Unlike the dapper Dr. Tewes-famed for dispensing magnetic therapy and phrenology-the aged Dr. McKinnette resembled Marley’s raggle-taggle ghost as illustrated in Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. McKinnette need post no bills, need make no claims, and need not one skill. On the other hand, Jane must post bills, make outrageous claims, and demonstrate extraordinary skills to survive as Dr.
James Phineas Tewes. In fact, she’d tacked up several of her posters just outside Cook County Hospital in an effort to gain patients. Her posters read,
Phrenological amp; Magnetic Examiner at his residence, 2nd house north of the Episcopal Church
DR. TEWES
May be consulted in all cases of Nervous or Mental difficulty. Application of the remedies will enable relief or cure any case of Monomania, Insanity or Recent Madness wherein there is no Inflammation or destruction of the Mental Organs. Dr. Tewes’s attention to diseases of the nervous system, such as St. Vitus’s Dance and Spinal Afflictions has resulted in some remarkable cures. Having been engaged for the past ten years in teaching Mental Philosophy, Phrenology, together with numerous Phreno Magnetic Experiments enable Dr. Tewes to give correct and true delineations of Mental Dispositions of different persons. A visit to Dr. 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.
Watching Dr. Fenger, Jane realized that allowing McKinnette to stand alongside him in the operating theater, although useless and in the way, left Jane to suspect that Christian Fenger was not above purchasing illegal drugs when circumstance called for it. This could be a nail in Christian’s coffin, adding to abuses that could get him dismissed from Rush Medical and Cook County. His crown taken away. If information of this nature got into the wrong hands, it could also mean blackmail. Jane had enough information on Fenger to topple him if she chose to reveal what he’d confided in her at a time when he thought he was dealing with Dr. Tewes, while under magnetic and phrenological care.
Unable to continue the ruse with a man she so respected, Jane having been his student years before, had recently confessed her true identity to Dr. Fenger and had assured him that all his confidences remained safe within the purview of doctor-patient relations.
Christian had a lot of ghosts to deal with, but his hand was as steady today as it had been when Jane first came to his surgical classes ten years ago.
Still, Fenger had a habit, what people in her profession called the doctor’s curse-morphine. Living daily with so much disease, suffering, and death, eventually it caught a man in its grip. No one staring into the abyss of human suffering as long as Dr. Fenger could possibly walk away unscathed.
She prayed his habit would not affect his handling of the blade over Alastair-a man for whom she felt deep affection. At one point, she’d debated whether to step in and protest, but she’d stopped short, seeing how in control Christian was. Then her faith was shaken anew at McKinnette’s arrival. She didn’t care for the degree of the palsied elder doctor’s involvement in anesthetizing Alastair. The wrong dosage alone could kill him. Why this old fool McKinnette? Why not a younger man with more experience in this new field? She imagined that Caine McKinnette wanted to be on hand due to the notoriety this case must engender. Some measure of publicity for himself in the case, to improve his practice, to have some of the Fenger mystique rub off on him-a highly unlikely prospect. He’d even brought a newspaperman with him, same newsie who’d been at the train station the day Alastair had detached the loosely connected and incinerated head of a dead young man named Cliff Purvis and shoved it into Dr. Tewes’s white cotton gloves and white linen suit. Thom Carmichael for the Herald, she thought now, no doubt also seeing Dr. McKinnette for medicinal needs, and no doubt here to report how Dr. McKinnette had helped save-or attempted his best to save-the life of the last hero of Haymarket, Inspector Alastair Ransom.
How wide a web did Dr. Caine McKinnette spin? She could not say, nor could she concern herself entirely with him at the moment. Instead she softly whispered a silent prayer for Ransom even as she watched, fascinated, at the procedure. Fenger’s hands worked over his friend with a deft precision she’d never seen in any other man.
Ransom was in the hands of God, on the one hand, Dr. Fenger on the other. The result of this tug-of-war would not soon be known.
So all across Chicago, in circles of wealth and power, and in circles of poverty and despair, in barbershops and taverns, the odds makers took all bets. But few men who knew him personally would say there was any contest, for Ransom remained the last survivor of scars from the Haymarket Riot. Jane Francis thought about the impact the 1886 Haymarket Square Riot had had on the city. It’d established new laws governing the conduct of police officials, and was a turning point in public opinion regarding unionist workers and unions, and it ultimately brought the first labor laws into being. Illinois led in this political arena-far ahead of New York and other states. Little wonder, people still called Ransom a hero.
Few would bet against Ransom even now with the Grim Reaper hovering over the big man, although the urge to count him out had a strong appeal for men like Moose Muldoon, who skirted the law, and men like Chief Nathan Kohler-Ransom’s immediate superior-who abused the law from a high position.
Ransom, on the operating table, erupted in voice, saying, “Tewes has cures for everything…even baldness.” Ransom said these many words while under anesthetic. This sent up a wave of gasps and audible awhs.
“Confound it, Dr. McKinnette!” Fenger cried out in alarm. “More ether, now!”
“Right away!” And the anesthesiologist rushed to the job, attempting to put Alastair out again. How fitting a position for a man who dispensed dreams and euphoria.
As she witnessed the rest of the operation, Jane’s heart stopped at the next words coming from Alastair’s unconscious. He muttered in mournful fashion, “Like…ahhh beast…”
“What’s he saying?” gasped a young intern.
“…with horns…iii’ve torn…”
“What’s it mean?” asked another internist.
“…anyone who’s reached out…to me…”
Finally, the ether did its work, and Alastair was silenced.
She wondered if it would be the last time she’d ever hear his voice again.
On street level, outside under the gas lamps lighting Cook County Hospital paced Dot’n’Carry-Henry Bosch-Ransom’s peg-leg snitch. For him, news of the outcome, either way, live or die, meant cash. This information would sell.
CHAPTER 2
While Alastair lay on the operating table, Griffin Drimmer had work to do. He busied himself with processing the young, innocent-looking killer, but even as he filled out paperwork, he realized just how flimsy a case he and Ransom really had against Waldo Denton. Ninety percent of it lay in Alastair’s head, and should he die…
Sure, they had the garrote, but even that had been rendered useless. Since the news stories of the Phantom-garrotes of all size and shape had been selling like proverbial hotcakes. Anyone might be carrying the deadly weapon, but what must be proven in court was intent and use issues; in short, that this particular garrote was, without doubt, the very one used on seven Chicago victims. As the diamond-shaped tattoo at the throat had been reported in some of the twenty-six Chicago newspapers, one underworld manufacturer of a line of garrotes now had incorporated this feature!