Tewes can be profitable to any and all who wish to better understand their own natures, and how best to apply their talents in the world at large.
Ransom said, “I don’t for a moment believe Dr. Tewes can cure a headache, much less a mental disorder, Mr. Keane, but as you see, he advertises himself a magician, capable of 22
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repairing mental disorders!” Ransom then said to Tewes,
“What sort of game are you at here, Tewes? No one here has any need of your questionable services. Certainly, not this dead boy.”
“I am a psychic medium, sir, as well as a phrenologist. I am informed that two similar cases of garroting murders have occurred here. The killer has not been apprehended in either instance, and I fear—” “I fail to see how you can help out here.”
“Kohler informs me this is the third garroted and fired corpse in as many weeks.”
“My God,” muttered Philo, “Kohler fights against fingerprint identification, but he attaches a medium to the case.”
“I assure you, none of these cases’ve been definitively linked by evidence,” Alastair lied even as he wondered why Nathan would divulge such information to anyone not on the case.
“But there are similarities no one can deny—for instance, all three murders occurring at or near the White City fairgrounds.”
Ransom silently agreed that the geography of these murders was correct. “As I said, no official link has been made.”
“How can anyone of sense not see the glaring—”
“The other cases involved a young female—a clerk at Allen & Boynton’s on State Street—and before that a park prostitute. Slash wounds were entirely different, and—”
“But the heads in either case . . . they were nearly severed.”
“Look, both were women . . . both women sustained multiple stab wounds to upper chest and abdomen. There are none on the boy.”
“So? It only means he is getting more adept at the garrote,” countered Tewes. “And I’m given to understand that the store clerk was carrying child, making the death toll four.”
“I see that Kohler has filled you in, but the two women had nothing whatsoever in common.”
“Perhaps they do have commonalities to the killer. Per
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haps their commonality is their mutual killer.” Getting no response, Dr. Tewes, chin held high, added, “Yes, well then . . .
Inspector, while you may be correct in your assumption that these murders are unrelated, if you do not mind, I would like to take a closer look at the boy’s body on site. Your meticu-lous care, your photographs, your scientific approach not withstanding, you’ll not have anyone in your Bertillon card files to match this killer.” Ransom lit his pipe and began smoking the Havana blend that he’d been thumbing in his coat pocket the entire time.
Smoking calmed nerves, or so Dr. McKinnette said. He blew smoke into Tewes’s eyes.
Dr. Tewes’s soft features made determining his age difficult, but Ransom thought him born a conniving adult. The slight man proved unremarkable save how expensively he dressed—a broad Sampson Brothers overcoat layering a three-piece suit and a gold watch fob reflecting light off its surface. His title of medical doctor had been earned supposedly in France, but he had no such degree in America. A background check on the man only went back some seven years, and then nothing, as if he’d not existed before then. A similar check with authorities in France, and still nothing of a Dr. or a Mr. Tewes fitting his description could be found before he turned up at France’s Royal Academy of Medicine. Ransom had made numerous police contacts in the Suréte, the oldest criminal investigation agency in Europe, and Tewes smelled like an alias even to them—as a Dr. François Tewes was reported as having died while imprisoned on charges of having killed a man in a brawl.
Likely enough, Chicago’s Dr. Tewes was in his late twenties or early thirties; he with his full head of hair below the bowler, his small ears, dimpled chin, thin nose. This man was ambitiously working to build a reputation. What would solving a mystery do for his dubious practice?
“A garrote killer in New York left six victims in water—dumping their bodies in rivers, lakes,” Tewes calmly maintained.
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“Our Chicago fellow seems more interested in fire than in water,” Ransom replied.
“He used a garrote?” asked Griffin, who’d rejoined them.
“Like our madman here? Double-tiered?”
Ransom shot a wilting look at Griffin that telegraphed his disappointment in Drimmer’s gullibility. “The good doctor here has something on Kohler, Griffin. That’s obvious with his letter of recommendation. Kohler informed him. That’s all there is to it.” “It’s no letter of recommendation, Inspector,” countered Tewes. “Read it. It’s a direct order made to you.”
Griffin tugged at Ransom’s sleeve. “You can’t afford any more trouble.”
“Double wires,” said Tewes mysteriously, “that crisscrossed in front to create a small diamond incision at or near the voice box in the females, and now the boy’s Adam’s apple. The deadly thing is likely a piano wire connected to two sturdy sticks, which he twists round the neck, making an immediate incision at once three hundred and sixty degrees.
The tighter he winds it, the deeper the cut.”
Ransom now knew for certain that Dr. Tewes had something on Kohler; only blackmail could’ve gotten the scoundrel this far. “I want the two-wire diamond aspect of this murder weapon kept under wraps, Tewes. Do you understand? We must not let the newshounds have it. We must hold some information in abeyance toward the day we pinch this maniac—to identify the killer with absolute—” “I can be cooperative, Inspector.”
“Don’t think that you can blackmail me, Doctor.”
“Why, Inspector, you give me far too much credit for guile!”
“If you mean skill in cunning and deceit and a cleverness in trickery, yes, perhaps I do.”
“Look, I’ve seen the coroner’s notes, true. But I first saw all this happening while laying on of hands to the cranium of a dying woman—”
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“A dead woman now. Whooo . . . dying woman . . . how very mysterious,” countered Ransom.
“A pauper buried in your Potter’s Field a few months ago.”
“It remains an incredible assertion.”
“I read heads. It’s what a phrenologist does.”
“And you receive visions in the process.”
“Perceptions . . . not visions, sir, and only sometimes, yes.”
Griffin now stared at Tewes as if he were a magician. Ransom saw this and grew angry at his partner’s wide-eyed response. “Nothing you’ve told us is new, Dr. Tewes. You may just as well have gotten your information from Kohler or some easily fooled police clerk.” “Yes, I suppose I might’ve. I certainly understand your skepticism. After all, you’re paid to be cynical! But look here, I’m telling the truth about New York. And there’s something else.”
“What?” asked Griffin, eager to hear more.
“The instrument of death he wields.”
“Yes?” asked Griff.
“The killer fashioned it himself. Made it with his own hands.”