchanged a look, weighing the odds of putting up a fight. Meeting in a public place made it less likely that the men simply wanted to kill them, Owen thought.

Then again, he’d been wrong before.

Owen wondered if they would encounter Winston on their way or if he would see them and realize something was wrong, but they did not cross paths with their valet. That made him worry that Winston might have been waylaid. Winston could hold his own in a fight, but whoever wanted a word with them seemed to have brought a small army. That suggested one thing.

Chicago Mob.