Trolling in Jacksonville

Francis Smalling, Jacksonville, Morgan County, Illinois

April 3^rd, 1867

 

Emily and I first found the names and addresses of the churches in town. Missus Ramsay proved very proficient at supplying us with those details. Then we set off to try and rouse the ministers.

Father William, at St Mary’s of the Cross gave us the addresses of three newlywed couples, but none in the last month. He also said that since all his newlyweds were actually in town, he’d check on them himself.

The Baptist church gave us three names too, two of which were out in the country, and beyond his attendance in the next few days.

And the Methodist church, obviously the more popular in town, had five couples who had tied the knot recently.

We chose the ones in town first, and started our rounds.

None had any dealings with abolitionists, none had seen any traveling players, and none had heard any southern accents.

I’m not saying I thought the work below us, but after that first day, I felt bored enough to get back on my horse and leave the investigation altogether. Compared to the fun we’d had in the Harvard laboratory over the winter, this grunt-work just seemed worthless. The only thing that kept my head in the game was Emily and her seemingly endless optimism. We joined Margaret and Chapman for dinner, gave them all the names we’d gathered, and divided them into two lists for tomorrow. Since Margaret and Chapman were already going south to Winchester, they took the southern addresses, we got the northern ones.

At bedtime, Margaret shared a room with Emily, and I was left on my own for the first time in quite a while. I looked through the considerable mail I’d picked up in Springfield, and instantly focused on an article in the British Scientific magazine.

Two articles on the same subject had been pushed together.

Two major scientists, one in England and one in Italy, were discussing the ideas of sending human speech down a telegraph cable. The whole concept enthralled me, and I read for a while before I fell asleep. I awoke to the door being knocked, rays of sunlight splashing over my bed; I hadn’t even drawn the curtains the night before. Of course, the concept of a talking telegraph proved to be our conversation for most of the day as we rode our route.

The Andersen ranch looked similar in size to our farm, and we were met by a young Sarah Andersen at the porch of their house.

“I’m Francis Smalling of Pinkerton Detective Agency,” I shook her hand. “Is your husband around?”

“Eh, yes, we do some lumber work,” her lilting Swedish accent cut through her words like a children’s song. “Rudy’s in the barn.” Her husband’s name came out as ‘Roodee’.

When we had been introduced to ‘Roodee’, and we’d explained our mission, Sarah looked perturbed. “We attend the abolitionists’ meetings.” She looked sideways at Rudy, obviously also Scandinavian, blond hair creeping across his face in a sparse, feathery beard. “We are against the hard drink.”

“We’re looking for a tallish man, quite thin.” I said. “He may have a southern accent, but that part might just be a thing he does for show, on the night, so to speak.”

Both Sarah and Rudy shook their heads, but did not look convinced. “Sometimes there are a lot of people at the meetings.”

“Well, we’re staying at Missus Ramsay’s Hotel in town,” Emily said, patting Sarah’s hand. “So if you think of anything, come see us. You might help bring this despicable character to justice.”

The jarring of actually meeting a prospective client of Johnny Reb, hit me hard as we rode away, and I spent a lot of the next part in some silence.

The next couple on our list had a room in a very large farmhouse. As we asked for the couple, Patty and Michael Kline, we were approached by no less than three large brothers, all armed, all asking our business. We spoke to the couple with the brothers remaining present, but they held no associations we recognized, and we rode away considering that particular target a dead end.

“He’d be risking his life in there,” Emily said.

“But he chose Rebekah, and I was in the same bedroom.” I said, and I watched her expression change. “And the bunkhouse with our farmhands lay only a few yards away.”

Emily looked in deep thought. “But he does tie up a witness every time. In your sister’s case, there were two.” She said. “Surely that makes his job more difficult. It doesn’t seem he’s put off by a crowded situation.”

“He drugged Mamma and Marsha too,” I added. “I mean, there was a fair bit of planning and preparation went into his short period of glory.”

“So he’s not scared by the big crowd.” She said, then fell silent for a while. “Maybe he likes the risk?”

“Likes risk?” I didn’t like the way she was taking the conversation.

“Yes,” she gave him a hard stare. “Perhaps it’s the risk of capture that makes him do it. He’s looking for some kind of a thrill.”

“The war,” I said, and I knew instantly by her look that I’d not made my point. “People got scared in the war. If he’s come home from the war, maybe he misses the rush of excitement. Maybe he misses the intense range of emotions he felt back then.”

“So we swing from the actor, back to a real soldier.” Emily stated.

“Maybe,”

We met Chapman and Margaret back in Jacksonville, compared notes, and carried on for the next four days, doing the very same.

The routine wasn’t quite as boring as the first day, but it soon slipped into hours of tedium, bordering on dull monotony.

Then a rider tore into town early the next morning, and he hammered on the hotel door waking everyone.

“The Andersen place!” I heard the muffled voice shout as he banged his fist on the outer door. “Rouse the detectives!” I dressed in seconds, then ran down the gantry towards the center of the hotel.

Below me, Missus Ramsay stood, a blanket pulled round her neck, trailing on the floor. “What do I do?” she looked up at me in panic.

“Let him in!” I roared, taking the downwards steps in twos, easily beating her to the door. I quickly slide the large bolt aside, which mollified the cries of the man outside. As I opened the door, he almost fell in. “What’s happened?” I grabbed his shoulders, lifting his face to me.

“The Andersen place,” he panted. “I am here to tell you, he has struck again.”

“Sit down,” I turned to Missus Ramsay. “Get this man water. Has the sheriff been called?”

He shook his head, still severely out of breath. “No, Rudy said to come straight here, and that’s what I did.”

At last, I caught the accent. Blond hair. “Are you related?”

He nodded. “I am Rudy’s brother, Jorgen, we work the farm together.” Considering the news he brought, he looked remarkably calm.

Chapman ran along the high gantry, then down the stairs. I looked up. “He’s Jorgen Andersen, from the Andersen farm up north. We visited a couple of days ago.”

“Four days ago.” Emily corrected from above. She had dressed quickly, in her riding jodhpurs and tight waistcoat. “You two go saddle the horses, I’ll deal with Jorgen.”

“Thank you,” he said. “A drink would be nice.”

Her tone sounded very matter-of-fact, and I could find no reason not to hurry. I nodded to him, then we quickly slipped away to the stables.

I think we were on our horses and riding out of town within fifteen minutes of being roused from bed. Despite our knowledge of the route, Jorgen led the way, his pace easily to duplicate, his horse’s flanks and shoulders were already sweated, and I doubted he’d get faster from him.

“We’ll get a clean crime scene,” I grinned at Emily as we rode.

“We should have told the sheriff, though,” she grinned.

“No need for the sheriff!” Jorgen leant back on his saddle slightly.

“But murders must be reported.” I whipped back.

“There is no murder,” Jorgen looked at us, a puzzled look on his perspiring face.

“But Sarah?”

“Rudy beat him off,” his face could not hold back the pride in his brother. “Sarah is a bit shaken up, but she is alive.”

I rode for a moment, smiling like a Cheshire cat. “You know what this means, Emily?”

She shook her head. I turned to Chapman. “Do you know what this means, Paul? It means that we saved a life. All this canvassing has not been in vain.”

We found Rudy and Sarah Andersen sitting on their porch step. As we dismounted, both stood, Sarah looking no worse for her ordeal.

Although I felt eager to begin questioning, I waited for Chapman to begin.

“What happened?” he said to the pair. “Tell me everything.”

“We were attacked last night,” Rudy began, Sarah slid her hands onto his arms and watched him closely. “By some method a man got into our house and drugged us all.”

“You are okay, ma’am?” he reached to touch her arm, and she flinched alarmingly.

“He did not harm me.”

I felt that in her simple statement, she was hiding a considerable amount.

“What do you remember, Mister Andersen?” Paul continued.

“I woke up tied to a chair.” He began, and I nodded at the pattern. I heard Margaret gasp at his words. “The man had tied Sarah to the bed.”

His wife let his arm go, and turned back into the house. “I’ll make some coffee.”

I nudged Emily. “Can you go with her, make sure she doesn’t go into the bedroom, we want the crime scene untouched.”

“Of course.”

Margaret stayed to listen to Rudy. “He was talking, babbling, making all sorts of rude suggestions. Then he touched her.” He stopped, his eyes tearing. “I could not stand it. I rocked the chair back and forth, and that made him laugh. Then I jumped up and down; the chair was never much good anyway. Under my weight, it shattered, and I fell onto the ground. I grabbed two of the broken chair legs, and went at him. He was not a good fighter, even though he had a sword, he never really used it, except to shield himself at times. I beat him across the head, and he ran. Sarah was screaming; I could not leave her. After I had chased him outside into the dark, I let him go. I had to attend to my wife.”

I couldn’t help but marvel at both his bravery, and his stoicism. He’d taken the initiative, where I’d just sat and stared.

“Would you recognize the man again?” Chapman asked.

To my surprise Rudy smiled. “I think everyone would know him again. On one of my hits, I hit his face, and slashed him from eye to cheek.”

Chapman shook Rudy’s hand, smiling. “You’re both brave and fortunate, Mister Andersen, you’re the only victim of Johnny Reb to still have a wife at the end of his performance.” He indicated the door. “Can we go inside and take a look at the crime scene? We need to see if he left anything behind, or if he left any clues.”

“Oh he left behind his false moustache!” Rudy grinned, fishing in his trouser pocket.

I cringed as he pulled forth shreds of ginger hairs. The thing had been torn almost to pieces. But we had one more clue to this man’s identity, and the list was stacking up. I held out my hand, and he placed the shreds of the torn actor’s prop onto my palm.

One glance under my improvised microscope told me the hairs were indeed human, the follicles still attached in places.

 

 

Paul Chapman, Hotel, Jacksonville, Morgan County, Illinois

April 9^th, 1867

 

I rode in silence, happy to have such a new crime scene to examine, yet reticent to see another bloody corpse. Then, when Jorgen announced that Sarah was alive, my heart seemed to beat out of my chest, and I rode with a great grin on my face, suddenly enjoying the crisp air on my face.

Once at the farm, I listened to Rudy’s tale, then ventured inside the farmhouse. I stood at the door to the bedroom, my hands on either side, barring any other entry. With intimate care I took in the scene.

Standing at the doorway, the bedroom looked small and square in shape, a large bed almost filling the room. Pieces of rope lay both on the crumpled pillow, and on the wooden floor near the foot. The remains of a wooden chair lay in pieces; again lengths of rope lay on the ground. Near the single window, a dresser stood, its top cleared of trappings, some shards of pottery lay on the floor near the window and under the bed.

A struggle had definitely taken place. I walked into the room, taking care not to disturb anything on the floor. I heard steps behind me. “Can you see anything out of place, Francis?”

“Not so far,”

I walked past the bed, and saw a piece of dirt, yellow, almost orange in color. I pointed downwards. “Soil on the floor, possibly clay,”

“There’s no clay on this farm.” Rudy said, standing at the doorway, leaning over Margaret, who looked quite ashen-faced. “Not a bit of it.”

I smiled inwardly. We’d taken another step to getting our man. Francis flipped his lenses down to his eye, and fished out his magnifying glass. “Clay soil,” he said. Yellow clay,”

“Is the rope yours?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” I held it up for him to see.” I don’t think so.”

“Go and check for me, will you. This might be important.”

I hoped his rope search would provide us with another piece of information, but at least we got some undisturbed time to examine the room. If I thought we were going to cram our pockets full of clues, I got quickly disappointed. The room gave up no more secrets.

Rudy’s return confirmed that the rope had been brought to the crime scene by Johnny Reb himself, but Rudy’s subsequent descriptions added no more to our gathering picture of our man.

I took samples of the rope, and once back in the yard, packed it into an empty saddlebag.

Alone for a second, I looked at the farmhouse. True to Francis’s words, perhaps by our initial warnings we’d prevented some crime here. If we hadn’t have cautioned these people that Johnny Reb finished his act with a slice of his sword, perhaps he never would have acted so swiftly.

A very quiet Sarah handed out cups of coffee, and for a while we stood in silence. Sarah slipped to her husband, then cuddled close.

There seemed little else to do, so after a short while, I took my leave, the others following in my wake. We rode for a while in silence.

After we’d left the farm well behind us, we discussed the case for a while as we rode, then as we fell mute, Emily spoke. “Paul? Why didn’t you question Missus Andersen?”

I shook my head. “She’d already clammed up.” I said. “I’m not certain we’d have gotten anything, and it wasn’t worth upsetting her more.”

I looked across to see if my words had any import, but felt surprised at her smug expression.

“Sometimes it proves beneficial to have a female detective.” She said, looking like the cat who had just licked the cream jug. Then I remembered she’d spent time alone with the young woman.

“Out with it,” Francis said, sharing the grin.

“Well, I just questioned the only woman to survive the killer, and I’ve got a new take on it.” I drifted my horse level, closer. “The guy never drugged her. She was just captured. He seemed to be strong too, she couldn’t fight him. She was, eh, sexually touched before he tied her up.”

“Sexually touched?” I asked, puzzled.

“Yes, those were the words Sarah used; she said almost as if he were checking her virginity.”

“That might be important,” Francis said.

I nodded. “We’ve talked about that before; he picks newlyweds because he doesn’t want to deal with virgins. Sorry.” It seemed silly to apologize for my remarks, but I’d been raised to be deferential to women, and here was I discussing such things with two female teenagers.

“She also said he made a great deal about cleanliness.” Emily continued. “He asked her about her washing regimen. And when he left her alone on the bed, just before he started his ‘performance’, he popped into the kitchen to wash his hands. Sarah heard the water, and his hands were cold and wet when he returned.”

I faced the front for a while, allowing my horse to find his own pace, content with my own thoughts. We’d learned more about our killer by this disturbed attempt than from any other. I found myself imagining Emily’s diagram in my head, now putting the new clues in the center, drawing the others around them. By the time we’d reached Jacksonville, evening had descended, and my head was swimming with new ideas.

We gathered in the girl’s room, sitting on beds, knowing that Missus Ramsay stood in her kitchen making us a nice beef dinner; the smell permeated the whole building.

“So are we now discounting the idea that he was a soldier?” Francis asked.

I nodded. “It seems that he could hardly defend himself against the two chair legs.”

Emily stirred. “Perhaps he’s just a bad soldier.”

I gave a smirk that I knew I had to explain. “I’ve been to war, Emily. After four years, there’s few ‘bad’ soldiers left alive. Most soldiers, no matter how ‘bad’ can defend themselves against a charge. This one had both a false moustache and couldn’t raise his sword in his own defense. I think we’ve got to take ‘military man’ off the table for now.”

Emily’s mind must have been seething like mine. “Sarah said he’d been very flowery with words, even when he, you know, checked her out.” She hung her head slightly, and gave Margaret a long look before continuing. “It was both the voice of a courtier, and that of a doctor. Both kind, yet somehow clinical. I think the medical part makes a come-back. She actually used the word ‘doctor’ to describe him.”

Margaret opened her lips for the first time in ages. “It is difficult to take it all in.” she said, her head seemingly held up by her hands. “It is supposedly only my maidenhood that protects me from the attentions of such a man. Yet it is fairly common knowledge that by riding, we women lose that automatically.” I looked at the child before me. Nineteen years old, yet she forced herself to endure this, and wondered why. “What other reason does he chose married women?” She continued. I found I had nothing to offer. “Come on!” she got to her feet swiftly. “Why does he choose newly married women?”

She strode from the room, with Emily close behind.

“You have to get her home.” I said to Francis. “I’m concerned about her exposure to all this.”

“We’re done here.” Francis nodded his head as he spoke. “He won’t strike here again. We’ll head for Chicago tomorrow; sister will be safe back at the farm.”

By the time we ate dinner that night, Margaret seemed to be back to normal, and we sat with our heads close together above the table, talking in hushed tones. By bedtime, we’d decided to leave Jacksonville the next day, return Margaret to the orchard, and ride to Chicago.

But as I walked downstairs that morning with my saddlebags all packed, Missus Ramsay met me in the foyer. “You have a visitor.” She indicated a man standing nervously by the check-in desk. He looked like a farmhand, but wore a colt by his side, untied, ready for action.

“Yes?” I asked as I approached.

“You the Pinkerton guy?” he asked. His accent sounded southern, maybe Carolinas.

“Yeah, why?”

“Boss wants a word.” He said, pushing himself off the desk. “Out on the ‘Double T’ ranch.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s about?”

“Boss don’t tell me everything.”

I nodded, knowing we were all getting ready to leave. “Where’s the ranch?”

“Kinda halfway between here and Springfield, maybe not halfway, maybe’s closer.”

“Good, we’re heading out that way anyway.” I turned to see the ‘kids’ standing on the stairway behind me. “We’ll meet you out front in ten minutes.”

The man nodded, dipped his hat to the girls, and walked out into the morning.

The cowboy wasn’t the best of conversationalists, but I deduced his ‘boss’ to be the ‘Old Man Tanner’ that he mentioned at least twice, and who I considered to be at least one of the ‘T’s on the high metal sign we rode under.

Old man Tanner looked like a well-heeled rancher in his fifties. His clothes were well-fitting, yet not presumptuous. He stood in the center of his considerable yard, well-armed men oozing out of the barns and outhouses to stand by his side as we neared him.

He looked puzzled by the women. “Are you the fellow from Pinkertons?”

“We are,” I dismounted, and handing the reins to Francis, walked to the man, and shook his hand firmly. “Paul Chapman, Senior Detective.” I had no idea why I suddenly gave myself the gravitas of the title, but it seemed to be suitable to impress the man.

“Michael Tanner,” he replied, then with a flick of his hand he dismissed all the men that had gathered round. All left save one.

“Danny, tell Mister Chapman what you told me last night.”

Danny looked down at the dirt as he shuffled his feet, then looked up. “We had your young guy here last week, warning us about a man who chopped women.” He began, pointing to Francis behind me.

“We had a theory he’d strike again.” I nodded.

“Well, we had one of the hands do a moonlight flit on us, night before last.”

Old man Tanner grimaced. “The night Sarah Andersen got attacked.”

Again I nodded. “What was his name?”

“Frederick Whiteman,” Danny said. “He came to work here every spring, regular as clockwork.”

“He’s a seasonal worker?” I asked eagerly.

“Like I said, every spring. He’s a damn good fencer, no one like him.”

My head swum with questions, and I retrieved my notebook from my saddlebag. “Tall?”

“Nope, he’s about the same as me.” Danny replied. I glanced at the man up and down. “Five ten precisely.”

But Francis had described Johnny Reb as tall, and this didn’t fit. “Hair?”

“Bald as a coot.”

I looked up from my writing, surprised. “He shaved his head?”

“Not that I can remember, he just didn’t have any.”

I fished in my saddlebag for one of the wanted posters, and unfolded it for the man to see.

“That’s him.” Danny said with confidence. “Jus’ take away all the hair.” Old man Tanner looked at the poster and nodded, he looked mad enough to spit.

“Age?”

“Forty, forty one-ish.”

I wrote feverishly, this was a gold mine of information. “Any idea where he came from? Home town?”

“He told me, Dervish, Indiana, but there was always something funny about his accent. Never could place it really.”

“Did you ever see him with a confederate uniform?”

That took him by surprise. “No, sorry,”

I turned to the three behind me, who all looked as excited as me. “Any other questions?”

Francis nodded. “You said he was seasonal, ‘regular as clockwork’, you said. So where does he go from here?”

“Ah,” Dennis grinned. “He always had a kind of aloofness about the men, we asked him about it once. He said he taught at an acting school over the summer.”

“Where?” I asked immediately, but to my dismay Danny shook his head. “Anything else?”

“He was a strong bugger,” Danny said, seemingly racking his mind for something else to give us. “You’ve got to have a fair bit of muscle to pull the wires tight on a fencepost.”

As silence descended, I looked at my notes one last time; a veritable new gold-mine of information. “Thank you all,” I shook hands all round.

As I turned to the horses, I was reminded of the oiled rope in my saddlebags. I turned suddenly.

“Oil soaked rope?”

Danny shook his head, not getting my point.

“Does Frederick use oil-soaked rope for anything?” I tried again. “In fencing?”

“Oh, yeah,” Danny got the revelation. “The wire. The barbed stuff and the straight. It comes tied and wrapped in linseed rope. Keeps the rope inside from rusting.”

“Yes!” Francis cheered from above.

I again shook Danny’s hand. “If you ever see this Frederick again, you better clamp him in irons, he’s a nasty piece of work. “Five women’s heads are not on their shoulders anymore, because of him.”

“If he comes back here,” Old man Tanner began. “I’ll put a forty-five slug in his forehead.” He stomped away across the dusty yard without another word.

“There are newlyweds on the farm, Paul.” Francis said behind me.

Danny nodded soberly. “Old man’s only daughter, Patty.” He gave his boss one last look. “That’s the reason we sent for you today, on accounts maybe he had his eye on her. The boss is mad.”

“Damn,” I said under my breath, mounting my horse. “Maybe we saved two lives this time.”

I turned the head of my horse around, then another question dawned. Turning again, I quickly rode to Danny.

“One last thing.”

Yeah?” he looked up at me, shielding his eyes against the late morning sun.

“Did he get paid?”

Danny grinned. “Not a penny. Old man Tanner pays the seasonal men at the end of their contract.”

So we’d hit him in more than one way.

Wonderful.