By the amused curve to Lawson’s lips, this assignment was part of the usual hazing process.
Lawson relented. “That’s heading to the potbelly stove on the first cold day. You’ll share with me for now.” He pulled the chair free and sat it opposite his. “You’re one of us,DetectiveHall.”
“But I’ve not been promoted yet.”
“It won’t be long, so you might as well get used to the title. I’ll train you so you can run circles around Detective Bradford. You’re already capable of running them around Carlisle.”
“I heard that, Lawson.” A long-faced man with more gray than black to his hair—presumably Carlisle—stuck his head inside the room. “Just remember, if I finish my cases before you finish yours, you’re buying drinks for a week.”
“No concerns there. I’ve got an advantage. Meet the boy detective.”
Carlisle looked Abraham over and chortled. “Certainly can’t be a man. How old are you, boy? Thirteen?”
“Twenty-six, sir.”
“Grow some whiskers, or no one will take you seriously. You’re nothing but a pup.”
Abraham never had a problem earning the respect of those on his beat, whether another officer or a citizen. “Perhaps, but pups have youthful vigor that old dogs do not.”
“And brains that don’t know when to keep their yaps shut. Watch that one, Lawson. He’s calling you old.”
“I think we know which of us has the most gray hair, Carlisle. Get on about your business. I’ve got a week’s worth of drinks to earn.”
Once Carlisle left, Lawson laid out four stacks of files. “By the time I’m finished teaching you, you’ll be the second-best detective in the country. If you have questions, ask. If you notice something, speak up. If you think I’m wrong, think again. If you still believe I’m wrong, speak up. No one here knows Dupin better than me, but you’ve been brought in for a fresh perspective. We’re partners on this, and I expect you to not hold back. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, because we have a lot of ground to cover before you take an active role in the investigation. Dupin’s written eight novels. So far, four men are dead.”
“Have you identified the other four potential victims?”
“Yes, and they have been notified of the danger to their lives. The fools insist they can take care of themselves, unlike those other poor saps.” Lawson shook his head. “They don’t know the cunning of the man they’re up against. It’s up to us to ensure they never do.”
They spent hours examining and comparing notes from the murders and the victims’ original crimes. Lawson hadn’t been brought into the investigation until the third murder occurred, and the only original crime he had personal insight on was the Wakefield case a year ago. They had to rely heavily on the reports left behind. Though detailed, nothing pointed to one suspect, outside of Dupin, for all the murders.
As far as Dupin went, the two notes left on the bodies of Billy Poe’s latest victims had distinct handwriting. Handwriting that did not match that of the letter supposedly written by Dupin. That either supported Dupin’s claim he wasn’t Poe or indicated the letter wasn’t from him. Until they met with the publisher tomorrow and compared the notes to a Dupin manuscript—assuming Mr. O’Dell cooperated—there was no knowing for sure.
By the time Lawson called it a night, it was well past the end of their scheduled day. Abraham felt strange, leaving only a few hours into his old shift, but Lawson insisted he’d want to get to bed soon, as morning came early. That might be, but Abraham had no intention of being finished for the night. He walked straight home with the Dupin novels Lawson loaned him, grabbed his dinner plate from the warmer, and retreated to his room to eat while he worked. Miss Pelton’s assertion that he should study his suspect in any possible manner held merit, and he’d begin with skimming the borrowed books. After all, he’d discovered quite a bit about Miss Pelton by reading two of hers.
Before beginning with Dupin’s work, Abraham picked upThe Lady’s Terrible Secret—the cover carefully reattached—and flipped through the pages. That woman had as much flair for the dramatic in her writing as in her real life. Whatever man married her was likely to face a lifetime of adventure and headache. The situations in which she placed her characters weren’t scandalous, but they were outlandish. No real man could swim a raging, flooded river to rescue his love from a burning building. If her heroes were any indication of what she desired in a husband, she was doomed to be a spinster. Yes, their qualities reflected the virtues of Christ and a chaste, God-honoring love, but the characters themselves were too perfect. He couldn’t possibly live up to her standards—which was part of the reason he hadn’t paid another visit.
He also didn’t want to admit he’d been wrong in his judgment of her dime novels. They were well written and modeled Christian morals and faith. Actually, not that he would admit it to any of the men on the force, he was finding them more than tolerable and an enjoyable distraction from the grit of his profession. It had nothing to do with the fact that hers was the face of every heroine and his the face of every hero. He just lacked the imagination for anything else.
Suddenly aware of the half grin on his face, he laid the romance novel aside. No time for nonsense now. It was time to see what he could learn about Dupin. He took the top book from the stack and settled in.
Dupin’s writing proved easy to read, but the farther he got into the story, the more he was convinced that his earlier opinion of dime novels was correct. The only redeeming points he found were in how descriptions never crossed the line of the obscene and how the hero, Detective Billy Poe, modeled Christian qualities. Abraham also appreciated the close attention Dupin gave to detail. Otherwise, the man’s obsession with the dark underpinnings of the criminal world was disturbing. How did anyone find the violence, depravation, and greed appropriate for entertainment?
Whoever Dupin was, he must not keep his eyes on the things above as the Bible instructed. He probably wasn’t even a Christian. It was likely, though, that he was an officer or at least connected to the police in some form. The man knew things about investigating crimes that civilians wouldn’t.
Including information withheld from the public about the cases that inspired the books.
Abraham frowned as he comparedThe Fall of the Philanthropistto his notes on the latest victim.
Joseph Keaton had been convicted of burglarizing the home of beloved philanthropist Russell Vernon, but not of Vernon’s murder. Given Vernon’s known medical condition, which made him prone to stumbling, the defense argued that the cause of his fall could not be determined. He could have been pushed down the stairs or simply have become physically unbalanced with nothing to stabilize him. The fact he’d been beaten beyond what a tumble would cause had been completely ignored.
Dupin’s description of the novel’s murder scene made one wonder if he’d been at Vernon’s house during the investigation. Body positioning, mud on the stairs, the portion of the banister ripped from its foundation as if Vernon had caught himself—all of it was too reflective of the actual case. If Dupin had sat in the gallery during the Keaton trial, he might have gleaned some of the specifics, but not all of them. Either Dupin had personal experience, or he had inside information. Tomorrow they’d find out Dupin’s identity and how one man had so much access to details he shouldn’t.
Far too late for a man who had to be at work by six in the morning, Abraham set Dupin’s book beside Lydia Pelton’s on his nightstand. Maybe he’d reconsider visiting her after tomorrow’s shift. There was much he didn’t understand about the novelist turned circus thief turned repentant yet flirtatious angel. Puzzling the riddle of Miss Pelton’s character might be the perfect distraction from the darker aspects of his job.
