CHAPTER TWENTY

Dr. Bryce was a tall man, with a bald head and a heavy moustache. He had an air of confidence that was perilously close to arrogance, but Murdoch rather liked him. In spite of his brusque manners, he cared about what he was doing and the fact that the bodies he was dissecting had once been living human beings. Not all physicians behaved in that way.

As soon as Murdoch entered the room, the doctor called out to him. “We’ve got a nasty business on our hands, detective. Come and have a look.”

Murdoch walked over to the table where Bryce was standing, a blood-stained apron covering his elegant grey worsted suit. There was a small steamer trunk on the table with the lid open.

“I don’t know how much I can do right now,” the doctor continued. “The body is still frozen. It’s stiff as a board. We can’t even get it out.”

Murdoch peered into the trunk. Inside was the body of a young man, stark naked, his knees bent up to the chest and his arms folded across each other. His head was pushed sideways. For a brief moment, Murdoch was puzzled why the youth looked familiar, but then with a jolt, he realized it was the same boy who had been in the stereographic photograph. He wasn’t wearing the turban, but there was no mistaking him.

“Is he one of yours?” Bryce asked.

Explanations weren’t necessary at this point, so Murdoch was evasive. “I haven’t met him before. I’ll have to take Bertillon measurements to see if he’s in our criminal system.”

“Well, you’ll find him there, I’ll wager. The man was a catamite.”

“Is that so?”

“Here, touch his chest.”

Murdoch lightly touched the icy skin. The chest wasn’t as smooth as it appeared.

“He’s shaved off the hair,” continued Bryce in his lecturing tones. “On the chest and it looks like also at the pubis. Of course, I’ll swear to it when I do a rectal probe, but there’s not much doubt.”

Murdoch wasn’t surprised. The painted face and lascivious pose of the photograph had suggested as much.

“How did he die?”

“I can’t tell you that, detective! You’ll have to wait for my report. I have to do a proper postmortem examination. He could have had a heart attack, he could have consumption, syphilis, who knows?”

Murdoch pointed at the corpse. “He’s been badly beaten and I’d say there are marks around his neck.”

Bryce nodded approvingly as if he were an observant pupil. “I’d say the poor wretch has been strangled. But there are other traumas. See there. His left shin is quite shattered and there are at least two ribs on the same side that are depressed. You can see the bruises. More than likely he was kicked. He may have a skull fracture, but I won’t know that until I remove the scalp.”

“Is there any possibility the injuries were caused when he was stuffed into the trunk?”

“No, no. Look at his leg. There has been a flow of blood down to the ankle that could only occur if he was alive when he was hurt. My guess is that he was beaten, then strangled, and then his body bent so it would fit into the trunk, which may have caused further damage. I can verify that later.”

“Do you have any idea when he died, doctor?”

“None at all. All deterioration has been halted because of the cold. I see no staining on the body, so that tells me he was put into the trunk almost immediately after death. He could have been killed as long ago as two weeks when we experienced that severe cold weather or as recently as a few days past.”

Bryce attempted to move one of the boy’s arms but it was still intractable.

“How old do you think he is?”

“His genitalia appears to be fully developed. I’d place him at about twenty years of age.” Bryce lifted the corpse’s upper lip as far as he could. “His teeth seem decayed. He’s thin, probably not well-nourished. I suppose one should feel sorry for him.” He looked up at Murdoch, who made no comment. “Well, that’s it then.” Bryce removed his apron, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the floor. “I can’t do anything more for now and I have to attend one of my patients who is at the point of delivering a baby. The bookends of life, eh, Murdoch? Mr. Boys is acting as coroner and he’s called an inquest for Monday morning. I should have my report for both of you no later than Saturday.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

As soon as Bryce had left, Murdoch took his measuring tape from his pocket and did the best he could to at least get the approximate height of the dead man. He was about five feet tall. His hair was dark and cut short, but there were signs around his nails, neck, and the back of his ears that he hadn’t had much opportunity to keep himself clean. Or didn’t care to.

The air was stinging with the chloride of lime the doctor used to keep down the smell. The room was bare, lined with shelves that were empty although some large jars were stacked in one corner. A weigh scale, the kind found in most kitchens, was on a backless chair by the table. This morgue could not be called well-equipped, and Murdoch knew most of the doctors who were called upon to do postmortem examinations preferred to use one of the funeral parlours such as Humphrey’s on Yonge Street. He stayed another three-quarters of an hour, taking what measurements he could for the Bertillon files and examining the trunk as closely as he could. It was well used by the look of it, but there were no identifying traces of custom stamps or steamer stickers. No address to help him.

Finally, he straightened up, crossed himself, and muttered a quick prayer for God to have mercy on the boy’s soul. Bryce had estimated his age as close to twenty but death had erased care from his face and he looked very young. What the hell was Agnes Fisher doing with his picture and why had she drawn a black border around the card? There was only one answer to that: She knew he was dead.