“What struggle? The coroner concluded that death was rapid, if not instantaneous, due to this wound in her throat, or this separation of vertebrae C3 and C4 . . .”
The Cleveland chief concealed a longing to march Dashwood off a Lake Erie pier. “Is there anything else?”
“There is something odd about this theater program that Mr. Buchanan inscribed to the lady.”
“My pleasure,” John Buchanan had written over his name in the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde cast list. And under it, his signature. Both flowed in a clear, bold English round hand, decorated with beautiful hooks and dramatic flourishes.
“What about it?”
“You did a remarkable job of documenting their ‘visits’ with each other.”
“Rich folk don’t go to a lot of trouble to hide it. If the lady’s husband didn’t notice, or didn’t want to notice, who’s going to call them on it?”
“And it was genius discovering the husband’s girlfriend.”
“Thank you, sonny.”
“But what is it about this program? It’s driving me nuts— May I keep it, please?”
“You’ll have to sign a receipt.”
“My pleasure,” said Dashwood.
The Cutthroat had waited too long.
The rain had slowed everything to a maddening crawl.
It was time—long past time—to attack.
A vital murder.
A joyous slaughter.
46
Joel Wallace outdid himself with his second cable to Isaac Bell:
EMPTY COTTON SHIPS
LIVERPOOL TO NEW ORLEANS
NO PAPERS
With little hope for more than a list culled from old newspapers, and even less for a quick answer as to where the murderer had gone next twenty years ago, Bell wired the New Orleans field office:
GIRLS MURDERED AUGUST–DECEMBER 1891
A letter arrived at the railcar. The envelope was addressed to Isaac Bell, c/o the Arcade Depot, where the Jekyll & Hyde Special was parked.
The letter inside read
Dear Boss,
Mile 342. SP. Midnight.
Come alone, old boy.
At the end of the day, isn’t it just between us?