In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,56
bruised face and jaw. As my eyes better adjusted to the dim light, I began to register the extent of her injuries. Her face was covered with multiple lacerations and bruises; her left arm hung limply in a way that suggested it was broken; a patch of hair from the left side of her head was missing, and from the way she had lowered herself into her chair, I suspected additional injuries lay hidden under her clothing.
She offered living evidence of the extreme violence of which Michael Fromley was capable.
“Miss Murphy,” Isabella continued, “my friend is with the police. Would you allow Detective Ziele to call someone in your local precinct? They could help you to press charges against whoever did this to you.”
Clara’s laugh was a hoarse cackle.
“Miss,” she said, “I know you mean well, but you need to stop. Never mind my injuries. And forget about the police. No one’s going to listen to what the likes of me has to say. Now what did you come here to talk with me about?”
She was right, though I felt ashamed to admit it. Police resources were limited, and scant attention was paid to the complaints of women like Clara Murphy. “Likely brought it on herself staying out too late in the wrong company,” most officers would say. The underlying presumption, of course, was that ladies didn’t get themselves in trouble. But no one deserved the abuse Clara Murphy had taken, and I resolved to order a nurse’s visit and groceries after we were done, despite Clara’s earlier protestations. If nothing else, her arm would give her a lifetime of trouble if she didn’t get it set soon—and properly. I for one knew that.
Sensing she wanted us to leave her alone, I began my questions at once. “We don’t plan to take up much of your time, Miss Murphy, so I’ll get straight to the point. What can you tell us about Michael Fromley?”
Although she blanched, she answered promptly. “Well, I know he’s the man that did this to me.” She used her good arm to indicate her more obvious bruises.
Perhaps I should have offered some sort of expression of sympathy, but in truth, it was all I could do to stay focused on my questions, for the room’s stench was terrible to endure.
Isabella must have felt the same way. She asked, “Miss Murphy, may we open your window for a few minutes? The fresh air would do you good.”
This earned her a dubious stare. “It’s November. It’s cold out.”
“Yes, but the sun is out. We’ll only crack the window, and not for long.” Isabella’s compromise won Clara’s grudging agreement, and I breathed in relief the moment I felt the fresh air enter the room.
“We’re searching for Michael Fromley in connection with a recent murder,” I said. “We understand you were well acquainted with him.”
She stared at me with a blank expression, and for a moment I wondered if she had not heard me. Then she spoke again. “Mind telling me who he killed?”
“We believe he has murdered a young woman north of the city,” I answered carefully.
“He stabbed her?”
“Repeatedly. The official cause of death was a slash to her throat, but she suffered many additional stab wounds.” I hoped she would ask no more. I typically never divulged case details to potential witnesses. But I sensed that giving her some information would encourage her to cooperate with me.
She seemed to be thinking, deeply. “Disgusting animal,” she finally said, just under her breath. We simply waited a moment for her to compose herself.
She began to explain. “I noticed Michael early last month when he came to my show. I was in the chorus of Little Johnny Jones, though I got fired the same night I met him. The director complained I was always late to rehearsal, but it’s not like they paid me enough, was it? I had to work the extra jobs that always made me late.”
She paused a moment before continuing. “That’s of course when he showed up, when I was down on my luck. I’d just picked up my last paycheck from the office, and there he was, all smiles and flowers, ready to take me to dinner.”
I asked her to clarify. “But you had seen him before?”
She shifted position, and her movement was slow and difficult. “Yes, I’d seen him before,” she acknowledged. “He came to show after show, flirting with all the girls. He wasn’t my type at all—too pleased with himself, too aggressive. Don’t