The Truth of All Things by Kieran Shields Page B

descriptions provided by the afflictedgirls. This was a torture sometimes inflicted by the Indians and reported home by colonists who had been redeemed from captivity. The Salem accusers would also report witches threatening to ‘knock them on the head’ if they would not sign the devil’s book. That was recognized as a common phrase used by Indians. Another threat by the witches is that they would tear the afflicted girls to pieces if they did not sign. Apart from the common fate of having one’s scalp ripped from his head, other stories of Indian tortures, such as victims’ fingers being severed one by one and chunks of flesh carved from their bodies, into which wounds the Abenakis would stick burning pine-tar brands, were often repeated among the colonists.”
    Helen glanced at the lobby once more. Her brow creased as she tried to remember if, after returning to her seat, she had heard the soft bang of the front door closing.

L ean arrived at Dr. Steig’s shortly before nine and was shown to the consulting room.
    “Deputy Lean, good of you to come.” Dr. Steig rose from behind his desk. “Truth be told, I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
    “That is,” Grey said from where he stood looking out the window, “according to today’s editions, the police have assured us they’re already pursuing leads to locate the crazed Indian who killed Maggie Keene.”
    “Well, those reports may have been a bit off track. New information having come to light and all. Though I still suspect he’s a lunatic.” Lean withdrew a small box from his coat pocket and set it on Dr. Steig’s desk. “Maggie Keene’s tongue. Sorry, Doctor, I didn’t know what else to do with it.”
    “I assume your presence here means that His Honor had a strong reaction to the message.” Grey glanced at Lean.
    “Earlier he’d ordered me to end your involvement in this case.”
    “Well, fortunately for me, and for those members of the public who are opposed to being murdered and dismembered, I don’t answer to your superiors.”
    Lean held up a conciliatory hand. “But after the tongue arrived at his doorstep, he was more open to considering some of your views on the case. For the record, he insists your involvement in this investigation remain unreported. As dangerous and mad as our killer is, the mayor still has his own reputation to consider.”
    “Dangerous and mad.” Dr. Steig blew a thin plume of cigarette smoke toward the ceiling, then tipped his ashes into the tray. “According to the
Daily Advertiser
, the killer’s not only insane but a syphilitic degenerate. They’re guessing the condition was contracted from a prostitute, explaining his selection of victim and the savagery of his vengeful attack.” Dr. Steig’s face was turning a shade of red as he spoke, his tone growing more severe. “It’s the same old pigheaded biases. Branding all those who suffer psychological infirmities as a threat to society. They’re all criminals whose own sins have brought on their condition. A syphilitic degenerate—why, there have been more city councilors than murderers in this city over the past fifty years who fit that description.” Dr. Steig was about to continue, but the cigarette in his left hand burned down during his rant and singed his fingers. “Damn!”
    Lean was not wholly surprised by the reaction. He’d been in the doctor’s study before and read the framed letter on the wall appointing Dr. Steig to run the Portland Soldiers’ Home. It was from the Civil War hero and former governor of Maine, Joshua Chamberlain. The two had been colleagues at Bowdoin College after the war. Chamberlain had served as president while Dr. Steig, his wounded arm limiting his surgical skills, had become a professor of anatomy and later neurology. The letter hanging in the study reflected the shared attitude of those two old soldiers: that those who’d suffered psychologically in the battles that had saved the Union deserved medical treatment