? ? ?
The night passed slowly, without sleep. My mind fluttered and zipped, even while I did my best to hold it still, stretched across my narrow bed. My imagination was too good. I thought of everything I could have done differently and how much better things would have turned out, if only.
Had the ring been stolen by someone else from the agency? Mortenson, perhaps? Or Bellamy? Making evidence disappear was a quick way to discredit me. Even DeForest, as kind as he was to my face, might have his reasons for not wanting me around. No one was above suspicion. And regardless of who had done it, the result was clear. My position was at stake.
Unfortunately, as the night’s darkness began to give way to the morning’s light, I was no closer to figuring out how I might determine who was responsible. The ring was gone, making me look stupid or criminal or both. And though Pinkerton had not dismissed me on the spot, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t turn to it eventually.
The next day, I could not decide whether my presence or my absence would be more provocative to Pinkerton. Avoiding the office might make me look guilty; appearing there might inspire him to take action, and not in a positive way. At last, I forced myself to dress and walk in that direction midmorning, figuring I could always change my mind.
As I approached the outside door, it swung open, and a familiar, slender figure emerged. Mortenson.
He stopped when he saw me and said, “Just who I was looking for.”
“Oh?” I saw no harm in talking with the man, thinking perhaps I might even be able to win him over to my side, were I charming enough. I assumed he knew about the disappearance of the ring, but we hadn’t discussed it. Perhaps he wanted to.
“Come with me a moment,” he said, gesturing toward the street.
“For what purpose?”
“An important step in your training.”
I grew curious—and a bit suspicious—but I wanted to be cooperative. “At the boss’s direction?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d approve.”
I walked out of the office with him, reasoning that nothing would stop me from turning back if I decided I wanted to. We strolled along, down Wells and then Madison. It was an official part of town, with many city buildings, though I noticed it smelled oddly of the stockyards.
He swung a door open for me and, with no warning, we descended into hell.
Lining the walls of the cold stone room were dead bodies, corpse after corpse laid out on metal slabs, like meat on trays at the butcher’s.
My hand quickly flew to my mouth. With my free hand, I fumbled for a handkerchief, hoping I could get it up to my nose to block out the terrible smell before I became sick in a dramatic and unwelcome fashion.
If the smell bothered Mortenson, he didn’t show it. Instead, he watched me, a bemused look on his ghostly face.
A man in white shirtsleeves and a dark, heavy, indigo apron approached us. There was no sound in the basement room but his footfalls landing one after the other on the cement floor.
“C’mon, Jack,” he said, “the morgue is no place for tourists.”
“She’s no tourist,” replied Mortenson. “This is the estimable Mrs. Warne, first female operative of the Pinkerton Agency. As able and manly as you or me, or so we’re told.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the man in the apron, a deeply skeptical look on his face. He made no move to shake my hand, for which I was grateful.
Mortenson said, “I thought you might show us around.”
What followed was a miserable, terrifying half hour, unlike any other in my life. For the first fifteen minutes, the smell of bloody flesh was overwhelming, and I retained little of what was said. Mortenson continued to look at me, scrutinizing my face over and over, and I made a hero’s work of ignoring him. The voice of the man in the apron, who had never given his name, droned on like the buzz of so many flies.
A quarter hour in, things snapped into place. My poor nose became accustomed to the smell. My head cleared. Then, I was able to hear his words, and I actually became interested in what he was saying. Each of the people here had died a suspicious death and been sent to the county for further investigation. He had worked here since the morgue was established, more than ten years before. He knew bodies. Though I knew it was not what Mortenson had intended, I could learn from him.
“Here, you see ligature marks,” he said, indicating the neck of a dead unfortunate. Other than the dark, bruised lines on her throat, she looked like she might have been only sleeping. I looked away from her face. I had to.
“How long ago did she pass?” I asked, surprising both the men and myself by speaking up.
“Just a few hours ago,” said the man in the apron. “Feel her, and you’ll see. Longer than this, and the body stiffens, becomes firm. She still bends.”
He lifted the woman’s hands, and I was struck by the soft angle of her dangling fingers. Alive, she might have trailed her fingers in the water this way, leaning over the edge of a boat. Now, she would never do so again.
I steeled myself against sentiment. Neither man would appreciate any expression of emotion; that wasn’t what we were here for. Now that I understood this for the test it was, I had to show my strength.
I lifted the woman’s hand in the same way Apron had, feeling how the flesh responded. The flesh had cooled, becoming waxy. I would not have mistaken her for alive under any circumstances.