In the Shadow of Gotham (19 page)

Even more sobering was the second type of photograph included in this odd collection: cadavers laid out, as was typical at most morgues. I shuddered involuntarily, as I skimmed through picture after picture of cadavers—all women, each bruised or maimed in some way. There were only ten photographs of this sort, but even one would have been too many.

I put aside the question of why he would want to possess such pictures. Instead, I pondered how he could have gained access to them. They were of the kind one would find in a police file, even a mortician’s record. But ordinarily no layperson would be able to obtain such photographs.

I tucked the file into my satchel silently and left the room, joining Isabella in the hallway. She looked anxious and wan. I could think of nothing comforting to say, so I simply touched her arm and escorted her out of the house to the street below, where we hailed a hansom cab to take us downtown, back toward Tin Pan Alley and Clara Murphy’s flat.

In searching for Stella, we had learned a good deal about Fromley—albeit not the kind of information I had originally envisioned. Hopefully in locating Clara, I would find Fromley himself. The folder of pictures, heavy in my bag, served as a reminder of why it was absolutely critical to do so.

While in the cab, Isabella slowly came to herself again. The pictures we had just seen illustrated Fromley’s disturbed habits of mind in a way she had never encountered at Alistair’s center.
While she had often reviewed Alistair’s typed transcriptions and case observations, she had never attended an interview session and only rarely seen Fromley himself.

She shuddered. “Seeing those photographs makes him seem more real, somehow. They show us something of how he views the world around him. I never would have imagined confronting it would be so upsetting.” After a pause, she added, “I knew he dreamt and obsessed over horrible, evil things. But encountering that on the written page is a far different thing than seeing photographic evidence of it.”

“But remember, he is nothing more than a man,” I said with a reassuring smile. “That’s how I view it. Because I can’t fear him. The moment I do, my resolve to catch him might waver.”

I don’t know if she believed me, but she pulled herself together, explaining how the photographs we had found were consistent with Alistair’s larger presumptions about Michael Fromley.

“In some ways, Alistair has prepared me for this,” she said. “He always claimed that Michael’s fantasies and daydreams fueled his violent actions. That was why Alistair—and Fred Ebbings, too—worked to help him humanize the people around him. They believed the more Michael learned to recognize the thoughts and feelings of others, the closer he would be to a full rehabilitation.”

I said nothing to Isabella as we approached our destination on West Twenty-eighth Street, but what we had just discovered made me concerned about Clara Murphy. I hoped Clara would be able to help us locate Fromley. But most of all, I hoped we would find her in her flat—alive, unharmed, safe from Whatever violent impulses motivated this man. The fact that she was last seen in his company made me uneasy about her well-being.

As opposed to last night, when the place had been deserted and most residents out for the evening, this afternoon the lobby was filled with a cacophony of sounds: a woman belted out scales in her most operatic voice; the tinny jingle of a piano sounded out “My Gal Sal.” The place was crowded, noisy, and teeming with life—the perfect antidote to our mood after visiting Fromley’s rooms. We went to apartment 432, where—just as I had done last night—we knocked several times with no response.

“Still not at home.” I sighed in frustration. “We’ll have to try back later.” I turned away from the door and decided to find the building’s custodian, who might know something of Clara’s schedule and habits.

“Wait a moment,” Isabella said. “We should say something first. She may be here, simply not answering because she is afraid.”

If that were the case, I could not imagine what I could say to persuade her to open the door. Variations of “Police, open up” never seemed to work. But perhaps Isabella would fare better.

“You try,” I urged. “It may sound better coming from you.”

She shrugged in agreement, and called out softly but clearly. “Miss Murphy? Are you there? My name is Isabella Sinclair. A friend and I were hoping to have a word with you. We only need a few minutes of your time.”

We waited a moment, and as we heard the chain lock being undone from inside the door, I once again appreciated Isabella’s gift for striking just the right tone.

The door opened only a crack at first. A single eye peered out, taking full stock of Isabella before finding her acceptable.

Then the door opened wide enough for us to enter.

It was dark inside, just as it had been at Michael Fromley’s.
And it was filthy—the bed rumpled and unmade, the washbasin unemptied. The stench of urine from a chamber pot permeated the room. As my eyes focused, I also noted faded pink wallpaper peeling off the wall. This particular flat was among the more squalid I had seen.

Once she had let us in, Clara Murphy retreated to the sole chair in the room—a bare wooden rocker—and eased her body into it gingerly. Isabella and I noticed her injuries at about the same time, but Isabella reacted first.

“Miss Murphy, you’re badly hurt!” she exclaimed. “You must see a doctor straightaway.”

Clara Murphy was clearly taken aback by the idea. And when she understood Isabella was serious, she rejected the proposal out of hand.

But she had not counted on Isabella’s persistence. “At least allow us to call a nurse to come to you here.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” Clara said again, her speech slurred by a swollen mouth. “I just need some rest,” she added wearily.

I had no doubt that was true, for she looked as though she had not slept in days. Or eaten, either, I suspected, as I noted her bruised face and jaw. As my eyes better adjusted to the dim light, I began to register the extent of her injuries. Her face was covered with multiple lacerations and bruises; her left arm hung limply in a way that suggested it was broken; a patch of hair from the left side of her head was missing, and from the way she had lowered herself into her chair, I suspected additional injuries lay hidden under her clothing.

She offered living evidence of the extreme violence of which Michael Fromley was capable.

“Miss Murphy,” Isabella continued, “my friend is with the police. Would you allow Detective Ziele to call someone in your
local precinct? They could help you to press charges against whoever did this to you.”

Clara’s laugh was a hoarse cackle.

“Miss,” she said, “I know you mean well, but you need to stop. Never mind my injuries. And forget about the police. No one’s going to listen to what the likes of me has to say. Now what did you come here to talk with me about?”

She was right, though I felt ashamed to admit it. Police resources were limited, and scant attention was paid to the complaints of women like Clara Murphy. “Likely brought it on herself staying out too late in the wrong company,” most officers would say. The underlying presumption, of course, was that ladies didn’t get themselves in trouble. But no one deserved the abuse Clara Murphy had taken, and I resolved to order a nurse’s visit and groceries after we were done, despite Clara’s earlier protestations. If nothing else, her arm would give her a lifetime of trouble if she didn’t get it set soon—and properly. I for one knew that.

Sensing she wanted us to leave her alone, I began my questions at once. “We don’t plan to take up much of your time, Miss Murphy, so I’ll get straight to the point. What can you tell us about Michael Fromley?”

Although she blanched, she answered promptly. “Well, I know he’s the man that did this to me.” She used her good arm to indicate her more obvious bruises.

Perhaps I should have offered some sort of expression of sympathy, but in truth, it was all I could do to stay focused on my questions, for the room’s stench was terrible to endure.

Isabella must have felt the same way. She asked, “Miss Murphy, may we open your window for a few minutes? The fresh air would do you good.”

This earned her a dubious stare. “It’s November. It’s cold out.”

“Yes, but the sun is out. We’ll only crack the window, and not for long.” Isabella’s compromise won Clara’s grudging agreement, and I breathed in relief the moment I felt the fresh air enter the room.

“We’re searching for Michael Fromley in connection with a recent murder,” I said. “We understand you were well acquainted with him.”

She stared at me with a blank expression, and for a moment I wondered if she had not heard me. Then she spoke again. “Mind telling me who he killed?”

“We believe he has murdered a young woman north of the city,” I answered carefully.

“He stabbed her?”

“Repeatedly. The official cause of death was a slash to her throat, but she suffered many additional stab wounds.” I hoped she would ask no more. I typically never divulged case details to potential witnesses. But I sensed that giving her some information would encourage her to cooperate with me.

She seemed to be thinking, deeply. “Disgusting animal,” she finally said, just under her breath. We simply waited a moment for her to compose herself.

She began to explain. “I noticed Michael early last month when he came to my show. I was in the chorus of
Little Johnny Jones,
though I got fired the same night I met him. The director complained I was always late to rehearsal, but it’s not like they paid me enough, was it? I had to work the extra jobs that always made me late.”

She paused a moment before continuing. “That’s of course
when
he
showed up, when I was down on my luck. I’d just picked up my last paycheck from the office, and there he was, all smiles and flowers, ready to take me to dinner.”

I asked her to clarify. “But you had seen him before?”

She shifted position, and her movement was slow and difficult. “Yes, I’d seen him before,” she acknowledged. “He came to show after show, flirting with all the girls. He wasn’t my type at all—too pleased with himself, too aggressive. Don’t think I’d ever have agreed if I hadn’t just been fired. But that doesn’t matter now.”

She went on to outline their short history together, giving dates and places as best she could remember. Michael Fromley had behaved the perfect gentleman their first several dates, squiring her sometimes to uptown dinners and shows, other times to downtown clubs. One evening, early on, he had been drunk and slapped her when she refused to invite him up after such an evening. She wished she had heeded that warning. But after ignoring his apologies for a week, she had agreed to see him once more; she went out with him to the Fortune Club on Saturday the twenty-first, as we had learned from Izzy. It was that same evening that Fromley had put knock-out drops in her drink, taken her to a deserted river warehouse, and brutally assaulted her. When she regained consciousness, he was gone; she made her way back home, where for the past two weeks she had subsisted more or less in the state we found her.

The man she described was mercurial. Sometimes he flashed large sums of money and was in a wonderful mood; other times he was broke and easily angered. But when he had money, he spent it on entertainment at the city’s seedier restaurants and barrooms, not its finer establishments. Large portions of each
evening’s cost were for alcohol. “I knew he was too fond of the liquor,” she said mournfully, “I just didn’t know his problems went so far beyond that.”

Before we left, we obtained a list of each place she recalled Fromley had taken her in the past month. She had been under the impression he was a regular customer at three or four of the restaurants, so we would visit those first.

In parting, I let her know we would send a nurse by. “I’m telling you so you’ll know to expect her, and not be frightened,” I said. “It will be no expense to you—it is the least we can do to thank you for talking with us. And it looks like you’ve a broken arm that needs to be set.”

She continued to protest, even as we shut the door behind us.

We stayed on Twenty-eighth Street, crossing the stretch between Broadway and Sixth Avenue that was home to most music publishers. Isabella and I did not talk; it would have been impossible to hear each other, anyway, over the cacophony of sound. Each music publisher employed song pluggers to advertise their newest offerings—sometimes even on the sidewalk outside. We had just passed Paul Dresser’s Publishing when my attention was distracted by a singer and piano player performing a catchy ragtime riff. I had no warning before I was tackled, sent sprawling to the ground by a man who came at me from behind.

I landed—hard—on my bad right arm, gasping in agony as pain shot up into my shoulder.

My attacker was all hands, one moment reaching for my leather satchel, the next trying to gouge my eyes. I wrenched my head away and saw Isabella had been knocked down, but was
mercifully alone. We had only one attacker—the one on my back, pinning me to the sidewalk. Then I tasted something salty I knew to be blood. Before I could succumb to my usual weakness, pure instinct kicked in. I elbowed and kicked with all my might, my bum right arm useless for anything other than maintaining an iron grip on my bag. He continued to pummel my ribs to force me to let go of it. Through gut-wrenching pain, I focused on elbowing the man, dimly aware of Isabella screaming for help as I struggled to fight against the rain of blows.