Victoria Thompson - Murder On Mulberry Bend

“What’s that?” she asked of no one in particular, leaning down to peer more closely at the hollow on the back of the girl’s neck that was now exposed.

“What’s what?” Malloy asked, but she didn’t answer. She was tracing the small mark with her finger.

“Look, there’s a little dried blood here,” she said, pointing at a spot just at the base of the girl’s skull, where her hair almost hid it.

Malloy examined the spot she’d found. He wasn’t impressed. “You don’t die from a scratch on the neck.”

“It’s more than a scratch,” she insisted. “It looks as if someone stuck something in there. See, the skin closed over it because the wound is so small.”

He looked again. “Could a wound like that kill someone?”

Sarah tried to remember her anatomy classes, and what she remembered alarmed her. “The brain is just inches from this spot. If the knife or whatever it was went straight in, it would sever the spinal cord. If it went upward at an angle, it would plunge right into the brain.”

Malloy still wasn’t convinced. “I thought you said she suffocated.”

“I said she stopped breathing against her will. We don’t know much about how the brain works, but we do know that injuries to it can stop various bodily functions.”

“Like breathing?”

“Like breathing,” she confirmed.

Malloy stepped back from the table, thumbs hooked into his vest pockets, and considered her theory. “Wouldn’t there have been a lot of blood?”

Sarah couldn’t imagine they’d missed blood on the girl’s clothing when they’d removed it. “Where are her things?” she asked, looking around.

Malloy found them under the table, in a sack. Sarah removed each item carefully, trying not to remember that some of these things had touched her own body so recently. She didn’t recognize the shoes and the undergarments. They would have belonged to Emilia. Then she pulled out the jacket of the suit she’d bought at Lord & Taylor just a few short months ago. They’d been having a sale, and she’d been pleased to improve her wardrobe for the reasonable sum of seven dollars. Carefully, hating the very feel of the fabric, she turned the jacket and examined the neckline. She saw no trace of blood.

“I don’t see anything, but a deep puncture wound probably wouldn’t have bled very much,” she said, handing it to Malloy and reaching into the bag for something else. She pulled out the hat she’d worn for so long that she’d stopped noticing it. Malloy had called it ugly, and indeed it was. She tried to imagine anyone being pleased to receive such a worn and shabby thing or wearing it proudly, as Emilia must have done. The thought was too painful to bear.

“What’s this?” Malloy asked and showed her the jacket again. Sarah took it and looked closely at the spot he indicated. She’d missed it because it blended with the dark color of the material, but there, about halfway down, below where the right shoulder blade would have been, was a curiously shaped stain.

“Is it blood?” she asked.

“Looks like it.”

Sarah stared more closely, holding it up to the feeble light. “It’s not from a wound,” she said.

“No,” he said grimly.

“What is it, then?”

“She must have been stabbed with something thin, right?”

“Right.”

“The killer pulled it out and wiped the blood off on her back before he walked away.”

Sarah shuddered in horror. “Dear heaven,” she murmured. “What could they have used to kill her?”

“You said she was Italian?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure she was.”

“I’d say it was a stiletto.”

“ASTILETTO?” SHE REPEATED, AS IF SHE’D NEVER heard the word before. Maybe she hadn’t, Frank thought.

“It’s a long, thin-bladed knife. The Italians like it, for some reason. Probably because it goes in so easily.”

She flinched at the image, and he instantly regretted drawing it for her. “Here, let’s put her clothes back in the bag. I’ll tell Haynes your theory. He can check to see exactly what happened.”

He took the jacket from her and began stuffing it into the bag, but she made a sound of protest and snatched both of them away from him. Probably, she didn’t think he was showing enough respect. She carefully folded the jacket and placed it into the bag along with the rest of her things. When everything was tucked away, she gently pulled the sheet back up over the dead girl, preserving what little was left of her privacy. Her hand lingered for a moment, smoothing the girl’s hair one last time.

“Come on,” he said, his voice sounding a little gravelly to his own ears. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

“Aren’t you going to speak to the coroner first?”

“He’s not here right now. I’ll come back later.”

He took her arm when she hesitated. He certainly didn’t mind touching her, and she didn’t resist when he led her to the door and out into the hallway and up the stairs. When they emerged into the crisp, sunny afternoon, they stopped as if by mutual consent to take a deep breath.

Malloy looked down at her. At least she wasn’t crying anymore. He’d never seen her cry before. They’d been through a lot together, including several attempts on her life, and none of those adventures had brought her even close to tears. Who would have guessed the death of a girl she hardly knew would do it? He certainly hoped he’d never have to witness such a sight again. It had nearly unmanned him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, looking up at him. “I’m furious.” She looked it, too.

Greatly relieved, he asked, “At who?”

“At whoever killed that girl. Do you think it was the Black Hand?”

“How do you know about the Black Hand?” he challenged.

“Everyone knows about the Black Hand. They’re the most despicable creatures on earth. Imagine blackmailing your own kind, people who are slaving away just to make a living.”

The members of this secret society sold “protection” to their fellows. The police did pretty much the same thing, except if you didn’t pay the police, you were simply at the mercy of the laws you were already breaking. The Black Hand sold you protection from themselves. If you didn’t pay, they’d beat you or damage your business or burn it to the ground. Sometimes they even used bombs, if they wanted to make a particular example of someone. Killing people also set an example, although you couldn’t collect money from a dead person, so murder was only used as a last resort. A very nasty bunch.

“Why would the Black Hand want to kill this girl?” he asked, taking her elbow again to encourage her on her way.

“I have no idea. That’s what we have to find out.”

And that’s what he’d been afraid of. “I can’t help thinking that if Commissioner Roosevelt had appointed you to the police department, it would have been in all the newspapers.”

She gave him a look that told him she didn’t appreciate his attempt at humor. “Do you really think you’ll find out anything useful from the girls at the mission? They’ll be too frightened of you to say a word.”

“I’m sure those girls have seen much worse things than a police detective, Mrs. Brandt. Don’t forget where they came from before they got to the mission.”

She was glaring at him now, her blue eyes flashing fire. For a moment he thought of Kathleen. If she’d even thought about crying, her eyes and nose would turn beet red for hours. Sarah Brandt’s fair complexion showed no trace of the tears she’d shed over the dead girl. He wondered vaguely if that was because she’d been born rich.

“Malloy, you know I can help you with this,” she argued.