SAINT DENIS MEDICAL OFFICE
DR. KANE,
YOUR LETTER CAME AS A SURPRISE AND A RELIEF. I AM GLAD TO KNOW YOU ARE WELL AND CONTINUING YOUR WORK.
I DO HOPE YOUR ABSENCE WAS NOT ATTRIBUTED TO A RETURN OF OLD HABITS. I ASSURE YOU, THE PLEASURE OF THE WORK FAR OUTWEIGHS THE ECSTASY OF THE PIPE. YOUR CASTLE MUST BE A LIBRARY, NOT AN OPIUM DEN, DOCTOR.
I HAVE SHIPPED YOU A COPY OF A NEW PUBLICATION ON IN VIVO ANTISEPTIC. IT SHOULD ARRIVE IN A LITTLE OVER A WEEK.
DO KEEP IN TOUCH.
E. TEMPLETON
Galen frowned at the almost preternatural jab from his old colleague towards Galen's drug habit. What did a privileged, gifted young doctor know of vice when he has never suffered as Galen had? He had never seen the inside of a prison cell, felt the ache of ball and chain carving into flesh, nor felt the burn of stripped skin and bloodied hands toiling for days picking oakum or breaking rocks. It was only when the gaoler discovered Galen's hands were better used in the prison infirmary did the hard labor cease. It was there he found relief, by sneaking small amounts of opiates from the supplies, blaming it on prisoners or unexpected treatments. He was able to forget so many of those days this way. Still, what memories remained visited him nightly in his dreams.
He brushed it off to focus on a more important topic -- the man in the mud, found last night by Clancy Alexander. The body was only just on the cusp of rigor mortis, and yet it had already been swarmed by all manner of swamp decomposers -- flies, worms, beetles, birds, rats -- obliterating any hope of a pristine examination. The proximity to the meat processing plant was not lost on him. Much could be gleaned yet though. The man's pinstripe suit was of the finest quality. His shoes were clean, indicating he had likely been carried there and left, already dead. His white gold watch chain still had the watch connected, and sterling silver buttons with custom design were still affixed to his waistcoat. This was no robbery. There were no signs of struggle nor violent manner of death, no bullet wounds or perimortem bruising. What there was, however, was a deep wound to the neck as if he had been cut or slashed by something jagged.
There were tales of monsters in the swamp, but how he'd be left here by one without getting a speck of mud on his front seemed improbable – not to mention the fact these are nothing but faerie tales. Besides that, this man clearly had come from the city -- he had a scar on each of his cheeks, carried a finely tooled black holster and strap that would lock the weapon in place. As there was no sidearm in the holster, it had clearly been removed, either by the victim or the perpetrator. No, this was no victim of a wild beast, but the victim of premeditated murder. By who though? And why?
Could he be one of Bronte's men? A hitman whose target got the better of him? A gangster or politician's lackey? A wealthy industrialist's heir?
After the examination, he left the body in the cold box for the police.