Maplecroft (The Borden Dispatches #1)(71)
He sighed.
I said, “So this professor, Zollicoffer, he goes on a killing spree at his place of employment and disappears—only to continue the spree elsewhere?”
“That is my theory,” he said, and now he produced a map pocked with red circles, connected by a line. The circles began at the far northwest corner of the state, and then trailed southward with minor deviations to the east and west. “These seven points, you see? Each one a crime so terrible that we’re keeping the journalists from as many details as we can. Beginning first up here, at the university.” He tapped the northernmost dot. “Then one after the other . . .”
“Coming south. Coming toward Fall River.”
“I believe so. This last set of killings—the woman and her family—it was only forty miles north of here, and a final destination of Fall River is no guess: for this is where Dr. Jackson’s packages have originated. Or so I learned when I received the remains of one, and checked the mark upon it—but even without the postal hints, you could simply follow the trajectory thus far and see that Fall River is in Zollicoffer’s way, if not in his plans. And his note, you see . . . it says, right here: ‘I know it is possible that you have become like me like I have become.’ What if the mad professor is right? What if Doctor Jackson is as mad as Doctor Zollicoffer—though his spree has run shorter, consisting only of the Hamilton family?”
“It’s a clever hypothesis,” I granted.
“Then you understand why I must find this fellow, and find him soon—before he selects another family to eradicate by whatever strange means his correspondent has discovered. If he’s mad like Zollicoffer, surely he will not stop.”
I fell quiet, because I had no other course of action to save me.
Inspector Wolf was silent, too, the pair of us looking over the sheets that sprawled across the table between us, occupying all the tablecloth between our plates and cups. Wolf was a brilliant man himself, and for all that he spoke of these two mysterious professors and their terrible brains, I had no doubt that one way or another, this inspector would find his way to Maplecroft eventually.
I didn’t dare risk him snooping about, gathering information on the ladies therein, and possibly falling prey to some creature like the one I’d seen. No, all my good sense said it’d be wiser by far to escort him, quietly inform him, and allow him to ask his questions of the “doctor” herself—if she felt up to the task.
I made up my mind to serve as a helpful go-between. He could either storm into Maplecroft on his own, like a very smart bull in a very prickly china shop; or I could gently guide him there, and thereby minimize any damage he might inadvertently inflict.
“Inspector,” I said with great caution, “I believe I can help you, with regard to this Doctor Jackson. But it will require a measure of trust on your part, for the truth of the matter is peculiar beyond belief.”
“Really? You know the man—or know where I might reach him? And please,” he said, his eyes eager behind the round spectacles, “don’t be so cruel as to direct me to the graveyard.”
“Oh no, he’s not dead.” I glanced around, and seeing no one within earshot, I added quietly, “But the situation is not as you imagine. Doctor Jackson is a patient of mine—and is absolutely incapable of any violence at all.”
“Is that so? Does he suffer some physical defect, or ailment?”
I avoided my pronouns for the moment. “Largely bedridden,” I said simply. “With an advanced case of consumption, for the last several years. There’s more to it, I must tell you—but first, I must swear you to a very serious sort of secrecy.”
“By all means, though I’d hope that my own divulgence of police procedure ought to earn me some measure of faith. But if Doctor Jackson is incapable of murder . . . then I suppose you must fear for your patient—now that you can reasonably expect that Zollicoffer is coming.”
“I’m deeply frightened, yes. Jackson is scarcely capable of self-defense with a gun in hand, and in the event that you’re correct . . . Doctor Zollicoffer is in for a rude surprise. One that will certainly drive him to violence, or greater violence, since he is already so inclined.”
“Doctor Seabury, I truly believe that discretion is the better part of valor, but I wish you’d speak plainly.”
“You know, I think it might be easier to show you plainly. Come with me, if you would. I’ll take you to Doctor Jackson, and you can see for yourself.”
Emma L. Borden
APRIL 29, 1894
Every time I think we’ve found the worst of it, I’m mistaken. You’d think I’d quit making such assumptions—that surely, by now, nothing could surprise or appall me, at least nothing new. But here it comes. And here we go. And if I was at a loss before, I’m utterly drowning in confusion now.
Doctor Seabury came around again today, and he was not alone.
He was joined by a man called Inspector Wolf, a name both ludicrous and accurate. Ludicrous, because you never saw a man who looked less like a wolf: he’s a short, fat thing with a squint, watching the world from behind a pair of spectacles that might not be strong enough for him. I’ll grant you, he’s a sharp dresser. Maybe that’s true of all gentlemen from Boston. I don’t know; I haven’t seen a large enough sampling. But he wears black and white, and everything is pressed and shined to its appropriate degree. Cleanliness and godliness, and all that rot.