Murder on St. Mark’s place

2

“DEAF?” HE SAID THE WORD AS IF HE’D NEVER heard it before. Plainly, he’d never heard it in connection with his son.

“When I met Brian the first time, I only saw him for a few minutes, and your mother told me he was feebleminded, so I didn’t think anything about his behavior. But something bothered me. He was so silent. I’ve seen lots of children with damaged brains, and they were all as loud and boisterous as other children. But not Brian. I think that’s one reason why I went to your home instead of leaving word for you at the station. I wanted to see Brian again and figure out why he was so silent.”

He was still trying to get his understanding around this. “And now you think he’s deaf?” he asked incredulously. He obviously also thought she was insane.

“Let me tell you some things that I suspect are true about Brian. He’s a very sound sleeper. Loud noises don’t wake him up. In fact, no noise of any kind wakes him up. And when you call him, he ignores you. Unless perhaps he’s looking at you, and then he comes. He has signs that he uses for things, and even though he doesn’t talk, he uses the signs to make his needs known to your mother. Am I right?”

He was frowning. Of course, he was usually frowning when he was with her, but this frown was different. He wasn’t trying to frighten her this time. He was thinking, and not liking the things he was thinking about.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” she prodded, knowing he must be testing her theory against what he knew of Brian’s behavior. “Your mother even told me he’s clever about taking things apart. That proves there’s nothing wrong with his mind. In fact, he’s probably very bright.”

If she’d thought to comfort him, she failed. “Do you think this is news I want to hear?” he asked her in amazement. “Do you think I want my son to be deaf? He’s already a cripple!”

“But don’t you see, if he’s deaf, he can be educated. He can even learn a trade and-”

“He’s still a cripple,” he reminded her, his face dark with the anger he still felt over this fact.

“I’ve been thinking about that, too, and I know this surgeon who-”

“Do you think I didn’t take him to a doctor when he was born?” He was beyond angry now. She’d wounded his pride. “I took him before he was a week old. I would’ve paid any amount of money to have him made right again, but they said nothing could be done.”

“Who told you that?” she asked, outraged.

“The doctor,” he reminded her impatiently.

“Which one?”

“How should I know? That was three years ago!”

Sarah somehow managed not to sigh in dismay. “Malloy, let me ask you something. Are all the detectives on the New York City police force as good at their jobs as you are?”

Once again, she’d stung his pride. “No!”

“Of course they aren’t. Some of them are just as good as you are and some are not quite as good and some are completely worthless.”

“What does that have to do with-?”

“Doctors are the same way. Some are very good at what they do and some are not quite as good, and some are completely worthless.”

“He was a doctor!” Malloy insisted.

“Malloy, where do you think the expression ‘quack doctor’ came from? Some doctors don’t know any more about medicine than you do! Well, perhaps a bit more, but not much. It’s entirely possible that the doctor who saw Brian didn’t know much about clubfoot, and that this surgeon I know might be able to help Brian walk. I can’t make any promises, but I can at least arrange for you to-”

“Mrs. Brandt, I don’t need for you to arrange anything for me,” he told her, gritting his teeth again. “And I don’t need your help. I can take care of my son myself.”

Sarah caught herself just short of issuing another lecture. Malloy wouldn’t appreciate it, and she might very well alienate him completely. Besides, he was right. He could take care of his son himself. “Of course you can,” she agreed reasonably. “All I’m suggesting is that you go home and test my theory. See if Brian can hear. And if he can’t, well, there are schools for the deaf in the city. I’m sure they would be happy to help you learn how to communicate with him.”

He pushed his plate away. He couldn’t push it very far because the table was so small, but the gesture told her he was finished with her and this conversation. Too bad she wasn’t finished with him.

“Think about it, Malloy,” she tried. “If Brian is only deaf, he won’t need someone to take care of him for the rest of his life. He can earn his own living, and he might even marry and have a family of his own and-”

“No woman would marry a deaf cripple.”

“Don’t be so sure.” She could see she’d given him enough to think about without planning Brian’s future, so she let it drop.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, rising from his chair.

“Of course you do,” she agreed, standing also.

“Thanks for the…” He waved toward his plate, and Sarah nodded in acknowledgment.

He looked ready to bolt, but before he did, she had one last request. He didn’t realize it yet, but she had done him a good turn with Brian, and he would soon feel the need to repay her.

“Malloy, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you at least find out if there are any suspects in Gerda Reinhard’s death? It would mean a lot to her sister.”

He was still shaking his head in wonder as he disappeared through her garden gate.

SARAH SAT DOWN at the back of the United German Lutheran Church on Sixth Street. The crowd at Gerda Reinhard’s funeral looked pitifully small in the cavernous interior. Gerda’s sister Agnes was still in bed, on Sarah’s orders, and the rest of her family was still in Germany and probably didn’t even yet know of her death. A few of Agnes’s friends and neighbors had come, and a small group of young women who must have known Gerda were sitting on the other side of the church. At the very last moment, just before the minister took his place in the pulpit, a young man Sarah recognized as Lars Otto, Agnes’s husband, came in. He wore an ill-fitting black suit, probably borrowed for the occasion, and his sandy-brown hair had been slicked down with an abundance of hair tonic. He walked stiffly down the aisle, his lanky frame all knees and elbows, carrying his hat clutched tightly in both hands. He seated himself with obvious reluctance at the front of the church, took out a handkerchief, and mopped the sweat from his face. The weather had cooled considerably today, but Mr. Otto was under a lot of strain.

Sarah could sympathize with him. Burying his sister-in-law would be an ordeal under the best of circumstances. Gerda, however, had not simply died an untimely death. She had been murdered under scandalous circumstances. The shame and embarrassment the family must feel would be considerable. Added to their grief, the burden must be great indeed.

Lars hung his head, not even glancing at the closed casket that sat only a few feet away from him. The minister took his place and began reciting the appropriate Scriptures, the ones that offered hope to the bereaved. Sarah wondered how much hope they would offer in this case. Most people believed Gerda had only gotten what she deserved. Could a girl as sinful as Gerda was rumored to be really be expected to walk the streets of gold?

As she mulled over these questions, Sarah glanced at the group of young women who had known Gerda in life, girls who must be much like her. They stared straight ahead, apparently hanging on the minister’s words, their young faces stricken beneath the layers of heavily applied makeup. Their cheap finery looked out of place in the solemn surroundings, like peacocks in a chicken coop. Gaudy and tasteless peacocks, too.

Sarah wished for organ music to drown the oppressive silence, but the Ottos wouldn’t waste money on an organist for this occasion. From Lars Otto’s expression, he would not have wasted money on any of this, except that common decency demanded at least the minimum of ceremony, even for a girl as undeserving as Gerda. A girl so thoughtless as to get herself murdered.

The service was not a moment longer than necessary. The minister seemed aware that he should waste no time in committing this girl to the ground, and before Sarah knew it, he was pronouncing the benediction. She waited a moment, expecting some pallbearers to come forward to carry the casket out, but no one did. Instead, Lars Otto made his way out of the pew and started down the aisle. There was to be no graveside service, which would have required a hearse and more expense. Gerda’s remains would be carried to the cemetery in the gravedigger’s wagon and deposited in lonely solitude with no one to mourn her.

As Lars passed, Sarah hurried to follow him, wishing at least to find out how Agnes was doing.

“Mr. Otto,” she called, stopping him as he started down the front steps outside. He turned to face her.

Lars Otto was a tall man, thin and lanky, with big hands and feet, and a face too sharp and angular to be called handsome. Sarah noticed his knuckles were skinned when he adjusted his hat, testimony to how difficult his job must be. She thought she remembered he was a butcher by trade. He frowned when he saw Sarah, not recognizing her.

“I’m Mrs. Brandt, the midwife. I’m very sorry about Gerda. How is Mrs. Otto doing?”

“How do you think? Can’t even hold her head up now, with all her friends whispering behind their hands. I work hard to give her a good life, and her sister does this to ruin everything.”

Sarah blinked. She had forgotten the bitter anger cases like this engendered. She resisted the temptation to point out that Gerda hadn’t gotten herself murdered on purpose. “I’m sure no one will hold this against you and your family. Not your true friends, at least,” she added at his grunt of disdain.

Unimpressed, he turned away, anxious no doubt to get back to his family.

“Please tell you wife I’ll come by to see her this afternoon,” she called after him. He gave her no acknowledgment. Well, if he was always this rude, he was probably right to worry, since he probably had no true friends to stick by him.

“Oh, look, he’s already gone!” a voice behind her cried in dismay.

“Go after him, then,” another suggested sarcastically.

“Oh, and chase him down the street, I guess,” the first voice replied, equally sarcastic.

Sarah turned to see the three young women she had noticed earlier emerging from the massive doorway of the church. In the merciless sunlight, their clothes looked even more garish. Plaids and feathers and too much jewelry, painted lips and painted cheeks. Sarah couldn’t believe the girls thought the paint looked better than their natural skin, which was young and smooth and should have still had the flush of health beneath the startling brightness of the rouge.

Behind them, the other mourners came out, casting disapproving looks as they made their way around them. Sarah nodded to those she knew as she made her way back to where the girls stood, arguing about something.

“Are you friends of Gerda’s?” she asked, trying a friendly smile.

They looked up, startled, then grew instantly wary. “Yes, ma’am,” one of them said after a moment. Did they look guilty? Sarah could hardly credit it, but she had to admit they did. Perhaps her instincts had been surer than she’d imagined. She’d thought only to approach them and find out a little about Gerda, but could they know something about her death, too?

“I’m a friend of Mrs. Otto, her sister,” Sarah said, stretching the truth just a bit. “I knew Gerda a little, but not very well. She seemed like a nice girl. I’m sure you’re going to miss her.”

They nodded uncertainly, making the feathers on their ridiculous hats shiver. They were studying Sarah, as if trying to decide what to make of her. Then the plump one prodded the one in the red plaid jacket with her elbow and said, “Ask her. Maybe she knows.”

The girl in the plaid jacket shot her friend an angry glare, but she turned to Sarah and said, “Excuse me for asking, miss, but do you know… I mean…” She hesitated, glancing at her friend for help, but none was forthcoming. The two stared at each other for along moment, silently communicating things at which Sarah could only guess.

“She wants to know did they bury her in the shoes,” the third girl finally said. She was small and fragile looking, her golden hair glittering in the sunlight beneath the frothy confection of a hat she was wearing. Her lips were very red, and the blush on her cheeks was unevenly applied, larger on one side than the other, making her look like a child who had gotten into her mother’s things. But then Sarah looked into her eyes, and there she saw a steely determination quite at odds with her apparent fragility.

“The shoes?” Sarah echoed stupidly.

“The red shoes,” the plump girl clarified. “They was brand-new. Seems a shame to put them in the ground with her, don’t it? Bertha here was wondering-”

“Me!” the girl in the plaid jacket cried in outrage. “You was the one said it first!”

“I was only agreeing with you!” the plump girl insisted.

“Bertha and Hetty both want the shoes,” the blond girl explained patiently, her disapproval obvious.

“To remember her by,” Hetty added hastily, lest Sarah think them ghouls.

Which of course she did, although she decided not to betray her true sentiments. “I can understand that. You were good friends, then?” she guessed.

“We all were,” Hetty said, determined to make Sarah believe her. “Since the day she come to work at Faircloths.”

“She couldn’t hardly talk a word of English,” Bertha added, “but we didn’t care about that. She learned quick, she did. Wanted to be an American, like us. That’s what she always said.”

“You were very kind to befriend her,” Sarah said, and allowed the girls a moment to absorb the compliment before adding, “Since there isn’t going to be a wake, perhaps you’d allow me to buy you ladies a cup of coffee. There’s a shop just around the corner.”

“It’s a little warm for coffee,” Hetty said. “How about some lemonade?”

Sarah was more than happy to supply them with champagne if it meant she’d be able to learn more about the dead girl, so she readily greed. By the time they found the shop, Sarah had learned that the girls were named Hetty Hall, Bertha Hoffman, and the blond girl was Lisle Lasher. They were fascinated to learn Sarah was a midwife, although they couldn’t understand why she’d taken up a trade instead of remarrying. Plainly, they believed-as did most of the population-that a woman needed a man to look after her.

Sarah treated them to cake as well as lemonade, knowing full well their meager salaries would hardly stretch to such an extravagance and figuring they’d be more talkative if they were fed. They sat in the café, glad to be out of the sun, and Sarah tried to imagine what questions Malloy would ask these girls if he were here.

“Does anyone have any idea who might have killed Gerda?” she tried, starting with the most important matters.

“I think it was a robbery,” Hetty said between mouthfuls of cake.

“Are you crazy?” Bertha demanded. “What would a robber want with Gerda? She didn’t have anything worth stealing except them shoes, and they was left right on her feet!”

“Which is why he killed her,” Hetty reasoned. “He got mad when she didn’t have any money, and he killed her.”

Sarah glanced at Lisle while Bertha and Hetty continued to bicker over the theory of the robber. She sipped her lemonade delicately, listening but unmoved by their arguments. She was remarkably self-possessed for a girl of her class, her intelligence obvious. Dressed properly, she would have looked at home in Mrs. Astor’s parlor. When she met Sarah’s gaze, she smiled slightly, as if to acknowledge Sarah’s good opinion of her.

“And what do you think, Lisle?” Sarah asked, interrupting Bertha and Hetty’s squabbling.

Both of the other girls fell silent, waiting for Lisle’s opinion. She was the leader of the group, her delicate appearance notwithstanding.

“I don’t think it was no robber,” she said. “A robber wouldn’t of bothered with Gerda, and if he did, he’d never take the time to beat her up. He might smack her a bit, but they said she was beat to death. That takes time, and a robber wouldn’t take the chance of getting caught.”

Sarah hadn’t been mistaken about her intelligence. “I was thinking that it must have been someone who knew her. Someone who was very angry with her, so angry he didn’t even think about getting caught.”

But Lisle didn’t agree. Her red lips turned downward in a frown. “You might think that except…” She glanced at the other girls who shifted uneasily.

“What is it?” Sarah asked. “Do you know something I don’t?”

The girls exchanged wary glances, silently debating whether to share their knowledge with her. Finally, Lisle said, “Gerda ain’t the first girl ended up that way.”

Of course not. Women were beaten to death every day in the city, usually by their husbands or lovers or fathers. Men who took out their frustrations with life by beating those closest to them, those weaker and defenseless. Women who would conceal this violence by telling stories about walking into a door or falling down stairs to explain the bruises. Women so afraid of not being able to support themselves without a man that they would tolerate any abuse in exchange for a roof over their heads.

“I know,” Sarah agreed. “Lots of women end up like Gerda did. That’s why you should be careful about the men you become involved with-”

“No, you don’t understand,” Lisle explained, her voice patient and confident with her certainty. “Gerda ain’t the first girl to get murdered just that way.”

“The same way exactly,” Bertha added, her brown eyes wide with fright.

“They go out to a dance and never come home,” Hetty added, her full lips quivering a bit.

“Somebody beats them and leaves them in an alley, just like a dead cat,” Lisle said bitterly.

“You mean… other girls have died the same way?” Sarah asked, unable to grasp this completely.

“That’s what we just said,” Hetty pointed out, a little insulted. “Somebody’s looking for girls to kill. At least that’s what everybody at Faircloths is saying. The other girls, they was at dances, too, and they leaves their friends to walk home, but they never got there.”

“How many other girls?” Sarah asked, a strange sense of foreboding quivering inside of her.

“Three others,” Lisle said.

“That we know about,” Hetty added.

“Might be more, not from the neighborhood, that we didn’t hear about,” Bertha said.

Their fear was a palpable thing, and Sarah could feel a shiver of it herself. Was it possible that one man was responsible for all these deaths? Sarah understood crimes of passion, where the killer knew his victim and murdered for one of the usual reasons-jealousy, hatred, lust, or greed. But if someone was selecting victims at random and killing them for no apparent reason, then how would anyone ever catch him? She recalled a similar set of murders in London a decade ago and the difficulties the police had encountered in trying to solve them.

Solving a crime when the circle of suspects was small and the motives were discernible was difficult enough, as Sarah knew from her experience last spring, helping Malloy discover the killer of another young woman. Finding a killer whose only connection with the victims was meeting them at a dance seemed impossible! They’d certainly never found Jack the Ripper.

But maybe it wouldn’t be as difficult as she thought. If the connection was the dances, perhaps someone with a trained eye could spot the killer. Sarah’s eye wasn’t exactly trained, but she did have some experience identifying a killer. “Where did Gerda go dancing the night she died?”

The girls looked at each other, as if they were trying to remember. Surely, that shouldn’t be so difficult. Sarah could remember everyplace she’d ever gone dancing in her life.

“Was that the night we was at New Irving Hall?” Hetty asked the others.

Bertha shook her head. “No, it wasn’t that big. Someplace small, I think. I remember we was thinking there wasn’t enough room to dance there.”

“It was Harmony Hall,” Lisle said. “Gerda said she wasn’t having any fun, but she’d met a swell who was going to blow a lot of money on her, so she left with him.”

“Did any of you see who he was?”

They shook their heads.

“It didn’t seem important then.” Bertha sighed. “We didn’t know… what was going to happen.”

“Maybe…” Sarah hesitated, wondering if she dared do what she was thinking. “Could you take me there with you the next time there’s a dance?”

“There’s a dance every night,” Hetty said, surprised she wouldn’t know that.

“Every night?” Sarah could hardly credit it.

“Well, maybe not there, but somewhere,” Lisle corrected. “I think there’s one at the Harmony tomorrow, though. The Barn Stormers are having it,” she added, naming a local social club.

“On a weeknight?” Sarah asked in surprise.

“I told you, there’s dancing every night,” Hetty reminded her.

“Were you planning to go?” Sarah asked, then immediately realized how cold she sounded. “I mean, if you wouldn’t feel…” She let her voice trail off, knowing she was making it worse.

Bertha and Hetty looked away, uncertain. Plainly, they were leaving the decision up to Lisle.

“Why would you want to go?” Lisle asked her suspiciously.

“I… I told you I knew Gerda slightly. Last spring, another girl I knew was killed. The police weren’t able to solve the case, so I helped, and we were able to find the killer. I don’t think the police will be very interested in solving Gerda’s murder, either, and I don’t want her killer to go free.”

“You solved a murder?” Hetty asked, fascinated and seeing Sarah in a whole new light.

“A police detective helped me,” Sarah admitted, wondering what Malloy would have to say to that. He’d probably say that she had helped him, which was more correct but less likely to impress these girls.

“You said the police didn’t want to solve it,” Lisle reminded her shrewdly.

“They didn’t. In fact, this detective was ordered to stop the investigation. That’s why he needed my help. I’ve already asked my friend to look into Gerda’s case, but he didn’t think much would be done.”

The girls nodded sagely. “They didn’t care about them other girls that was killed,” Hetty said. “Why should they care about Gerda? She wasn’t even an American.”

A very good point, and Sarah knew she didn’t have to say so. The girls, young as they were, probably knew more about the realities of life than she did.

“Will you take me to the dance?” Sarah asked.

“You won’t find out nothing,” Lisle warned her.

“You might be surprised,” Sarah said, feeling the familiar surge of emotion. Not excitement, surely not that, but something closer to power and purpose. A feeling she hadn’t experienced since the other time she’d worked so hard to find a young woman’s killer.

“You’re way too old for these dances,” Hetty pointed out unkindly. “They’ll think you’re somebody’s mother.”

Sarah ignored the flash of annoyance she felt. After all, she was nearly twice their age, so she shouldn’t feel insulted.

“You’d have to fix yourself up some, too,” Lisle said. “You need some flash if you want to get noticed.”

“I don’t want to get noticed,” Sarah assured her. Just the opposite, in fact. “I only want to look around and see who comes to these dances.”

“You think he’ll be there? The killer. I mean,” Bertha asked uneasily.

“He must go to these dances. How else would he find his victims?” Sarah pointed out. “And I hope you girls are being careful.”

“We’re always careful.” Bertha sniffed. “We go in pairs. If a girl has a friend with her, they can help each other out, in case a fellow gets too friendly.”

Sarah decided not to point out that having a friend hadn’t saved Gerda. “Then you’ll need a fourth person along, won’t you? So you each have a companion. Why not take me?”

Lisle was considering. She didn’t know whether to trust Sarah or not, but she must also know that Sarah was the only person who had displayed the slightest interest in finding Gerda’s killer-and the killer of several other young girls, too, if what they had told her was true. If nothing else, at least Sarah would be able to prevent these girls from making the same mistake Gerda did in going out with someone she didn’t know.

“We’ll take you, then,” Lisle said at last, “but you’ve got to get some flash whether you want it or not. It won’t do for you to be so plain. You’d draw attention to yourself for that, won’t you?”

Sarah thought perhaps she was right. “And what, exactly, must I do to get some flash?” she asked with a smile.

FRANK MALLOY FOUND the man he wanted slumped over his desk in the detectives’ office. The large, untidy room was crammed with desks which were usually deserted because their owners were out on cases. Bill Broughan could be counted upon to spend as much time as possible at his desk, however. He avoided work whenever he could.

“Broughan!” Frank shouted right beside the sleeping man’s ear.

Broughan jerked awake, blinking furiously until he brought Frank’s face into focus. “Malloy, I’d kill you for that, but if I move that sudden, my head’ll explode.”

“Bad night?” Frank asked without much sympathy. He’d had a bad night himself. He could thank Sarah Brandt for that.

Broughan clamped both hands on his head, as if he really were trying to keep it all in one piece. “My nephew Andrew had a baby boy yesterday. We was celebrating till the wee hours.”

“Congratulations to the proud father,” Frank said with more courtesy than sincerity. He didn’t know Bill’s nephew. “Look, Bill, somebody asked me about a case, the one where the girl was wearing red shoes.”

Bill squinted, as if the act of trying to remember caused him pain. Broughan was a portly man, his round face flushed from too many years of “celebrating.” His thinning brown hair was mussed, as if he hadn’t combed it this morning. He probably hadn’t. There was a yellow stain on his lapel. “Oh, yeah, the red shoes,” he recalled after a moment. “German girl. Hadn’t been here long, from what I heard. Damnedest thing. I never heard of nobody wearing red shoes. Not even a German. You ask me, she got ’ em whoring. Who else would have red shoes?”

Frank agreed, but he didn’t want to say so. He’d get more information if he argued with Bill. “A friend of mine knows the family. Says they’re respectable.”

“Maybe they are, but that never stopped a girl from whoring if she needed money.”

Frank couldn’t argue with that, no matter how much he thought it might help him get information. He sighed. “This friend of mine, she wants to know if you’ve got any idea who killed this girl.”

“She?” Broughan asked, his bloodshot eyes brightening with interest.

“She who?” Frank asked, feigning innocence.

“You said your friend who wants to know is a she.” His face squinched up in the effort of thought. “This friend wouldn’t be that blonde who come to the station for you that time, would it? The one the sergeant locked in an interrogation room?”

Frank was never going to live that down, but maybe he could get it to work in his favor this time. Even if this might be even harder to live down. “Yeah, well, you know how women can be when they get started on something.”

“Frank, you devil, you.” Broughan rubbed his hands in glee. “You never said a word. How long has this been going on?”

Frank gave him a disdainful glare. “I’d tell you if I thought it was any of your business.”

Bill frowned. “This must be serious. You thinking about getting hitched again? She know about your kid?”

“Look,” Frank said, growing impatient and more than a little annoyed, “right now I just want to make her happy by telling her you’re going to arrest somebody for killing this girl.” That much was true. If he could make her happy by solving this case, he wouldn’t have to see Sarah Brandt again.

Bill rubbed his temples with both hands, closing his eyes against the pounding that must be going on inside his head. “Wish I could help you, son, but nobody’ll ever find out who killed that girl.”

“Why not?” Frank figured he already knew, but if there was the slightest hope, he wanted to grasp it.

“I told you. She was a whore. Or the next thing to it,” he added when Frank was going to protest. “Out every night dancing with her friends. You know what goes on at them dance halls. Lots of strange men, some stranger than others. She went out to Coney Island, too, from what I hear. Always taking up with a new fellow. Somebody give her a hat, right before she died. And them shoes, too. Maybe not the same fellow. Nobody’s real sure about that. But at least two men give her presents in the last week or so. Which means maybe one of them found out about the other and beat her for cheating on him, or maybe some other fellow found out about one or both of them and beat her for the same reason. Or maybe she just met somebody new and asked him for a present, and he got insulted. Who knows? And more important, who cares?”

“Her family cares.”

Broughan didn’t look impressed. “These people got any money? They offering a reward or anything?”

Frank considered lying. Maybe Mrs. Brandt would offer a reward. Did she care that much? He couldn’t be sure, and if she didn’t, he certainly had no intention of paying a reward himself to find the killer of a girl he’d never even set eyes on just to please Sarah Brandt. “I don’t think so.”

“Then they might as well forget about her. Put her in the ground and wash their hands. Ain’t nobody ever gonna know who killed her, and that’s a fact.”

Broughan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cheap metal flask. The hand that pulled the cork from the top trembled slightly, and he needed both hands to guide it to his lips. He took a long pull, emptying it.

Frank managed not to wince. His father had been a drinker, and it had killed him young. To this day, he couldn’t abide hard liquor.

“Was she raped?” Frank asked without knowing why. It just seemed important to have all the facts, and that one might be relevant.

Broughan shrugged one shoulder as he dropped the empty flask back into his pocket. “The doc said she’d been doing it with somebody recent, but he couldn’t say that she was raped. Her clothes was all in place when they found her, and she wasn’t…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Damaged” was what he settled for. “No cuts or bruises down there. Had enough of ‘em everyplace else, though. Whoever killed her made a good job of it. I’d guess he wanted a piece, and she said no, though it might’ve been the first time she did. Poor bastard was the only one she wouldn’t spread ’em for, I guess, and look what it got her.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, discouraged. This wasn’t going to help. Sarah Brandt wouldn’t be satisfied, not by a long shot. She’d want to dig, although where else she would dig, he had no idea.

Well, if she was that interested, maybe she could find out something Bill hadn’t. In fact, she could most certainly find out a whole lot of things Bill hadn‘t, since Bill wasn’t particularly interested in solving this case. In fact, unless her family or someone came up with a reward of some kind, Bill was completely finished with it already. Girls turned up dead every day in the city. Some starved, some killed themselves, and some were killed by others. The world didn’t seem to care or even to notice, so why should the police exert themselves? Frank certainly wouldn’t, not under normal circumstances.

But these weren’t normal circumstances. Because he’d gone home from Mrs. Brandt’s house last night and stood beside his sleeping son’s bed and shouted until the neighbors complained. And just like she’d predicted, the boy hadn’t even flinched. Sleeping like an angel, he’d lain there peaceful and quiet and undisturbed while his mother ranted at him, demanding to know had he lost his mind.

“The boy is deaf,” he’d told her, silencing her instantly.

She’d looked at him in stunned surprise that turned quickly to terror as she realized the meaning of his words. Or tried to. In truth, neither of them knew what this really meant. It changed everything. The only question now was how.