The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

Robert Randisi (b. 1951) is a powerhouse of creative energy. Not only does he write scores of crime stories and westerns, some ghost written for others, he also founded the Private Eye Writers of America Association in 1981, inaugurated the Shamus Awards for the best P.I. fiction, and co-founded (with Ed Gorman) the news magazine of the field, Mystery Scene. Before writing full-time Randisi worked as an admin, assistant for the NYPD, which gave him plenty of material for his series featuring the New York police detective Joe Keough, whose adventures began in Alone with the Dead (1995). Amongst his many books is The Ham Reporter (1986) in which an ageing Bat Master son teams up with a young Damon Runyon in 1911. The following story, set a few years earlier, also features the legendary Bat Master son in a series of inexplicable murders.

1

Denver, 1899

George’s Weekly

Normally, this is a sports column, but something has happened in this city and no one seems to be doing anything. Three women have been killed on the streets of Denver and the police department seems to be unable-or unwilling – to do anything about it. All citizens of Denver-decent and otherwise – have a right to be able to walk the streets in peace and safety. The old west – they keep telling me-is gone. The twentieth century is upon us, and yet these young women are dead and the killer is still at large. Shame on you, Chief Flaherty, and shame on the Mayor.

The banging on the door woke Bat, who reached out for Emma only to find her gone. This was not unusual. She often rose before he did, as she often retired before him. If she was up, she would answer the door, and would not allow anyone to disturb him unless it was…

“Bat?” she said, softly. “It’s the police.”

When Bat entered Chief Flaherty’s office there was one other man there, seated in front of the Chief’s desk. Flaherty’s normally florid face was redder than ever as he told the police officer who had delivered Bat, “You can go.”

“What’s this all about, Chief?” Bat asked. “I don’t usually get up this early in the-”

“Masterson,” Flaherty said, cutting him off, “this is Inspector House. Inspector, Bat Masterson.”

House stood up and turned to face Bat. He had a genial grin on his face as he extended his hand and said, “Quite a column in today’s paper.”

“Oh,” Bat said, accepting the younger man’s extended hand, “so that’s what this is about.”

“That’s right, Masterson,” Flaherty said. “Since you think the Denver police are so inept, I’m gonna accept your offer of help in this case.”

“I didn’t offer-”

“Or I’m gonna toss your ass in jail for obstructing the investigation.”

“I didn’t obstruct-”

“One or the other,” Flaherty said. “The choice is yours.”

Bat could see that the Police Chief was deadly serious. It had been a few years since he’d seen the inside of a cell, and his recent spare of soft living had not left him in shape to handle the food.

George’s Weekly was owned and edited by Herbert George, who was so thrilled to have the likes of Bat writing for his paper that he allowed the western legend to cover any subject he wanted. Ostensibly a sports columnist, on this morning Bat was berating the Denver police for their inability to track down and capture the man who had, in recent months, killed three women on the streets of Denver. Two were what polite society called “decent” women, and the third was what that same group referred to as “fallen”. To Bat Masterson, whether the women were somebody’s wife or a street whore didn’t matter.

Actually, it did matter to Bat. The person it didn’t matter to was his wife, Emma. She was the one who was particularly upset about the murders, since she and her friends no longer felt safe on the streets.

“It’s the job of the police to catch this maniac, isn’t it?” she’d asked him yesterday morning while he dressed.

“Yes, dear.”

“And they’re not doing their job, are they?”

“No, dear.”

“Well, then, somebody should light a fire under their asses, shouldn’t they?” she demanded.

“Yes, dear.” Bat wasn’t surprised at his wife’s language. When they’d met she had been performing on stage at the Palace Theater, which at the time he’d owned (and had since sold). Stage people, he’d found, often “salted” their language.

“Somebody with the public’s ear,” she finished, and stared at him.

It suddenly became clear that she was talking about him, so he fixed his tie, turned to her, kissed her cheek and said, “Yes, dear.”

He’d written the column, half expecting that Herbert George would not run it.

But he did…

Bat sighed. “I guess you got yourself a volunteer, Chief.”

“Excellent,” Flaherty said. “House has been working on the case so far, so he will catch you up on what’s been going on. I think you two should work well together.”

“Shall we go?” House asked, standing up.

Bat stood and said, “Lead the way.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Flaherty said before they reached the door. “When this thing blows up it ain’t gonna be blowin’ up in my face. It’s gonna be your faces. You two got that?”

“Got it,” Bat sad.

“Yessir,” House said.

The two men left the office.

2

“I don’t get it,” House said, out in the hall.

“What is there to get?”

“You’re Bat Masterson,” House said. “Why would you agree to this just because of some threats from our blowhard police chief?”

“Are you married, son?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you wouldn’t understand.”

Inspector House led Bat to an office and closed the door behind them.

“Have a seat.”

The detective walked around and sat behind his desk. On it were three folders. He put his hand on them.

“Want to read them, or do you want me to tell you what we have?” he asked.

But sat across from the man. “Just tell me.”

“How much do you know?”

“Only what I read in the newspapers, like everyone else.”

House sat back in his chair. “Well, forget everything you read,” he said. “It’s all false.”

“Why?”

“We’ve kept the truth to ourselves.”

“And has that helped?”

“No.”

“All right, well,” Bat said, settling back in his chair, “tell me what you’ve got.”

“We reported that the three women were robbed and murdered,” House said. “We deliberately left out the method that was used to kill them. Because of that, all these ‘Jack the Ripper’ rumors have started.”

Bat had the good grace to experience some chagrin. He had, after all, mentioned Jack the Ripper to Herbert George only yesterday.

“And were they killed the same way Jack the Ripper’s victims were?” he asked.

“Not at all,” House said.

“So how were they killed?”

“We don’t know,” House said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means there was no sign of violence on them,” House said. “They were just… dead.”

“Natural causes?” Bat asked. “All three?”

“No,” House said. “They had to have been killed. They were dumped where they were found. Somebody killed them, we just don’t know how.”

“It’s impossible to kill somebody and not leave a mark on them,” Bat said. “Where were they found?”

“Different parts of the city,” House said, “but the odd thing is… the family of the third woman.”

“What about them?”

“Well… she was found down by the docks,” the Inspector said. “They claim she never would have gone down there.”

“Why not?”

“She wouldn’t have reason to,” House explained, “and she was afraid.”

“So maybe a man took her there?”

“They say no,” the inspector said. “She was married. Her husband can’t explain what she was doing down there.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Happily married?”

“By all accounts.”

“Where were the other women found, exactly?”

“One was found in a Market Street alley, another at the train station.”

“The train station? Where?”

“Behind one of the buildings.”

“It sounds like all these girls were… discarded.”

“Yes.”

Bat sat and thought a moment. It was actually a smart move for Flaherty to bring in someone with a fresh perspective. He was just sorry it had been him.

House went on to expalin how he had conducted his investigation, and how he had come up with nothing concrete to point to the killer.

“The women are all in their twenties,” he said, “but that’s the only similarity. The first was a whore, the second an old maid and the third happily married.”

“Old maid? How old?”

“Twenty-nine. Not attractive. No prospects.”

“What about the other two and where they were found?” Bat asked.

“Not unusual,” House said. “The whore was the one found behind the train station. She could have been doing some business there.”

“And the second woman? Was she known to frequent the area where she was found?”

“Not frequent, but friends didn’t find anything unusual about it.”

“Where did she work?”

“The other end of town,” House said, “near where she lived.”

“So she was found a long way from either.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a detective, but it still sounds like they were dumped, like human refuse. Were they killed where they were found?”

“Hard to tell.”

Bat rubbed his face. He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee yet.

“What else did the bodies tell you?”

“The bodies?”

“They were examined, weren’t they?”

“Well, yes, but… I told you, they weren’t attacked.”

“Was anything done to them after they were dead?”

“What do you mean? Do you mean…” House looked horrified.

“People have done things to bodies after they’re dead, Inspector. I’m sure you know that.”

“Yes, well…”

“How about autopsies?” Bat asked. “Were the bodies autopsied?”

“Autopsied?”

“You do know what an autopsy is, don’t you?”

“Well, uh, yeah, I guess…”

Bat knew that Doctor George E. Goodfellow had conducted autopsies during the time he spent as coroner in Tombstone, Arizona. He also knew until the 1860s autopsies were pretty much confined to execution victims. But this was 1899, the dawn of a new century. Autopsies were being used to find cures for disease, why not use them to find out other things?

“Maybe an autopsy would tell us something we don’t know,” Bat said. “Where are the bodies?”

“Well… the third is at the morgue. She was only killed a few days ago. The others are… I assume they’ve been buried.”

“We might have to dig them up.”

“What? Oh, no, the families… the Chief wouldn’t like-”

“The Chief volunteered me for this and I’ve come up with an idea nobody else had. He’ll go along with it.”

“But-”

Bat stood up. “Let’s go ask him.”

3

Chief Flaherty went along with it, but only to a point. He agreed that the third girl should be autopsied, but held off any decision about the other two until after that.

Now they needed to find a doctor who would do it. At that time Denver had no coroner and would not have until 1902.

“Get a doctor the same way you got me,” Bat told Flaherty. “Volunteer one.”

“I got a better idea,” Flaherty said, and that’s how it became Bat’s job to come up with a doctor. But it was actually Emma Masterson who came up with a suggestion.

After Bat returned home and told Emma what had happened she said, “I have just the woman for you.”

“Woman?” Bat asked. “A female doctor?”

She folded her arms across her bosom. “And what’s wrong with a female doctor?”

“Emma, we’re going to be asking her to cut open these women-”

“Justina is a doctor, Bat,” she said. “Cutting into a body is not going to frighten her.”

“All right, all right,” he said. “How do you know her?”

“I came across her delivering babies in my volunteer work,” she said.

“Delivering babies? This is a long way from delivering babies-”

“I told you, she’s a doctor.” Emma actually stamped her foot in frustration.

“All right,” he said, again. “Since it’s your fault I’m involved, I’m going to go with your suggestion. Where does this Doctor… whatsername live?”

“Doctor Justina Ford,” Emma said. “She moved here only a few months ago to practice. She graduated from medical school earlier this year-don’t you dare interrupt me again, Bat Masterson!”

The buggy pulled up in front of 1880 Gaylord St and Bat and Inspector House stepped out.

“A lady doctor,” House said to him, as they approached the door.

“Yes.”

“Women are supposed to be nurses,” the Inspector said, “not doctors.”

“House, I’ve already gone through this with my wife,” Bat said, the exasperation clear in his voice. “We need a doctor, right?”

“Right.”

“I can’t keep calling you House. What’s your first name? Or do you want me to keep calling you Inspector?”

“My name is Harry.”

Bat looked at him.

“Harry House?”

“That’s right.”

Bat waited a beat, then said, “I’ll call you House.”

When the black woman answered the door Bat said, “We’re here to see Doctor Ford. Would you tell her that we’re here, please?”

“I am Doctor Ford,” the woman said. “You must be Bat. Emma said you would be coming by to see me. Please, come in.”

She turned and went inside, leaving them to follow her or not. Bat and House exchanged a glance. Both men were obviously even more taken aback by the fact that she was black, let alone a woman.

They followed her inside, Bat first. They found her in a modestly furnished living room. She was in her late twenties, her hair pulled back tightly, her skin very dark and smooth.

“My surgery is through there,” she said, inclining her head toward a door, “but we can talk in here. Would either of you like refreshments?”

“No, uh, Ma’am,” Bat said. “We might as well just get to it. Did Emma tell you what we wanted?”

“No,” the woman said, “she just told me that you needed a doctor and she recommended me. What is it you need done, gentlemen?”

“An autopsy,” Bat said.

“Just one?”

“At first,” he said. “Maybe two more, but those victims are already buried.”

She looked at House.

“You’re a policeman?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Inspector House.”

“Then this is about the three women who have been killed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And autopsies have not yet been done?”

“No, Ma’am,” House said. “We, uh, didn’t even think of it until Bat mentioned it.”

“You would be paid by the city,” Bat said.

“I’m not worried about that,” she said. “If I can help catch this maniac I’m happy to do it. May I perform the autopsy at the St Joseph’s Hospital, on Franklin Street?”

“You can have it done anywhere you want, Doctor,” Bat said. “We’ll have the body brought there… when?”

“As soon as possible,” she said. “Immediately, in fact. I’ll go there now.”

“We’ll have the body brought right over,” Bat said, “and thank you, Doctor.”

“Thank you for asking me, Mr Masterson,” she said. “I’m happy to help.”

Bat and House left. The buggy they’d ridden there was waiting for them outside.

“We’ll leave this one here to take her to the hospital. We can find a cab around the corner,” Bat said.

“You really think she can do this, Bat?” House asked.

“She’s a doctor, House,” Bat said. “Let’s just go and arrange for the body to be brought to her.”

Bat headed for the corner and the Inspector followed him, still dubious.

Bat Masterson and Inspector House were waiting outside the operating room while Doctor Ford performed the autopsy on the third dead woman, Jessica Williams. House kept nervously looking through the window of the closed door.

“Relax,” Bat said. “She knows how to cut into a body.”

“I hope so.”

Bat hoped so, too. He wondered why Emma had not told him that Doctor Ford was black. He was careful not to mention it to Chief Flaherty. It was well known that the Chief hated black people.

House backed away from the door quickly and seconds later Doctor Ford came through, wearing a white surgical gown that was now stained with blood and something else that Bat didn’t want to think about.

“What did you find, Doctor?” Bat asked.

“It was a very good idea to have an autopsy performed, Mr Masterson,” she told him. “It’s not what I found that’s interesting-astounding, actually – but what I didn’t find.”

“And what’s that?”

“There are no internal organs,” she said.

“What?” House asked.

“This woman’s internal organs have been removed.”

“But… she wasn’t cut open,” Bat said, “the way the Jack the Ripper victims were.”

“Exactly.”

“And yet they’re… missing?” House asked.

“Yes.”

“But… that’s impossible,” House said.

“Yes,” Doctor Ford said, “it is.”

4

Flaherty was irate.

“You allowed a black woman to cut open a white girl?” he demanded.

“We allowed a doctor to cut open a dead girl, yes,” Bat said. “If we hadn’t, we wouldn’t know about the missing organs.”

“Does she know what she’s doing?” the Chief demanded.

“Yes, Chief, she does,” Bat said.

Flaherty rubbed his face with both hands. “The Mayor’s gonna be livid.”

“Come on, Chief,” Bat said. “We need to dig up the other two girls so Doctor Ford can examine them as well, see if the same thing is true.”

“The families…” Flaherty said. “The Mayor… the newspapers…”

“I work for a newspaper, Chief, remember?” Bat asked. “I can slant this in a way that will make you look very good.”

That seemed to appeal to the Chief.

“All right, Masterson. I’ll get an order from a judge to exhume both bodies so this… this doctor can examine them. But I’m warning you…” The man pointed a finger.”… this better result in us catching this maniac.” He looked directly at Inspector House. “Understand?”

It took two days but eventually Bat and House were standing outside the operating room at St Joseph’s Hospital again, waiting.

“If she finds the same thing,” House said, “what are we gonna do? We’ll have three impossible murders. Yet, how can it be impossible if it’s been done?”

“That’s a very good question,” Bat said. “I guess we’ll have to wait for the doctor to answer that one. I’ll tell you one thing, I can’t wait for this to be over so I can go back to being a sportsman and nothing else.”

“I’ve heard people refer to you that way,” House said. “As a sportsman? Is that how you prefer to be known, these days?”

“It’s as good a way as any,” Bat said. “Especially since I now have my own club.”

“I’m sure Mr Floto is not all that thrilled about that.”

“Well,” Bat said, “that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

At that moment the door opened and Dr Ford came walking out, clad in her white spattered gown.

“Well,” she said, “it’s the same.”

“Damn it,” House said. “This is too strange.”

“Doctor,” Bat said, “did you find anything at all that might explain what’s going on?”

“I have found something,” she said. “It’s on all three women, but I don’t know that I can explain it.”

“Anything would help,” Inspector House said.

“There is an incision, a very small incision, on their left side.”

“All three?” Bat asked.

“Yes.”

“And that’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Could the organs have been removed through that?” Bat asked.

“It doesn’t seem possible, but…”

“But what, Doctor?” Bat asked. “If you’ve got an idea, don’t hold back.”

“That’s all it is,” she said, “an idea. Just something I remember from medical school. If I could have some time-”

“Give us an idea of what you’re talking about,” Bat suggested, “and then take the time you need.”

“Well, I’m thinking about… mummification.”

“Mummi-what’s that?” House asked.

“Mummies?” Bat asked. “You mean like, in ancient Egypt?”

“Yes.”

“Egypt?” House asked, still looking confused.

“When they mummified their dead,” Dr Ford explained, “part of the ritual was to remove all the internal organs.”

“But… through a small incision like the one you described?”

“I seem to remember… something about a small incision, but I don’t recall how it was done. I can do some research at the museum, talk to the Egyptian expert there.”

“Can that be done today?” Bat asked.

“I don’t see why not?”

“Then I’ll take you there, Doctor.”

“I don’t need to be taken, Mr Masterson-”

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Bat responded, “what I meant was, I’ll go with you, if you’ll allow me to.”

“Well… why not?”

“Just let me walk the Inspector out and I’ll have a cab waiting when you’re ready.”

“Very well.”

Outside the hospital Bat said to House, “You go and tell Flaherty what I’m doing. After the doctor and I go to the museum I’ll come and find you.”

“What the hell, Bat-” House said. “I can’t go back to the Chief with this.”

“This could be the only explanation we have for what seems to be impossible,” Bat said.

“Ancient Egypt? Mummies? Do you believe all that?”

“Don’t you ever do any reading, son,” Bat said. “We’re talking about history.”

“Still,” House said, as they headed down the hall, “It’s hard to believe.”

“Yes, it is.”

5

“Who do we ask for?” Bat asked, as they entered the Denver Museum of History, located on Broadway.

“The Egyptology expert,” Dr Ford said.

“I’ll let you start to do the talking.”

“Shouldn’t Inspector House be with us?” she asked. “After all, he’s the policeman.”

“Inspector House had something else to do,” Bat said. “Don’t worry, we have official standing.”

They walked down a long hall until they encountered a man standing at a desk.

“Can I help you?”

“My name is Doctor Ford,” she said, “and this is Bat Masterson, the, urn, columnist. We are hoping to speak to whoever is your expert on Egyptology?”

“Bat Masterson?” the man asked. He was a small man roughly Bat’s age, but he stared at the frontier legend with a little boy’s enthusiasm. “Really?”

“Yes,” Bat said, “I’m afraid so. Do you have an expert in, urn, Egyptology?”

“Ooh, yes, we do,” the man said. “You want Mr Vartan. I’ll get him for you.”

“Thank you,” Doctor Ford said.

“Doctor, how many of these experts could there be in Denver?” Bat asked while they waited.

“I would think only one.”

“And would he know how to do this, how to… what? Mummify?”

“I know what you mean, and I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose we’ll have to ask him.”

They waited in silence, and after a few minutes had past the doctor looked at Bat curiously. “Did you mean that you… suspect this man, even though you haven’t met him yet?”

“No,” he said, “of course not. I just thought if he’s the only expert that maybe the killer had come to see him, just like we have.”

“Oh, I see.”

But now that she mentioned it, why couldn’t the one man in Denver who had the know how be a suspect in the crime? Bat decided he would give this jasper a real close going over and watch him carefully.

They heard footsteps coking towards them and saw the small man returning with a very tall, dark-skinned man wearing a suit and tie.

“This is Mr Vartan,” the small man said.

“I am Michael Vartan. I understand you were looking for me?” Vartan asked. “Sam said one of you is a doctor?”

“I am Dr Ford,” Justina Ford said.

Vartan looked at her in complete surprise.

“I did not know we had any black doctors in Denver, let alone a woman. How fascinating.”

“Mr Vartan?” Bat said. “My name is Bat Masterson. We would like to ask you some questions about-”

“The famous killer?” Vartan asked.

Bat closed his mouth and glared at the man.

“I am a columnist for the newspaper George’s Weekly.”

“Ah, but surely you are the famous Bat Masterson,” Vartan said. “There could not be two men with such a name.”

“I am perhaps famous,” Bat said, “but not as a killer.”

“I am so sorry,” Vartan said. “I have offended you.”

“Mr Masterson has been many things, Mr Vartan,” Dr Ford said, “among them a lawman.”

“And now a writer,” Vartan said. “How commendable. I apologize again. You have some questions concerning what?”

“The process of mummification,” Dr Ford said.

Vartan stared at them for a few moments, then said, “I have an office. Would you follow me, please?”

He led them through hallways of the museum, so that they never saw any displays except through doorways as they passed. Eventually they came to a room with a desk and a few chairs. He invited them in to sit, and closed the door before circling his desk and seating himself.

“Please, tell me your problem.”

Dr Ford looked to Bat, who took up the tale. He told Vartan about the three women who had been killed and what had been found by Dr Ford during the autopsy.

“What we need to know is,” Dr Ford said, “could the organs have been removed through this small incision?”

“Interesting,” Vartan said. He paused to consider and while he did he picked up an instrument from the desk. It was a long copper needle with a small hook on the end. “Do you see this? It was used by the Egyptians to remove the brain through the nasal passage.”

Bat remembered Dr Ford mentioning that earlier.

“Could it be used for the organs, too?” Bat asked.

Vartan didn’t reply to Bat’s direct question, but went on in his train of thought. Bat thought Vartan warmed to his gruesome subject too much.

“No one knows how the brain was removed, but it must have been in pieces,” the man went on. “It could not have been removed this way as a whole.”

“The organs couldn’t have been removed as a whole either,” Dr Ford said. “At least, not through that incision.”

“The incision you refer to was indeed used to remove the organs,” Vartan said, “and then they were put into a jar and buried along with the body.”

Bat didn’t like the way Vartan’s eyes shone during the telling.

“But no one knows for sure how it was done,” Vartan continued, “just as we don’t quite know how the brain was removed.” He set the bronze tool down. “But we know that they were.”

“So no one,” Bat said, “not even you, who is an expert, would be able to do such a thing now?”

“I?” Vartan asked, looking shocked. “I would never-no, no, too bloody. I would be too… squeamish, I think.”

Bat doubted that Vartan was squeamish about much of anything. The man seemed to be enjoying the spotlight and also – to Bat’s trained eye from years of not only gambling but sizing up men who may or may not try to kill him – he thought the man seemed amused.

“Mr Vartan,” Dr Ford said, apparently unaware of these things, “has anyone else come to see you about these things in, say the past six months or so?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Vartan said, making a steeple of his hands and fingers and regarding them above it. “I rarely get to speak of these things in this way.”

Another thing Bat noticed about Vartan was that the man’s gaze never wavered from his own. Even when he speaking to the doctor, he was looking at Bat. Many men had looked at Bat that way over the years, as if they had or were getting his measure. They had all been disappointed.

Oddly, the room seemed bare. There were no Egyptian objects of any kind on the walls, and the only one on his desk was that bronze tool sitting on the edge of his desk.

“I am so sorry these women were killed – how were they killed?”

“That’s still something of a mystery,” Dr Ford said, “but their organs were removed after death.”

“Shocking… in this day and age, I mean.”

“Yes,” Dr Ford said, “quite.”

“They were peaceful in death, Mr Vartan,” Bat said. “What would make them die so peacefully?”

“Well, certain poisons would have that effect,” Vartan said. “There are poisons which cause horrible, painful deaths, but there are several which could cause a person to simply… fall asleep… forever. Some of these were used in ancient Egypt.”

Poison was not a common form of killing in the West – at least, not in what people were now calling the “old” West.

“And you would know what kind of poisons those were, wouldn’t you?” Bat asked.

Vartan looked embarrassed and said, “Well, I am an expert on things Egyptian.”

“Yes, you are,” Bat said.

“That’s fascinating,” Dr Ford said.

“Well,” Bat said, “I think we’re done here, Doctor. Obviously, Mr Vartan won’t help us with anything more.”

Bat got to his feet, stumbled and almost fell, righting himself by catching the edge of Vartan’s desk. He knew the man must have been thinking, “What an old fool.”

“Can’t,” Vartan said.

“Excuse me?” Bat asked, back on solid footing.

“You said I won’t help you with anything more,” Vartan said. “You meant ‘can’t’.”

Bat looked the man in the eyes and said, “Did I?”

Outside the museum Dr Ford said, “What a rude man. He never looked at me the entire time.”

“That’s because he was lookin’ at me,” Bat said. “He’s the one.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He did it. He killed those women and removed their organs.”

“How can you-”

“He looked me in the eyes the whole time, challenging me. Believe me, Doctor, I know what that look means. He did it.”

“Is that what you will tell the Chief? Would they arrest him on your word?”

“No,” Bat said, “they wouldn’t, but I don’t think they’ll have to.”

“Why not?”

Bat put his hand in his pocket and came out with the bronze hook from Vartan’s desk. Carefully, he wrapped it in a handkerchief and handed it to the doctor.

“How did you – you took that when you stumbled.”

“Yes. Check it. I’m sure there’s some flecks of blood on it. He’s so arrogant that he still keeps it on his desk. And I’m sure there’ll be some rare poison in that museum somewhere-unless he’s destroyed it all now.”

Dr Ford looked down at the hook in her hands. “You think he used this?”

“I’d bet on it. But even if he didn’t, he knows I know,” Bat said. “He knows if he stays in Denver, I’ll have him.”

“But… if he leaves, and goes somewhere else… is that good enough?”

“It’ll have to be, Doctor,” Bat said. “It’ll have to be.”

But it wasn’t, not for Bat Masterson. That evening, as Vartan came out of his apartment carrying a suitcase Bat was waiting, leaning against the building. He hadn’t been wearing his gun that afternoon in museum, but he was wearing it now. He chose one with a pearl handle, so that it gleamed in the moonlight.

Vartan saw him and stopped. There was no slump to the man’s shoulder, no diminishment of his arrogance.

“You stumbled on purpose,” he said. “I realized it afterward.”

“I was going to let you go,” Bat said, “let you run, but I decided I had to know why. Why would you do that to those poor women?”

“I am afraid my explanation will not give you much satisfaction.”

“Try me.”

The man shrugged.

“To see if I could. I have studied the Egyptians for so long. I believe they were a master race. I wanted to see if I could do what they did. And after I did it once, I knew that if I kept trying, I would succeed.”

“Did you do more than those three?”

“No,” Vartan said, “Just those-so far.”

“Just those, period, Mr Vartan.”

“Now that you know the why, perhaps you would…?”

“Put the suitcase down, Mr Vartan,” Bat said, pushing away from the wall so Vartan could see the pearl handle, “you won’t need it where you’re going.”