Page 2 of Love and Order
CHAPTER 2
Friday, June 20, 1873
“I’m sorry. I know today hasn’t gone the way you planned.” Joe glanced sideways, his voice resonating with repentant sincerity.
Exasperation still roiled in Callie’s belly as she squinted against the slanting rays of sunlight. She’d wanted to reach the most recent murder site in the morning to have as much of the day to look around as she needed. To capture the clearing and the cabin’s interior with her pencils and paper. To search for those fine details that could help them home in on the murderer—before time and weather might fade the clues. After all, three days had passed since the victim was found, and even longer since the woman went missing.
“I appreciate you waiting on me—and the way you stepped in and helped Mrs. Ingram and Miss Hattie. I’ve come to care about them since I’ve boarded there.”
It was Joe’s job to haul water for the laundry, and he wouldn’t leave Mrs. Ingram and Hattie to do so by themselves. Poor Mrs. Ingram looked as fragile as a twig, and the old burns marring Hattie’s legs, though healed, must make the task an insufferable endeavor. So long as they were hauling water, she might as well help with the washing. Which is why they hadn’t reached the mountain clearing until midafternoon.
“I haven’t spent the time there that you have, but I can see what wonderful women they are. I was glad to help.”
Although with her hands raw and sore from the scrubbing, would she be able to sketch with any accuracy? Would there be any clues left to sketch?
The clearing was silent as … a grave. She gulped at the thought. The sun-dappled grass made an inviting picture, despite the run-down cabin in the center. If she had time, she’d sketch it out, as much for her own pleasure as to capture the scene of the crime and any clues it may hold. It was more important to sketch the cabin’s interior, where the murderer’s seventh victim was found, and, if time permitted, the clearing afterward.
She dismounted and walked her gray mare, Lady, into the clearing, eyeing the ground as she moved. At the sight of various hoofprints, she quickly led Lady wide of that area, hoping to preserve them for sketching later. Perhaps she’d still have time before heading back to town.
Near the rickety cabin, she retrieved her rifle from its scabbard and slung her leather pouch across her body. Leaving Lady to crop the lush grass, she headed toward the entrance, Joe on her heels.
The door, hanging cockeyed on its hinges, protested loudly as she opened it, and the musty smell of decay assaulted her nose. Surely they hadn’t left the victim’s body here, had they? She gripped the rifle tighter.
Sunlight streamed through various holes in the roof. A good thing, since a thick film of dust blocked the sunlight from penetrating the windows. A once-sturdy table lay overturned at the room’s center, one leg broken. The tabletop blocked her view of the floor beyond. One ladder-backed chair stood several feet from the table. A second lay overturned beside it. Against the back wall sat a threadbare settee, a fair-sized hole in its seat where some animal had probably burrowed. Above it was a small, filthy window, and beside it, a door leading to the yard. Along the right wall, another doorway led into the next room, where a potbellied stove sat. Doubtless, the kitchen. To the left, another doorway, and beyond it, a rusted bed frame devoid of its mattress.
Callie inched into the cabin but gave an involuntary shiver as an unnatural heaviness settled over her. She backed out again.
“Everything all right?” Joe laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Her hair stood on end. Whatever had happened in there left a palpable feeling in the air. Pressing her eyes closed, she straightened her spine and tried to calm herself.
“It’s fine. Simply preparing myself.”
“Good, because this could be very ugly.”
She nodded. Lord, no matter how stupid my brothers made me feel—how often they said I couldn’t do this—I’ve known I wanted to work for Mr. Pinkerton since I first arrived in Chicago. I didn’t let anything keep me from my dream, and here I am. But this place is more than a little frightening. This is what I was meant to do, so please protect me as I look for clues.
Extracting paper and pencil from her leather pouch, she stepped into the room again. Another whole-body shiver claimed her, but she held herself in check. She needed to do this. She’d asked to do this. And if she didn’t, she’d let Mr. Pinkerton down.
Leaning the rifle against the doorjamb, Callie eyed the room then set pencil to paper and roughed out the basic shapes. The overturned table, ladder-back chairs, settee, doorways. She’d been told this was the room where the victim was found, although nothing in sight from the doorway indicated a murder had occurred there. Perhaps a scuffle, with the overturned table and chair, but that could be explained by some animal rummaging in the shoddy building—a bear or a wolf, perhaps.
She filled in the sketch’s details, capturing enough features to trigger her memory, she hoped. If only she’d had more time … But she didn’t, so she readied another paper and paced toward the toppled furniture. There … there was the evidence. She drew a big breath, and Joe came alongside her, her rifle in his hand.
The dirt floor was stained with the victim’s blood, the large pool having flowed toward the back door. Also marring the floor were various boot, bird, and animal prints.
In this very spot, a seventh young woman’s life had expired. Callie tried to breathe deeply, but all she managed were some shallow gasps as an oppressive heaviness pulled at her.
“Callie.”
At his whispered call, she faced Joe.
“I know this is hard. Are you all right?”
“It’s an unbearable thought. A woman died here.” An almost convulsive shiver gripped her.
Lord, help.
“If this is too much, we can go. I’ll take care of it.”
When the shivers passed, she forced a deeper breath. “No. This is why I’m here.”
She squatted to study the tracks—particularly the boot prints. There were many—and most were probably from when the victim was found and removed, but the heel of one print stood out, for it had a telltale crescent-moon-shaped notch gouged from it. Was it from the time the victim was killed or—No, it had to be from the murder. Few of those prints remained, having been wiped out by others that came later. Callie nodded and sketched the track.
“What do you see?”
“A distinctive boot track. I’ll show you when I’m done.”
Careful not to disturb anything, she maneuvered to the table’s far side and squatted for a closer look from that angle. Her stomach churned at the expected sight—a mixture of excitement and dread. Drawing another paper from her bag, she folded it into a makeshift pouch and plucked something from the floor. She stretched about ten strands of long, light-colored hair taut, then wrapped them around three fingers before slipping them inside the envelope. She folded the top twice, scrawled Victim Seven on the outside, and tucked it into her bag.
Every victim had been found with her hair completely shorn and removed from the scene. That detail had alerted Mr. Pinkerton and his other operatives that the seven murders were related—whether murdered in Chicago, St. Louis, or farther west. Why did the killer have such a penchant? Chilling … She fought off another shiver and forced her attention back to the gruesome scene.
“Are you all—”
“Stop.” She glared, stalling his words.
“What?”
“Did you treat Mrs. Cantor this way—asking her every time she moved if she was all right?”
A sheepish look overtook him, and he shook his head. “No.”
“Then don’t do it to me. Please.” She rose, took her rifle from him, and slung it over her shoulder. “Thank you for your concern, but I’ve been a Pinkerton for three years. I’m not the absolute novice I was when we worked together before. Yes, it’s a difficult scene, but I’m doing all right.”
She circled the room, scanning for any other clues. After minutes of silent inspection, she paused at the front window. There, about even with the height of Joe’s elbow, the miry glass had been wiped—no, smudged. It was far from clean. She peered closely at it. A reddish haze tinged the smear.
“Her blood, maybe?” She indicated the smear, and Joe came to look.
“Could be. Or someone else’s?”
She pursed her lips and tilted her head. A small reddish-brown stain marred the dusty windowsill. Two steps toward the doorway, a droplet-sized stain had landed on the dirt floor, and above it, partway up the wall, a mottled shred of fabric hung from an exposed nail.
As she tucked it away in her pouch, the sound of an approaching horse filtered into her awareness. Her senses clanged a warning. Shoving her papers and pencil into her satchel, she let the rifle slip from her shoulder and tipped the barrel up.
“Now hold on just a minute.” With an open palm, Joe shoved the muzzle of the gun toward the floor. “That’s likely to be Cooper Downing.” Since Callie’s true identity was a closely guarded secret, he’d intended to bring her out this morning unbeknownst to the sheriff. His identity was also a secret, though he’d let the lawman know of his presence and purpose as a courtesy. He’d arranged the previous day to ride up here with the sheriff this afternoon, alone—but his and Callie’s late departure had thrown the timing off.
“Please let me handle this. Just play along.”
“Play along?”
“You know—improvise but follow my lead.” He strode out of the abandoned cabin.
The sheriff rode toward the solitary structure, his expression fierce. “What in blue blazes, Nesbitt?” He urged his horse forward. “I was waitin’ for ya in town. Then Bess Ingram told me you already left.”
As he stepped farther into the yard, Callie Wilson stepped out of the derelict structure.
“Oh, thank goodness! Sheriff—” She heaved a breath and hurried out.
“Who’re you?” Downing gaped. “And what’re you doin’ in that cabin?”
“It’s all right, Sheriff. This is Kezia Jarrett.” Joe glanced her way, then back to the lawman. “An artist. One of Mrs. Ingram’s other boarders.”
Downing slid from his saddle. “I want an answer. What’re you doin’ here, Miss?”
“Kezia—”
“I came up here to draw and found this beautiful meadow.” She fanned her face and panted. “It seemed a perfect spot. However, I was warm after my ride, so I sought shade in the abandoned house.” Her expression twisted with a disturbed look. “Something terrible must have happened inside.”
The sheriff shot her a stern look. “Ain’t you heard? There’s a killer loose in these mountains. Someone died in there. What lies beyond that door ain’t fit for a lady’s eyes.”
“I wish I would’ve known before—” Tears spilled down her porcelain cheeks, now rosy. She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her cheeks.
Downing huffed. “Come away from that house, Miss. You’re muckin’ things up good.”
“I beg your pardon, sir! How could I have known?” She started toward Lady. “I’ll just ride back to town and—”
Joe put himself between her and the horse. “That’s not wise.”
Her brown eyes turned stormy. The woman was putting on quite a show. “Why? I’d like to go home now!”
“I don’t want the tongue-lashin’ that awaits me if Mrs. Ingram discovers I failed to escort you safely back to the boardinghouse. Please wait. Let me assist the sheriff with his business, and we’ll all head back together.”
She shifted an uncomfortable glance between them. “How long will that take? It’ll be growing dark—”
“We’ll be done long before dusk, Miss,” Sheriff Downing said. “Especially if you disturbed the scene in there.”
Miss Wilson huffed. “Again, how was I to know?”
“Reckon you weren’t, but with the danger in these parts, you shouldn’t be out ridin’ round by yourself. Now stay outside and try not to get yourself in any fixes.”
The woman’s features turned stony, and she drew herself to her full height—which wasn’t much … she was a petite thing—then planted one hand on her hip.
“I appreciate your concern for what you perceive to be my delicate sensibilities, Sheriff, but I’m no weak-kneed woman. I’ll be fine by my lonesome.”
“Both of you, stop.” Downing’s blustery irritation mixed with her flinty defiance was a recipe for trouble. “We’ll be out in a few minutes. Please wait.” He gave her a discreet wink then followed Downing inside.
As Joe entered again, the stale air and rottenness hit him anew. The sheriff cursed under his breath.
“Sorry. Weren’t s’posed to be no one here. I’ll have me a talk with Mrs. Ingram—ask her to warn the little gal to stay in town.”
“Don’t worry about her, Sheriff. I’ll speak to both her and Mrs. Ingram on your behalf.” If the lawman warned Mrs. Ingram, she might become even more protective, limiting Miss Wilson’s ability to do her job, even in town. “Now show me what we came to see.”
Downing moved past the overturned table and motioned to the stained dirt floor.
“The victim was stabbed?”
The lawman’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and his voice went hoarse. “Thirteen times.”
Joe squatted. “And her hair was cut off?”
Sheriff Downing cleared his throat. “Shaved clean off. Whoever killed her must’ve taken it. We didn’t find any hair.”
“Did you know the woman, Sheriff?” Joe glanced his way.
“She was a … soiled dove from a brothel in town.” The lawman ground out the words as if they pained him.
Another soiled dove. Was it wrong to thank the Lord that it wasn’t a young wife or mother like some of the previous victims? A lady of the night should matter no less than a more upstanding citizen, yet the idea of two children growing up without their mother haunted him. Perhaps it hit too close to home.
He’d worked this case since the first report five years ago. Miss Nancy Carlin—niece of a former United States senator—had been murdered while traveling to Chicago on the Illinois Central Railroad, one of the rail lines that had contracted the Pinkertons to protect the goods transported by them. Finding the young woman murdered in a boxcar, with her raven hair shorn completely, made the case more than personal to Mr. Pinkerton.
A second young woman, mother of two, Tilda Wadwell, had also been a passenger on the same rail line almost a year to the day later and was found murdered at the St. Louis depot after exiting the train. The fact that her reddish-blond hair had also been shaved alerted Mr. Pinkerton the two murders were probably linked. But they’d had nothing to go on. No suspects. Operatives had found nothing linking the women, other than they’d ridden the same rail line and their hair had been shaved.
In the three and a half years since Mrs. Wadwell’s death, five more women had died in similar circumstances. A couple of prostitutes, another young mother, and two single women. None of them had been anywhere near a train, but in each case, the woman’s hair had been removed.
What sort of man would murder so many women—and why take their hair? It made no sense.
What depraved mind ever did?
Bracing a hand against the overturned chair, Joe studied the dirt floor more closely.
The sheriff craned his neck. “What’re you finding?”
As an operative, he’d learned not to give away all his secrets. Plenty of western lawmen were trustworthy, but the West had its share of shady characters who wore badges. Until he was sure about Cooper Downing, he’d keep this close to the vest.
“There are animal prints in the dirt.”
“That’s what led to Serafina bein’ found. Couple kids saw buzzards circlin’ above this place. They found the door wide open.” He paced toward the settee and stared out the window, his voice thick. “Critters had open access …”
“Serafina?”
“That’s what folks in town called her: Sweet Serafina.” The sheriff’s face as red as the setting sun, he jammed his hands in his pockets. “Her real name was Sarah Jacobs.”
He logged the name in his mind. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
Concerned for Miss Wilson standing in the heat, he rose and looked toward the obscured window just as the hazy shape of a horse and rider bolted into view. A wild yell split the quiet, and both he and Sheriff Downing lunged for the doorway as a black horse, its rider hunched low, raced through the clearing, scattering their mounts. In an instant, all three horses were gone—his and the sheriff’s in one direction, Callie’s in another.
Downing slapped his hat against his thigh and Joe gawped. But when a groan sounded from his left, he spun to find Callie Wilson sprawled on the ground, seemingly right in the path the horse and rider had just taken.