arrive with the others. But it would be good to have a sense of where she wanted cameras and recording devices.
Upstairs, Whitney took stock of the bedrooms. There were six of them, and everything in the house seemed to be proportionate. Three on one side, three on the other.
She paused at a window that overlooked the construction site next door. The book she read that day had shown pictures of the structure that had been there when it had been the House of Spiritualism; then, a two-story building with a circular porch had stood. The steeple was still standing toward what had been the rear of the structure. People had entered from the same sidewalk that led to the path to Blair House.
Whitney stood in the darkness, watching the site. Patrol cars rounded the corner regularly, and she was pretty sure that when Jude Crosby left her, he had called in to make sure that the cars would watch Blair House throughout the night.
When the equipment arrived, she knew that they would want to keep a good eye on the site.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she saw that it was nearly midnight. The time had gone so quickly that day. She told herself that she had to be tired; she had not known this morning that she’d be spending the night in New York City. But she wasn’t tired; she was wound up.
In the kitchen, she brewed herself hot tea and made mental notes about where she wanted cameras set up. She wanted a couple of cameras looking down Broadway at all times, but, of course, they couldn’t cover every possible nook and cranny and shadow. Yet the cameras would catch movement of anyone who did come onto the street.
Finally, she went back into the hallway. She stood very still, waiting. Nothing happened. No shadows moved. The old house didn’t even creak.
“What? Did everyone die in this house in a state of absolute bliss?” she said aloud.
Nothing. Just the darkness.
Of course, it wasn’t Blair House where the supposed evil had taken place; it had been next door, at the House of Spiritualism. But she wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t going to go out to explore the area until the rest of the team had arrived.
At last she convinced herself that it was time to get some sleep. She put her service revolver on the little table next to the bed, changed into pajamas and curled up to sleep.
She couldn’t sleep, and so she rose, and in the quiet of the night, headed for the stairs.
Downstairs, she looked at the pictures she had taken at autopsy. They were a good record, and she would show them to the others, but at the moment, they weren’t giving her any information that would help in finding a suspect.
She found the book that Andrew Crosby had loaned her. It was fascinating reading, all about the demise of the Five Points area, the House of Spiritualism and the founding of the NYPD. And the murder of Carrie Brown.
The author had been convinced that there had been other victims.
She tried to imagine the squalor of the Five Points area, so near to this one. What had happened to the sea of humanity that had lived in those tenements when they had been brought down? The area had been so similar to Whitechapel in London; filled with immigrants eking out an existence. Filled with crime—and police who increased their incomes by taking bribe money from all the establishments in the area. Money paid so that the police force would protect shop owners from thugs and criminals; money paid so that the police would overlook code infractions and other illegal activities.
She smiled; impressed and thinking about Jude Crosby. The man was truly intelligent and well read. He wasn’t unlike most of humanity; he believed in what he saw, in flesh and blood. In bad people who did bad things.
“Well, yes—there is a truly evil person, flesh and blood out there,” she said softly. “But, if someone is in this house, I’d love to speak with you!” she added. Nothing.
Hoping she could sleep at last, she closed the book, headed back
Upstairs, Whitney took stock of the bedrooms. There were six of them, and everything in the house seemed to be proportionate. Three on one side, three on the other.
She paused at a window that overlooked the construction site next door. The book she read that day had shown pictures of the structure that had been there when it had been the House of Spiritualism; then, a two-story building with a circular porch had stood. The steeple was still standing toward what had been the rear of the structure. People had entered from the same sidewalk that led to the path to Blair House.
Whitney stood in the darkness, watching the site. Patrol cars rounded the corner regularly, and she was pretty sure that when Jude Crosby left her, he had called in to make sure that the cars would watch Blair House throughout the night.
When the equipment arrived, she knew that they would want to keep a good eye on the site.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she saw that it was nearly midnight. The time had gone so quickly that day. She told herself that she had to be tired; she had not known this morning that she’d be spending the night in New York City. But she wasn’t tired; she was wound up.
In the kitchen, she brewed herself hot tea and made mental notes about where she wanted cameras set up. She wanted a couple of cameras looking down Broadway at all times, but, of course, they couldn’t cover every possible nook and cranny and shadow. Yet the cameras would catch movement of anyone who did come onto the street.
Finally, she went back into the hallway. She stood very still, waiting. Nothing happened. No shadows moved. The old house didn’t even creak.
“What? Did everyone die in this house in a state of absolute bliss?” she said aloud.
Nothing. Just the darkness.
Of course, it wasn’t Blair House where the supposed evil had taken place; it had been next door, at the House of Spiritualism. But she wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t going to go out to explore the area until the rest of the team had arrived.
At last she convinced herself that it was time to get some sleep. She put her service revolver on the little table next to the bed, changed into pajamas and curled up to sleep.
She couldn’t sleep, and so she rose, and in the quiet of the night, headed for the stairs.
Downstairs, she looked at the pictures she had taken at autopsy. They were a good record, and she would show them to the others, but at the moment, they weren’t giving her any information that would help in finding a suspect.
She found the book that Andrew Crosby had loaned her. It was fascinating reading, all about the demise of the Five Points area, the House of Spiritualism and the founding of the NYPD. And the murder of Carrie Brown.
The author had been convinced that there had been other victims.
She tried to imagine the squalor of the Five Points area, so near to this one. What had happened to the sea of humanity that had lived in those tenements when they had been brought down? The area had been so similar to Whitechapel in London; filled with immigrants eking out an existence. Filled with crime—and police who increased their incomes by taking bribe money from all the establishments in the area. Money paid so that the police force would protect shop owners from thugs and criminals; money paid so that the police would overlook code infractions and other illegal activities.
She smiled; impressed and thinking about Jude Crosby. The man was truly intelligent and well read. He wasn’t unlike most of humanity; he believed in what he saw, in flesh and blood. In bad people who did bad things.
“Well, yes—there is a truly evil person, flesh and blood out there,” she said softly. “But, if someone is in this house, I’d love to speak with you!” she added. Nothing.
Hoping she could sleep at last, she closed the book, headed back
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