Fallen Women (16 page)

The crib was made up of two rooms—the front room, fitted with an iron bed and a washstand, an iron stove, and a back room where Sadie would have kept her belongings. From time to time, a prostitute had an accomplice who hid in the back room and stole the customer’s money while he was busy with the girl. Occasionally the cribs had closets where a prostitute could hang a man’s coat and pants. A door or loose panel in the second room allowed the accomplice, called a panel man, access to the closet. He could go through the clothing for money or other valuables while the john was occupied in front.

Generally, the crib customers were so drunk, they weren’t aware that they’d been robbed until later, and when they realized what had happened, they often couldn’t remember which crib they’d entered. Some hadn’t even planned to go inside, had only walked by out of curiosity, but then the prostitute had grabbed a hat, forcing the man to enter the crib to retrieve it.

Beret had been in such hovels before, rescuing women who were sick or maimed by customers or pimps, but she was never prepared for the desolation, and she held her breath as she stepped into the room and looked about. The walls and ceiling were black with soot and dirt. Newspapers, water-stained now, had been placed over holes in the ceiling as well as the walls, where they were pasted upright, as if Sadie read the articles in her off hours—that is, if she could read. Above the bed was a picture of the Virgin Mary, her face tilted heavenward, her hands together in prayer. The picture was faded, and Beret thought it had been there a long time, probably hung by someone who occupied the crib before Sadie Hops. Risqué drawings of pretty girls, dressed in lingerie or nothing at all, their hands and eyes inviting, were pinned to the walls. They had been torn from the
Police Gazette
or one of the girlie magazines. Beret noticed that someone had blackened the eyes of the woman in one of the pictures.

The rough board floor was filthy, with a path worn from the door to the bed to the rickety table that served as a washstand. A basin half filled with dirty water and a gray rag were on the table. Next to the basin was a pewter spoon in a glass and an empty whiskey bottle, along with dirty pots, broken crockery, and remnants of food. A battered pan holding a congealed mess rested on the tiny stove, which was cold now, the coal bucket beside it empty. A few pieces of ragged clothing hung on nails in the wall. A chamber pot was just under the bed. The place stank of sewer gas and mold and general filth. The only air came from the door, since no one had had the sense to open the window. Beret could not see into the back room but assumed it held a trunk containing any valuables the girl would have had, photographs, perhaps a few mementos of an earlier life, such as postcards or letters or sad little trinkets. Sadie Hops would have kept her stash of liquor in the back room, too, lest a john grab a bottle and help himself.

Mick was standing next to the bed when Beret entered the room, staring down at the corpse, and Beret forced herself to go to his side. The iron bed itself was lopsided and badly chipped. A quilt, the only bright thing in the room, was thrown over the footboard. There was no sheet, just a mattress, grimy and torn. Sadie’s body, dressed only in a shift and black stockings, lay on top of it. “My God, Detective, who could have done such an awful thing?” Beret gasped, forcing herself to look at the remains of the prostitute. Her hand over her nose, she stared in horror at the mangled body. Beret hoped that Lillie had not looked like this, had hoped Lillie had died with more dignity. But murder was never dignified. She breathed deeply to keep the breakfast muffins from rising in her throat, and took in the awful stench.

Mick removed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

“I thought I was used to the smell,” Beret said, putting the small square of fabric over her nose and turning away.

“You get used to the smell of poverty maybe, but not of death. You never get used to it,” he told her, and she nodded, understanding.

“Pray God I don’t.” Beret gave the room a final glance, then forced herself once again to look at the body on the bed. She held her arms to her sides to keep from shaking. “This is inhuman. What fiend could have done it?”

The body and the quilt beneath it were covered in blood. Beret studied the quilt for a moment and was oddly touched by it. The spread was handmade, a delicate design quilted with stitches as exquisite as those used on an opera cape. Had Sadie made the comfort herself? Perhaps she had been a fine needlewoman and had tried to support herself with her sewing, but the life of a seamstress was hard, and she wouldn’t have made enough to keep herself. The quilt might have been pieced for her by a mother or grandmother and was a remembrance of another life. Or maybe the quilt had just been discarded by the previous occupant, and Sadie had merely taken it as her own, not knowing whose fingers had made the tiny stitches. Beret frowned at her sentimentality over such a trifle.

The woman’s shift was ripped and bloody from where the killer had stabbed her, sinking the knife into her again and again, just as he had Lillie. The woman’s chest was brutally slashed and stained with blood and gore. Her face was bloody, too, not from wounds, for it did not appear the killer had taken the knife to her face, but from where the blood that flowed from the wounds on her chest had splashed onto it. Her teeth were missing, but whether the killer had smashed them or she had lost them at some other time, perhaps in a fight or just from general poor hygiene, Beret couldn’t tell. If Mick had not told Beret Sadie’s age, she would have thought the dead woman was in her forties or fifties. The body looked like that of a dog she had seen in the street once, a dog that had been crushed by a heavy wagon, then run over by other vehicles. Sadie Hops seemed no more a creature who had once lived than a slab of meat in a butcher shop.

Beret removed her glove and touched the woman’s forehead with her fingers in a gesture of compassion. She was not aware she had done so until she took away her hand and saw the blood on her fingers. Had her sister looked like this when she was found—bloodied, half naked? As Beret wiped the blood on her hand with the detective’s handkerchief, she shook her head at the idea of Lillie’s dying like Sadie.

Mick turned to her. “It’s a ghastly scene, grisly even for those of us who’ve seen murder before. Do you want Officer Thrasher to take you outside?” he asked.

“There’s whiskey over there if you need it,” the officer interjected, pointing to a table. “I’ll bet it’s strong enough to make a man shed his toenails.”

“No. Thank you, Officer.” The idea of a drink of Sadie’s liquor gagged Beret. “I was just wondering. Is this how you found Lillie?”

The young officer glanced at Beret and said, “You mean Lillie Brown, the soiled dove at Miss Hettie’s that got cut?” He all but rubbed his hands together. “Ma’am, a dead whore—”

“Officer!” Mick cut him off. “You will keep your remarks to yourself. Miss Osmundsen is Lillie Brown’s sister. I think you can show some respect for the dead.”

The officer’s eyes grew wide, and his eyes swept Beret from head to foot, wondering perhaps if she were a prostitute, too. He straightened his back when Beret gave him a look of disdain and said, “I didn’t know we allowed civilians at a crime scene.”

Mick’s eyes bored into him. “Miss Osmundsen is an expert in crime, someone who is called a criminologist. Perhaps you’ve heard of such people. She has already provided us with invaluable information.”

“A girl?”

“A lady.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mick turned to look at the body again, but just then, the coroner known as Dr. Death entered the room, glancing around until his eyes lit on Beret, and he frowned. He started to ask a question, but Mick cut him off.

“This is Miss Osmundsen. She is helping the police department,” Mick explained, forestalling any unseemly remarks on the part of the coroner.

If the man was surprised or puzzled by Beret’s presence, he didn’t show it. “Ma’am,” he said, removing his hat, “I’m sorry you have to see such a depraved scene.”

Beret nodded to acknowledge the coroner’s sympathy and said, “Thank you.”

“Miss Osmundsen is a criminologist,” Mick informed him.

“I heard about them. Aren’t they the people that tell you why the criminal done the crime?” the doctor responded, and when Mick didn’t elaborate, added, “Well, I guess it don’t matter why, does it? Dead’s dead. Let’s get to it.” He leaned over the body and studied it. “This one’s nastier than the other’n. Look how her dress is pushed over to the side, no attempt to cover her up like before. And the wounds are different. She’s slashed. The first one, she was punctured. Of course, that could be because he used scissors the first time and a knife on this one.” He indicated the knife lying on the floor. “That’s what he done it with, must be.” Mick let the knife lie, and the three were careful not to step on it.

The doctor took a cloth from his bag and wiped some of the blood off Sadie’s chest. “Looks like just about the same number of wounds, eight, wasn’t it?” He touched the wounds as he counted them. “And look here, she’s got cuts on her hands where she tried to defend herself.” He studied Sadie’s face. “He must have knocked out her teeth. That’s different. You see them around?” He glanced at the floor.

“She didn’t have any. I seen her before. She was plug ugly,” Officer Thrasher volunteered.

Beret bristled at the remark about the dead woman. After a time, most policemen grew inured to the victims, but it was a pity that an officer just starting out was so insensitive.

The doctor examined the body, cutting away the shift so that Sadie lay naked on the bed. Beret turned away, embarrassed for the dead woman that she was subjected to such impersonal study by the coroner as well as by the police officers, who sent furtive glances at the bed. Sadie had been a prostitute, was used to men staring at her body, but somehow, this curious observation was indecent. Had they looked at Lillie like that, staring as the coroner examined her body? Beret wanted to leave the room as a sign of respect while the coroner did his work, but she forced herself to stay, fearful the men would think she was squeamish.

She
was
squeamish. Her stomach churned as the doctor probed the prostitute’s body, and she put Detective McCauley’s handkerchief to her face, breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell in the room. Inexplicably her eyes watered, and she dabbed at them with the fingertips of her gloves. She wished someone had stood beside Lillie, crying for her. Did anyone care about the dead woman? Did she have friends among the other whores who stood outside, or was she only a curiosity to them, her death a temporary break from the monotony of their lives?

Dr. Death grunted, scribbled notes on a pad of paper. He took one of Sadie’s ears between his fingers and examined the tear where an earring had been ripped out. When he was finished, he drew Mick and Beret aside.

“Was she raped?” Beret asked.

The coroner gave her an odd look. “She was a whore. How could I tell?”

Before Beret could protest, Mick asked, “You think it’s the same killer?”

“This murder’s worse, and he didn’t cover her up like the last time. Remember how her underclothes was pulled over the parlor house girl even though they’d been ripped by the scissors, like he didn’t want her to be embarrassed? This time, he just let her lie.”

“You think he’s getting more vicious?”

The doctor nodded. “I do.”

“It’s the same killer, then?”

“I don’t see how it couldn’t be. Tell me, Mick, you been around here, what, ten, twelve years? How many murders like this have you seen? None. Most of the girls that get killed—and there aren’t many of them at that—are done in by their pimp or maybe by another girl in a fight. They don’t get murdered in their beds. Most street women die from disease or liquor or by their own hand.” He blew out his breath, which was as foul as that of a corpse. “Yessir, I think you got a real killer on your hands, a madman.”

They had been standing near the door, and although they’d been talking in hushed tones, one of the crib girls outside overheard.

“We got a crazy man slicing up girls,” she screamed at another prostitute. “I got to get out of here.”

“If word spreads, it could just about close down Holladay Street,” the coroner muttered. “If the good ladies of Denver had known that, they might have been behind this.” He chuckled, but when neither Mick nor Beret laughed, he cleared his throat and said, “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I’m just saying that the girls along the row are scared as a parlor dog in a street fight when it comes to murder. They’ll take off for Leadville or Salida or Kansas City when they hear about Sadie Hops. You know as well as I do, Mick, those girls are superstitious as all get out. A single death is one thing, but two deaths, that means another’s coming. Those girls believe everything happens in threes, and they’re afraid they’ll be the third one. The prostitutes that stay will be as jumpity as bunny rabbits. It wouldn’t surprise me if a couple of johns get knifed by scared whores.”

“I’ll leave the problem of a shortage of prostitutes to someone else,” Mick said. “We’ve got a murder to solve, two murders.”

“What other comparisons are there between the murder of the crib girl and…” Beret paused and said pointedly, “The murder of my sister, Lillie?”

The coroner jerked up his head at that and stared at Beret with narrowed eyes. “Your sister? You mean the girl that got killed at Miss Hettie’s?”

“Yes. Lillie Brown, that is, Lillie Osmundsen, was my younger sister.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know.” He thought for a moment. Then he removed his hat and said, “There’s one difference. I guess I don’t know why, if the killer’s aim is to murder common women, he’d go to the trouble of getting into a parlor house where he was likely to get caught, when it’s so easy to stab a crib girl.”

“Maybe the challenge,” Mick said.

“Could be. Or he might have had a reason to kill Lillie, then discovered he liked murdering women and went after another,” Beret said, thinking it over. “My sister’s death could have unleashed a blood lust.” She paused. “You are sure”—she searched for the coroner’s name but did not know it—“the same person killed both women?”