guess. Bill’s personals spared, but spinal column nearly severed a half an inch above the larynx. I agree with coroner’s theory there is similarity to that from an edged blade, but such a wound does not leave the surrounding tissue in such poor condition.
Bill’s spinal incision incomplete. Was he to be decapitated?
Bill’s remaining blood infested with extraordinary clotting beyond livor mortis. Squeezed out like jam from open vein. Examined sample under microscope. No explanation other than caused by a coagulant of unknown origin. Laboratory work pending.
Damaged tissue along Bill’s upper left shoulder, akin to bite mark; unclear if by vermin, scavenger or damage during transit. Mister Rabeaux had no such wound.
Odiferous substance upon both men’s clothing, stains along their shirts and skin below primary wounds. The coroner would not have mentioned it; he assumed it spilled formaldehyde. Doubtful, for the scent is sharp yet more natural, like rancid oil. No explanation as to the liquid’s source or composition.
Unable to retain any evidence. When authorities arrived, the coroner concluded our conversation and bid me leave at once.
Addendum, 9:07 p.m.
En route to Parish Prison. Will conclude the day’s findings after interview with primary suspect, Mahonri Grant.
***
Parish Prison leered over Orleans Street, ivy infesting its towering brick and plaster walls, crawling up and over the scrubby roof until the place seemed caught in some ghastly web. Sheets of rain washed down its neglected façade before draining into the gutter. It was an old place, a sad place, one few dared consider with their full attention, known more for its reputation than its reality. The weather only added to its grim appearance as if, once inside, there would be no leaving.
I suppose , Savoy thought, that is the point .
The hansom abandoned him before the prison’s leering front gate, the iron bars slick with rust and oil. A rat-faced old guard, sequestered in a booth with only a lantern as company, glared at his approach.
“I am here to see Mahonri Grant,” Savoy said.
“No visitors,” the guard said.
“I am Mister Grant’s counsel.”
“You know what bloody time it is?”
“And do you,” Savoy said with a firm but quiet voice, “know the illegality of detaining a man beyond twenty-four hours without retaining adequate counsel? I dare say Phineas would be most displeased you—”
“Who?”
“Mister Phineas Mealey signs your pay voucher, correct? I wonder how he would react knowing you...what does your badge say? Officer Sills? Well, Mister Sills, I wonder what he would say you turned out his chum from the Chess and—”
The guard’s face soured. “Damnation.”
The front gate opened on screaming hinges. Another rifle-slung guard, looking just as cold and miserable, ushered Savoy into the gatehouse. He searched his person and his bag and, assured he carried no contraband, led him through another barbwired gate to a muddy courtyard. Lines of concrete and plaster cells stretched into the rainy black like cages from a forgotten zoo; the prison had not seen a coat of paint since it housed Union prisoners over twenty years earlier.
Savoy was glad the doorman did not make confirmations. Few would bother a warden as notoriously temperamental as Police Administrator Mealey, but he dared risk that temper for a first-hand account from the only witness. This Mister Grant was a man who, if guilty, was capable of unspeakable violence—quite possibly against old men who hadn’t the good sense to conduct their interviews during the day.
The guard escorted him to a cell stinking of urine, empty save for three chairs and a rickety table. He waited a long time. When he thought to demand an update, the door opened and the guard shoved a tall man inside.
“Ten minutes,” the guard said.
Mahonri Grant blinked with dark eyes as the door locked behind him. He examined his surroundings, focusing on
Bill’s spinal incision incomplete. Was he to be decapitated?
Bill’s remaining blood infested with extraordinary clotting beyond livor mortis. Squeezed out like jam from open vein. Examined sample under microscope. No explanation other than caused by a coagulant of unknown origin. Laboratory work pending.
Damaged tissue along Bill’s upper left shoulder, akin to bite mark; unclear if by vermin, scavenger or damage during transit. Mister Rabeaux had no such wound.
Odiferous substance upon both men’s clothing, stains along their shirts and skin below primary wounds. The coroner would not have mentioned it; he assumed it spilled formaldehyde. Doubtful, for the scent is sharp yet more natural, like rancid oil. No explanation as to the liquid’s source or composition.
Unable to retain any evidence. When authorities arrived, the coroner concluded our conversation and bid me leave at once.
Addendum, 9:07 p.m.
En route to Parish Prison. Will conclude the day’s findings after interview with primary suspect, Mahonri Grant.
***
Parish Prison leered over Orleans Street, ivy infesting its towering brick and plaster walls, crawling up and over the scrubby roof until the place seemed caught in some ghastly web. Sheets of rain washed down its neglected façade before draining into the gutter. It was an old place, a sad place, one few dared consider with their full attention, known more for its reputation than its reality. The weather only added to its grim appearance as if, once inside, there would be no leaving.
I suppose , Savoy thought, that is the point .
The hansom abandoned him before the prison’s leering front gate, the iron bars slick with rust and oil. A rat-faced old guard, sequestered in a booth with only a lantern as company, glared at his approach.
“I am here to see Mahonri Grant,” Savoy said.
“No visitors,” the guard said.
“I am Mister Grant’s counsel.”
“You know what bloody time it is?”
“And do you,” Savoy said with a firm but quiet voice, “know the illegality of detaining a man beyond twenty-four hours without retaining adequate counsel? I dare say Phineas would be most displeased you—”
“Who?”
“Mister Phineas Mealey signs your pay voucher, correct? I wonder how he would react knowing you...what does your badge say? Officer Sills? Well, Mister Sills, I wonder what he would say you turned out his chum from the Chess and—”
The guard’s face soured. “Damnation.”
The front gate opened on screaming hinges. Another rifle-slung guard, looking just as cold and miserable, ushered Savoy into the gatehouse. He searched his person and his bag and, assured he carried no contraband, led him through another barbwired gate to a muddy courtyard. Lines of concrete and plaster cells stretched into the rainy black like cages from a forgotten zoo; the prison had not seen a coat of paint since it housed Union prisoners over twenty years earlier.
Savoy was glad the doorman did not make confirmations. Few would bother a warden as notoriously temperamental as Police Administrator Mealey, but he dared risk that temper for a first-hand account from the only witness. This Mister Grant was a man who, if guilty, was capable of unspeakable violence—quite possibly against old men who hadn’t the good sense to conduct their interviews during the day.
The guard escorted him to a cell stinking of urine, empty save for three chairs and a rickety table. He waited a long time. When he thought to demand an update, the door opened and the guard shoved a tall man inside.
“Ten minutes,” the guard said.
Mahonri Grant blinked with dark eyes as the door locked behind him. He examined his surroundings, focusing on
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