31 Bond Street. Ellen Horan

The coroner slammed the door shut. Edward Connery was a stocky man with a heavy stomach that protruded from his waistcoat, a rumpled shirttail trailing beneath his vest. He entered the kitchen and removed his oilskin coat, dropping his wet garments in a pile on the kitchen floor.

      “The Coroner’s arrived, Captain, the Coroner is here!” came a deputy’s voice from the hallway.

      “I could use a good cup of stew to chase this wetness from my bones,” Connery said.

      “It’s about time someone hauled you uptown,” said the Police Captain, George Dilkes, joining him in the kitchen. He had a lilt to his brogue and the doleful eyes of an Irish setter. “The errand boy came to the precinct,” he said, pointing to John. “Then I sent my men to fetch you, over an hour ago.”

      “And how about a spike of rum, lass?” asked Connery. Hannah brought him a cup of broth and poured some rum into it. “A good Irish wench would give a man a double shot.”

      Hannah turned, reddening. “This is a respectable home, not a downtown gin mill,” she sputtered. “A man’s been murdered in this house, and the Coroner is tanking up on rum? God, help us!”

      “A dead man is just as dead on Bond Street as in the lower wards, wouldn’t you say so, Captain?” said Connery, sipping the oily mixture.

      “Could be,” Dilkes replied, “but uptown or downtown, this man just had his head near cut off. You’d better brace yourself,” he said. “I never seen anything so bad. He’s got fifteen stab wounds, and his throat is cut from ear to ear.”

      “Oh God, dear God,” lamented Hannah, crossing herself.

      “Catch me up,” Connery said with authority; as City Coroner, he was the elected official in charge of the crime scene: besides attending to medical matters and an autopsy, it was his job to call a coroner’s jury to the house. The jury, pulled by lots, would interrogate neighbors and family members—anyone with knowledge about the victim—using testimony to piece together evidence at the scene. With a coroner’s deft handling, the coroner’s inquest could point a finger in the right direction, nabbing a perpetrator and solving a crime.

      Dilkes led Connery out of the kitchen, passing a policeman with a shovel, stamping the snow off his boots. “The men have been digging up the backyard for the weapon,” explained the Captain. “I sent them to search in the outhouse and down the latrines.”

      “Dirk or dagger?” asked the Coroner.

      “From the depth of the cuts, I figure it was a two-sided blade.” The two men climbed the small back stairway, their bulky frames bent, with Connery puffing behind. They emerged onto the first floor, with its soaring ceilings and chandeliers. A cluster of officers was lounging against a marble table.

      “What are you waiting for, men?” shouted Connery. “Some politician to give you a handout? Go into the parlor and turn everything upside down. We’re still looking for a weapon.”

      Dilkes led Connery to the main staircase and pointed to some tiny blood spots along the wallpaper, almost imperceptible, at the height of a man’s hand. “There’s hardly any trace of blood anywhere, except with the body. This morning, the cook didn’t notice anything amiss. The doors to the house and the windows were locked tight.”

      Connery squatted, examining the specks, touching a blood spot to determine if it was still wet. “Who else lives here?”

      “The victim is a dental surgeon, unmarried, about forty-six years old. A housemistress lives on the two upper floors, with her daughters.” Dilkes flipped through a small notepad, reading from his notes. “The cook sleeps in the attic. A serving girl was dismissed yesterday, and there is a carriage driver who drove Dr. Burdell last night, but he doesn’t live here.”

      “Does everyone have a key?”

      “We are still checking to see if any keys are missing.” “Was anything taken?” asked Connery.

      “There’s plenty to take, but it seems nothing’s been touched. It doesn’t seem to be a robbery.”

      The two men started up the stairway. Connery leaned over the banister and gazed upward along the graceful arc as it curved to the top of the house. Forty feet above, a skylight was embedded in the roof, an oval of wood and glass that sat atop the stairwell like an elegant crown. He whistled. “This is a fine place, all right.”

      They entered the room where the body lay across the floor. Dr. Burdell’s dental office, converted from a bedroom, was furnished like a parlor with engravings and a velvet-fringed sofa. The dentist chair sat in one corner, a torturous contraption with clamps and wooden blocks that held the patient’s head still when a tooth was pulled. The body lay in the center of the floor. A pool of blood spread several feet in diameter around the corpse. The dead man’s shirt had been torn open, exposing the purple knife wounds that punctured his white flesh.

      “This is a bestial crime,” muttered Connery.

      An officer entered. “Your men have arrived, sir,” he announced. In the hallway were several men from the Coroner’s office, carrying microscopes and medical bags, and behind them, a crew of reporters, arching their necks to see the body. “And these reporters came from the New York dailies. They want to know if they can come in for a look.”

      “Get them out of here,” said Dilkes, waving his arms.

      “No, let them stay,” countered Connery. “We’ll put them to work. Send the reporters downstairs—we’ll have them record the witnesses’ testimony in the parlor, and the sketch illustrators can make a likeness of the scene. Besides, if I send them away, the editors will cry foul all the way to City Hall.”

      “We’d be most obliged to you, sir,” said a newspaperman from the crowd in the hall, doffing his hat.

      “Take the body to the bedroom and strip it naked for an autopsy,” Connery ordered. Two coroner’s deputies entered and rolled the dentist’s body onto a sheet, grabbing the corners like a sling and lifting the sagging mass. Dr. Burdell’s neck twisted at the open wound and his head fell sideways. His eyes remained open, as if he were following the conversation.

      “He sure didn’t go down without a fight,” said Connery. “It’s hard to think that no one heard the attack, or any cries or footsteps.”

      “Well,” pondered Dilkes, “these ceilings are pretty high. The victim didn’t come home until midnight, after everyone in the house was asleep. The attacker could have been hiding in the wardrobe passage.” The coroner paced around, opening the door of the closet that formed a wardrobe passage between the office and the man’s bedroom. There were cabinets with shelves of bottles and tonics, but nothing seemed out of place. The doctor’s gumshoes were placed carefully in front of the fireplace, on the sofa his shawl. His desk had papers stacked on it, in an orderly fashion. A chair had been pushed away from the desk several feet, marking the spot where the skirmish began.

      Connery rifled through the papers on the doctor’s desk. A ledger lay open with a quill pen on top. He put on his spectacles, pushing them along his nose, squinting as he looked over the fine columns of numbered entries. A locked safe was beside the desk. He took a tangled handkerchief from his waistcoat and wiped his face. “Something smells rotten here.”

      “I don’t know,” protested Dilkes. “Everyone seems to be telling it straight—after all, the housemistress’s story is backed by innocent girls.”

      “Innocence—in this city?” countered Connery.

      “If someone in the house committed this deed, the perpetrator would be covered in blood from head to toe,” said Dilkes.

      “There was plenty of time to clean up after this bloody brawl, and I don’t see any trace of the killer leaving the house.” Connery went to the door and yelled down the staircase to one of the officers. “I want everyone detained in their rooms until they are interrogated.”

      “It’s the weekend, sir,” said Dilkes. “Maybe we should confer